fiona

The writing, ah. The writing. I did get some done. Except I'm wanting to be writing something for the Naughty Thoughts Book Club reading I'm doing, and all I've written about so far is making tea.

God, people, get your minds out of the gutter.

Note to self: stop reading books set in Edinburgh, because you suddenly start writing things like "I'm wanting to be writing..." without thinking that you can't do a Scottish accent for shite. Shit, right. For shit.

What did I do today besides precious little writing?

This morning, I was the belle of the ball. I went down the street to have a visit with Ruby and Fiona and Grace and Grace's mom. We jumped around on the beds for a little while, and then gathered ourselves for a trip to McNabb.

Who should come look? Who should put them in the swing? Who should push them on the swing?

Yes! Auntie Megan!

We drew letters in the sand, I spotted Ruby as she climbed around the school bus, explained to her what basketball was.

"It's so tall!" She pointed at the net above my head. "It must be for big kids."

She seemed a little doubtful about the throwing a ball in there part, and looked at me like I was some kind of nutbar as I tried to mime dribbling.

Which, like the Scottish accent, I can't do for shit and had no business mucking with.

Ninety minutes later some switch - I believe it was labelled "hunger" - got flipped and they would only look at the ground and dolefully whisper "Mama." So, I was a passing fancy, but it was lovely just the same.

Then the moment I'd been waiting weeks for finally arrived.

My shins told me to go fuck myself. Out for a run in the mid-afternoon sun, my limbs cold from the wind, face hot from the sun. At the end of the first song, I stopped and tied my shoes up tighter, which often tames the shin splints. Halfway through the second song, I thought, if this were an asana, I'd have pulled out by now. A few bars into the third song, I had to call it.

Done and done.

I limped a bit, sat a bit, watched the water a bit. The pain eased off and I walked slowly home, gritting my teeth up the Empress stairs. On the way back, I was thinking, well, I'm getting tattooed tomorrow, so I won't be out running for a few days anyway.

Sitting at my Archipelago 6 hours later with my shins throbbing, I'm not sure when I'm going to get back to running.

Better get that bike fixed up, and pronto.

When I got to the Grs last night for a short visit, I was met with quite a sight. A pantsless Ruby was helping Grace bread some tofu. Fiona was lying on the floor, looking mournful.

"I'm glad you're here," Grace said. "We're having some sadness."

"Oh dear," I said. "What's up, Fi?"

She just made her eyes slightly bigger. "She doesn't know," Grace said.

"Oh dear."

Grace and I continued chatting, about cell phones, what happens at Sporty Kids. I was still holding tight to the bag I'd walked in with.

"I would like a book," Fiona stated, still lying on her back on the floor.

"Well!" I said. "Are you in luck! Because what do I happen to have right here? A book! For you! And your sister!"

Ruby was too busy with the tofu to care much, but Fiona was really excited. We snuggled ourselves into the couch, I opened the book and started reading. After a couple of "Wow!"s about some particularly astonishing figures, Ruby bipped in and out, wandering off to get more snacks, wandering back for a few more facts. Fiona settled into silence. I couldn't tell if she was rapt or bored. Since I was getting bored, I should have been able to guess.

It's too bad, because when I saw the book at City Lights, I loved it immediately. The illustrations are gorgeous, sharp angles and muted 50s pastels. Beautiful font. It's a great size as well, a nice rectangle, and not too many words on each page. I clutched it to my chest (along with Valencia, for a somewhat dichotomous purchase), quite chuffed with myself.

Halfway through actually reading it out loud, however, I was maybe not quite so chuffed. The language was very grown up, lacking rhythm and play. The facts were boring facts that kids don't care about.

Fiona concurred. "This book," she announced, "makes no sense."

"Pardon?" I said.

"It makes no sense."

"Well," I responded, gamely looking for the bright side, "it's not really so much a story to make sense as it is just a series of facts about San Francisco."

"This story. Makes no sense. And the pictures," she continued, "are greyful."

It is impossible to argue with a three year old's perfectly perceptive neologisms. Grace chose us another book.

I suck. I did not take one photo.

CT, however, has come to our rescue! He took that photo in August, and I would say it's quite representative, though last night we all three were wearing sweaters and pants instead of bare limbs.

From the moment I ran into Greg, Fiona and Ruby at Raw Sugar, it was go go go. We got back, I read a story, one girl on each leg, their heads tucked under my chin. They had a bath, during which they got mostly clean. Ruby took over the watering can. “I'm a cat, I giving myself a bath. I washing. Look Megan. I washing. I'm having a bath. Not very often. I'm Freya.” Fiona turned the pages of her bath book. “Look Megan. Shark. Crab. Submarine. Crab! Look Megan. This is a crab! Crab!”

