You can always count on kids to be straight with you.

Have a great weekend! And worry about yourself.

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“Why? Have you travelled back in time?” you ask.

“No. We have children.” You nod understandingly.

Besides paying for their chosen sports; hockey and riding, and clothing them in pants that fit because they will keep growing, and feeding them EVERY DAY, we now have some new expenses heading our way.

Next year Bou starts high school and there’s a very real possibility he’ll go on the class trip to Europe that’s being planned. First he has to get approval from his teachers and then we need to agree to it. If these pieces fall into place we’ll begin doling out the dineros. Dineros don’t grow on trees in Canada. Wrong climate.

And to keep alive the high school tradition of showing up on the first day with as many chips stacked against you as possible, he needs braces. There isn’t anything terribly wrong with his mouth, aside from the cheek he’s fluent in, but enough that braces are advisable to prevent future issues.

You see where this is heading, right? Debtors Prison, unless one of our ace schemes comes to fruition. So far the sale of organic compost (dog poop) hasn’t picked up and nobody is buying my locally sourced, all-natural fiber (dryer lint) hand-knitted bunny sweaters. Bunnies get cold too.

Besides the worry of ending up in an 18^th century English jail cell, what these two recent changes made me feel was pride. Like heart-bursting-eyes-tearing-up pride.

The day the class trip was presented Bou hopped in the car and announced he was going on a cultural trip to Europe to visit WWII sites. His announcement wasn’t delivered with arrogance, but with excitement at the potential for a trip. Two days later (and with $$ signs clouding my vision) we sat with the orthodontist to discuss his braces and she asked Bou a few questions so she could get to know him better.

Her: Do you play any sports?

Him: Hockey.

Her: Do you play hockey in the summer?

Him: No. He’s wordy like that.

Her: What do you like to do in the summer?

Him: I like to mountain bike and travel.

And then my heart burst and I had a soppy grin on my face. My son loves to travel. He states it matter-of-factly. He’s excited to head out into the world and discover new places. I guess some things get through after all.

For someone with a nomadic heart that was the epitome of a proud parenting moment.

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She is now the victim of a crazy ass pollen attack. She is also losing her marbles as evidenced by the constant reference to herself in the third-party and the delirium brought on by allergy meds wreaking havoc with any form of mental acuity she previously possessed and which is also responsible for her inability to form and end sentences as the Grammar Gods intended and maybe she should stop to breathe and give her fingers a break.

I’m a zombie. For real. Also, how the f**k do allergy sufferers do this every year?

For the past six days my eyes have been swollen shut or almost shut, they’re leaking strange fluids—Should this come with a parental advisory? GF12 (gross factor 12)—and the whites have changed to bloodshot red. As in there is no white to be seen anywhere in the orbital area. Throw in a sinus headache that has me teetering on the edge of I’m gonna lose my cool cliff and it’s sexy times at our house.

Any sane and knowledgeable allergy sufferer would hunker down in a well-ventilated house with the windows barricaded* against the pollen menace. I’ve chosen a different plan of attack. Here are the numbers since this began:

Visits to the stable: 3

Stops at garden centres to buy plants that produce pollen: 2

Times spent planting the pollen creators: 4

Hikes and walks: 3

Runs: 0 because I can’t breathe.

Times spent moaning and groaning and generally feeling sorry for myself because I’m an impatient patient: 1,658,934

I don’t think my plan is working. Which leads to today’s epiphany: get thee to a doctor. So I am. And she will laugh and laugh because she knows me and all about my previous no-allergy smugness.

* Naturally the word barricaded makes me think of Les Misérables and I’m now singing Beyond the Barricade loudly enough that my dog is trying to escape to a neighbour’s house.

** In my drug-addled state I agreed to join a group of people giving up their vices. For many people that’s eating chips, for me it’s cake and pastries and chocolate. The moral of this story is don’t take drugs. It leads to poor decisions.

Exactly what I look like now minus the bad teeth. Also, I’m not holding any severed limbs nor would I know where to get one. Scout’s honour.

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This is not an epitaph. It was a voluntary decision made after too many spicy tuna rolls at our local sushi house. But now I’m scared. There will be work involved. More work than placing one foot in front of the other while running.

