With summer fading fast, the Hunter family is settling into our ‘regular’ routine. Gone are the barefoot days of summer; here come the days of industrial strength woolen socks. That glass of lemonade I used to drink is now a steaming mug of ginger tea, and, instead of the sun greeting me in the morning, I wake up to angry grey clouds and sullen children. It’s not my fault they have to wake up – I want to stay in bed, too!

Seven-year-old Molly is now in the second grade and seems to be enjoying herself. Like her mother, in the morning, she’s as grumpy as a hungover Grizzly. Most days I can shuffle her out the door on time. Four-year-old Andy has one more year of preschool, and I’ve gotta admit – I’m jealous of his schedule. I’d love to spend my days coloring, snacking, and playing, instead of scraping peanut butter off my floor like I did today. You know your life is exciting when you’re jealous of your toddler.

This month is such a downer. September is the equivalent of mucous-blocked nostrils. Where is the caress of a warm breeze? Where is the fragrant smell of freshly cut grass? And, most importantly, where is the sun? That thing ran away faster than a greased pig (which, I’m assuming, is fairly quick). As much as I love this season, it’s not without its drawbacks. The unseasonal heat created such dry conditions that wildfires raged out of control in parts of the province. People watched their homes and businesses go up in flames, and in some cases were lucky to escape with their lives. Noxious smoke drifted around our cities and even blackened the skies of our southern neighbors. On those smoky days, I held my kids extra tight, grateful that the blazes didn’t reach us. Tragedies like this are sadly becoming more common, so I’m extra thankful my family and my little town were safe.

“Focus on the good things!” my mother always told me, and she’s right. There’s no point moping and ‘whinging’ as my British friends say. There’s Halloween (one of my favorite candy-focused holidays), then there’s the magic of Christmas and its gluttony of gifts (when my kids think they’ve won the lottery). There’s New Year’s, Valentines Day, and my birthday’s in there too somewhere (I turn 29 for the eleventh time). There’s lots of joyful events to look forward to, and the only downside is eight continuous months of rain. If I get to eat some Halloween candy, I just might make it!

So goodbye, Summer, I loved you so. I loved watching my kids splash in their favorite lake, I loved the feel of warm grass under my feet. I didn’t like your buzzing flies or mosquitoes, though, and I really didn’t like the intimate part the latter bit me on! All will be forgiven if you hold off on the rain for a few more weeks. That might tide me over; it’s only eleven more months till next summer!

Excited mom Sarah is back-to-school shopping with her dispirited seven-year-old daughter, Molly, and her four-year-old son, Andy.

Sarah: “Ohh, Molly, this one has unicorns! You love those!”

Molly: “Sorta.”

Sarah: “Let’s see, do you want unicorns or rainbows?”

Molly: “Do they have monkeys on trampolines?”

Sarah: “…………Why would they have that?”

Molly: “I saw it on the internet! There was a monkey jumpin’ up and down an’ he was having fun.”

Sarah: “Sweetie, we’re back-to-school shopping, not cavorting around a circus.”

Molly: “Ugh. Unicorns, I guess.”

Sarah: “Great! Okay, let’s see, now you need some pencils and crayons and ooooo! Construction paper! Isn’t this fun?”

Molly: (whines) “NO! I don’t wanna go back to school! Why can’t it be summer forever?”

Sarah: “Because mommy would go monkey-punch crazy, sweetie. School is for keeping mommies and daddies happy!”

Molly: “So how come you don’t go to school?”
Sarah: “Because I’ve suffered enough. Oh look! Sparkly pencils!”

Molly continues to pout, while Andy runs up excitedly.

Andy: “Can I get dis?”

Sarah: “Do you really need a jar of pickles, Andy? I mean, really.”

Andy: “Yeah, I need it for school.”

Sarah: “Put those back.”

Andy sighs dramatically and walks away.

Molly: “Will Miss Arthur be my teacher this year?”

Sarah: “No, you’ll have a new teacher.”

Molly: “What if she’s not nice?”

Sarah: “Sweetie, I know it’s scary going into a new grade and having a new teacher. I understand what you’re feeling. I promise that once you go to school, you’re gonna have a great time. Remember last year? You were scared but you did it anyway, and now you have lots of new friends and tons of cool memories. Just think of how much fun you’re going to have in grade one.”