We got their diapers and pyjamas on. We read three stories, Ruby on my lap, Fiona, being Freya, nuzzling my arm and meowing. Ruby turned the pages. “I help you read. Look Megan. I helping you read.” Fiona said, "Megan look. Look at the lovely end papers." The children of librarians, indeed.

After that, the inmates ran the asylum for a while. It's a bit shocking when you realize you're getting played by a 2 year old. And well enough that it takes you 10 minutes to work your way out of it. They did a bang up job of brushing their teeth, and then I sang the two of the three kids' songs I know: Frère Jaques and my ABCs.

Sadly, I don't know Foxy Woxy, which was the request of the night. When I admitted as much, both girls hastened to reassure me, telling me it was a new one, and recapping plot highlights. I promised I would learn it for the next time.

When Fiona and Ruby were born, I offered up my babysitting services. For a long time, the Grs didn't have babysitters, and I was honestly a little scared of putting two wee babies to bed, when I wasn't even used to putting one wee baby to bed.

Since the Grs have started using babysitters, they've called me a couple times to see if I was available. They called tonight.

I didn't make it to the phone.

I spend many of my evenings at my kitchen table in front of my computer. My main floor is pretty small, just living room and kitchen separated by a peninsula of counter. My table sits at the end of the peninsula. Making it an archipelago, I suppose. I sit in the kitchen, facing the living room window that looks out onto the street.

It's a great table, found in the garbage around the corner, in near pristine condition, a round pedestal table with flaps that come down to make the perfect sized-rectangle for my flat surface archipelago. It's marbley brown with chrome.

As I sit at my table, at breakfast, in the evenings, over the course of a few days, the table gradually millimetres its way towards the living room window. The progress is so gradual, I don't notice that it's happening.

Until.

The phone will ring, or someone will knock on the door, and I will try to get up quickly. I'll push the chair back. But since the table has moved forward, so has my chair. When I push, the back legs will get caught in between two floor tiles. The top will keep going. I'll catch myself before I go teakettle over arse, but then I'll rebound back and bang my ribs into the table. Then I'll try to turn sideways to make my getaway, misjudging the space between the chair and the lowered flap, banging my knee and thunking back down into the chair.

I am nothing if not graceful.

So surprise! I didn't manage to get the phone. But I did get the message, and could I babysit on Sunday? No, damn, I couldn't. But I was free tomorrow night! Ha, did they need a babysitter tomorrow night, ha ha.

They did!

So tomorrow night, at 6:30, me and my camera will wander down the street to put two hilarious adorable children to bed, and then we will blog about it after for the pleasure of the entire internet.

The Grs and the goils dropped by for a visit this afternoon. I hadn't seen them in ages, and let me tell you that 3 weeks in toddler time is like 3 years in grown up time.

The thing about toddlers, or at least these toddlers, is that you never know quite what's going to happen. We sat around the living room for a while, where Ruby and Fiona became Freya and Freya. We then made our way downstairs, where we played peekaboo from behind the furnace, where both Freyas and their owner all managed to sit successfully in Freya's basement chair, where the five of us stood around and did the cat dance for 5 or so minutes.

Of course you did the cat dance in the basement, I can hear you saying, what else would you do on a beautiful Sunday afternoon?

Well, you would also go up to the bedroom and all five of you get into the ginormous closet until one Gr realized that with all five of us in there, there was no one out there to surprise, which is really the whole point of being in the closet. In this case.

As Freya, you might also decide that what you needed was to wear a scarf. And then you might realize that if one scarf were good, two scarves, three scarves, four scarves, five, really, were much better than one.

And you would be right.

Did you know that it is impossible for more than two people to own a car in Ontario?

Not inconvenient, not confusing.

Impossible.

We didn't really ask why. When Shelley and Steve and I walked up to the counter at the MTO a couple days ago, I said "We've bought a car together and we need to register it. There wasn't enough room on the form, so we need to fill out an Application for Registration."

The lady looked at us, quizzled up her brow. "Who bought it?"

"We did. All of us."

"Well, only two people can own a car."

"Pardon?"

"Only two people can own it."

"Really?"

"Yes."

"Really? How come?"

She raised her eyebrows and shoulders, dropped 'em all back down again.

We could have pressed more than that. Had we all been less worn down from moving, we probably would have, to prove a political point.

But fucking hell. Shelley's written a letter relinquishing her stake in the car and Steve and I are the owners of a 2001 Echo with a manual transmission.

+++

Stick shift? I hear you saying. But Butch, you don't know how to drive manual!

After last night, I kind of do.

