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As if it weren’t bad enough that I bombard you with pictures of my boys on a semi-regular basis… I have now harnessed the considerable power of the Interweb to bring you live streaming video of my lovelies!!

This one is a little test, but it captures my current heart-melting favourite of Simon’s gestures, the thoughtful man.

Click the link to go to You Tube, which should load the video automatically: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FkmVzE0b3qY

The audio is a little out of synch at the end, but it still captures Simon pretty well.

Try it and tell me if it works! (But be warned, if it does work you will be assailed with regular snippets from my nearly limitless supply of footage…)

Edited to add: hey, lookit this! I can just embed it right here!! It takes a second to load, though.

Today’s carefully crafted post was eaten by blogger at the last minute – I’m heartbroken!! And no time to recreate it. Ack!

I’ll rewrite most of it over the weekend, but this is all that remains…

Found while link surfing at Grumpopotamus:

Get yer own here!

There was an article in the Citizen this morning (sorry, not in their online edition, but it’s a syndication of this London Times article) about the movement in France to stop differentiating between madame and mademoiselle, the French versions of Mrs. and Miss. Feminists are calling the distinction between the two a ‘flagarant example of sex discrimination’ because it forces women to reveal their marital status, whereas men have the simple honourific of monsieur regardless of their marital status. They are not advocating an equivalent to the English Ms., but a straight choice between madame and monsieur.

I think this is a great idea. I think we should do it in English, too. Let’s get rid of Mrs., with its matronly baggage, and the coquettish Miss, and just go with a simple choice between Mr. and Ms. I skip this box wherever I can, and choose Ms. when forced to do so, not out of any disrespect to my marriage but because I think the distinction is anachronous in modern society.

French culture seems to be ahead of the curve on this one, and on the issue of marital name change, too. In the province of Quebec, a woman keeps her birth name upon marriage unless she files legal paperwork to change it. I’m quite frankly a little surprised to see how many women still change their names.

When I got married the first time (the infamous practice marriage), I actually cried the night of our wedding at the idea of being Mrs Whassisname. I had spent 20 years forming idea of myself based on being Miss Donders, and the formal reality of being Mrs Whassisname left me feeling cut off from my past and my identity. Three years later, before I realized divorce was on the horizon, I started talking about switching back to my birth name. He was not impressed. When we did get divorced, I remember clearly the day I received my new provincial health card in the mail – the first official document that restored my birth name – and I cried again.

Most of you know, too, that the boys have hyphenated surnames. I thought I was okay with them having Beloved’s surname officially, and my surname as a second middle name – until it was time to fill out the paperwork and leave the hospital when Tristan was about 40 hours old. I couldn’t do it. Sometimes, when I’m spelling it out for the third time over the phone to a pharmacist or receptionist or the like, I expect the boys might curse my willful modern attitudes some day… but I hope they’ll be the kind of guys who understand why this sort of thing does matter.

As a sidebar, even the language we use to discuss names is laden with meaning: women have a “maiden” name (an archaic term I’ve been studiously avoiding) which is the name you give up on marriage to take on your husband’s “surname”. Interesting, no?

What do you think? Are you proud to be Mrs. Hisfamilyname? Would you be offended if your wife kept (or reclaimed) her birth name? What possible use is served by the distinction between Mrs., Ms., and Miss?

When we moved into our house, three years this June, one of the things I was most excited about was having a patch of lawn to tend. I come from people who grow thick, lush carpets of grass and have many happy memories of playing on said green carpets.

The back lawn, despite three years of dog business and a 12′ diameter dirt circle where the pool sits for three months of the year, is in surprisingly good shape. It’s a little patchy in places, and the weeds are creeping in, but I’m altogether satisfied with it.

The front lawn is my nemesis.

When we moved in, the front yard was perfect. By the end of that summer, it was dry and had small dirt patches throughout, which I attributed to neglectful watering. The following spring, I carefully seeded it and hired a lawn care company to do some organic fertilizing and weed control. (That was the summer Simon was a newborn and I knew I wouldn’t have time to properly take care of the lawn.)

The lawncare company thought we might have grubs, and we discussed options – either chemical or organic. I chose organic – at twice the cost, mind you – but they never got around to doing the treatment. And they weren’t so great with the weeding bit either. They’d spray the occasional dandilion with some vinegar solution and that was it. I figured at least they’d try to pull them, but I spent most of the summer doing that myself and wondering what exactly I had paid them for.

