Tales from the Granola Box

Things I have found in the recycling bin this week (other than recyclables):

A piece from the shape sorter
Two sippys
My strainer
Fridge magnets
Puzzle pieces
A toy car

and

MY KEYS

Or: Why it takes all day to buy groceries

Make list.

Get bags.

Ask older child to use toilet.

Put on younger child’s shoes.

Ask older child to put on shoes.

Spend ten minutes looking for older child’s shoes; finally find them in the toybox.

Get both children out to car and into car seats.

Go back for bags.

Go back for list.

Go back for wallet.

Start car.

Older child has to poop.

Turn off car, unstrap both children and go back inside.

Wait.

And wait.

And wait.

Finally get both children back into car seats, turn on car.

Turn off car, go back to lock front door.

Drive to grocery store.

Miraculously find prime parking spot that is close to both store and cart return.

Someone has left a cart in it.

Find sub-par parking spot at back of lot and far away from cart return.

Unload both children and trek to store.

Go back for bags.

Once back in store, explain to older child that, no, you will not be getting the big, impossible-to-steer racecar cart.

Try to pull cart from row.

Try to pull cart from row.

Move to new row.

Try to pull cart from row.

Sigh, bow to inevitable, and load children into big, impossible-to-steer racecar cart.

Push boat-in-disguise to produce section, knocking over one display and two little old ladies along the way.

Begin putting groceries into cart while tuning out ceaseless chatter of older child. Look down to consult list and realise that younger child has stolen in it during a distracted moment and turned it into a ball of inky pulp.

Wing it.

Respond absently to ceaseless chatter of older child while desperately trying to remember list. Hear child say, “Thanks mommy, I promise I’ll take really good care of it!” Realise you’ve just agreed to buy him a kangaroo.

Notice, too late, that younger child is on side closest to shelves. Remove small mountain of groceries from her seat. Consider taking them back to their proper places; think better of it and guiltily shove them onto an empty shelf.

Say no to chips.

Say no to ice cream.

Say no to toys.

Say no to chips again.

Push boat-in-disguise to checkout. Knock over two more little old ladies.

Stand in line that is longer than most amusement park lines.

Play ‘I Spy’.

Play ‘Simon Says’.

Sing.

Tell a story.

Give keys to younger child in attempt to forestall meltdown.

Finally get to front of line, pay and push boat-in-disguise out of door. Pre-emptively apologise to any little old ladies.

Trek back to car and reach for keys to unlock door.

Look in pocket.

Look in purse.

Look at younger child.

Retrace steps back to store.

Find keys.

Go back to car and load groceries, return cart, and fasten children into car seats.

Younger child begins meltdown.

Drive out of parking lot and head towards home; hear older child say he has to pee.

Drive carefully and safely home with no speeding whatsoever.

Unstrap children with superhuman speed, race to door, fumble with keys, shoo older child inside.

Begin unloading groceries while carrying screaming younger child; discover older child has not made it in time.

Put down enraged younger child, throw frozen food in freezer, get dry clothes for older child, clean up bathroom.

Notice things are now suspiciously quiet.

Find both children ‘helping’ to unload the groceries. Frantically look for the eggs.

Find the remains of the eggs.

Finally put everything away, discover half the things needed have been forgotten, which means you have to go back and do this again tomorrow.

Discover you’ve forgotten to buy anything for dinner, which means you have to go back and do this again today.

Order takeout.

Every now and then I like to browse real estate listings for our area. I’m looking for The Property; a few acres in the country where our kids can run around, I can grow organic vegetables and raise chickens, and C can be close enough to Toronto for work. I like to dream.

Today I found it. The ultimate dream property for us.

100 acres, 20 to 30 of which is suitable for farming. The rest is all wooded, with trails running through. There’s even a stream, as if we hadn’t already strayed into nauseatingly idyllic territory. It’s closer to my family than we are now, closer to some of our best friends, yet not terribly far from where we currently are. It’s even reasonably affordable, particularly considering the amount of land it comes with.

Can’t you just hear the theme from Little House on the Prairie swelling?

It’s all so perfect that you have to know there’s a huge catch coming, right?

Yeah, and it’s a big one. No house.

Not that we’d mind building our own. We’ve had such trouble with the current one that we’d probably like the opportunity to start from scratch. But it’s not doable right now.

So I’ll sit on my dreams awhile longer, work on our five-year-plan, and trust that another property will come along when we’re ready for it.

And then? I’m going to buy a lottery ticket. ‘Cause a girl’s gotta have dreams.

Yesterday I made bread by hand for the first time in ages. It smelled divine, looked fabulous, and tasted delicious.

It felt really good to work the dough again, particularly as I was trying a new recipe that made it a lot easier to mix and knead properly.

The best part though?

That’s the wee little loaf that Monkey Boy made, right along with me. His first loaf of bread ever.

And in honour of Monkey Boy’s first bread-making experience, here we are, kneading together.

Often for me lunch is a quick, throw-together meal; one that I rarely take the time to make pretty. Yesterday I did though, and the results were a pleasure to look at, as well as to eat.

Avocado and Hard-Cooked Egg with Lemony Dressing (from Full Moon Feast by Jessica Prentice), served over leftover salad. Delicious!

Look at those gorgeous orange yolks. The chickens at The Farm are back on pasture, and it shows.

We watch too much television here. Okay, the television isn’t on all day, and I try to be somewhat thoughtful about what we watch, but it’s still more than I would like.

