I’ve stopped wearing my Fitbit, after two solid years of clipping it on every day. I have one of bright pink ones with the clip, and the clip broke a while back. I called Fitbit up and they kindly replaced it, but then it broke again and I felt like I’d used up all my good karma so I paid to order a new one, which was surprisingly pricey. Now the clip is broken for a third time and I’m not sure it’s worth it to me to pay to replace it.

I did like checking my stats each day. I did not like sharing those stats with others – apologies if you asked to be my Fitbit friend online and I ignored you. I have a very low steps count daily and on days when I crossed the 5000 mark, I liked to feel good about that, like hey, you did a good job today FOR YOU, and I just could not bear the discouraging thought of being online friends with people who were getting 10 000+ steps a day. I know myself, and that would have been enough right there for me to stop wearing it immediately. I guess instead of a competitive streak, I have more of a roll-over-and-give-up kind of streak.

But although I did feel good about it when I got a high (for me) number of steps in a day, it never did really encourage me to work harder, or try harder. I just went about my business and at the end of the day the Fitbit gave me a mark and on days when I managed a B+ it was like a little bonus prize. Nice to have, but not something I expected or worked towards.

Now that I’m Fitbit free and surrounded by bowls and bowls of Halloween candy, I can find my daily prizes elsewhere. Yum!

I’m thinking about trying to get some writing mojo back by doing NaBloPoMo this month. It’s been years since I blogged every day in November but it really brought be joy when I did it in the past. No promises, and no quality guarantees, either. We’ll see how it goes.

I’ve been having some very odd dreams lately – and actually sleepwalking, something I’ve never done before. Both times I sleepwalked, I got up and went to the dresser in our room and started to take out clothes to get dressed. I realized it was the middle of the night and that I was awake-but-not-awake but couldn’t seem to stop myself. The sudden need for proper underwear and pants was overwhelming.

Last night I dreamed the guys who sing the song Renegades showed up and tried to explain the lyrics to me. They were very kind and earnest but I just could not get it. Also I was confused by their name – are they literally Ex-ambassadors? Or are they like, X Ambassadors, as in ambassadors for cool alternative stuff?

I think the time change is messing with my mind.

Driving in the car yesterday, out of the blue, my middle daughter (aged 11) says this to my son (aged 12):

“By the way, if you ever fall in love and buy that girl a heart-shaped box of chocolates, be sure to TAKE OFF THE PRICE TAG.”

Watch out, Dr. Phil.

I feel like I’ve kind of lost my blogging mojo lately, mostly because life has been insanely busy, but also because of the fruit flies. We have been under a vicious plague of fruit flies since Thanksgiving, and I’m beginning to believe that they are zombie fruit flies sent to suck all the creative juices out of my body, and damn, they are doing a good job of wearing me out.

I mean, I have put a ban on all counter fruits, and haven’t bought bananas in weeks. And we’ve tried the glass of wine/balsamic vinegar/orange juice on the counter with the saran wrap/baggie on top, and the trap does catch them, but no matter how many end up in the cup, there’s always three or four floating lazily around the kitchen, or flying right into my face when I’m watching TV, or gathering for a party in the upstairs bathroom. At Thanksgiving itself, poor FameThrowa and Mr. Chatty had to practically chug their red wine, because the moment they set their glasses down they each had three drowned fruit flies in there, and my nephew killed at few dozen by squishing them against the patio door screen, yet still they come. And come. And come. Actually, I’m not convinced I’m seeing new generations here – these fruit flies are oddly slow-moving and larger than usual and definitely give off the vibe of the undead.

Here’s a creepy story: the other day I was heating up a cup of water in the microwave for hot chocolate and a fruit fly happened to fly into the microwave when the door was open, and I didn’t feel like waiting for him to get out so I just shut the door. And a minute later, on high, I open the door and out he floats like, no big deal.

So I think the zombie fruit fly thing is fully confirmed, don’t you?

I am convinced now that we have a piece of rotting fruit somewhere in this house, like in the bowels of the storage room or maybe in some kid’s backpack or possibly inside the kitchen drain, and it will continue to feed the zombie hoard for years to come. Guess our house will be popular on Halloween, at least.

I had quite a lovely trip to the mall this morning. I went because a local toy store has the entire store on sale, for 20% off, and I picked up a couple of board games I had been planning to buy as Christmas presents. I have now officially Christmas shopped in October, and I am now officially my mother. QED.

While there I helped one lady find the way out to the parking garage, and one older gentleman behind the wheel of his car find the exit ramp for the parking garage. Memo to Bayshore: your new parking garage is very confusing. However, it did result in me feeling pretty good about my totally wicked mall navigation skills. Plus, I also helped a lady order coffee at the Starbucks, something I barely feel able to do myself, but we muddled through in a we’re-all-in-this-together kind of way and everyone ended up with caffeine so it was all good.