I’m going with a friend so there’s no way to slowly back away and hope no one notices. Also, someone I know—who runs faster than I do—would chase me down. In the name of friendship.

This morning I received a super perky email from my would-be torturer/instructor letting me know that the first day was a short two weeks off and I should book the body assessments posthaste. There’s nothing perky about that. Sometime in the next week I will grudgingly willingly let a stranger poke and prod and measure parts that are best kept under wraps.

I think I can. I think I can. Crap. What was I thinking?

The upside is that my friend and I will get measured together. Solidarity sista. Never mind. That’s not an upside. Some tragedies are private.

The real upside is that I will know where I stand and what to do to improve my strength and stamina while shrinking the excess that our never-ending winter and spoons of Nutella wrought.

Step one: ditch the Nutella. snif snif

Twice a week I’ll be out there burpee-ing and squatting and throwing kettle bells around and hopefully not beaning myself in the process. If you’ve met me you know this is a probability. {I’ve thrown bowling balls backwards. Sober.} If we’re in the same class, my apologies in advance. And heads up.

Fear of hurting myself and being unable to complete the workouts aside, I expect good things. I’ve made the commitment. The last time this happened I ran a half marathon.

PS. I ran the Sporting Life 10k in Toronto last Sunday. I hoped to keep my time under 1h 14minutes—see Nutella reference above—and finished in 1h 10minutes. The race was fast and I felt great while running, but my goal is to finish 10k under one hour. Boot camp will help.

PPS. I passed people in my last 2k and gave myself mental fist bumps every time because while it’s all about the effort and feeling good about yourself and yada yada…I am competitive.

PPPS. My son sent me a message before the race, “Make me proud, maman.” I think I did.

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It’s surprisingly simple to spend 30 minutes enjoying the outdoors. We’re a fairly active family, but I changed up our schedule a bit to get us outside more. The bonus is more time together as a family.

Day 1: An evening at the stable taking care of a pony and enjoying the sunshine.

Day 2 – Bike ride at the park

Day 3: A walk and a ride.

Day 4: Soccer, pup playing and kid manicure in the backyard = peaceful day.

Day 5: 1.5 hours of peace and horses.

Day 6: Today was spent outside – running, at the stables, gardening.

Day 7: An evening on Main Street.

How did you spend time in the great outdoors?

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In case the photo isn’t clear, that’s a GIGANTICUS (Definition: bigger then huge, but smaller than a dinosaur.) hole the size of my hand smack in the middle of my ass.

And I went out in public like this. I shopped, blissfully (stupidly) unaware, at my favourite grocer—where everyone recognizes me because I live there—with a tear in my pants. The breeze wafting through wasn’t enough of a giveaway because I’m focused like that. Translation: clued out.

Nobody said Boo. Although there were a few tsk tsks and shameful floozy as I walked past fellow shoppers that had me looking around for a stray courtesan perusing the cheese selection. My lack of coverage in the glutes region screamed ‘Teetering on the edge!’ and ‘Steer clear!’ apparently.

I exchanged a quick word with someone I’ve known for years, but she said nothing. She blinked slowly several times as we spoke, as one does when one can’t quite believe the absurdity of what’s before us, but I assumed her contacts were dry or that she was communicating with the cashier in morse code. One blink for yes, two for no.

I’d like to think that if a friend had been there she would have a) first fallen down laughing and then b) told me that my ass was hanging out. Imagine if I’d been wearing the Christmas-themed undies with Ho Ho Ho scrawled across them that seemed like a bit of a lark at the time? At least I was respectably covered. Except for the holey pants part.

Not to be a braggart, but the ability to laugh at myself is one of my superpowers.

It’s one that my teen has inherited. Bou can accept playful ribbing and often makes himself laugh when he’s goofed. I have confidence PG will too as she grows up.

I was not like that as a child. When you lack confidence and have a fragile self-image, any stumble, figurative or literal, is an embarrassment of catastrophic proportions. Or at least that’s what I believed. If I made a mistake I’d mask it. I was the person who trips and then pretends to tie her shoelaces. Now if when I trip I do it big, and then fall down all over again as I pee my pants (hopefully ones that aren’t ripped) laughing.

