hobgoblins, jack 'o lanterns, warlocks

And a pirate in my bathroom.

Happy Halloween!

beautiful book week begins

Inspired by beautiful book week over at Abby's and encouraged by Nan's thoughtful entries, I've decided to join the fun. Unlike others posting on this subject, I don't have many home dec or Japanese craft books, but I do have quite the collection of children's books from the '50s and '60s, so it is some of my favourite storybooks that I will share with you. Herewith, entry #1: Petunia's Christmas.

Now, you may not believe it, but I actually remember when and where I bought most of my books. Petunia was found three years ago at this church bazaar, and though the sale was in spring and this is a Christmas book, Stella and I loved it straight away and Petunia is in year round rotation on the bedtime story reading list. It's a delightful and odd little story about Petunia, a pet goose living happily on a farm. One wintry day she toddles off on a walk in the woods and ends up at a neighbouring farm where a sweet-talking gander is held captive:

"Good day, my name is Charles. You are pretty. Who are you?"
"I am Petunia. You are handsome."
"I am too fat," sighed Charles. "Being fattened for Christmas. Alas I fear I'll be roasted and served with apple sauce."




The plot thickens when Charles pleads with Petunia to help him escape. Petunia, smitten, returns to her farm to plan a jail break. It involves make-up and paint. You'll have to read that part.



It doesn't work. Petunia, a resourceful bird, decides she'll go legit and buy Charles' freedom from the farmer. Off she goes dressed as Santa to panhandle in town.



But the city folk are too busy to notice the poor goose. Ever the crafty, entrepreneurial, love-struck bird (this is where I really bonded with her) Petunia decides to make beautiful pine wreaths, paper angels and Christmas trees to sell in town. She's a hit.




Things get exciting again when Petunia realizes it's Christmas Eve and Charles is in mortal danger:

" At last she had enough money. But was it too late now? Christmas was so near. Petunia almost flew to Windy Farm with a bag full of coins. Oh joy! Charles was still there, in his yard. The farmer and his wife opened their eyes big as Christmas tree balls when Petunia offered the bag of coins in exchange for Charles' freedom. The farmer's wife wiped her eyese with the corner of her apron when she thought of Petunia's devotion."

A happy ending.



Bravo Roger Duvoisin, who wrote and illustrated Petunia in 1952. It makes me happy.

woke up this morning, smiled at the rising sun

A wonderful package from the wonderful Nan arrived the other day. I haven't stopped humming this song since. So sweet and warm and so good to sing to sleepy babes. You must go, now, and find it. While you're at it, search for Jack Johnson's We're going to be Friends, Thrift Shop by Dan Zanes & Sandra Bernhard and Hello by The Cat Empire. So, so good. See, kids music doesn't have to be manic (and annoying) or syrupy (and annoying).

Love the CD cover art (I'm a sucker for boys in bow ties) and the little ponytail holders made from vintage buttons. Perfection. Thank you Nan. And thank you Tracy for being an excellent matchmaker. I know me and Nan are going to be friends.

Other obsessions this weekend were food, hats and babysitters. Breakfast at The Red Cabin, our local greasy spoon diner, where we were joined by friends with kids. Took over two corner booths and we rocked the place out with noise, musical chairs, pancake syrup and one or two cups of spilled orange juice. We left a good tip. We're recent converts to the joy of paying for a babysitter instead of calling in favours, trades and bribes. The price of freedom is $50 but oh-so worth it. Off we went to lunch on College Street with (different) friends, but first a stop here to buy my guy a new chapeau for his birthday. A dashing wool plaid fedora for him, a cozy Elmer Fudd-style hunter's cap for me and, I'm not ashamed, a brown, pink and white plaid hat also for me. I am all about the win-win lately. Lest we ever feel actually hungry, the day ended with a Bavarian feast for 20 at my in-laws. The Austrian side of the family had gathered to toast Tante Kristl visting from Salzberg. An honest-to-god film projector and big old screen were set up and we arrived just as the old home movies came on. I got to see my fella as a five year old. It was magic.