Out front at the toy store they were running a Mommy And Baby yoga class. About 20 young moms were there, each with a babe-in-arms less than six months old – most looked to me like they were barely two months old. They all were trying to stand, in an unsteady stork pose, holding their baby – except the ones who were walking and rocking the fussers, and a couple who were sitting down trying to get a good latch on. The babies were all just so tiny – you know the way they are when their heads still loll about, unsupported, and they lie like bags of potatoes in your arms, eyes wildly looking everywhere and nowhere at once. I just cannot imagine we were ever like that, that my oldest was ever so small and helpless.

Later I overheard a few of them, chatting at the Starbucks while I was waiting for my order. They were having a very passionate discussion of nighttime diaper changes, the quality of poop, and legendary blow-outs. I can remember having similar conversations, I remember when my whole days were a constant running loop of who-has-pooped-when, interspersed with who-has-eaten-when, but it’s hazy, like looking through gauzy curtains. Those new moms seemed like a different age from me, although I’m sure they’re no more than 10 years behind where I am now. I wonder what I seem like to them. Personally, I don’t remember noticing very many other people when out with my babies.

That’s okay though – I’m happy for them, and I’m happy to be where I am now. I took my latte and my board games and went home to a quiet house, where soon I’ll make dinner and help my kids with their homework and maybe think about the rest of my Christmas list, and then I’ll go to bed and sleep all night long in peace. That’s a good thing.

I’m really excited and proud to say that an essay I wrote was selected for inclusion in Home At Sea, a special episode of the Write Along Radio podcast.

Write Along Radio is a great podcast run by two Ottawa authors, Catherine Brunelle and Kevin T. Johns, and it’s a must-listen if you’re an author, or interested in being a writer of any kind.

The Home At Sea episode is a series of stories, excerpts, and poems all about the ocean. It was made in concert with the WWF to help raise awareness and interest in preserving our oceans.

My story is about our trip a couple of summers back to PEI, and how the ocean affected us. I was honoured to be included, but listening to the actual podcast now, I’m really surprised at how moved I am. My piece was read by one of the hosts, Kevin, and he did an incredible job. Hearing my own words out loud was a strange and wonderful experience – I felt really just so grateful and happy and ugh, I know, it’s a SOUP of sentimentalism, but there you go.

If you’d like to have a listen, here’s the link. All of the pieces are good, but if you’re short on time you can skip ahead to about the 24 minute mark to hear my entry, which is about five minutes long.

Big Sister, reading a science facts book out loud: Some caterpillars have 12 eyes.

Little Sister: Ew!!

Big Sister: So do you still want one for a pet?

Little Sister: YES.

Big Sister: I know, right?

Obviously.

Photo by coniferconifer on Flickr Creative Commons.

Sir Monkeypants and I are not pet people. I do not think we will ever be one of those couples who, confronted with an empty nest, adopt a puppy and start pushing it around in a dog-stroller and calling it our little poopsie-whoopsie. Although, don’t get me wrong, I totally understand people who do this. Once I was reading an advice column and a daughter had written in to say that her parents wanted to bring their new dog to the annual family Thanksgiving dinner, only she didn’t want the dog at her house, and her parents were crazily claiming that the dog was now part of the family and should be included. The advice columnist was all, “They’re nuts, you have to shut that crap down, and ban them from family events until they get a grip,” and I thought that was way harsh. I mean, the daughter shouldn’t have to have a dog in her house if she didn’t want but surely she could understand that her parents like having something that needs them and loves them and that they can take care of.

Anyway! My point here is that despite the begging of our three children, we are not pet people, and I don’t really have any natural tender feelings towards animals – usually. But over the summer, this little chipmunk started visiting our backyard on a regular basis. He was after cherry tomatoes from my garden, and he’d get one and then sit on the top step on our patio and nibble away at his tomato, leaving juice and seeds and crud all over. Sometimes he’d be in some kind of mood and he’d chirp away out there, like he was singing a little Ode To Tomatoes. Sometimes he’d finish his snack and just chill out on the step, sunning himself like he was having a nice afternoon at an outdoor cafe and was in no rush to get the bill.

At first I kind of grumbled about it, but he really was very cute, and watching him come and go was pretty entertaining – I think he lives under our neighbour’s shed. Soon I was greeting him from inside, me working at the table while he sat just outside the patio door, doing his tomato thing or chirping away.

Recently he started running back and forth a bit with a tomato in each cheek, and I started to worry that he was using the tomatoes to stock up for winter. Surely rotten tomatoes were not going to sustain the little guy all winter long. I was worried. I had some old raw sunflower seeds leftover from feeding the birds in the woods and I put them out his step, and when he found them it was like the Biggest Party Ever – eating! Filling cheeks! Trying to eat with full cheeks! Trying to carry everything at once! ADORABLE.

When the sunflower seeds were gone I actually went and picked up a handful of raw peanuts from the bulk section at the Superstore. They were a hit.