I think it bothers me because I often throw it on just to give myself a break; something that I swore I’d never do.

(I swore I’d never do a lot of things before I became a mom…I have learned much since then.)

And I worry about the affect it will have on the kids’ imaginations. Lately a lot of Monkey Boy’s play has centered around the shows he watches. He still puts his own twist on it, but it bothers me. He even occasionally calls his play his ‘videos.’ It makes me shudder.

And then, riding home in the car from the ice cream store one evening, Monkey Boy looks out of the window and says,

“Sky, sky, how beautiful you are.”

Now, I don’t know about you, but that sounds an awful lot like poetry to me.

I think things might just be okay.

Memo to Self Re: Garden

Next time, when people who know more about gardening that you do tell you to plant mint in a bucket, listen to them. Your neighbours (and the other plants in your garden) will thank you.

C is in the kitchen getting plates out for dinner.

C: Oh my god, you…do you actually have the kids dishes stacked in rainbow colour order?

Me: Yes. Yes, I do.

C: And you have the same colour is on top for the cups, bowls and plates.

Me: Um, yeah. AND when I put the clean ones away, I put them at the bottom of the stack so they rotate evenly. I’ve been doing that since we got them, like two years ago and you’re only just noticing it NOW?

C: Wait, so that means that every time I empty the dishwasher and put them away in any old order, I make you crazy and then you re-organise them?

Me: Yep.

C: ….

Me: You love me, you know you do.

Monkey Boy went to a birthday party the other day. It was at a gymnastics centre, he had a ball, and now he wants to know when he gets to have a party.

He turns four at the beginning of June, so it seems reasonable to me to at least start thinking about what we want to do for his first party. It will just be a simple backyard party, maybe with a theme. I’m trying to steer him towards pirates, mainly because I can think of a lot of things to do that involve pirates. But I figured I should maybe get an idea of what he might like.

“When we have your birthday party,” I said to Monkey Boy, “we could make a theme for it. We could do pirates, or maybe clowns…”

“Or knights!” he said excitedly.

“Oh yeah, knights might be fun,” I said.

“Or maybe fairies!”

Silence.

Now, I consider myself a very open-minded person, and I make a real effort to raise my children without gender bias. I smile when Monkey Boy parades around in my high-heeled shoes, read him princess stories, and silently cheer when he breastfeeds his teddy bear. I also encourage his love of cars, trains, and superheroes. These are not ‘boy’ interests or ‘girl’ interests, but simply my son’s interests.

So I knew what I had to do here. I had to say, “sure, maybe fairies!” And I had to smile, and if he really wanted fairies, plan a fairy party for him. I also know, though, that not every parent thinks the same way I do. And if they do and have tried to raise their kids without gender bias, friends, relatives and society often defeat their efforts.

“Sure, maybe fairies!” I said. But oh please please don’t really want fairies because then I will have to either say yes and set you up for possible ridicule from the kids who will be coming and who maybe will think fairies are for girls and won’t understand why a boy would want them, or I will have to say no and then hate myself for going against my principles.

“Or even wizards!” he said, enthusiastically.

“YES! Wizards! Wizards would be fantastic! Wow, wizards, what a great idea!”

It’s lunch time and I’m eating a sandwich with Monkey Boy.

He is telling me all about an animal called an I-bird. I-birds don’t fly, they live in caves and i-runs, and they eat salami and cheese and treats. Some of his story is borrowed from an episode of Backyardigans, but most of it is straight out of his own head.

Meals alone with my children are hard for me. Like most three-year-olds, Monkey Boy speaks in monologues, something I have an awful time remaining focused on. Sometimes I let my mind completely wander off, slipping in the occasional ‘yes,’ or ‘wow!’ Other times I read a book, hoping he will finish quickly and go back to his toys.

Both of these things are rude and unfair to my son. They are also not behaviours I want him to model.

I’m making a concerted effort to be present for my child. He chatters on, and I try hard to pay attention. To ask him questions. To make responses that are more than just ‘uh-huh’.

It’s hard. Today is harder than usual, too. We got home late from a playdate, so lunch is later than usual. Pixie is already napping, and I just want lunch to end so we can start quiet time and I can maybe have a few minutes to myself before she wakes up. But I am going to give him the attention he deserves.

The story keeps going. I finish my sandwich, and my eyes drift over to a book left on the table. I force them back to my son. My brain starts going over the groceries I need. I stop it and bring my focus back.

As I listen I am amazed at the depth of Monkey Boy’s imagination. Even the bits he’s borrowed from TV have been changed and re-imagined. Every question I ask reveals more and more of the world he’s created for his I-bird.

The thought flits through my mind, ‘look at what you’ve been missing by not engaging,’ but I push it out of my mind. I refuse to dwell on the past this time. I am paying attention right now, and that is what matters.

It’s still hard. I am fidgety and longing for it to be over, despite my interest. But I keep trying. I can’t sit any longer, so I get up and start emptying and loading the dishwasher, while letting him know I am still paying attention. Being able to move about makes it easier. When he finally finishes his lunch and I take him up for quiet time, I am almost sorry.

I feel good. I feel satisfied with myself for once. Of course Dismal Doris, the little voice in my head, tries once again to get me down.

“Just think,” she whispers, “he starts school in September. You only get him to yourself for a few more months, and look at how much you’ve wasted already.”

If I only get this kind of time for a few more months, I tell Doris, then it’s a good thing I’m intending to make the most of them.