These are the people in my neighbourhood…

I think I may live on the best street ever. We moved to Clare St. in 2002. It was our 2nd house purchase and there was just something about the place that I loved. We moved in and, with one exception that I will not go into here, were warmly welcomed to the street by all our lovely new neighbours. I was super happy to learn that there was already a boy Jacob’s age on the street and lots of other kids to play with.

It didn’t take long for us to realize that we had really had landed on a gem of a street. That first year we attended a block party, with all the neighbours, held in two back yards joined by gates. Many of the backyards on our street have gates linking them up. It’s a great thing and such a little thing, really. Then, three years ago, we all decided we should do something to celebrate Fall. We already had a Christmas carolling night, a New Year’s Eve street gathering, a late spring block party, and numerous other informal get-togethers including a street mosaic making workshop, a street sign workshop in which we cut out various animal and child shapes, painted them, and stuck them around the street to alert drivers and to get them to slow down, and a street book box where we drop-off books and pick up new ones. A Fall Fair seemed like an ideal addition to our repertoire of community building events. There is no shortage of energy for community-building on our street.

The first Fall Fair was such fun that we did it again last year, and this year we celebrated our 3rd Annual Fall Fair under beautiful sunny skies.

We started with a bike parade

 

Then played with a huge castle of boxes.

There were bubbles:

and a game of street hockey. There was also the annual tug of war with East vs. West (West won thank-you very much) and North vs.. South (South was cheating as per usual and ‘won’ again).

And then the fire truck showed up. With the firemen. And, no, there wasn’t an emergency, we invited them. They are so great with the kids and really friendly with everyone, letting the kids climb all through the truck.

Mr. February in the Clare St. Honorary Fireman’s Calendar. Hey it’s a good idea.

This year, they brought out the hose and let the kids shoot it at the street.

What can I say? I do love a fireman with his hose…

The firemen told us they like to practise with their hoses regularly. And even though they are just the 1.5” hoses, I would just like to say here that they are welcome to come and practise on our street anytime. No, really. I insist.

Even the kids had a good time.

After the cupcake walk (mental note to self – need music for next year as a group of parents lamely droning our way through ring- around-the-rosy over and over made the whole thing a bit funereal rather than celebratory but who cares really. Right, Finley?)

Then it was time to get ready for the BBQ Dinner and, of course, the Fall Fair Exhibition. There were a number of categories but all you really need to know is that we are all winners here on Clare St. Especially me and my blackberry jam which won best preserve, and Zoe who won for best cookies and something else that escapes me right now.

Various other neighbours were also recognized for their excellence in baking pies and desserts, growing the largest carrot, best cornucopia, best bread, wine, etc etc. If you can find it on our street, then chances are good there was a category and a ‘winner’. Thanks to Phil for organizing the exhibition and for bringing in a ‘New Era in Transparency’ for judging the exhibition. Hilarious.

Then it was time for dinner:

 

at which point the band arrived.

Leon (that's him on the left) lives at the end of our street and teaches most of the men folk on Clare how to play the guitar. We loved his new band Lucky in Love. They played a short but awesome set of standards and original music. There was even dancing. With the crisp light of early evening and the lovely singing, it was a magical moment.

By then we were ready to eat all the dessert and pie entries.

The desserts were amazing. I especially enjoyed the Butter Pie with Plums. You just can’t go wrong if you use at least 2 lbs of butter, throw in some flour & sugar, and a few plums, and bake that baby. I think this is is how Gloria made her butter pie, or whatever it was called. Actually, WHO CARES what was in it, or how she made it, it was delicious. When in doubt, throw in more butter.

And did I mention the other pies were outstanding, too. Yum. And also the butter pie.

What kind of street party doesn't have a fire in the middle of the street? It’s become a tradition to haul out one of the neighbour’s chimineas. We all sit around it trying not to catch on fire as sparks and embers jump and swirl around us. It’s quite lovely, and a good source of roasted marshmallows which seem to materialize out of thin air as soon as the fire is lit.

