Yep. Get that visual.

One of my best pals dared me to go to Zumba class. After weeks of inviting me, she resorted to calling me a chicken. Nun-uh.  I was going to show her.

It was 6:30 pm. Class was about to start. I had just wolfed down two slices of greasy pizza and a handful of chicken wings ten minutes before I squeezed into an unflattering pair of yoga pants and headed to my first class. It was time to prove my athletic aptitude, to get my groove on. The Carpenter heckled as I walked out the door, “Go Zumba girl! Shake it.” Funny.

Zumba, for the uninitiated, is an intense aerobic dance class that is part fitness, part night club, and all fun. It is an hour of reminding you why, when you got on a dance floor in college, people moved out of your way: for their own safety. The music is loud, the moves are guaranteed to shake, rattle and roll everything you own, or in my case, everything that flops, flattens and falls.

I entered the large room, totally intimidated. Happily, I found a relaxed group of adults from the belly-button-showing phase to the layered yoga gear stage, everyone seemingly free of judgement.  This was mutual humiliation and there was safety in numbers. Nobody was here to be a dance star. Could exercise really be this fun? Best of all, the lights were low (bless the creator of toggle light switches in bedrooms and fitness settings).

I found a place in the back, where I could see the instructor and nobody would see me. I stood behind my pal, so I could cheat by watching her. The music started. I felt panic. I didn’t’ wear Depends. What if this was like that trampoline incident? Bounce, bounce, bounce, uh-oh.  My pulse raced before I could even get in sync with the moves. I had to laugh, at myself. I looked ridiculous. I didn’t care. No quitting.

Before I knew it I shaking and jumping about, albeit with an eye around the room for a defibrillator machine, (just in case). Zumba allowed me to indulge my love of multicultural dances, like meringue, salsa and Bollywood, ’cause really, dances like that don’t happen much at the hockey fundraisers or the Legion hall, do they? This was awesome.

My friend, the darer-maker, offered encouraging laughs of support watching my flailing movements. Thank goodness she missed the “booty in the air” move, where my decision to stay in the back of the room proved wise. Now that my booty is a duplex, with two apartments on my thighs, I was afraid I would hear that beep-beep noise of a truck backing up. I thought my humiliation was over until she turned to me and said, “For the next song, let out your inner Pussy Cat Doll, Kell.” She giggled.

My inner pussy cat is more like Garfield, lethargic, sarcastic and most likely to be couch-surfing. But I am no quitter. I wiggled my hips, shook what my Momma gave me, and quite possibly did irreparable damage to my back-bone slide, then cursed myself for not knowing how great my body was at the age of twenty-five.

Try Zumba. Get your groove on. But first, stock up on Epsom salts. And don’t stand behind me, whatever you do.

Summer is a bit like Christmas. The anticipation is exciting. You make plans and try to pack every moment full of seasonal festivities. You try to balance work vacations with childcare registrations. You never have the budget you expect, or the freedom to chill out quite as you envisioned it. The weekends fill up with events before you even unpack your summer shorts. There are treasured moments, laughter with dear friends, a few awesome sunsets and starlight skies and then poof, its gone again.

Before I could adopt my melancholy sentiment that summer was over too fast, I heard the most beautiful sentence ever spoken from the mouths of my own children, in unison even: “I cannot wait for school to start.”

Hallelujah. I checked their pulses. Alive. I scanned their eyes up close. They blinked. No diluted pupils. Surely, my children had disappeared and been replaced by identical replicas of dream children.  I quizzed these remarkably similar facsimiles about life facts only my children would know: birth dates, Christmas wish lists, and trivia questions about the horrible shows on Family Channel. They sounded like my children, alright.  I looked behind their ears for signs of alien implants. No scars. Something wasn’t right here. Surely my children were not willing, eager even, for school to begin.

I must have been imagining things. Perhaps it was heat-stroke. I checked my own heart rate. Breathing? Affirmative. I investigated my surroundings. Maybe this wasn’t my house, this was not my family. Maybe I was in some bizarre altered universe. But then I tripped on a flip flop, got a ball of dog fur stuck on my heel, sticky from the juice spilled and left to dry on the mock-wood floor, and groaned an inappropriate remark under my breath as a kitten attempted to climb my bare (and unshaven)  leg with her sharp claws.