Molly: “Mom, I’m going into grade two!”

Sarah: “WHAT? Wow, that went by fast. Well, just remember what I said. It’s okay to be nervous. I’ll keep checking in with you when school starts, okay? Now, how many pickle jars do we……..”
Molly: “Ew, what?”

Sarah: “Oh, wait, that was Andy. Okay, we’ve got everything you need. Let’s head over to aisle six.”

Molly: “Why?”

Sarah: “I wanna see if they have back-to-school sales on champagne!”

Today, for the first time since the Cretaceous Period, the Hunter family had a Nothing Day. A delightful, relaxing day of doing absolutely nothing, and it was as terrific as it sounds. Three-year-old Andy and six-year-old Molly were finished with swim lessons, summer camps, and playdates, so I didn’t have to drive them anywhere. We had a fridge full of food, so whining was minimal. The best part? I actually got to sit down during the day. I would’ve jumped for joy, but I was so comfortable I melted into the cushions.

Nothing Days are great, after all the hurrying we’ve been doing. I’m a lazy person by nature, and before I had kids, I was prone to lying around and wasting oxygen, like a walrus on a sunny dock. Why go for a hike when I could stay in bed? Why learn a new hobby when I could lick Cheeto dust off my fingers? I dare say I turned slothfulness into an art! Having kids made me an active person, whether I liked it or not. Plunking baby Molly into her stroller and taking her for a walk guaranteed a nap. Strapping baby Andy onto my chest in his baby carrier while I vacuumed made him sleep as the house was cleaned. Hey, I actually accomplished a lot when my offspring were younger! Don’t get me wrong, you’d have to tie me to a rocket to send me back there, but I deserved more credit than I gave myself at the time.

Our day of idleness continued into dinner, when I declared it to be a “free-for-all” night, and it was every man for himself. Molly had leftover pizza, Andy had a peanut butter sandwich, and I ate a bag of microwave popcorn. My husband Jeremy fared a little better, making himself scrambled eggs on toast. This dinner was a win, because all the major food groups were covered (sort of). The plates were left close to the dishwasher and our terrier, Teddy, licked the floor clean admirably. What a good boy.

Bedtime rolled around, some teeth were brushed, and my offspring were ushered into bed despite their protests. I finished off my Nothing Day with a big bowl of ice cream and my favorite movie. Sigh…. I could get used to this! No pruney fingers from washing dishes, no sweaty brow from vacuuming – what a life! Everything has consequences, though; I went to bed early — doing zilch all day exhausted me!

Three-year-old Andy is chafing at the yoke of independence. Too big for a playpen, too small for kindergarten, he’s testing his limits every chance he gets. Unfortunately, he’s testing my patience, too. Whether he’s refusing to get dressed or insisting he can cut his own hair, I’m torn between letting him make mistakes and his attempts to off himself. Yesterday, I caught him perched in the kitchen sink like a parrot; when questioned, he was “getting a gwass of water”. Two days ago, he scaled my bookshelf like a monkey, looking for his favorite story. This kid is determined to drive my blood pressure up!

When he’s not practicing his high wire act, Andy’s getting better at taking care of himself. He happily brushes his teeth, washes his hands, and dresses himself with ease. Last week he scraped his knee and administered first aid to himself. He used nine band-aids, an entire tube of antiseptic cream, and left greasy footprints all over the bathroom. Hurray? Lately, band-aids are his favorite toy; he peels them open and scatters them like rose petals. Then, he greedily raids the band-aid box and polka-dots his body with the plasters. Why? Who knows. I’d prefer it if he stopped having accidents, but he’s a kid and I can’t win ‘em all.

My son is growing up quicker than I realized. His crib is gone, his diapers are gone, and he’s getting taller by the day. Part of me (a very, very small part) is sad that my tiny baby is gone, but I love watching Andy grow into a marvelous child. A marvelous, frustrating, mischievous child. There’s no rhyme nor reason to three-year-olds. Today, he was upset because his socks didn’t match. The socks that he picked out. How can a toddler’s world fall apart due to foot coverings? If only he could be a baby again; he’d wear whatever I chose without complaint. I could pop him into the stroller and not chase him around like a headless chicken. Wait…. Am I forgetting something? The two a.m. wakeups, the non-stop breast feeding, the exhaustion……….. oh no, NEVER MIND! I DON’T WANT A BABY AGAIN! Keep growing up Andy, I love you just the way you are.

