thank heaven for little boys

Others may ponder but for us the nature/nuture argument was settled when Henry's first second and third words were car. Or more accurately, caahr? with a drawn out middle and an upward inflection at the end. The kid is consumed - practically feverish - with buttons, keys and anything mechanical. And let's just say it is not genetic. So really I should not have been surprised to be interrupted at my part-time job in the laundry room by the simultaneous blast of an AM radio springing to life and the roar of a big sister reporting that Henry had pushed some button on my clock radio. It's a strange thing because I bought this clock a few years ago but the radio never worked. Stranger yet, there are just two volume settings: loud and supersonic and it apparently only tunes in to a local Punjabi radio station. I'm sure Henry will have it retooled and working like a charm in no time.

This clock carries a bit of sadness with it though. I bought it at an everything-must-go yard sale, the kind where the front doors are thrown open and there are people in every room going through closets, buying art from the walls and Pyrex from the kitchen cupboards. I always find estate sales unsettling, but this one particularly so because there was an older gent wandering through the house, looking things over and seeming sort of overwhelmed. I thought he might be a neighbour but it turns out he lived there, and I guess with the house for sale for one reason or another his children were liquidating the contents. Anyway, a little sad. I do really this clock. And now I'll always wonder if the man was listening to Bhangra or Leafs' games.

happy easter

the cobbler's child

A little lunch: Italian wedding soup and blue marker.

My little dude turns two Thursday. I haven't planned a party for him. Goodness gracious, I haven't even attempted a crooked cake. In my defense: it is Easter weekend. And we saw everybody at the shop opening two weeks ago. I gave up guilt a long time ago; it's the feeling of hypocrisy I can't shake. So we, and by we I mean me, will try to deck the halls between now and Thursday 6:00 pm when grandparents, godparents, aunts and uncles, but alas no little playmates, will arrive for take-out churrasco, a double-decker cake from here and to toast the man of the hour.

Post script:



Impromptu or no it was a fine fête. Considering Henry's best pals are his grandma and grandpa, the most important people were present and accounted for. And in a strange display of baked goods karma, we even managed a crooked cake.

Thank you for the birthday wishes Josiane & Susan!

sunday sunday

Our usual Sunday feast with the grandparents was followed with a trip to the Junction for a stroll and a poke around Pandemonium, a favourite used book store. I like the Junction. My parents hung out at the movie theatre that was there in the 1950s, which I think was the area's heyday. We looked at houses there not long after Stella was born, but we despite the rooming houses, abandoned storefronts and generally high grit factor we were still outbid on even the humblest semi. Ah Toronto. It's been a forgotten pocket of the city ever since, likely because of a wacky no-alcohol bylaw from a hundred years ago that no one thought to change until recently. But businesses are finally moving in - there are now two solid Indian restos, a Thai food place and an organic burger joint in half a block - and it feels like Queen West in its pre-Gap days. You know, before the chain stores move in and the old buildings are renovated beyond recognition.

Anyway, there we are at the book store and I'm finding gold I tell ya, gold: An original Mother Goose, a Velveteen Rabbit, an oddball collection of children's letters to God ("My name is Sharon. I am in third grade. I live in Seattle. One thing I would like to know. Do you like what you do now?). I also picked up this Mr. Rogers Golden Book because even though I never watched Mr. Rogers as a kid, I was teaching Stella and Henry the won't you be my neighbour song earlier in the morning, and as a believer in fate not coincidence I couldn't pass it up. Turns out to be a pretty good tale: Henrietta gets bent out of shape at the idea of someone new moving into the neighbourhood. She feels threatened by the arrival of flashy Colette from Paris and ends up in a self-defeating spiral of negativity. It all ends a little too conveniently, if you ask me, but I applaud Mr. Rogers for approaching the subject - the possibility that people might like someone else more than they like us - in a way that feels real and honest - even if Henrietta is a cat walking on her hind legs and wearing a dress.

report card

"Good night Stella"
"Good night mummy"
Rustling sounds. The tear of Velcro. Soft footsteps. Bed squeaking. I can hear all of this because ours is a small bungalow and after lights out I am twenty feet down the hall. If I lean off the couch just so and tilt my head to the right I have a sliver of a view into Stella's room. She hasn't cottoned on to that yet and I'm happy to preserve the illusion of omniscience. Anyway, the Velcro sound remains a mystery but the rustling and footsteps I later discovered were the sounds of Spiderman being installed on the bedpost. He's the prized trophy, won after who knows how many rounds of whack-a-mole at Spring Fling - dad's March Break day out. It wasn't hard to do, but I've been badly trumped.