That September I seeded, and seeded again in April of last year. I spent last summer seeding, fertilizing, watering, and managed to coax a lovely crop of weeds to grow, because at least the weeds were green and covered the dirt.

This year, the whole front lawn is one big dirt patch, nary a blade of grass to be seen. When you rake the dirt, you can see the nasty little grubs. Ugh! Grubs freak. me. out. (Why? Blog for another day.) The robins are thrilled, and in fact the ground looks like it’s been aerated, there are so many beak-holes in the dirt.

So after three years of dismal success, I have capitulated. I’m sick of spending the time and the money and having nothing to show for it. I’m going to resod the whole sodding thing, and I’m going to hire a new lawn-care company. (whispers) And I’m going to let them use pesticides.

(cringe of shame)

I know. I am completely opposed to the use of pesticides in cosmetic lawn care. I am deeply offended by it. I walk past lawns that are acres and acres of uniform emerald blades and feel deep regret that the earth is being poisoned – that we are poisoned – simply so this lawn can be weedless and perfect. A few years ago, I successfully lobbied the condominum corporation of our last house to stop using Par III on the common grounds, and signed a petition to get our city to stop using cosmetic pesticides on city property. I’m mortified at the idea of having one of those little paper flags (‘an evil person who doesn’t care about your children and your pets and the future of the planet lives here’) marking me as a neighbourhood scourge – but I don’t know what else to do.

I’ve been worn down by my three year battle with the front lawn. I’ve tried, really I have. I gave it my best shot, hundreds of dollars and countless hours. It doesn’t have to be a Stepford lawn, perfect and uniform – but the curb-to-driveway dirt farm is just depressing. Not to mention messy – the boys are thrilled to have so much black dirt so easily accessible each time you step out the front door, I assure you, but I’m a little tired of cleaning it out of the carpet. And the car. And their clothes. And the dog.

Oh, the guilt. I promise, I’ll just do it this one year, to get us back on track with a healthy, normal lawn. We’ll just get rid of those creepy, grubby creatures, and I’ll spend the rest of my life pulling dandilions by hand… as long as I can kneel in the grass to do it.

Don’t hate me.

Tristan starts Catholic school in September, but I still haven’t found just the right place to start introducing the concepts of God and Jesus and the Church. We had a few goes of it at Christmas, but I don’t think much sunk in. Luckily, a perfect opportunity presented itself in the car recently.

Tristan: “What’s that little store over there?”
Me: “Um, that’s not a store, sweetie, that’s a church.” And please give me credit here for restraining myself on the topic of what they might be selling.

(pause)

Tristan: “A church?”
Me (carefully): “A church is where people go to talk to God.”

I’ll bet you can see this one coming, can’t you?

Tristan: “God?”
Me (feigning casualness): “Um hmmm. God. (pause) Some people believe God created everything – the grass, the trees, the stars and the moon. (with growing confidence) Some people believe that God is the father of all of the people in the world.”

(cringe a little bit, consider some revisions, wait to see how this dust settles first)

(thoughtful pause)

Tristan: “Mommy?”
Me: “Yes, sweetie?”

Tristan: “Where did our car come from?”
Me: “A car store.”
Tristan: “Oh. Okay.”

I’m both pleased and unsurprised that our first philosophical discussion on religion has turned out to be rather circular in nature.

The guy who stumbled in here based on this search result is going to have to get used to dealing with his disappointment, I think.

I have always vowed to age gracefully, and naturally. It’s been fairly easy; I come from people who generally age with grace. I still have clear skin, and I can pass my few wrinkles off as laugh lines.

So no collagen to pucker withered lips; no botox for these laugh lines; no tucks to breath new life into deflated breasts. I admire women like Susan Sarandon, and Meryl Streep. Women who wear their years with honour and pride. And I have kept my resolution to age naturally, and gracefully, all the way to the tender age of 36.

You see, I’ve become a plucker.

In theory, I had no issue with grey hair. I always thought a thick white streak was kind of sexy, in a funky kind of way. Hey, even überfashionista Stacey on What Not to Wear has some lovely grey streaks tucked behind her ears – it must be hot.

I’ve never coloured my hair – not even highlights. It’s a lovely chestnut colour, with a good dose of coppery highlights when the light is right. And chestnut, it seems, is a perfect foil for grey.

