A Week in the (Writing) Life
This has been a peculiar week for Obscure CanLit Mama. I refer to myself in the third person because the literary facet of my life usually feels exactly that compartmentalized, like it belongs to another person. I wonder whether this is healthy; perhaps it is even self-defeating. Would I pursue my chosen career more aggressively if “writer” were more integrated into my identity? As I type that previous sentence, a broad smile breaks across my face; the words chosen and career look affected, and pursue and aggressively are downright fraudulent, not within my character, not in that way. If a writer is someone who writes, then I am she. It’s the extra elements, the bruising elements of being a working writer that I cannot seem to cope with, that I’m downright allergic to. (Sentences ending with prepositions, gah; there’s subtext in that there grammar, ladies and gents.)
I Stand Corrected
Albus informs me that nothing is better than television. They earned this quiet time, occurring right now in our living-room, with another big bike ride to Columbia Lake, which this time involved a detour to the creek where everyone waded and splashed, including CJ (though his was more of an accidental entrance), and excluding me (though I got a bit wet during the CJ rescue). Kev even biked over from work to join us for a protein-heavy picnic lunch (boiled eggs, roast beef, cheese, hummus, crackers, carrots). Apparently, I need to bake another batch of bread. Sheesh, we eat a lot.
Better Than Television
Here’s what’s happening in our yard this morning. Add in the sounds of the children yelling over the chipper, and you get the full picture.
Below, our Monday evening activity. Also better than television. Add in a popsicle and a scrounged-up frozen chocolate chip cookie or two, and Kevin’s soccer-playing night looks a whole lot more fun for this Mama.
Bike Adventure
Roused myself this morning after a too-fun evening out with siblings last night, and organized the children for a bike adventure. The photos are taken by my ancient cellphone (I got it three years ago, which means in tech years it’s one hundred and thirty-three); here we are toward the end of our journey, when the children were splashing themselves liberally with melting popsicles. It got ugly. Well, it got sticky, to be more precise. There was some semi-serious discussion of whether hands might get glued onto bike handles, that’s how sticky it got. But prior to that, we biked all the way to Columbia Lake and picnicked in the shade on a hill overlooking the water, a field of black-eyed susans waving below us in the cool breeze. The only thing that could have made the event ever so slightly more charmed would have been the addition of Kevin; though I actually find the children are better behaved, and rise to the occasion more earnestly, when they are being supervised by only one parent (why is that?). After lunch, we followed the gravel trail along the stream and found a patch of red raspberries. I almost encouraged the kids to clamber down a steep hill into the swampy creek, but thought better of it. We biked amidst the lunch crowd on the trail going through campus, and the concession stand at the park was our final stop. With the exception of one small meltdown over having to share the much-coveted slushie (our newly four-year-old girlie is still learning to control her impulses for “now, now, now!”), by the time we were home the children were in a blissed-out state. CJ crawled out of the bike stroller and into the sandbox where he spent almost an hour, the big kids read on the couch, and I sipped a cup of cold coffee (let’s pretend it was iced) on the back porch while browsing the paper.What Not To Do …
So, you’re driving across town on a quiet Sunday morning when you come to a pesky “Road Closed” sign blocking the route you’d intended to take, and accompanied by various bright orange plastic barriers–fencing, pylons, easy to move, or, in a pinch, to drive over. You’re in a hurry. So, naturally, you keep right on going. Seriously, people, these “signs” are nothing but a ridiculous formality to keep out the sissies, the wimps, those who choose not to clothe themselves in an undershirt. See–it’s practically paved. Well, except for this section where you need to maneuver between two moutains of gravel, beyond which rest several massive bulldozers and earth movers in a lake of mud surrounded by piled chunks of concrete with large gas and sewage pipes poking out here and there. Hey, this is just like a video game! Like a real-life truck derby course! You just rev up the engine and go for … [insert expletive! here]. What? You’re stuck? There’s no way that could possibly be true. All you need to do is just rev the engine, rev the engine, rev the engine, rev the engine. Open the door, take a look down. There is seriously no way that your tires are completely sunk into the mud and water. Seriously. Come on! Just rev the engine, rev the engine, rev the engine, rev the engine. Umm, that’s not working? Impossible. You just need to keep revving. And look cool, look cool. Someone’s taking your photograph.