I believe that paying attention to common civilities is the key to a happy marriage. So I don't make a big deal out of the little things that might drive other people crazy. Things like an Imelda Marcos-worthy shoe collection (his) and a wardrobe so vast (his) it's taken over the marital closet, two over flow wardrobes and is now, of all things, sneaking into the coat closet. Oh no, I let these things go without comment. And then I quietly phone the Ontario Federation for Cerebral Palsy (416-244-0899) and they quietly send over a truck to pick up whatever no longer fits in the closet. They put used goods to good use. So everyone's happy. It's a real win-win situation.

The other secret to a happy marriage is not ever putting Justin Timberlake on your husband's iPod. Not even in a secret sub-folder playlist only you know about it. He will find it and it will be embarrassing.

PSA

A few public service announcements today:

First up, while jogging merrily along on the old treadmill to You! Me! Dancing! (impossible to listen to and not want to do something really, really fast) I spotted Martha on the telly making something involving an Evian bottle filled with liquid plaster of Paris, an air pump and a balloon. It all ended very badly in that way Martha's crafts sometimes do the first time out, but anyway I do love that woman. Her little crafty Halloween kits, which are cuter than they are scary, are now 50% at Michaels. I've never seen her things on sale before so I was maybe buying with a little too much enthusiasm.

Next stop, the Macgregor sock outlet on The East Mall & Queensway. I go for the $3.99 Calvin Klein and Michael Kors merino wool socks for me and thick wooly numbers that will be turned into presents for some little friends. The bright blue ones are earmarked for a little bird to perch on this branch beside the tweedy leaves, which are part of a larger tree project I'm working on for the new studio:

feeling kind of sunday

Feeling kind of crafty. A super quick (15 minutes) t-shirt makeover using a scrap of thrifted fabric and an old Martha template for the giraffe.



Feeling kind of sporty. An afternoon hike at Rattlesnake Point. A park I'd visit for the name alone, but the trails - and views - do not disappoint.



Feeling kind of Halloween. Decorate without buying more plastic junk.

Not yet having a sense of time, themed holidays are Stella's sundial: "First comes Halloween, then comes Christmas then comes my birthday, right?" Every holiday is a thing of joy to a four-year old. A feast of decorations, songs with hand gestures (turkeys turkeys all around. turkeys up. turkeys down. turkeys on the ground), crafting and, if you're lucky, chocolate. They're all pretty great, but an extra helping of enthusiasm is reserved for Halloween. We've been talking about it for two months and now that the first signs of lawn decor are springing up around the block, it is the only subject at dinner. "Can I be a pirate this year Mom? But a sea pirate, OK? Can you make a sea pirate costume? Or could I be a ghost with a pumpkin head? But next year I want to be a bamfire (trans: vampire). I want to be everything that's scary in the world."

So you'll understand why, with sincere apologies for the inconvenience, anyone looking for Halloween books at the Eatonville public library will find them at my house. I just could not say no to the little girl - how could I force her to choose between The Craziest Halloween and Attack of the Fifty Foot Teacher - so we kind of took them all. This one, The Littlest Witch, is my favourite. The beautiful illustrations aside, how could you not be hooked with this opener:

"It was Hallowe'en - whispery, shadowy, ghostly - and twenty-four witches sat around a magic circle in the exact centre of a deep forest. They stirred restlessly on their toadstools and mumbled angrily among themselves. It was almost midnight - time for their frolic - and one witch had not yet come."





I have a monthly budget for library late fees, but I promise to return this one on time.

getting with the program

Well hello there. Has it really been a week? I am in danger of having my blogger status revoked if I don't pick up the posting pace around here. I have the same relationship with blogging as I do with my gym: when I'm in a groove it's just part of my day. Mess with the routine and it's the equivalent of finding your treadmill buried underneath a pile of week old laundry. Somehow I fell off the blogging wagon; I'm trying to get back on, because I really do enjoy it. And I hope one day my kids will enjoy this chronicle of our lives. There's some weird Blogger bug that is preventing me from uploading images, so I apologize for the text-y post. And I had such a cute pile of vintage gift wrap scored for 25 cents at Thrift Villa to show you.