This was my house. This was my life. The juice was left by the boy with the green eyes who figured dried juice was invisible, so I’d never figure it out. The flip flop belonged to the girl who bore a strong resemblance to me at age ten, who was now lying face down on the couch watching a television show  about a teenage starlet with a blonde wig and her wannabe famous Dad, played by a teenage starlet in a blonde wig and her wannabe famous again Dad. Life really was imitating art. And I really needed to vacuum.

The children, or summer sloths, as I like to refer to them, were bored. The Carpenter and I had agreed to a summer spent working around our home. We stuck to the plan. There were no camps, no faraway trips or luxury stays in lodges. Instead we made mini-adventures when we could, close to home. It was great.  But the harsh reality was we stayed home, which is boring for those who do not comprehend the value of home equity.

Boring? Maybe, but I see summer 2010 as a huge Mommyhood success. I managed to do the unthinkable. I succeeded in making my children so miserable in their own freedom from routine and homework, and so destitute in their lazy comforts, that they want to return to their academic institution five days a week.

I am good. I am really just that good.

I love water and I fear it. For reasons I cannot explain, I needed to be near it the day after our friend Allan’s funeral. The Carpenter, most deeply impacted by this tragedy, reluctantly agreed to come. Like me, the sadness of Allan’s passing reminded him that, in the end, all we have left of those we’ve lost are lessons and memories. I knew there would be a greater lesson in a family field trip. I wanted to make a memory.

It turns out that the Carpenter is a master at skipping stones across water. It is embedded in his carefree childhood memories of time well wasted. His two protégés, our children, watched in amazement, counting in unison the number of his stone skips, screaming when he got past ten bounces; “ eleven, twelve, thirteen, awesome Daddy.”  His rocks would skim across the water, touching down long enough to ripple the water before gliding again, so close to the surface and yet, in perfect symmetry to the lazy waves.

I stopped to watch our children do their best to imitate their father’s graceful toss. “Lightly now, skim the water, don’t just toss it in,” he explained. “Keep trying. Don’t give up, it takes time.”

True enough. There is an art to skipping stones. It can be frought with frustration, yet rewarded in the satisfaction of a well skipped stone, cast with perfect ease.

There was the lesson. Skipping stones is a metaphor for life. It begins with the careful search for the right stones. Look hard. Dig deep. The right stone is there. Then you must learn to throw the stone at the right angle. It takes patience, humility, and confident determination. Sometimes your stone will plop into the water with a mighty splash. Sometimes it will soar clear across the still water and never skip at all. These are never failures; they are just lessons in how to throw the stone better next time. Success is not measured by the distance or number of skips, but by the poetry and grace of that stone in balance with that water. Magic.

Moments like this remind us why we had children, why we challenge fate and open our hearts to love, and ultimately loss. A simple stone and a lake become the classroom for life.  Show them respect for nature, for the gifts therein, ever present with the danger, because life is ripe with both. There will be sadness, heartbreak and fear, but there is hope, laughter and beauty in second chances. Search for your stone and throw it without fear of failure. Be satisfied with each try, and then try again. This is the gift of right now. It’s the realization that everything gets the chance to glide, to skip, to splash in the water, until we too become water and sand. Peaceful.

There is art in skipping stones. There is art in a life well lived. Both are worthy of perfecting. Thank you to those who taught me well.

First, you have to come to terms with how bad your vehicle interior really is, because there is something about watching a drive-in that changes the way you appreciate your vehicle.  We had two choices; the Carpenter’s air-conditioned work truck, or my super sexy roll-your-own-windows-down station wagon, with the hatch-back that won’t open.

The children choose the truck, naturally, as it comes complete with dangerous debris, sharp pointy objects, the aroma of form oil, and a rather impressive collection of brown coffee cups. It turns out there was also enough loose change in there to play video games into the wee hours, but thanks to spilled coffee you’d have to pull the gewy quarters apart.  But hey, that’s not a problem for this generation of kids. They have portable video games and they never leave home without them. Apparently they need to be entertained while they are being entertained. Go figure. I was about to insist no video games allowed, but then I realized I might actually get to watch a movie after their ten minute attention span is up. Best to let them be busy.

