My loving son you've filled my life with so much joy. . . .

May 27, 2011


As much as my children can sometimes frustrate me, causing me to contemplate the continuation of the human species, they also provide me opportunities to pause and reflect upon how wonderful they are.

Last night, I get home around 5.30, and immediately head downstairs to retrieve laundry for hanging on the line in hopes that it will dry because rain is predicted for the next two days and Em needs her underwear.

All 21 pairs of it.

I know this because once I was finally finished hanging them out, I counted them.

Obsession, anyone?

And while I am out there, hanging the laundry, getting into my Zen space, my happy place, letting the worries of the day hang on the line with the laundry, I hear the all-too-familiar sounds of the lawn mower.

Pookie.

Cutting the grass for the same reason I'm hanging out laundry.

Because rain makes both lawn mowing and laundry hanging somewhat pointless activities, ergo, getting them completed when the sun is shining is a must.

What a great young man he is.

And of course, I have a much greater appreciation for how hard it is to mow our lawn after my escapades on Sunday.

After he was finished, I looked outside and reveled in how lovely the lawn looked.

Where he mowed that is.

The places that now await my weed wacking zeal are looking less than stellar.

But one can weed wack in the rain.

And one may.

Depending on how stressed out my sabbatical application makes me, I may be outside wacking weeds for extended periods of time.






Pookie was full of surprises last evening.

Once he had finished with the lawn, showered, refueled with spaghetti and homemade sauce, he then set out to make banana bread.

I was, to say it mildly, shocked.

Mum, can I make banana bread with those turning brown bananas on the counter?

Sure!

So while I sat in the living room alternating marking exams with checking on the drying laundry, Pook was in the kitchen whipping up banana bread.

And all he wanted from me were some easy to grant requests.

Where's the baking powder?

How full do I fill the loaf pan?

We're out of that spray stuff, so should I use butter and flour?

That is my kind of baking.

Directive, hands off.

And, I have to say, marking papers amid the smell of baking banana bread make an onerous task far more pleasant.

Plus, it tasted very good.

Thank you Pookie for replenishing my faith in children.

You are such a wonderful young man.






It would appear a trip to Montreal is in the works.

Next weekend, we'll be heading to the island to visit with Stephen's sister, who is arriving in Montreal Monday from Vancouver for two weeks to help while Stephen's mum recovers from her second knee replacement surgery.

We can't make it to Vancouver, but we can certainly make the trip to Montreal to see her.

A weekend away, with no classes to return to, no assignments to mark. . .

Almost feels like a vacation.






However, I do have some responsibilities over the remaining summer months.

After agonizing for an additional month delay because the federal election pushed back *my* timeline. . .the nerve. . .I received word that I was granted one of the two positions I applied for.

YEAH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

And I immediately hired the student I employed last summer.

So work will be completed over the summer months.

Not that it wouldn't have even if I hadn't of been able to hire a student.

But MORE work will be done.






The annual University Women's Book Sale is being held at the Brookside Mall this weekend.

I AM SO TEMPTED!

The last time I attended, I purchased 30 books.

At $2.00 a book.

I sort of promised Stephen I wouldn't go, but the clarion call of words on paper is pulling, pulling, pulling me and I may succumb tomorrow morning.

But not today.
Because today is other Friday packed to the brim.

Simply for Life weigh in at 9.45.

Doctor's appointment for humiliation and torture, 10.35.

Writing group meeting, 12.00 noon. (I probably won't get there until 12.30)

Community Kitchen, 4.00 pm.

Home to crash onto the love seat with no energy to even use the remote: priceless.


Title Lyric: A Song for My Son by Mikki Viereck