It has begun. The invasion of the colourless follicles.

I frankly don’t know where they keep coming from. I’ve become a grey-hair stalker, combing methodically through my chestnut locks in search of grey traitors in much the same way I imagine a mother examines her child’s head for nits. And when I do find one, I carefully separate it from the herd before yanking it unceremoniously out by the roots, at which point I feel obligated to inspect it carefully from all angles.

Grey hair is quite a bit coarser than its darkly youthful cousin. I wonder why?

And yet, despite this careful weeding of my tresses, I still manage to find long strands of it shining defiantly and weedlike in the garden of my head. (Hey, look, that line may qualify me for some sort of bad writing award, don’t you think?)

Why, by the way, are there never any strands that are half grey? They are all uniformly grey from root to end. I’ve put a lot of time into this obsession, you might be beginning to notice.

My scalp is still tingling with the last violent uprootal, observed and snatched from my scalp while I was overseeing nightly toothbrushing. I’m beginning to wonder which is less appealing, healthy chunks of grey hair or patchy spots of bald head, plucked clean as a naked chicken.

It’s a tough call…

So tell me, my fellow women-of-a-certain-age (and men, too!), to what lengths would you – do you – go to minimize the effects of aging? Hair dye? Anti-aging cream? Nip and tuck?

My evening routine was disrupted. No time to post. My morning routine is a disaster today. No time to post. When all else fails, you can always find a meme somewhere.

This is hardly cutting edge psychological analysis, but fairly accurate nonetheless…

Your Five Factor Personality Profile

Extroversion: You have medium extroversion. You’re not the life of the party, but you do show up for the party. Sometimes you are full of energy and open to new social experiences. But you also need to hibernate and enjoy your “down time.” Conscientiousness: You have medium conscientiousness. You’re generally good at balancing work and play. When you need to buckle down, you can usually get tasks done. But you’ve been known to goof off when you know you can get away with it. Agreeableness: You have high agreeableness. You are easy to get along with, and you value harmony highly. Helpful and generous, you are willing to compromise with almost anyone. You give people the benefit of the doubt and don’t mind giving someone a second chance. Neuroticism: You have medium neuroticism. You’re generally cool and collected, but sometimes you do panic. Little worries or problems can consume you, draining your energy. Your life is pretty smooth, but there’s a few emotional bumps you’d like to get rid of. Openness to experience: Your openness to new experiences is medium. You are generally broad minded when it come to new things. But if something crosses a moral line, there’s no way you’ll approve of it. You are suspicious of anything too wacky, though you do still consider creativity a virtue.

Poor Beloved. Not only does he have to put up with all the time I sink into blog, and every family moment being potential blog fodder, but he has to endure a blogosphere play-by-play as it tries to pass for polite dinner conversation.

(Sidebar: I just had an interesting insight. Are blogs to women of our generation what soap operas were to the women of the previous generation? Discuss.)

So I was telling Beloved about this blogger, who happens to be a columnist for one of our national dailies, and her post about buying $140 designer jeans for her daughter. Her two-year-old daughter. Once we got past the whole idea of spending that much money on a single pair of pants for a toddler, we started discussing her blog in general, and how I can’t quite warm up to it because I think she posts stuff just to be inflamatory and get people talking about her.

And Beloved said, “So what?”

I thought about it, and he’s right. Who says blogging has to be sincere, or genuine, or authentic? Maybe her life really is just like she posts in her blog, but I think she torques it to get people talking – if not to her, at least about her. She’s using her blog to promote her brand, and if it’s working, more power to her. It’s that old axiom, I guess, about say whatever you want about me in the papers, just make sure you spell my name right.

She’s drawing a surprising amount of venom and vitriol, though. I’ve been writing this blog more or less daily for a year, and she gets more hateful comments in a day than I’ve gotten altogether. (Come to think of it, I’ve never gotten a hateful comment. Touch wood.) Someone’s even gone to all the trouble of making a mockup of her blog. And while I don’t agree with a lot of what she writes, or have a lot in common with her, I kind of admire her ability to stir things up.

What do you think? Go ahead, choose a topic – blogs as modern-day soaps, $140 jeans for toddlers, truth and accuracy in blogging, blogging to promote your brand – surely there’s something worth commenting on!