Steve drove me and our friend Rodenhizer out to the parking lot behind the experimental farm (cue porn music) and taught me to drive stick (turn up the volume), while Rodenhizer watched (it only goes to 11, friends).

I stalled the car. A lot. Stalling the car a lot was supposed to make me realize how easy it was to start it again, but my god, I think I might be a little traumatized. Such a horrible sound. Like something is dying. The engine, say. Permanently. But easy to fix, yes.

It'll take a few more lessons before I'm road-worthy, I think. I'm not the most co-ordinated person. It took me six months of boxing lessons to figure out how to move my feet and my hands at the same time. This kind of thing is not my forte. But once I get it down, it sticks like nobody's business.

Eventually, I hope to be able to make a turn without stalling.

+++

Speaking of cute, the Born Ruffian and I went for a long walk the other night. We got gelato, headed down the mess of Preston Street, along Dow's Lake for a bit and then up through the Glebe back towards Centretown.

Halfway between gelato and the lake, I started into a story about Fiona and Ruby. I tilted my head back slightly, held my hand in front of my mouth, and said "Oh my god, it was so cute."

And stopped. And started again.

"You know, I just realized that every story I tell about Ruby and Fiona starts with me holding my hand in front of my mouth and saying 'Oh my god, it was so cute.'"

I don't know why I do that. Am I afraid that if I don't cover my mouth, the cuteness, even in the much dimmer reflection of my words, will be so awesome that people will quail in front of it? It's a mystery.

+++

It was a surprise to some of you that I was getting a roommate. Considering the minutiae I normally regale you with, it really is a shock I hadn't said something.

Also a shock because I am a pretty big advocate of living alone. I love living alone. I have never been lonely because I live alone. You know why? Because if I get lonely, I call a friend. Or go for a coffee. There! Done! Not lonely!

Around the time we started looking for a house, M-C made it known she was looking for a place to live in Ottawa from September to April. I'd lived by myself for nearly 2 and a half years, and really had no intention of having a roommate.

But M-C is lovely and easy going. During one of the crazy snow storms last year, she ended up crashing on my couch a couple nights and a day or two. That's what convinced me. She stayed at one end of my apartment, I stayed at the other. We emailed a couple of times, chatted a bit when she needed something from the kitchen. Stayed out of each other's hair, mostly. Perfect, I thought, we can do this.

The extra money is nice, of course, but mostly, we are all really excited she wanted to be part of our commune.

I'm not sure if she knows how to drive stick. But I'm sure Steve would be willing to teach her.

Around 5:45 Friday afternoon, my phone rang at work. It was Grace and Greg's number. Of course, I picked it up. Fiona, it turns out, had been sad all day. So sad. Super sad. Whiny sad.

When asked what would make her feel better, turns out she said "Go Megan's, see Freya." Could they make that happen?

Of course they could. What else are pets for except the de-sadding of two year olds?

Though I have no real idea if it worked, since they were off to visit their Bobcia shortly after.

++

There were many things yesterday that caused my simmering down: I made arrangements to buy three ceiling fans for $35, one of those very nice kettles for $25, off of kijiji mostly, thus saving me scads of cash; I had a great yoga class, where I was able to get past a couple of mental blocks I'd been having and into full lotus; it was especially great compared to the class on Thursday, during which I spent 20 minutes crying in the bathroom; the big cry in the bathroom on Thursday; certainly not least, the aforementioned Skype date.

The most important thing, though? More important to my general well being and mental health than all of those things put together?

I present to you, the list.*

Like many fellow neurotics/librarian-types, I'm a compulsive list maker. When I clean my desk off at work, clean out my day timer, empty the papers at the bottom of my bag, I find tons of lists. Most of them I'd forgotten I'd made, many of which no longer make any sense.

For this move, I had the lists of people who've volunteered their time, I had lists of what needed to be cleaned, I had lists of what needed to be double checked, what needed to be tripled checked, who needed to be reminded of what, and what I needed to buy to be prepared for the actual move.

All written on scraps of paper clipped on my desk at work, on my kitchen table at home, in my day timer, at the bottom of my bag.

And the tickertape was wearing me down.

Thursday, I stole about 7 feet of brown paper off the roll at work, tacked it up in my long long hallway, found all the lists I could find, and transcribed every thing from them onto the brown paper.

I promised myself that as soon as I thought of something, I would write it on the list. If I thought of it again, my mantra would be "ON THE LIST."

My brain caught on pretty quick. I had to use the mantra maybe 5 times before my brain just relaxed, and my shoulders with it.

++

I can only guess that the Go Megan's visit worked.

It's the best thing on there.

*Some of those names might not be right. The list is not so much for veracity as for the quieting of minds.