Now lest you think I have been, heaven forbid, relaxing these last seven days, I assure you I have not. Nor have I been going to the gym for that matter, until today that is when I had three workouts in three hours. With quivering legs and heavy forearms, let me explain. As a roving reviewer for TO Life magazine I'm called up to sample, test, review, inspect and ultimately comment upon anything from chocolate shops (I really can't believe I got paid to do that) to florists, spas, caterers, shoe stores and, yep, gyms. It's a good gig. So today I reviewed a handful of gyms which, frankly, is sort of like a bald man reviewing hair dryers. I'm fit. I'm healthy. I am no longer, however, in good shape. I've really struggled to get back into pre-pregnancy shape and it is just not happening for me. A fondness for Nonna's pasta doesn't help. Neither does Saturday morning breafast at the local greasy spoon. But I do workout because though I've given up on my abs ever springing back, I am crazy determined to keep my heart healthy. After a visit here I realize I do little more than catch up on back issues of US Weekly during my usual 30 minute stint on the treadmill. David, the owner of Aiyoku, a warm, sincere and genuinely nice guy, put me through the paces on this machine, which is the one Madonna apparently travels with (I'd like to see that suitcase) and then this one, which I loved. Aiyoku is a revelation. It's more spa than gym, and I've said it before, I like things pretty. Bergamot-scented chilled towel service? 26" flat screen TVs at every treadmill? Not a mirror in sight? I am so there people, I am so there.

I've always thought the person whose job it is to name paint colours has a pretty cool gig. I imagine that by the 80th rendition of medium brown things could get tiresome, so I'm suggesting "pinecone". If any paint-namers are out there.

A new batch of handknit (in Toronto!) earflap hats just arrived this morning, all beautifully fuzzy, Italian wool of the non-itchy variety and all crayon box colours, but for Mr. Pinecone here, which is my personal favourite. I should have the hats added to the shop in a day or two.

on the farm

A thanksgiving trip to the pumpkin patch is becoming a family tradition we look forward to. But where last year's excursion was dry, dusty and bright, this year was misty, damp and grey. I liked it. Hot cider. Rain boots. A tractor ride. A dewy walk in the pumpkin patch. My sister is more romantic than me, so I felt bad that her vision of cousin babies happily bumping along in the wagon was dashed before we even left the parking lot, but the wagon was put to another good use, and little M got to wear this bonnet (fashioned from a table cloth):





We were running a bit late - as usual - but we still took a leisurely cruise up highway 27 instead of the quicker but definitely unscenic 400. I love farm country. We have a half-baked idea of a weekend place with horses, a hen house, some veggies. One day. There was a very good article in The Post a few weeks ago, it talked about the coming shortage of farmers and the economic and cultural reasons why so few second generation farmers stay on the land. A bit doomy and gloomy - as a farmer's kid, I can't fathom the disappearance of agriculture from Ontario - but there were some bright spots in the story too: a 30-something woman raising organic turkeys, murmurings of a farming collective. This story about a 100 mile market in Meaford raised my spirits (though my mind wandered after learning Robin Leach's brother apparently lives in Meaford). Our farmer's market is closing for the season in a few weeks. I'm really going to miss it. It's harder than I'd imagined buying local, even at the peak of growing season. Our local Loblaws, which has the big lobster tank, the natural foods section, the $6 loaves of fougasse, rarely offers Ontario produce. South American apples in September. California tomatoes in August. I'm sure there are some very good, very complicated, very justifiable reasons why this is the case, but I prefer to blame dollar stores. They've changed our perception of value - $4 lattes notwithstanding. I'm a tad worried that I've become intolerable since reading The Omnivore's Dilemma, but it does make for spirited discussions on country drives.

the great diaper experiment

It's Thanksgiving morning and I'm thankful that my kids are watching TV so I can catch up on my favourite blogs and drink two three cups of hot coffee.

There isn't an immediate connection between cross-stitch and diapers, but there was something in Nan's post, something about stumbling across an earlier version of your parenting self and finding that person maybe not silly exactly, but certainly different and less confident and less you, that made me nod in recognition. And it somehow explains why after four years of disposable I decided to give cloth diapers a whirl. With both kids I wanted to use cloth, but when Stella was born in 2003 I couldn't find any information or a reliable supplier, and with Henry I was more committed, did the research, but in the end they seemed bulky and troublesome and stinkier - especially when doing 12 changes a day with an infant - and I didn't pull the trigger. Until last week. $60 later I had two pairs: Motherease and a new-fangled Bummis. I was, truthfully, afraid to use them. Worried that Henry would poop in his $29.95 organic cotton nappy (it seemed so wrong) it took me two days to work up the nerve to try them.