Then it was time for the Walk-In Movie held in the driveway of one of the houses on the street. The garage door was a perfect place for a screen, and the sloping driveway was the perfect  place for the kids to watch Wallace and Gromit. Sleeping bags, pillows, popcorn and hot chocolate competed the scene.

  

It was the perfect end to a perfect day. After the movie we hustled all the kids to bed and then enjoyed some kid-free time around the fire-pit.

I am so grateful to all my lovely neighbours for making our street such an amazing place. So much community in such a small place! You are all so lovely and I consider myself blessed to be surrounded by you.

Thanks for reading,

Cheers,

Jane

Does Anyone Know, Is it Love??

I was on the internet the other day: I wanted to know what a particular error message meant that I kept receiving. Like many of you, I’m sure, my Internet Explorer is automatically set to offer up a selection of choices for the completion of any sentence/question that I start typing. This could be very useful but typically I just ignore them. I don’t know why I have never really paid attention to the choices that come up before but for some reason, on this day I did. I soon forgot about the error message and instead spent the next 30 minutes entering the beginning few words of random questions.

The lists of questions that have obviously topped Google’s search engines was so revealing, ridiculous, hilarious, and heartbreaking all at once I could hardly believe it.

Take your basic ‘why, what, where, who and when’ questions. I started with ‘What is the’. At the top of the list of suggestions was ‘What is the date today?’ which returned 342 000 000 results. I didn’t really know what to make of this. How could so many people be confused about the date. I mean, come on. I periodically am unsure but if I think about it for a few seconds, I can usually work it out: yesterday was the 3rd so…it must be the…4th. The next question was even more bizarre. This time I started with ‘what’ and ‘what time is it’ popped up. Ummm aren’t you already on your computer cuz you could just take a look in the bottom right corner of your screen... And how is this going to help anyway – asking the computer what time it is. What time is it where?  I know all about the High School Musical number, but I’m not sure that can account for the 658 000 000 results that are available for your perusal.

Next I tried ‘what should’. Up popped ‘what should I do with my life’ & ‘what should I do today’. How about not this! And plain old ‘what should I do’. This was starting to get me down. I envisioned someone desperate for some inspiration and no one to turn to but Google. Hey, Google, what should I do with my life? Granted, Google does have a lot more to say on the matter than pretty much anyone else. 289 000 000 results to be specific. There has to be some sort of meaningful suggestions in there somewhere. Maybe something like: ‘Figure out a way for people to learn the date and time easily’.

I decided to move on to ‘who’. Not surprisingly, ‘who will I marry?’ topped the list. Like Google will help you find out who you will marry. I typed in ‘will I get’ just for fun. Yep - ‘will I get married’ was right at the top but ‘will I get the job’ had the most returns. 513 000 000 to be precise. OK wait a minute. How on God’s Green Earth is Google going to tell you if you got the job or not. Buddy. You may as well ask the fork you ate dinner with. Or perhaps the bathmat. It might know. Hey, bathmat, will I get the job?  Pardon me? I didn’t hear you, you’re a bit muffled...’

I was really starting to wonder about the state of humanity. This was getting downright depressing. We have these burning questions and who do we ask? Google. How did we answer these questions before we had Google? I guess either we didn't ask anyone and let them smoulder in our minds until they caught fire and we had to ask someone, or they just quietly burnt themselves out and we spent the rest of our days in some kind of unrequited state.

Anyway. I did spend a bit more time with the word ‘why’. This was where it started to get funny. I actually laughed out loud at the top ‘why did’ question. ‘Why did Michael Jackson turn white?’ Why indeed? 1.4 billion potential references to this most important of questions awaits your attentions. Next on the list was ‘why did Michael Jackson have plastic surgery’. I don’t know. Maybe because he turned white? He didn’t like his nose? WHO CARES. Didn't it fall off anyway? I love Billie Jean as much as the next person but I can’t think why so many people want to know why Michael Jackson wanted to alter his appearance. It’s just a weird question, people. Don’t ask such weird questions. You’re freaking me out.