in a handbasket

It's the first day of Stella's first March break and I was filled with good intentions. A big breakfast, a little fresh air and then who knew where the day would take us. Maple sugaring and a wagon ride through the forest. The Wizard extravaganza at the CNE. Dinosaurs at the ROM, with a bonus subway ride. The day was ours to discover. But first up: banana-filled French toast. Except the bread was deemed too "seedy" and "brown" and lest anyone ingest fiber willingly around here, I gave up early and a big old bowl of Frosted Flakes it was.

Next: a leisurely wagon ride to the library. Along the way we picked up a little friend. What should have been a 10 minute walk turned into an epic yet pleasant two hour exploration of every snowdrift along the way that was higher than six feet. There were many. The downside was ending up at the library completely shagged out (me) and sodden (them) and then having to lug a wagon filled with two kids and thirty pounds of picture books back home along unploughed sidewalks.

Home for a change of clothes, a spot of lunch and to chew over our next move. It's at this point that the day starts to unravel. We picked up a third friend post-lunch and before you can say "whatwereyouthinking" plans were made to take everyone out for the afternoon. There was mention of an early supper at McDonald's. Gleeful jumping. Cut to me attempting to install three car seats, something not previously attempted. Cue the sound of a screeching record as I discover my car does not have three seat belts. Just two. Oh the tears. And recriminations. A suggestion that someone ride in the trunk. Or someone stay home. It was not a good scene. Most of the roaring, of course, came from my kid. The other two were actually pretty gracious, readily bribed with an offer of a walk to the ice cream shop. Yet somehow on this blazingly beautiful day I ended up with a sofa full of kids watching The Road to El Dorado in my living room. I was able to block out the Elton John soundtrack and most of Rosie Perez' dialogue until I heard someone shout "How the hell do we get back to Spain?!," an odd line for a kid's movie, no? I'm no rube. I didn't hit rewind to make sure I heard correctly. I didn't draw any attention to it at all. But still, within seconds there was a trio of girls on my sofa giggling and chanting "how the hell do we get back to Spain?!" Man. If I don't turn this thing around I'm going to get a D in March Break.

you could say I like yellow

My $19 tote from Joe Fresh. I like that Joe Mimran, I do. He has good ideas.

Cuckoo clocks are also up there on the list of things that make me happy. This one a recent Etsy buy from a lovely girl in Paris who included all sorts of sweet nothings that made opening the box feel like I was getting a gift.



A Tim Horton's takeout coffee that didn't leak would make me happy. Thankfully I have options. Happy Friday, happy weekend friends.

hello

Back from a shorter than expected blogging break. I'd been planning to take today off from the shop and spend it with Henry but our week got shifted around and he's at nursery school, leaving me with an empty and most welcome day to myself. I made an apron.

My love for aprons is still in full bloom. I have a dozen or so vintage-y ones picked up here and there over the last few years, and despite being asked on occasion, I really couldn't part with a single one. I love them all. And they're quite hard to find now for less than $20. So it's been on my to-do list for some time now, a range of vintage-inspired aprons sized for children. At the annual gift show last month I couldn't help but notice aprons of every style and fabric imaginable hanging so prettily on the booths of every textile exhibitor. I imagine you'll be seeing a lot of them in stores in the coming months. I thought that rather than go the mass-produced route, I'd like to make a few myself using a mix of new and recycled fabrics, which is in keeping with the thrifty spirit of women who made aprons from tea towels and flour sack cloth back in the 1940s. This one is a thriftshop pillowcase cut in half (so half of the cutting/sewing work is already done) with linen ties and waistband and a kangaroo-style pocket. I'd say about two hours from start to finish, longer than I'd planned and mostly my fault for trying to eyeball the waistband and then getting into all sorts of trouble with the ties not fitting smoothly. But overall I'm quite pleased with it. I'm not much of an embellisher, but I can see this one looking super cute with some pompom fringe or a touch of embroidery on a corner of the pocket.

The groovy pink floral apron, a late '60s model I suspect because it looks just like the kitchen wallpaper in the house I grew up in, was the inspiration, and I referenced Amy Karol's pattern for the pocket.