The Bummis (the green one) is cute, easy to use and fit well. Henry didn't notice anything different - a concern because cloth is substantially more bulky than disposable. My timing was off: Henry pooped within the hour. Clean up was, as you'd expect, way more involved than a disposable and, for me, that's the main drawback.

The Motherease diaper is gorgeous and plush and works with a separate waterproof cover. It's also very bulky and Henry spent a good 10 minutes trying to rip it off. Cloth diapers are not as forgiving as disposable when you lose track of time: H spent about 3 hours in the Motherease and it was thoroughly soaked front to back, like a sodden towel, when I woke him from his nap. It leaked a bit but not as much as I'd expected.

I'm not sure what this experiment is really about, other than to satisfy my own curiosity. No two ways about it: cloth diapers are more work. They're not a convenience item. I wouldn't want to use them while traveling or out for the day. But still there's something deeply appealing about them. I think I may use them and disposables, the way my mother did: cloth at home, disposable when the situation calls for it. The experiment continues...

weekend-ing

However you congregate, happy Thanksgiving!

if you give a mouse a cookie...

Whenever one of our holdout non-parent friends dares to ask what it's "really like" I refer them to the story about the mouse. I don't know about your house, but it's a good analogy for mine. Take, for instance, last night:

Three Hours To Do The Dishes: A Screwball Domestic Comedy In Eight Acts

Act One, Scene One: The Dinner Hour. Happy family eating dinner.
Baby bouncing on Grandma's lap. Amiable chit-chat. Background: dishes.

Act Two, Scene One: The clean-up
Grandma takes baby to bath. 4-year old wanders off to play. Husband & Wife do dishes together. Amiable chit-chat.

Scene Two: Wife cuts finger on chef's knife carelessly placed in dish rack, heads to bathroom for bandage. Husband, seeing an opportunity, abandons dishes/kitchen and wanders off. Does not return until Act Three.

Act Three, Scene One: The Bathroom.
Baby spies Wife/Mother, starts to cry. Finger bandaged, Wife/Mother retrieves baby from bath. Husband appears in doorway holding drill and a jigsaw attachment. Asks wife "do you know how this works?" Wife's expression says it all. Husband wanders off. Does not return until Act Four.

Scene Two: The Nursery.
Wife/Mother enters nursery holding naked baby, turns on light. Look of horror: orange drips cover walls from ceiling to floor. Scream of horror startles baby (who begins to cry) as Wife/Mother realizes Vicks Vap-O Rub really should not be used in the vaporizer, and vaporizer should not be left running for 12 hours with the door closed. Dishes abandoned. Naked baby abandoned. Bucket of water and sponge procured.

Scene Three: The Nursery.
Grandmother and Wife/Mother on stepladders washing walls. Naked baby playing on floor. Husband/Father no where to be seen. 4-year old watching Survivor. Wife/Mother smells something foul. Looks down: naked baby has pooped on carpet. Wife/Mother's scream startles baby, who begins to cry, steps in pooh and falls down. Dishes abandoned. Walls abandoned. Carpet taken to laundry room.

Scene Four: The Bathroom.
Wife/Mother re-bathes baby.

Act Four: The Stud Finder
Husband, now shirtless, asks Wife/Mother where she put the stud finder. Wife/Mother knows she put it somewhere and for the next five minutes shouts out possible locations. Husband reappears, frustrated. Dishes abandoned. Walls abandoned. Baby abandoned. 4-year old still watching survivor. Wife leaves to look for the stud finder.

Scene Two: Husband, muttering, trails Wife on a fruitless expedition to locate stud finder. Husband leaves house.

Act Five: Bedtime
Grandma puts baby to bed. Wife resumes dish washing. Five minutes later, Survivor over, 4-year old goes to shower and needs help. Dishes abandoned.