Note: I don’t really pee my pants because…Kegels.

Such paralyzing self-consciousness is something I hope my kids never feel. If D and I do our job right they will be equal parts aware of others and yet unconcerned with how others perceive their quirks. My kids are made up of the sum of their quirks and those are some pretty cool ones.

Okay, I’m outta here…must shop for pants.

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Spring is finally here. I feel safe saying this based on the level of birdsong outside and because the weather people-who are never wrong, right?-have announced a high of 21C. Anyway…it’s also May 1st and if spring isn’t here by now, I’m moving.

Yesterday I read about a challenge that the David Suzuki Foundation issued to Canadians. All non-Canadians, you’re allowed to do this in your own backyards too. There isn’t a Dude, You’re Not Canadian police checking credentials. The challenge is to get outside. Spend some time in the great outdoors, or at the very least in our backyards for 30 minutes a day and for 30 consecutive days.

I’m in. Who wants to come play?

Check out the details here. I’ll post weekly updates on just how muddy my shoes get.

PS. I have no affiliation to the organization, just thought it was a cool idea.

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* Things to learn to do when you’re a runner: Women: perfect the boob scratch. Don’t pretend you haven’t done it on the sly and masked it with a casual reach for your water, purse or the broccoli for tonight’s supper while casually glancing over your shoulder to be certain that super posh woman in sky-high heels and perfect make-up didn’t notice. Just me? Men: as you were. Scratching, I presume?

* Why did I eat that slice of salami that expired in 1979 last night? It wasn’t enough to take one bite and notice a metallic flavour. Nope. I ate the whole thing. Once that was done and the nausea set in, smelling the contents of the package seemed like the next step. The rest took a natural course.

* Bad news: I began cramping up early in my 6km run. Good news: it’s still possible to run with low-grade cramps so don’t be a sucky-suck.

* I hate squirrels.

* Sometimes it’s good to have friends who will threaten to chase after you if you don’t stick with a running bargain.

* The running belt has to go. I don’t need anything else bouncing around on my ass when it’s doing a fine job bouncing on its own. Guess who gets to go shopping for gear tomorrow?

* Today’s run wasn’t my best one, but I finished it with strong legs even if my breathing was a bit difficult. I won’t die during the 10k on Mother’s Day although it will be hard going.

* I need to run more.

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The book is broken up into sections organized by the days of the week and aimed at simplifying our meal-planning and cooking process. He gets it. We’re all busy. There is a noticeable Korean influence that is a lovely shout-out to his wife and mother-in-law, and none of the ingredients he uses are hard to find. Translation: you won’t need to scour the underbelly of your hometown to score the latest whatchamacallits.

Like any self-respecting mother, Stone’s mother-in-law believes in keeping her family guessing as to how the recipe could change ANY MORE every time they cook together. I’m looking at you mom. The key to cooking with moms is taking everything they say with a grain of salt, jotting down lots of notes and then discarding everything one’s written.

In this regard Curtis Stone is no different from the rest of us, yet by virtue of his training he’s replicated recipes so that we can all benefit. He speaks passionately about eating whole, unprocessed foods in moderation. That means cooking with butter, cream, whole milk and even Moosehead beer. Don’t think the Canadian audience wasn’t impressed with that.

Aside from being a skilled chef, he’s also passionate about sharing his love of simple, good food and knows how to teach anyone to do it herself. Or himself. No sexism here.

Some bloggers are nice and hold giveaways for things they receive at events. Not me. I am greedy and have an unnatural attachment to books. But I can tell you that I’ve tried a few of the recipes and aside from being delicious-obviously-they pass the sometimes-tricky taste buds of 13 and nine year-olds. Now it’s up to you to source your own copy.

See? First name basis.

PS. Three words. Korean steak tacos. Page 41, and now I’ve even done the legwork for you. Make them. You’ll thank me.

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Meet Mariska, a mare who can’t be contained.

I can’t decide if my favourite part is how she picks and chooses which other horses to bust free-I bet the one she leaves behind bars stole her hay-or how she makes straight for the food. A girl after my own heart.

Happy weekend.

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