Funnily enough, as we arrived at the drive-in, I looked in the mini-vans and SUV’s around us (because I think only four people had actual cars, which is a commentary for another time), and I saw televisions on inside the cars, video game devices and iPods. I wasn’t watching a movie, I was living in one. It was a sci-fi freak-show. Some of my nostalgia was starting to fade.

Mind you my first drive-in was in 1977, when I saw Smokey and the Bandit. I was seven years old. The squawk box clung to the window and the sound quality had that charming tin quality to it. There was a play ground where we were free to run, to play in the traffic and run between parked cars, spying on teenagers, mystified by steaming windows. Nobody worried about us. Kids were free to be kids.   When the movies started, my cousin and I were nestled all comfy in our pyjamas, with our Holly Hobby blankets and pillows, lying in the hatchback of a Pinto. Yep, the car that exploded on impact when hit from behind, so naturally, that is where the parents stuffed the children.  Ah memories.

It’s not like that now. The radio in most cars has digital surround sound. All around us were luxury-style vehicles with all the comforts of a home theatre. Some people even remembered to bring Windex. Now that impressed me. The Carpenter and I scrounged for paper napkins to clear the fog from the windows. We shared the fleeting memory of when we could steam up windows together, in such locations, buth this was interrupted of course, by the screech of, “Mawm…he ate my popcorn,” followed by, “well she took some of mine,” followed by “you started it,” and well, you get the picture.

Then the moon came up. The movie came on. The children were mesmerized by the magic of radio and big screens working in unison right inside their Dad’s cool truck. Peace and popcorn. Summer nights. Awesome.

It’s not personal. That man has talent. He can dance, he can sing, he has fostered other acts, (well, according to my ten year old who thinks Justin Beiber is talented), and he has more money than I can spend in a lifetime. He even sings with my favourite Black Eyed Peas member, the dude named after the Dr.Suess book. But if I have to hear the cheesy lyrics of his chart-topping hit “OMG” one more time while I am enjoying a drive in my car, with the windows down, hair blowing in the wind, heading off on a summer adventure, I am going to feel compelled to repeatedly hit my head off the steering wheel. No, worse, I am going to start writing songs. That’ll teach him.

If the name of this artist doesn’t ring a bell for you, let me pull the string. Turn on any top 40 radio station right now and I am willing to bet you will hear this song. You will know it when you hear chorus. Now it’s tricky, so try to keep up.  It goes like this: oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, oh my gosh

Yep. That’s the song. I bet you know it now. Well, forgive me, because that little gem of lyrical expression is going to be stuck in your head well past October.

Wait, it gets better. These poetic lyrics go on to explore the intensity of mature sexual attraction between consenting adults by expressing the great strides in male-female relationships, reflecting the mutual respect and sensitivity of true love by exploring the lexicon of modern anatomy.  Allow me to quote them for you now: “honey got a booty like pow, pow, pow; honey got some boobies like wow, oh wow.”

There it is. Beautiful, isn’t it? Oh, if only I had some pow or some wow, perhaps then I would look back on the summer of 2010 and think, yeah, baby, that was the song that I remember hearing on the way to the beach. Instead, I’ll have to keep reminding my son that “boobies” is not a socially acceptable term. Ugh.

Maybe I’m just bitter because the first song of summer I remember was sometime in the early seventies and while I have no idea who wrote it or what it was actually called, I do remember the chorus went something like, “rock the boat, don’t turn the boat over, rock the boat, don’t flip the boat baby,” or something like that. That was the summer I fell off the end of the dock, head first under the water. I was just learning to swim. Panic ensued. Maybe that’s why a song about tipping over in the water holds firm in my memory bank.

Come on summer, there is still time to change my tune. Oh, oh, oh, oh, oh, my goodness, please.