I started to wonder what parenting questions might be out there. I typed in ‘Why do…’ but only got that far as I was instantly distracted by ‘Why do men have nipples’. Well. It’s so they can rub them when they are lonely. Isn’t it?  Obviously. God. No, actually it’s because they would look weird without them. PEOPLE. Next you will want to know why we have elbows. I wanted to type ‘why do my children…’ but only made it to ‘why do my chi…’ at which point the diverting question ‘why do my chickens have diarrhoea?’ appeared. I kid you not. Go ahead try it yourself. This is a question to which I have no answer and probably a good example of a time that Google may actually be able to help.

Oh, and perhaps you are wondering ‘Is it normal to shave pubic hair?’ or how about ‘Is it down?’ Is what down? The bridge? The stock market? Your brain?  Who exactly is going to answer this vaguest of questions anyway? And it’s OK, go ahead and ask ‘when will the sun burn out’ because you and 32 000 000 other people would like to know. And I know you are also really wondering ‘which transformer am I'?’ and also ‘which celebrity do I look like?’ Don’t be shy with your questions, now! How about ‘which is one place penguins do not live?’ or ‘when would it be appropriate for a teacher to sit on the floor?’ Probably when they have been asked some of these questions.

Next I started with ‘Is it…’ Interestingly, the top question was ‘is it love’.

Well, is it? Let me know.

Then I got to ‘Is it me?’ and I felt kind of sad. Especially as this question has 5.87 billion results. I pictured someone in the dark, face lit by the glow of a blue screen, typing in the lonely words ‘Is it me?’ What were they expecting as an answer? Imagine if ‘No’ came up. Then what would you do. Ask again? I think you are asking for trouble if you ask that question of a computer. It’s like asking ‘why is eggs?’ or ‘how will boots?’ Just try and answer that, Google.

So here’s my suggestion. Next time you need to know something that could be classified as ‘deep’, ask your mum instead. Or maybe your best friend. Or your kid. Or even the guy at the Laundromat. It may be more fulfilling. Or you could ask me. I’d be happy to ponder the question with you over a cup of tea.

Thanks for reading-

Cheers,

Jane

Top 10 list for First Day Back to School

This is one of my favourite songs (yes I know it’s Jack White again). And so appropriate for the first day of school. Play it while you’re reading this – it helps:)

Here is my top 10 list of first-day-back-to-school favourites:

10. The look of shock on the faces of the teachers as they see Jacob walk toward them. He is almost 5’10” and has grown about 3 inches in the past 3 months. It’s ridiculous. And his voice has changed and he looks like a 13yr old man. Hey, it’s freaking me out, too.

9. Zoe commenting with an exasperated sigh that the ‘parents have eaten all the cookies again’ at the welcome back coffee party.

8. The crispness in the air. 

7. Joy on small faces as they see their friends

6. How organized the classrooms are – all those books and hooks so neatly lined up just waiting for mayhem to hit.

5. All the new shoes everywhere.

4. New kids to the school gripping their parents’ hands for dear life and then being coaxed away by new friends.

3. The fact that there is always a bird’s nest somewhere in the classroom. I’m pleased to see that Zoe’s new teacher, Mr. Hawes, did not disappoint in this regard.

2. Seeing my friends again

1. How lucky my kids are to be able to go to school

 

6 Bottles of Rubber Cement, Please.

On my first day of grade 1, my mum bundled me off into the car with my dad and my lunch and a too-big backpack, and told me to have a good day, listen to my teacher and, strangely, not to buy too many pencils.  I remember saying ‘Ok’ but thinking the 6 yr old equivalent of what the fuck? Was I going shopping? This was a private school, and so I assume now that my mother was told that school supplies would be, well, supplied. She must have thought there would be a stationary store right on site and that we kids would be given free reign to wander in and get whatever we thought we would need. Like we would know:

6yr old me:  “I’ll take 4 of those sets of markers please. And 12 rulers. And 93 pencils. No, wait, that’s too many. Just 90, please. No I don’t think I’ll need any paper. Maybe throw in a couple of those books that have the lines on the bottom half and no lines on the top half. And do you have any liquid paper? And I’ll take 6 bottles of Rubber Cement”

This was what I imagined all the way to school so imagine my dismay when there was no stationary store. Just a shelf in the classroom with jars of pencils and glue sticks and a pile of exercise books. Disappointing…. When I got home I told my mum right away that there was no store to buy pencils and that the teachers had obviously gone ahead and picked everything out for me already. She looked at me like was I feeling OK and then said something about an early night.