I will start with the smallest ones first.

Around 1:30 this afternoon (1:35 to be more precise, though it turned to 1:36 while I was leaving the message) I called Jennifer to say, "I'm going to the bridgehead to write. I'll be leaving around 2:30, so if you're up for it, meet me there!"

Around 2:30 (at 2:24 to be precise, though it turned to 2:26 while we were making plans) Greg called to say, "We're going to the park, and the girls asked if you wanted to come." I'm sick, so I said "I'll wash my hands and make sure I don't really touch them." Which is impossible around 2 year olds as adorable as these two year olds.

As it turns out, the best way to take a picture of a two year old is to have the following conversation:
"Hey Rubes, do you mind if I take your picture?"
"NO!"
"Okay, I'm going to slow the swing down, and get my camera and be right back."
"KAY."
"Okey doke. Here we go. Who's super cutie?"
Well, the answer to that is pretty obvious, isn't it.

For most of our park time, Fiona and I hung out by the swings. By which I mean I listened to Fiona's incredibly entertaining running commentary "higher higher good swinging papa ruby hi ruby hi papa mama slow down fix hat higher megan nice swinging time frances birdies wire higher good swinging ronica burfday paul eamon john john john fun burfday" while I pushed her till my arm ached. She was killing me, she was so adorable.

I loooooove how many words they have.

One of the things I bought at the wicked cool zine store in Portland was a book involving a small girl and a hootenanny. So on the way through the park after playing, Greg tipped up the stroller and said "Hey girls!" To which they replied "Hootenanny!"

Love it.

Further along, on the way to Bridgehead, we walked by the Oak, where a traditional Irish band was playing. We looked sideways at each other and kind of rolled our eyes. Then I got excited. "But but but! It's a HOOTENANNY!" Greg got excited too. He tipped back the stroller "Hey girls! What is it?" Perhaps is was a bit of post-park sleepiness or pre-cookie anticipation or a glaze of wonder in the face of a real live hootenanny, because they said a measured "Hootenanny," and looked away.

Off we trotted then, to Bridgehead, where there was not room for Greg and the girls, but was for me and my laptop. I snuggled myself in with a coffee, and tried not to be distracted by a woman who kept, in a annoyingly nasal and terribly loud voice, telling her son, who was playing some video game that he kept calling stupid, to be quiet.

Though her voice did allow me to overhear parts of an infuriating conversation. The woman, long-haired hippie aesthetic, her son astride her knee, nestling his back into her chest, was chatting with her also long-haired hippie friend, who had an adorably quiet young girl in his lap. Long-haired Woman said "Oh, and we were going to do his toes, purple I think - wasn't it, sweetie?"

Cool, I thought. Long-haired man also nodded his approval. The son mumbled something at his game.

"What was that, sweetie?"
He ducked his head a little lower and mumbled something else.
"Weird? You're weird? At school?" She started stroking the side of his head, obviously distressed.

And you know, they had me up to this point. -Fuck people! I thought. -Ah, kid, it'll get better, I thought. I'm a sucker for that. Going to school with a bunch of people who think you're weird is shitty. Knowing that they're right is even shittier.

She said "You're not weird! Of course you're not weird!"

And she lost me. I mean, I don't know what school that kid goes to, but I do know Ottawa, and chances are he doesn't go to a school where a significant proportion of the boys are contented pink-shirt-wearing vegan jews with purple-painted toenails. Just a guess.

So telling him that he doesn't know what he's experiencing on top of being the weird kid? Not exactly going to help give him the self-confidence he going to need to be a triumphant weird kid.

But easy for me, eh? We'll see what my reaction is if either Fiona or Ruby says that to me in 4 years.

Last Wednesday, Hallowe'en, I was going to go to yoga. But I got to Grace and Greg's and found two very cute spotted creatures. The only trick or treating we did was across the road to Jo and Adrian's house, where Grey was an elephant, and R and F were thrilled to get their first Hallowe'en candy.

Ladybug Fiona

Penguin Ruby

The girls are nearly 20 months now, and getting lovelier and lovelier. I always get lots of hugs and kisses when I go over, and am occasionally attacked by adorable, when one or both of them runs across the room with arms outspread and grabs me. Or whoever they're attacking. It is a very nice way to be attacked.

What 20 months also means is that it is damned hard to take pictures of them. They're constantly being cute, but constantly moving, and moving fast. And when they're not constantly moving, as soon as you pull the camera out, they want to "PUSH. BUTTON."

So I feel that the pictures above do not do justice to the adorable of the girlies. The picture below captures a sliver of Ruby's cute, but the only one I got that did the same for Fiona was blurry and dark. Maybe next time.