Only men are allowed to build bon fires, you know. They are also the only ones allowed to tend to them. It is the law, based on sacred rituals originating from the days of the cave men, where fire meant survival. Now it just means “my fire is bigger than your fire.” When it comes to a fire pit, men are down right primeval. Ladies, if you doubt this fact, at your next bon fire opportunity try this: pick up a log and say these words, “Can I just toss this one in?”

Great flocks of bats will fly over head. Crickets will be silenced. The earth may, in fact, rattle. Somewhere in the distance, Gregorian chants will begin like in a horror movie, getting ever louder. Clouds of thick smoke will billow. You will know you have crossed the sacred men-only bon fire line. Drop the log. Step away from the fire. Slowly, carefully keep moving backwards.

Men can’t help this. They don’t mean to be so over-protective of fire. It’s part of their DNA. If they love you, they might let you gather sticks. Think, “me Tarzan, you Jane.” Jane never picks the right sticks. Did you know there was a science to kindling? There is. Stick gatherers have to know the kind of wood, its dryness factor, age and approximate location of origin. For instance, not any stick can be a marsh-mellow stick. There has to be a bendable factor in the twig, which has to be more like a branch, but not quite as thick as a branch.  Spider dogs require the right strength and significant buoyancy, and the length should be adequate to be held at arm’s length from the lawn chair you’re seated in, mindful, of course, of the spitting sparks that could set your bare-feet on fire.

Then there is the master craftsmanship required for the pre-lit fire building. Kindling must be placed at just the right trajectory. Newspaper, (if you are so lame as to need such tactics), must be twisted and coiled, not simply balled up and bunched, (as if). It takes the right amount of wood, which only men know the exact calculation for, and it must be lit in just the right places or else it will be a dud.

If the fire is a smouldering pot of ash and thick white smoke, be very, very careful not to comment. You are talking about the fire-starters manhood here. Be kind. Be guarded. Pretend to like the smoke. However, take my word for this, you should never dance in the smoke like it is pretty, to lighten the mood. Not wise. Also, if an accelerant is ever brought out in a can of say, lighter fluid, find an excuse to be far away and do not say something stupid like, “what, couldn’t make the fire start by rubbing sticks together?”  I learn late, ladies, but I learn fast.

For an extra good time, sharpen the carefully gathered, fire-starter approved sticks to a fine point and hand them over to young children, who will run with these sticks really close to the open fire pit. Then feed those children lots of chocolate and marsh-mellowed sugar.

Ah summer! I wouldn’t want it any other way.

In the music of that rain, I lay awake, reflecting on what I knew to be true in my life so far and what I knew I had the power to change in the next forty years of being Me.

Every year has its ups and downs, but this past year seemed to be an indication of where I am, where I’m going and why it matters at all. Perhaps this was the life epiphany people had told me would come. Maybe it was the parting gift of leaving one decade for another, to have a moment of clarity. Or maybe I was just being a philosophical smartie pants. I’ll take option C: all of the above.

This past year has been a roller coaster of emotions and experiences. Some have been so beautiful that I have been moved to tears and others, so terrifying that I had no choice but to face my fears head on. I have been pushed to the edge of life and pulled back again, just to make sure I was paying attention. Old patterns resurfaced. I have learned to trust my gut.  I had career highs, financial lows and had to dig deep to dig myself out. I earned new friendships, held tight to old ones, and had the honour of helping a few friends through dark days. Trust is an honour to behold. I helped save a life and then a week later stood overlooking a lake waiting for the body of a dear friend to return home, to surface somewhere out there in the waves, knowing he will not and had to watch as his family live out my greatest fear. I felt the sting of betrayal, learning that sometimes your heart needs a shield from the back of your body as much as it does from the front. I learned to keep my cards close to my chest. I’ve accepted that my head is a noisy place, but to befriend the voices. I have slowed down enough to see my children as individuals.  But perhaps the most valuable lesson in all of these twists and turns is this: compassion and forgiveness do not have to come at a cost to your Self. There is dignity in having compassion for your Self first. It does not make you less of a friend, less of a mother or a disloyal spouse. In fact, it does the quite the opposite.

