Who are you if you're not the one who wrote this?

Monday, May 24, 2010

And I repeat,

“Four little words just to get me along . . .”

That’s the first line of a song called ‘That’s Not My Name’ sung by British craze duo ‘The Ting Tings.’

‘That’s Not My Name’ is a fun, upbeat tune that drives me to grab my pseudo-microphone hairbrush and karaoke my way back and forth across my kitchen floor, pretending to be a pop star.

“They call me Stacey, Mary, Jo, Lisa. They call me Her, they call me Jane, always the same. That’s not my name. That’s not my name. That’s not my name,” I croon.

This time it should be “That’s not my column. That’s not my column. That’s not my column.”

Hence, I again feel compelled to poke some fun at myself and the misfire of editing after another contributing writer’s column appeared under my byline in last week’s newspaper.

“Moo.”

In a small town like this, it’s how rumors get started. In a moment of panic I thought I might have to vanish into obscurity as the next volunteer to protect the island on the television series “LOST.”

First off, I didn’t submit a column for last week’s newspaper, which made for the bewildered tilt of my head when a regular reader stopped me in the local grocery store on Thursday afternoon and queried, “I thought you were married.”

And while I have been known on occasion to “have a cow” when my temper gets the best of me—I do not own cows.

And while I do own a barn, my barnyard is not a mess unless you count the small patch of dog poop I forgot to clean up.

And while I have often thought of Daughter #3 as my summer student, she still hasn’t been able to see much of what I do around here because I have all cleaning and bagging done before she gets up at noon.

However, I do have something in common with the Rainy River District Environmental Stewardship Committee. I bought 80 tree seedlings from the group this year. And last summer I purchased and planted 200 seedlings here in my neck of the woods.

I may be cash poor, but I am land rich and in my book there are few earth-friendly accomplishments more satisfying than planting trees.

Last but not least, I do not have a Maddie or a Marlee in my brood, although I do enjoy reading about their little lives when they visit Auntie Kimmie.

But I do change poopie diapers and wipe runny noses and occasionally rescue pussy willows buds from a two-year old’s nostrils.

Most importantly, the news from my herd is that I have a brand new grandson named Charlie, born 15 days ago.

The first tree seedling I planted in my yard was for you, my newest sprout.

The little wonders in my world continue to entertain me

Sunday, May 9, 2010

At mid-week, my brood of grandchildren will have grown by one, as Daughter #1 will give birth to a baby May 11th.

The new addition brings my grandmotherly doting issues to five little peppers.

In the days to come, eight pounds of the newest little someone with the mess of dark, fine hair and star-lit eyes staring back at me from the baby blankets in my arms won’t seem as heavy as the 4kg of sugar I carried in from the truck—and conversations will be all about possibilities.

By mid-week, I’m quite sure I also will be on my second case of the energy drink ‘Red Bull’, as the only vim I expect to have left will be that of the cleaning brand of the same name in the cupboard under my kitchen sink.

Reasons? Two charges—a.k.a. sister and brother of the new baby—both under the age of four-and-a-half years, who will have been visiting Granny Daycare while Mommy is in hospital.

I am beginning to realize with some disbelief that the energy it takes to look after small fries exceeds any other vigorous activity I engage in.

Sometimes I can’t believe I too once was a mother with three small children and that I survived that maternal power supply drainage project.

Please excuse me while I duct tape the kids to the living room wall and go take my morning Granny nap.

The funny thing is, I had a dry run at this chipmunk festival last week, when Daughter #1 unexpectedly went into hospital for complete bed rest. My daycare centre only lasted for one night and two days and yet I was completely worn out.

This is not to say that Adam and Julie were unmanageable. In fact it was just the opposite. They ate their carrots and slept until the sun came up at 5:24 a.m.

However they did try to convince me there was no such thing as manners at their house and compared everything I did for them to the routine they were used to with their mom, including how small and in which shape I cut up their meat.

Say it with me. “Ohm.”

And on the visit to the toy aisle at the local department store with me during his mother’s absence, Adam picked up a “Leapster” computer game and said most casually, “Granny, my mom told me that the next time we come here to shop, she’s going to buy this for me.”

“That’s very nice,” I said, looking for an empty shelf that I might curl up on for a five-minute siesta.

“That’s today,” he said in a serious matter-of-fact tone.

He then proceeded to repeatedly trip over his bottom lip when the tactic didn’t work—as we moved on to the hardware section to look for more duct tape.

Julie on the other hand hasn’t gone the wily route just yet. She’s just happy if there’s a snack to be had.

Clearly I was not prepared. I had flax seeds, lentils, and red kidney beans in large quantities—none of which seemed to thrill the child.

She ran over to the "Lazy Susan" kitchen cabinet—the same one where the old square cookie tin sits in the same spot as it did in my youth when my grandmother ruled this kitchen—and spun the shelving.