We mothers often fall back on the ‘early night’ thing. It’s a sure-fire cure for most afflictions that could befall any member of the family: your son has fallen off his bike and crushed his ankle? A good night’s sleep will make it feel better. Your daughter is figuring out that the tooth fairy cannot logically exist and wants you to break it down for her? Let’s deal with that in the morning. You have erased 43 hours worth of work on the computer? You’ll feel better in the morning. Your husband has misplaced his sense of humour? Get to bed, we’ll find it in the morning, Honey. Basically what this means is “ I cannot deal with this right now as I need all of you to go away and leave me in peace for a few minutes before I fall comatose into bed”. We then cross our fingers and hope that the problem will disappear of its own accord before we have to wake up and do this all over again. 90% of the time this is true. The other 10% of the time I don’t want to talk about.

I was relying on the ‘get the kids to bed early’ thing this week as we started gearing up to go back to school. I, model mother that I am, was going to ensure that the kids went to bed 30 minutes earlier each night for the 5 nights before school started. We would also wake up 15 minutes earlier each morning. By the time school started, the kids would spring out of bed before their alarms went off, smiles on their faces, clearly refreshed and well-rested and ready for anything. I would smugly congratulate myself. When we got to school I would smile kindly at the other bleary-eyed parents and mention quietly that I had been able to get my kids into bed early and that we hadn’t had any trouble getting up.

So when we didn’t get to bed early the first night, I told myself that it was no big deal really. Four nights was ample time to get the kids accustomed to a new routine. Things went sideways the next night too and I was starting to get edgy. When 9pm rolled around on the Tuesday night, I pried my fingernails out of my palms and told myself to BE FLEXIBLE. At our school, Zoe’s first day was comprised of an hour of school 9:30-10:30am on Wednesday morning. Jacob has two hours in the afternoon. So we didn’t really have to get up that early but even 9:30 was apparently early enough but we managed to get there on time .The afternoon was of course easier. Wednesday night was marginally better but not good enough. But needless to say, Thursday morning did not go according to my ‘plan’. My dream crumbling around me, I yelled up the stairs to the kids to HURRY-UP and 'did they know I was LEAVING SOON. Things almost came to a head as I sat waiting for Jacob to put his socks on.  If I had known how, I could have sequenced the gene code for the woolly mammoth while waiting for him to pull up his left sock. Actually, I could have probably learned how to do it during the left sock and then done it while he worked away on the right sock. We got him to school with seconds to spare. I then realized I had forgotten Zoe’s backpack at home and so we made a quick diversion home where I also discovered I was still wearing slippers, and then we made it to school.

I’m never sure who is more anxious on these first few hours of the new school year: the teachers, the kids or the parents. Kent must have asked me a million times what was wrong on Wednesday morning as I sprinted around the house locating boots, losing keys, and squawking out the time every five minutes. Anxiety was present in the school yard, too. Over there was a teacher mainlining coffee, here was a parent berating their child for not tucking in his shirt. We all milled around trying to remember each other’s names and asking the top 5 questions for first day of school:

• Whether or not Summer was good (typically it was but you would hardly want to admit it if it wasn’t. Such an answer would throw everyone off)
• Haven’t they all grown (yep, they have)
• Weren’t we all thrilled that the KIDS are back (overwhelmingly, yes)
• Hasn’t the weather been SMASHING this summer (yep)
• Wasn’t it nice that the kids have so-and-so this year as a teacher.(definitely)

But however we all felt during those moments, the general mood was one of happiness.  And when our kids came tearing out of the classroom, their smiles were almost as big as ours. So in the end it was all good and that’s First Day #9, of the 18 that I will experience as a parent, under my belt.

Yep, that’s me in grade 1. Looks like maybe I had been into the rubber cement already. And I would like to publicly thank my parents for apparently combing my hair with a toothbrush before I went to school that day. And for those of you who know me, see, my hands have always been ridiculously small. or maybe it’s just the extra huge blazer…

Thanks for reading.