For me, that early morning rain was a cleanse washing away the past to make a clean slate for the future. If that is what 40 brings me, I am grateful. I have everything I could want and I know it. I am loved and I love back. I think I have evolved into who I want to be, instead of who others expect me to be. I have found some peace in this skin.

You know what this means, right? Chip dip and birthday cake are mine. All mine.

It’s a friendly Neathderthal, to be sure. It’s linked genetically to the brooding, knuckle-scrapping alter-ego that lies dormant, except for rare moments, in the depths of his father’s psyche too. It seems inevitable that this alternate personality will spring forth and soon, very soon, my young athelete will get that look in his eye. You know that look? The one where logic and reason have evaporated and his temporary purpose in life involves running full throttle into the body of his sports opponent, free of mother-approved bubble-wrap security padding, chomping on the bit of a plastic mouth guard, with hard padding only protecting my future grandchildren’s production, and driven by testosterone with only one goal in mind: getting a ball/puck/football away from said opponent. Grunt.

Did I mention I was a dancer in my youth? Yep. Ballet, tap and jazz. Eleven years of horrible leotards in my under-developed puberty phases and more than forty costumes of which photographic evidence continues to haunt me to this very day. But this is the kind of athleticism I understand; music and movement in the pursuit of artistic excellence.

I never played a team sport. I was always the last girl picked for teams in public school. It could have been the thick Roy Orbison glasses or the fact that I faked a lot of injuries. I thought menstruation was a gift from the non-athletic Gods, so I could escape volleyball, basketball and that socially cruel sport of dodge ball. Track and field? Really? Thoroughbreds were meant to jump obstacles, not me.

Now I run between four and six nights a week, from venue to venue, to get my son to his various sports. What I didn’t expect was this; I love it. There is something so deeply satisfying about watching your child swing a bat, score a goal, run up the infield with that rugby ball tucked under his arm swiftly passed his opponents.

Last week, when my boy was stung by a bee right before the big game, I actually heard myself coaxing him to be tough. I believe I said the words; “shake it off.” I told him his team needed him to get out there. I knew he was okay. This was no time to kiss boo-boos. This was game time. He had a job to do and so did I: to get him in the game.

This was one of those important life moments. There was a silent understanding between my boy and me. He knew what I was doing and he forgave me for being less concerned about the insect sting and more about the endurance of the game.  It was as if I was giving him permission to become a man. Oh, I am so not ready for that.

Loving your child means teaching them that life is fraught with injuries and scrapes and fleeting moments of glory. You cannot have one without the other. Any goal worth reaching is worth enduring the bumps. He knows I’m over there, somewhere on the sidelines, trying to find that delicate balance between maternal compassion and that “go get’em” mentality. When his green eyes look back at mine, he’ll know I’m struggling to be tough, bubble wrap stuffed in my purse, cheering him on. Ready or not.

Why, we even share our birth month: July. That makes us both Cancers, Canada. Our sign is the crab, our element is water. We are ruled by the moon (your beautiful tides and my emotional sappiness; doesn’t seem fair). Astrologers say we are sensitive nurturers, fiercely protective of our loved ones and incredibly emotional and sensitive. We are likely to withdraw when things are too intense. We like our space. We are brilliantly creative, (go with me on this one, ‘cause I watched the Olympics and we totally rocked the house), and also loyal and kind. We both like to keep the peace, but have an undercurrent of anarchy. We are not perfect, though. We make mistakes, but we also forgive them in others. We love to apologize. Best of all, we’re funny. We’re not afraid to laugh at ourselves. That’s us, Canada.

You like to protect the under-dogs, welcome the downtrodden. You opened your arms to the world with your multicultural policies, long before it was politically correct. Just ask the folks who crept through the Underground Railroad or the Irish Famine victims who found their way to your shores.

You get bullied a lot too. It’s not easy to live in the shadow of the biggest kid in the neighbourhood. It takes a while to find your voice in the international playground. But darn it, you are so nice that when the international poop hits the fan, you pull out the wet wipes. Some people fight for the sake of fighting, but you and me, Canada, we are too smart to be that stupid. Happily, we are sarcastic enough to point and stare at those who do though. We love to laugh.