“Cookies in there?” she queried as the shelf slowed down and stopped like a roulette wheel, bang-on the cookie tin.

She looked up at me with those brown eyes, as I poured another can of Boost into my coffee cup.

“No. There are no cookies in there. I don’t have any,” I said.

Julie spun the shelf again and when the cookie tin came round again she shouted enthusiastically, “There it is! Cookies in there?”

It was as if it was a new discovery every time over the span of six to eight more spins.

Oh yes, and never underestimate a two-year-old’s ability to find the one thing you don’t want them to touch when you turn your back for 10 seconds. It was a record-breaking spree as she picked off all multiple new leaves of the flower sprouts I had just replanted in peat pots after six weeks of difficult germination.

Later that afternoon when the little mice coaxed me outside to run about the yard, we decided to play hide and seek in the half-light of the barn.

Once inside, I encouraged my energizer bunny duo to go and hide and that I would close my eyes and count to 10.

No sooner had I put my head into the crux of my arm and counted to five, did Julie come running up to me and said shout, “There you are! I see you!”

It was too funny.

As I write this, I am sharing my blood supply with my leather couch and another bottle of Boost and reading quotes from Erma Bombeck about motherhood.

“All of us have moments in our lives that test our courage. Taking children into a house with a white carpet is one of them.”

She might be right, but I don’t have any carpets in my house.

However, what I do have is three less buds on a dried pussy willow arrangement and which I didn’t know were missing until Julie sneezed and all three came flying across the room out of her nose.

Say it with me, “Ohm.”

The day when the usual attire didn't make the cut

Sunday, May 2, 2010

I am quite comfortable, thank you very much; in thinking that Christmas is the only date I have with social formality. The rest of the year I live quite comfortably at my “mom-jeans and sweatshirt” retreat.

My little fantasy bubble was popped April 22^nd when I realized that the annual Ducks Unlimited banquet, to which I had been invited, was to be held the next evening and I still had not looked in my closet to see if there was something appropriate to wear.

“Clearly I do not get out enough,” I said to myself that fateful day, when the only formal clothing hanging in there was the pantsuit with poinsettias on it from December 25^th.

And in addition, clearly I don’t get out enough on a social event level to know that such things require slightly more planning and decision-making time than what I give to my breakfast food.

With just 20 hours to spare, it was time to go shopping for myself, which is another strange activity I continue to have little experience with. Unless it involves buying dog food or dish soap, don’t expect to see me again for days. It takes me a lifetime to decide on any fabric that is going to connect with this “apple-bottom” and “headed south” figure of mine.

I also shuddered at the thought that I might be faced with the reality of a thigh-master pantyhose and Spanx battle, before it snowed again.

Daughter #3, sensing an urgency of epic proportions, volunteered to come along on what was becoming an impending panic attack on local dress shops.

And when the five dresses I chose to try on that afternoon made me look like a Dalmatian with a gunny sack stuffed under my knickers, I threw in the towel and tried on the one little black number that I was sure was a lost cause, that Daughter #3 had chosen for me off the rack.

I rolled my eyes. Never in a million years would I have picked that one.

But as soon as I put it on, Poof! I stood corrected and pleasantly surprised with the transformation from frump to fabulous.

I tripped on home with a skip in my step and once there and prancing around in my new look, took one glance in the mirror—and oh, good heavens.

My hair had more evil grey matter than the leftover tomato paste that had been in my fridge since February. At 18 hours and counting, I jumped on the Internet to get advice on hair color and matched myself up to a “Medium Brown #20” and blew back to town for the goods.

If there’s one thing I know for sure, the instructions on the box of hair dye should read “not to be used by a social oddball the day before attending a public function.”

It wasn’t until I had applied the brown concoction to my head did I read in the pamphlet that recommended not washing my hair for at least three days after coloring.

“What if smell like ammonia at the banquet?” was the only frantic thought in my head, until 10 minutes later just before I was to wash the sauce out, did I see the brown streak of dye across my forehead, eyebrow, and on both ear tips.

Short of scrubbing off three layers of skin with a SOS pad, I can now attest that a small dab of the well-known stain removal product “Goo Be Gone” saved the day in facial recovery for this gal.

I also own one pair of “dress-up” high heel shoes that I’m sure have been around since I graduated from college in 1980. I take them out once a year to wear at Christmas and then seal them back up in a large freezer bag and stuff them away for the next 365 days.

Clearly I don’t get out enough.

But when I do I shine up pretty well, if I do say so myself.

And I might try fancying up a little more often in the future, even if only for the benefit of my canine capers, who barked and nearly cornered me as a stranger the evening of the banquet when they didn’t recognize me dressed in something other than old jeans and a plaid bush jacket.