I have so far strongly resisted the kids’ requests to capture the chipmunk and bring him inside to live with us forever. But it’s kind of nice to have a little furry buddy around here. Someone to take care of.

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Speaking of taking care of people, it’s been a weird fall for me so far. I’ve been noticing how the kids need less of me all of a sudden. I am still, for example, walking over to the school daily for dismissal and walk-home time. But now that Gal Smiley is in Grade 6 and the Captain is in Grade 7, they are mostly walking home at the end of the day with their friends. They used to come and “check in” with me before heading home – their own request, not my rule – but this weekend the Captain told me I don’t need to wait for him anymore, because he can just make his own way home. Little Miss Sunshine was home sick last week, and at pickup time we headed over to the school, only to find out both of the older two were walking home with friends, so then the little one and I just turned around and came back home.

It was like I didn’t need to go over at all. That’s kind of a big deal.

There’s been other little things too, like leaving various combinations of kids home alone while I run out to the store, or asking them to do their homework and having them just going off and doing it with no supervision or nagging or checking in. We are watching a few “grown up” TV shows with the older two now and we are right on the cusp of me going to bed before them – which might be weird considering they still like to be tucked in at night, but we’ll sort something out. Maybe they’ll be the ones doing the tucking in, in a year or two.

With the kids getting older and making it known that they are older, I’ve been thinking about changing things up around here. Maybe I should give up the design business and get a real office job. Maybe I should take some training and take on a new career. Maybe I should write a book. Maybe I should take care of myself, for a while, for a change.

But for now, I’ll just think about the chipmunk, and how someone small out there needs a little help, and how winter is coming for all of us, and sometimes it’s enough just to get through.

The Scene: 1976. I am running home from Grade One at the end of the day at top speed, crying.

I pass my older sister, who has been invited to sit on the front porch of gorgeous, blonde Sharon Barnes’ house and wait with Sharon for her mother to come home and unlock the door.

Me, to my sister: HELP ME!

Sister: What’s going on?

Me: MY NOSE IS RUNNING DOWN MY FACE!

Sister: I don’t have a tissue.

Sharon: Just sniffle.

Me: WHAT?

Sharon comes down off the porch, takes a few steps out into the driveway.

Sharon: Sniffle. You know, like suck it back.

Me: I can’t, I CAN’T.

Sharon: Just pretend like you are going to breathe in, really hard, like this.

She demonstrates a gorgeous, golden-blonde snort.

I give a half-hearted attempt.

Me: FORGET IT!

I continue to race home, snot running down my face, too young to understand that the crying is only making things worse. But slowly the crying subsides, as I discover that this sniffling thing is quite effective when done with passion and heart. Plus, the sleeve of one’s coat can be useful in such a situation.

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The Scene: 2015. I am awakened at 1 a.m. by the Little Miss, whose nose has been running like a faucet for weeks. This is already the fourth time she has been up tonight.

Little Miss: Mommy? I’m doing a weird breathing thing and I can’t sleep!

Me: Okay honey. Let’s go to the bathroom and sit.

We go to the bathroom and sit, her on the closed toilet seat, me on the side of the bathtub. She continues to wipe and wipe her nose in the blue tone of the nightlight.

Little Miss: It just won’t stop! I blow and blow and blow and there’s always more!

Me: It’ll be okay, honey. Try not to cry, it doesn’t help. Now, I want you to try something new tonight. Close your mouth tight, and try to force yourself to breathe through your nose.

Little Miss: But it’s totally plugged!

Me: I know, but sometimes you can clear at least one side with a good sniffle. Now try.

She tries.

Little Miss: I can’t! I can’t!

Me: It’s okay, I know it’s tough the first time. Just breathe through your mouth, quiet down. Then try again.

She tries again.

Little Miss: It feels like everything is packed in there now.

Me: I know. It’s not the greatest thing to do – you still need to blow it out if you can – but sometimes at night it’s easier to just sniffle it up, so you can clear one side and get some sleep.

Little Miss: I think one side is clearing now.

Me: Let’s try getting some sleep then, kay?

We return to our beds. She manages to get a couple of hours of sleep. This morning, we’re back to a combination of sniffling and blowing, sniffling and blowing, but at least she can breathe a bit. Many thanks, Sharon Barnes.

Gal Smiley has taken to wearing these cargo shorts she has that have like, a hundred pockets on them, at the top, back, and down the sides.

Today was laundry day so I had to put them in the wash and found they weighed like, a hundred pounds.

Cleaning out the pockets, I found:

• two Toronto-area GO train schedules
• a small Playmobil catalogue
• a hand-sized notebook and small pencil
• a baseball
• a hacky sack
• an old cell phone of mine
• a dime
• a key card from one of our Calgary hotels
• a keychain with a fold-out pocketknife on it and a bunch of suitcase keys
• a folded up note of mysterious origin that I really wanted to read, but didn’t

No idea why she felt she needed to have these things on her person at all times. Also, no idea how she was able to physically walk this past week.

Children are mysterious creatures.