Cheers, Jane

Best Friends in the Kitchen

Last week I had the pleasure of going to Deep Cove (near Sidney) to the childhood home of my closest friend, Melanie. Mel’s parents still live in their beautiful, rambling house with lush gardens, an orchard, and quaint little outbuildings full of anything you could ever need., and the best kitchen ever.

I met Mel as a two year old. Our families lived near each other and our mothers thought we would be a good match. Apparently we were as we are still the best of friends today. I spent many a day and night at her house when we were growing up. I would sleep over at her house, or just come and hang out. The hours would pass in a whirl of rope swings, dolls houses, tree-houses, tree-climbing, bike-riding, and playing. There was never a lack of playing. Hide and seek? Spy on the neighbours? Play house? The seasons would often dictate what we could and couldn’t do. If it was summer, and we weren’t at the beach, we would sit on the roof of the shed and see how many plums we could shove in our mouths at once. In fall we would rake as many leaves as possible into a huge pile, climb up onto the gate of the fence where the rope swing would sit on its hook. Then we would swing ‘around the world’, as we called it, and fall into the pile. Then, giggling wildly and covered in bits of leaves, we would race back and do it all again. Winter would find us curled up in the living room as close to the wood stove as possible. This wood stove made a comforting noise – something between a hum and a hiss, and we could lie there for hours. By the time Spring came we were back outside and playing in the Laurel Bushes which seemed to us then like a huge jungle of tree-house possibilities.

And so when Zoë and I drove up to their house last week for a day of fruit picking and jam-making and canning, I was excited to show Zoë all the places where Mel and I spent so much of our childhood. But first we had some picking to do. We went out to the orchard and sent Zoe up a plum tree where she picked a huge bag of juicy yellow plums which promptly turned in to a bag of plum-mush. Then we filled a basket with purple plums and sampled some pears and prune plums. By the time we were done we had so much juice everywhere we were sticking to everything we touched.

Back at the kitchen, there were pears to be canned with a slice of lemon and pieces of ginger. Then we filled the jam pot with juicy yellow plums and sugar and put it on to boil. You know you can’t cook it for too long or it burns and then it’s no good. Do I sound like I know what I’m talking about? I have been known to burn a few things in my time and so it’s a good thing Mel’s mum, Susan, was there to keep us on track. It’s also a good thing that Silas, Mel’s 2yr old, saw fit to sleep through most of this canning exercise although he did wake up in time for the blackberries – more on that later.

So with several jars of pears cooling on the counter and a large pot of plum jam on the boil, we had some time to wander the property. I showed Zoe the shed roof, and then the outbuildings that I was always too scared to go in as a child. This may have had something to do with the fact that Ed, Mel’s dad, once told me that if I went too far into the big one, that I might never come out. He did not help the situation several years later when Mel had a sleep over and we all watched Friday the 13th: Jason’s Back Again for the 15th Time or whatever it was. At a very inopportune moment, the power to the house was suddenly cut. We all freaked out, crying and screaming, when a figure appeared outside in the gloom with what looked like an axe. Clearly it was Jason, from the movie, and he was coming out of the shed to murder us all. How could this be happening? When I watched those movies I would always yell at the characters not to be so stupid.  Like, Buddy, don’t go into the barn alone. Or, Yeah, that’s a good idea, just leave the sharpened lance right there beside the door where Jason will trip over it as he blunders around in his hockey mask looking for a weapon to impale you and all your friends on. Yeah, Good idea! Or, Dude, don’t just stand there, run away!

But since that night of terror, I have a new appreciation for why Jason’s victims just stand there in the face of their impending death as that’s pretty much what we all did that night. I remember just standing there, totally rooted to the spot, unable to think or move, I could only scream. Fortunately, before we all passed out from sheer terror, Susan intervened and the power was restored. But the damage was done and I can never look at the shed without feeling a bit nauseous. So apparently those Friday the 13th movies are an accurate portrayal of what really happens when a crazed nutbar is coming after you with a sharpened lance or axe or what have you. You can take it from me.

