Made a couple of these over the long weekend. Blended mangoes, watermelon, pears, bananas, raspberries (making it a little less green, a little more brown), blueberries, and, um, spinach. Lots and lots of spinach.
Gave some to the Bean, trying to pass it off as a milkshake in a sippy cup. He drank a little and then replied “I don’t fink so” and promptly handed me the cup.
Not bad. Need to go a second time to render a proper verdict. The place is new, and working out some kinks, but the bbq chicken was rockin’ and the ribs were amazing. $2.50 for 1/2 cob of corn is insane, but overall the menu was decently cheap.
Next bbq stop in Hali will be Boneheads, just so we can compare. Also managed to snag a bottle of Sticky Fingers Carolina Classic barbecue sauce while in the city, so Adam will no doubt be slathering that over all future meals, be they bbq or not.
Is it a “guilty” pleasure if I don’t feel guilty about it?
We’re heading to “the city” this weekend, and while I’m excited to visit some friends I haven’t seen in months, and to get in some decent shopping, I’m secretly thrilled at the idea of spending an hour or so in a Starbucks delving into my latest Amazon purchase. We don’t often buy new books in our household since we can get ‘em on the cheap from Frenchys, and there’s no Starbucks closer than 300 km away, so my birthday gift (to me, love from myself) is a perfect accompaniment to the tall mocha with extra whip that I intend to enjoy sometime on Saturday afternoon.
We were in the valley over the weekend, and with everyone else at hockey (3 on 3 tournament run by A’s family), it fell to me to take the Bean over to the great-grandparents. He was fine, and I was doing marvelously, impressing A’s g-parents with my wit and charm and general awesomeness, when Bean raced over to me, pulled my cardigan open (only exposing my t-shirt, thankfully), and yelled “ya got MILK!” Because when you are two, and your mother is breastfeeding her new baby and she doesn’t properly explain that she has breasts, and the milk is just what comes out of them, you get all confused and think every woman has MILK. (In capital letters because it is always said loudly and with great emphasis.)
Adam’s grandmother nearly passed out from laughing.
Thankfully we had to leave to get lunch ready before he could further regale them with his knowledge of the female body, and tell them all about “baginas”.
is having trouble with pronouns. He isn’t aware of the word “my”, or really even “me”, although he uses “I” quite a bit. A lot of requests come in the form of him addressing me, requesting something for himself, but still suggesting I do it for him. “Jilly pick you up?” with arms raised, meaning he wants me to carry him to the car, or “that your truck?” meaning, “I’m pretty sure that shit belongs to me, lady”.
He is, however, getting better at informing Adam and I (and the world at large) of when he has JUST taken advantage of the fact that he’s wearing a diaper. Ahem. The potty training is not going quite as planned, since we find out not prior to, but just following the big event. Last week he was very still for a minute and then walked over to where I was reading on the couch, and informed me, in a quiet voice, “I pooped in your pants”.
Coleridge was all about building an altar in the fields. Mary Lennox wanted a bit of earth and wound up with an entire garden. Me, I just want to put in the rest of the day lilies that dad brought back from the Island. If this evening is decent we’ll bundle up Bean and head outside for a little landscape action.
I’m thirty-two. I’m a grown up. A woman capable of making her own decisions, living with her own choices, taking care of herself and managing just fine on her own. To quote my three year old niece, “I be a big girl”.
Until I get sick.
Show me four hours of vomiting and dizziness and the inability to move, and I’ll show you somebody who wants their mother.
It doesn’t matter that the woman knows how to get a reaction out of me in under four seconds. It doesn’t matter that we have different religious views. It doesn’t matter that we disagree on the fundamentals of life, such as the correct volume at which Metallica should be played. When the chips are down, and my world shrinks to the size of a porcelain bowl, I need my mom. I will call my parents, and bypass my father, whom I adore and am extremely close to, because it’s just not the same.
“Hi, Jilly! Yeah, hang on, she’s right here. How are you? Did you contract that gross flu thing that’s going ar-”
“…’k. Just a sec.”
I actually need her a great deal more than that. She gives me advice on how to deal with two year olds. And people way older who act like two year olds. She listens patiently when I call, needing her to look up that biscuit recipe that we made with my brother that time that we came back from the beach that day on the island. And when I call back later to complain that it didn’t turn out at ALL how it was supposed to, and now Adam and the Bean are playing ground hockey with the biscuits.
She is, as any parent should be, one of my greatest critics, and one of my biggest supporters. Considering how I turned into Damien during my teen years, she loves me an awful lot. And she loves Adam. And the Bean. And although she’s not a huge fan of canines, she lies right to Jinx’s face and tells him he’s a nice doggie. (Adam and I don’t want him to get the wrong idea, though, so we chime in immediately and tell him to smarten up or he’s going in the garbage.)
She is one of the smartest, kindest, most generous people I’ve ever known. I’ve always read that little girls grow up to find mates who remind them of their fathers. This is definitely true for me – Adam’s a die-hard sports fan, articulate, well-read, intelligent and hilarious. But he’s also soft-hearted, sentimental (oh c’mon, A, you cried like a little girl when Sid scored that goal), strong-willed and fiercely loyal. Hi ma!
Thirty-two years ago, around the same time my parents decided that it would be selfish to have their own second child when there were unwanted children in the world, my birth mother made the decision to carry me to term and put me up for adoption. Win-win!