Our emotional instability makes us creative. You are the soil that nourished talented souls. There are too many to mention, so I’ll stroke your confidence with a few of my favourites: Joni Mitchell, Leonard Cohen, Margaret Laurence, Tomson Highway, K.D. Lang, John Candy, Jim Carrey, Rick Mercer, Wayne Gretzky, Sidney (my boy) Crosby, are all your babies. This is a land where dreams are inspired to be possible. Too bad to make it here, we have to make it elsewhere. But the good ones never forget their roots.

You are ruled by a government that is a virtual fun house of delusional characters and yet, people pay the taxes imposed by these nut-bars because we all know that quality of life has a price and this is the best place to live it. Foolish? Maybe. Alternatives? None. Maybe that is why generations of Canadians cry on Remembrance Day, because we know how lucky we are to be Canadian and the sacrifice it took for us to grow up and become an independent nation. We have a young history. Others like to tease us about it. Well, Canada, I’d rather a short mostly proud history than a long liturgy of arrogance. We’ve made our mark. We owe no one. We’re self-made, baby.

Canada, you always find a way to keep your rowdy children together, because family is everything to us Cancers. You have a past to heal and a future to create. Dream big.

Our horoscope looks promising, Canada. Happy Birthday, old friend.

I take no pleasure in this task. None. It’s about as much fun for me as cooking dinner. I am not sure how food preparation fell into my role of household responsibility, but I wish there was a domestic union to back me up in protest. I’d belong to Local 27, Domestic Engineers and Household Neuroscientists; freedom fighters for domestic justice.

Lunch preparation is a lot more complicated than when I was a kid. Life-threatening food allergies, food safety and the possibility of making something weird are all apt to make your children social outcasts. You have to pack smart. Your child’s reputation depends on the delicate balance of nutritionally cool foods and reusable packaging choices.

While I support the litter-less lunch, in theory, I am certain that this whole movement is driven by the plastic lid-snappy container companies who make cute little reusable dishes in every shape and dimension. I am convinced that these plastic conglomerates are in cahoots with the idiots who make lunch pails.

You see, the lunch pail guys keep making lunch bags that are simply not big enough to stuff all the plastic lid-snappy containers into, which then forces you to purchase more tiny triangle shaped dishes or those itsy-bitsy round ones that hold four Goldfish crackers (a total tease). Packing a lunch bag is now a logistical nightmare of basic geometry. Some mornings I pack and unpack my children’s lunches five times before I can make it all fit, and even then, the yogurt had to finally come in a tube before I could get that food group covered as well. Sometimes I visualize my children sitting in their desks, slowly pulling the zipper on their fashionable lunch pails, carefully sliding it along in trepidation in case the whole thing blows up like a jack-in-the-box.  I can only imagine how hard it is to stuff the containers back in when the recess bell rings. This explains why no matter how many labels I use, I am constantly missing my reusable containers. Go figure.

Naturally, stuffing your children’s lunch pails full up just makes the zippers break, the seams tear, etc. So of course, you trot off to find another inadequate square shaped version of a PVC-free, environmental, leak secured unit that keeps food cool and looks even cooler. Fat chance. Maybe lunch pails should come with insurance.

Wait. My conspiracy theory is gaining momentum. The plastic lid-snappy guys and the lunch pail manufacturers are also in league with the companies who make the teeny-tiny bags of pre-packaged cookies, krispies and fruit nibbles. I cave in every time. They are a domestically-disabled lunch maker’s dream. Pre-packaged mini-food groups, while a total rip off and complete environmental no-no, are sadly the greatest joy in my grocery shopping experience. I vow to do better, to be more economically astute and socially conscious. But when you are in the line-up at Zehrs at 5:50 pm on a Sunday night, having just remembered you have nothing at all in the way of a nutritional food choice in your child’s lunch, you will run hard and fast to buy chewy fruit.

Of course, with summer upon us, I will lose my ability to control the grocery intake between 9 am and 4 pm. Maybe school lunches have merit. I’m not sure I can afford to have my children at home. Popsicles for lunch, anyone?