Scene Two: 4-year old takes 20-minute long shower, draining last of hot water so dish washing cannot resume until water tank has reheated.

Scene Three: Mother cleans other parts of kitchen while waiting for hot water. Husband returns and begins drilling wall in living room. Baby is sleeping.

Act Six:
4-year old decides to have sleep over at Grandma's - tomorrow is a PD Day. Wife/Mother drives Grandma and 4-year old across town.

Act Seven:
9:45 p.m. Wife/Mother returns home. Husband/Father, shirtless again, still drilling. Baby, unbelievably, still sleeping. Dish washing resumes.

Act Eight:
Kitchen cleaned, Wife/Mother retires to dining room to work on computer, sitting down for the first time in four hours. Husband's drilling replaced by hammering. The thing Husband is mounting on the wall falls off in slow motion, landing painfully on his foot. He turns to Wife and says "I really could have used your help there."

THE END

I fell in love with this little painting at a flea market the other day. I asked the vendor how much for the cow; he furrowed his brow took a moment and said "oh you mean the deer." I guess the woodland background should have been a clue, but all I know is I hung it in Stella's room and she said "I like the cow picture mom."

My baby and me are in synch lately. I could chalk it up to whatever mystical force guides children's emotions, but I'd like to think it's my skillful parenting that's brought some welcome harmony after a long stretch of tantrums and saucy behaviour. Credit where it's due, this book has totally reshaped my approach. I've read a bunch of parenting books recently; 1-2-3 Magic was suggested by our Doctor. It was a disaster. It infuriated Stella and really only amplified a situation that was already out of control. And because everything was done in the heat of the moment I found myself dishing out bizarre consequences that had no connection to the issue at hand, and often punished us more than her. Won't eat your dinner? Fine, you can't play outside tonight. Waaahh! And now we're suddenly - loudly - focused on not playing outside versus the real issue in the first place, table manners, and everyone's meal is spoiled. Some time in the summer a neighbour dropped off a big box of toys her kids had outgrown. Manna. It was full of cool books, a microscope, a Schroeder-esque piano and a big old fashioned red gumball machine. It was empty so I really cannot explain the appeal but the gumball machine became Stella's most prized treasure. The night it was taken away in a fit of tears, the look of betrayal on Stella's face convinced me this was not the approach for us.

I think why Sarah Chana Radcliffe's approach is successful, for us anyhow, is because it emphasizes positive reinforcement. The parent doesn't get to "win" every situation. It's more forgiving of letting smaller infractions go by in favour of the bigger picture. There is more trust and more logical connections between behaviour and consequence that Stella seems to understand better. I think I'm starting to understand the reaction of parents who've been here before when they say "You think a baby is hard? Just wait." This shift from quantitative parenting to qualitative is tricky business.

a big bite

I like to take pictures of my kids when they're not looking.



This is why.

Now I'm not complaining about the weather, believe you me, but I must say a fall is really just an excuse to wear a cozy new sweater. It's not the same in flip flops and a tank. But my slow life pledge has been thrown by the wayside recently (hence the spotty posting) so it's real good to get away from the house for a couple of hours and just unplug. What's keeping me hopping you ask? Freelancing is always feast or famine so I tend to say yes to everything, not expecting that it's going to be the writing equivalent of an Italian wedding. Thinking a little *me* time would be good I signed up a few weeks ago for a Wednesday night sewing class, which has turned into a real-life Project Runway with a very capable but exacting instructor. My simple tweed skirt has morphed into a couture garment that's cost nearly $100 to date. But the thing that's keeping me real busy, keeping me awake at night and quite possibly giving me an ulcer, is that I've signed a lease for a studio space. It's a big move for me, for my family, for Honeybunch. I've toyed with and always pooh-poohed the idea of a physical shop over the years but, as I've said before, I believe in fate. It all came together very quickly, very easily and the whole arrangement seems perfect: I can walk there, so it'll be very neighbourhood-y and my kids can hang out with me on the weekend, it's bright and sunny, I can afford the rent (a major issue in Toronto) and the landlord is a gentleman (another major issue, typically). I should be open just before Christmas, and you're all invited to the big party!