In London, my every day bag usually contained all of the following: magazines for reading on the tube or in line somewhere, paperback for the same purposes, lip gloss, small tube of suncreen, flipflops for when the four inch heels got tiresome, tube map, black scarf for a/c or cool afternoons, sunglasses for the occasional sunny burst, phone, iPod with massive headphones to discourage chatty strangers, change purse for subway tokens, pass, or change, and some other cash. On Sundays, it also held a massive copy of the Times.
The bag held a lot of the similar stuff when I moved to the East Coast, but now that I live in a more rural setting, and spend a lot of time in rinks or on playgrounds, I need an entirely different set of contents. Books for the Bean, and one for me; phone so I can text Adam if we’re running late or if the car goes into a ditch (What? It gets very snowy here); travel mug for my coffee and B’s sippy cup for juice/water combo; a variety of dried fruit; a bunch of Tonkas or monster trucks; mittens and Uggs for chilly rinks; a change purse to hold my “rink fries” money; Lady Gaga CD for car dance parties with Bean; baseball cap to cover crazy wind-swept hair that occured during the five feet between house and car. All that AND I’ve always got Bean’s backpack (i.e. diaper bag) in the car that holds a blanket, more books, change of clothes, diapers and more snacks.
We’re off to the valley this afternoon for our second weekend of the bi-annual 3-on-3 tournament that A’s folks run. This means lots of rink time for everybody, and nobody is more excited about this than Bean, who is simultaneously in love with and terrified of the zamboni.
The big boys don’t play in dino-print footsy pjs, but try telling that to this kid.
(I definitely don’t have her songs on my favourite iPod playlist. Nope.)
So I go to run a bath last night and notice a little black spot hanging out in the back of the tub. Casually, I back away and return to the kitchen to retrieve my trusty bug killer. i.e. Adam.
"Baby, there’s a spider in the tub."
Big sigh. Big show of pausing iTunes, directing a very pointed look at me that clearly says “Why must I always deal with these things?” (which is probably because he is as nervous about spiders as I am) and I follow him back into the bathroom, but not too close, just in case he thinks it would be funny to try to put said spider anywhere near me.
"Oh." Stands up, hands on hips, glances at me and then grabs five handfuls of tissue. "That’s uh, that’s not a spider." Holding what looks supsiciously like a spider out to me on the bed of tissue, he watches my face for signs of revulsion or perhaps an indication that I might run away and leave him forever. "That’s a tick."
And then he spends twenty minutes coaxing me out of the car.
Welcome to the country. Land of bugs that will just fly off random bushes as you pass, hoping to adhere themselves to your clothing long enough to smuggle themselves into your house where they will lurk in your bathtub until an unsuspecting person comes along and they can feast on their blood.
Or, y’know, it just wanted a little soak. Either way, I am thoroughly grossed out and have told Adam in no uncertain terms that we are never going outside again ever ever ever as long as we live. Ever.
The Little Yellow House by the Legion, or, “Who’s Yer Daddy?”
The Little Yellow House by the Legion - this is how I explain to people where I live. It also does an excellent job of explaining who I am.
You can actually see the light dawn in their eyes as they realize I’m “ohhh, that girl”. I’m the one who was driving all those various rental cars that were in the driveway last year. I’m the one with the pink rain boots and the blue jacket, occasionally seen running after that super cute blonde toddler down by the windmills. I’m the new kid at the Co-op/Home Hardware/library/playgroundround here*, there are two categories of folks:
From here, and not from here.
(*see also “rural Prince Edward Island”).
When you meet someone, they immediately ask who your father is, so they can place you. We took The Bean and The Dog for a walk down by the old bridge the other day, and a man was sitting alone, smoking, and greeted us as we passed. On our way back, he stood (patting the dog again, who had rushed ahead to get some attention from this total stranger), looked right at Adam and said “Who’s yer daddy?”
The reply was managed with a straight face, as Adam explained that he’s not from here, and his dad lives in the Valley. “We’re transplants,” he added. “We live in the yellow house by the Legion.”
The house is not actually little, and after this summer, it may no longer be yellow (hellooo, Benjamin Moore sale on exterior paint! How are you?) But for now, that’s how I introduce myself when I meet people down here. Those who already know me are more likely to sum it up in a manner distinct to this particular (Francophone) geographical location.
I’m Jill á Adam. Jill, of that guy. Like, there’s that guy, and then there’s his Jill. You’re nobody if you don’t have a somebody attached to your name.
Usually it’s family related. Son, known by son’s name and father’s name. The guy who owns the gas station is known this way. So is the guy who runs the fish plant, and the woman behind us with the loud dog.
I don’t mind being Jill á someone. It’s kind of nice to know that everyone realizes we’re connected. What I like even more, though, is that while Adam and I keep a fairly low profile within our little community, there’s no low profile for The Dog. Everybody knows who he is. He’s always in the yard, or laying on the porch, or running full tilt boogie to greet someone. He’s a retriever, but he’s a gorgeous dark red, a unique colour that sets him apart from all the other dogs in the neighbourhood. And he’s friendly, so on the odd occasion when he takes a little break from family life and goes gallivanting around, he comes home with a new legion of fans, and is far more well-known down here than either Adam or I.
He’s two. Two and a half, actually. Those six months matter when you’ve only been around for 30 months.
The foof is older than the bean, but not by much. He’s three and a half. He runs on four legs where the Bean has two, although when they wrestle, it’s just a big tangle of limbs…
Welcome to the blog about the kid (bean), the dog (Jinx, aka foof), the big guy (Adam), and myself. Just your average boy meets girl, boy marries girl, marriage doesn’t work out, boy meets new girl after separation, new girl falls wildly in love with boy and his kid and his dog and his house and his family (not necessarily in that order), and leaves city life to become a down-home country mouse.