So needless to say we gave that particular shed a miss although I’m pleased to say that it is now the location for the extraction of some very delicious honey that Ed ‘makes’. We did find the Laurel Bushes although I was surprised to see that they had shrunk considerably since I was a kid. It’s funny but each time I go to their house the bushes have gotten much smaller. I mean, really, they seemed so much higher and more dangerous when I was a kid. Now they look like a mild-mannered garden-variety shrub that might entertain me for about 5 minutes. How does this happen?

Anyway. Back in the kitchen and the plum jam had passed the ‘wrinkle’ test, and been packed away in its jars. Another batch was on the way with the addition of some walnuts, and it was time to hit the blackberry bushes. Ed’s bees make a delicious honey from the blackberry blossom and so needless to say the blackberry patch is well-tended and overflowing with fruit. It was extremely satisfying to be able to fill a large bowl in a matter of minutes with huge juicy blackberries. I love picking blackberries but I really don't have time for the tiny little dried up things that you sometimes find around here. You could be out there for days and not fill your bowl with those lesser berries. But these ones were massive – as big as strawberries in some cases. We were also assisted in our efforts by Silas, who had finally woken up from his nap, and Zoe. I say assisted but really I mean that they, in their charming way, got in the way, and ate more than they put in their little cardboard cartons but what can you expect from a couple of kids. They were extremely cute while they did it so that helped. We also had a tour of some of Ed’s hives including the ‘observation hive’ which is made of glass allowing you to see the queen and all her drones and worker bees. I don't know why but it always makes me laugh when I hear that male bees are called ‘drones’. Anyhow…I digress.

Back to the kitchen again and the plum walnut jam was ready to go in its jars. We must have been distracted by something for a short period of time as it was only a matter minutes before Silas managed to get into the blackberries. He was soon covered in blackberry juice and looked like he had had a run-in with a bottle of ink. Either that or he was some kind of zombie that feeds on ball point pens. 

The blackberries went into the jam pot and on the boil which left us time for a cup of tea followed by a walk to ‘our beach’ otherwise known as Cromar Beach which is just down the hill from Susan’s house. We spent hours there as kids with, I might ad, little or no supervision. We would head down there in the morning returning only when our stomachs told us to come back for lunch and dinner. We had our favourite rocks and would play in the water and on the beach for hours at a time. Not much has changed and I was happy to see Zoë and Silas acting like it was now their beach. The only troubling thing about the trip to the beach was the ridiculous number of blackberries. I was overwhelmed by the sheer quantity of huge ripe  berries weighing down the vines and felt the need to pick them all. I would stand staring up at 20lbs of blackberries just beyond my reach wondering how I could a) pick them and b) get them home. Like I was going to carry them in my shirt or something. It all became a bit silly. “This is a crime” I declared. “Someone needs to pick these. What a waste!” Then I started thinking about how this was just one corner of one street. Just think about all the blackberries going to waste all over the city, the Island, the province…It was mind-boggling. Call in the troops! “Come on- you can’t pick them all, Jane” said Mel. I reluctantly turned away from the bushes and we walked back up the hill.

It was time to go home so we packed up our pears and plums and jam and got a sticky hug and kiss from Silas. I apologized to Sue for the disaster site we had created. ‘You’ll be glad when we’re gone” I said. ‘Are you kidding?” said Sue. “I love having you girls here!”. Well I loved it too. What a treat that day was. My female gathering instincts were fulfilled for another season and the cupboards now have enough fruit to last until next year. And I have another batch of memories to last me until next time. There’s nothing quite like a best friend. Thanks for 37 years, Mel.

 

 

Thanks for reading-

Cheers,

Jane

How to Behave Around Dolls

There are times as a parent when you wish you had paid closer attention to something that was just said. When you realize that you weren’t really listening well enough to have completely thought through all that your absent minded ‘Ok, honey’ really meant. You may have caught a word here and there and relied on some part of your brain to piece it together into a coherent thought. If your brain is anything like mine most mornings then this is an entirely unreliable process. And so when, the other day, through the fog of early morning, I heard the words  ‘trim’, ‘Rosie’, and ‘hair’ (and not necessarily in that order) alarm bells should have started ringing and I should have got out of bed straight away and I should have investigated the situation further.

As it is, this really only adds fuel to the fire of my argument that children are master manipulators. They know exactly when the best time is to ask your ‘permission’ for something. I think they all belong to some sort of group, like the Order of the Stuffy or something and secretly attend workshops like:

• ‘Best Times to Ask to Have a Sleepover’ and
• ‘Effective Use of Whining’ or even
• ‘How to use Distracted Parents to your Advantage’ and
• ‘When to Turn on the Tears for Maximum Effect’ or
• ‘Dragging out Bedtime: Tips and Tricks’

Zoe has taken most of these workshops I’m sure. With her brother Jacob. Actually, she has probably facilitated most of them. Things we don’t know about our own kids. And I thought she was going to play with her friends in a fort somewhere when really she was setting up tables seminar-style, filling jugs with ice water, and putting out ‘Hello! My name is______’ labels.

Anyway I digress. So I was in bed and I heard little feet padding around and heard a little voice uttering some words which I sort-of understood and the next thing I know Zoe has set up a salon bed-side and is giving her favourite doll, Rosie, a trim. Two-inch long chunks of ‘hair’ are lying on the ground and Zoe is busily snipping away with the kitchen scissors.

Me: ‘OH! HONEY! Do you really think that is a good id…’

Zoe: (cutting me off) ‘It’s FINE mum. I do it all the time’

Me: (laying back down in bed) ‘It’s just that Rosie is your favourite doll and you really like doing her hair and if you cut if off…’

Zoe: (after a few seconds of silence) ‘Mumma..I accidentally cut off a piece of Rosie’s hair that I didn’t mean to…’

Me: (self-righteously) ‘Well I think I just tried to warn you about the possibility of exactly that happening. You know I do have some knowledge of how…’

At this point a heartbreaking wail cut me off mid-sentence. Kent and I looked at each other and then at Zoe who sat on the floor, one finger pointing to a miniscule bald patch on the back of Rosie’s head and her other hand clenched into a little fist that was pounding the floor beside her.

‘I’ve RUINED her hair!!’ came the tormented lament from the floor. “WHY did I do it??"’ she shrieked over and over. I tried to console her with lame parental wisdoms such as ‘It’s Ok Honey’ and ‘We’ll fix it, Lovey’. I even considered ‘It’ll grow back’ but fortunately my brain engaged before I said that one out loud.

For the next 10 minutes, Zoe was inconsolable as I tried to show her how really, unless you knew about the bald patch, no one would ever be able to see it. I mean you would have to really look for it. At one point I think I said something like how it looked just like any other bald patch on a doll’s head and really weren’t all doll’s heads just a series of bald patches anyway?

In case you are wondering if you should ever say something like this to your child, I’ll just save you the grief and tell you right now that you should NOT do this. They do not appreciate it. And, didn’t I know, (maybe you, wise reader, already know this) dolls cannot HELP having hair that is stuck in in ‘little groups’ as they were MADE THAT WAY and didn’t I know that you shouldn't ever say anything about the way someone is MADE and I should know that because YOU TOLD me that.

In the end, Rosie’s hair was OK. We worked out a kind of comb-over for the back of her head.  I crept into her room later that morning, all prepared to sit quietly on the edge of the bed and offer some sort of maternal words of wisdom. I started with ‘I know you’re feeling sad about Rosie’. Fortunately she blew me off with a wave of the hand saying that it didn’t really matter as Rosie could just wear a hat or something. Later, I noticed that Zoë had done a bit of back combing and created a fuzzy patch over the offending bald spot. It’s amazing what a bit of back combing can accomplish!

Well, suffice to say, I have gained a new understanding of how to behave around dolls. And children. From now on I think I’ll try harder to listen and respond a little quicker when key phrases like ‘hair’ and ‘trim’ occur in the same sentence. I know I have to let my kids learn their own lessons and I can't save them from everything. But now I know that paying closer attention can cut down on the 20 minute sobbing sessions. And I didn’t even have to sit through a workshop!

Spot the miniscule bald patch…

 

Thanks for reading.

Jane