The shy deer hesitates, stepping slowly onto the lawn. Her big doe eyes and graceful neck are elegant, yet all I can think is: “GET THE @#!$% OFF MY GRASS, YOU DUMB PLANT EATER!” Honestly, deer are lucky they’re so cute because they’ve ruined my yard too many times. My landscaping is one big all-you-can-eat buffet for them. However, dealing with those pesky lawn donkeys is nothing compared to what befell my yard last weekend. Imagine waking up on a gorgeous Saturday morning to your husband informing you that a bear ate the swimming pool. “…………………What?” I asked. “A bear. It ate the pool,” Jeremy said, sipping his coffee with the insouciance of a French socialite. I must be hearing things wrong. Jeremy was speaking nonsense. Wait, was I even awake? Was this some weird fever dream? I knew I shouldn’t have eaten pastrami before bed last night.

There’s no reason for a bear to stroll onto our property. We don’t have fruit trees, trash cans, or a smorgasbord of compost bins for those @#$%&*! waste walruses to gorge on. There are no berry bushes, vegetable gardens, or even bird feeders back there, so that miserable @#$%$^&* snuck in just to use the pool. Didn’t this knucklehead have a pic-a-nic backet to steal instead? We’d only invested in a small inflatable kiddie pool, so we weren’t out a great deal of money. Unfortunately, that same pool held an impressive amount of water which had unleashed a tsunami all over our yard. The lawn was a quagmire of mud and grass, my roses were upside down, and my petunias had all drowned. But that wasn’t the worst part. This bear, not content with flooding the yard, had gone out of his way to eat the kids’ water toys. The pool noodles were chomped into pieces, the goggles were cracked, and the floating donuts were popped. Every. Single. One. I couldn’t help but feel this was a personal attack. How long had that land whale been in our yard? Why hadn’t we heard anything? “Some alarm system YOU are,” I muttered to Teddy, our pint-sized terrier. He’d been snoozing while our yard hosted an all-night Ursus rave!

Outraged, Jeremy and I mopped up the yard as best we could. The lawn would dry out, but the flowers were goners. Short of digging a moat around our house, how could we stop this from happening again? We conferred with the neighbors, who were equally annoyed. One senior suggested landmines, but he was narrowly voted down. Turns out that the simplest solution is sometimes the best one. We strung fishing line on top of the fence, from which we hung tin cans filled with pebbles. If that giant garbage gopher tried to climb over, the cans would rattle, make a terrific noise, and hopefully scare said blubber ball back to Kingdom Come. I’m quite pleased with my homemade defense system; you might even say I’m “smarter than the average bear!”

Swimming, running through sprinklers, and water balloon fights are fun ways to beat the heat, but what if there’s a way to cool off without looking like a drowned weasel? A trip to our town’s public library made me rediscover the magic of literature, and the free air conditioning didn’t hurt either. Housed in a brand new, purpose-built structure, the library has become a heat-free refuge for myself and my offspring, Andy and Molly. When tempers have frayed or our house became too stuffy, we’ve piled into our trusty Dodge Caravan and made the short trip into town. Walking in through the library doors is like walking into an old friend’s house. Amazingly, there’s a little café inside – if I wasn’t enticed before, I sure am now!

Libraries have changed since I was a kid. The one from my childhood was dark, dim, and full of ugly brown furniture. There was always the vague smell of cheese, and someone was always coughing. The children’s section consisted of a smelly, stained rug with tattered copies of alphabet books scattered around. Despite that, I spent many happy hours hiding amongst the stacks, reading to my heart’s content. I remember joyfully playing with the old microfiche machines, not understanding how they worked, then quietly retreating once they broke. Newspapers hung from wooden rods in a specially made contraption, and magazines were enclosed in plastic covers. This was pre-internet and pre-computer, so to locate a book you’d search in the card catalog, a system of dozens of file cabinets that took up half the room. Papercuts were a given as you shuffled through tiny index cards, and you’d better hope they were still alphabetized. Sometimes, my mother gave me money to buy lunch from the sandwich shop next door. Oh, to be a kid in a library once more!

Now, I get to watch my kids enjoy the library, with its educational toys and comfortable couches. Andy’s taken a keen interest, asking “can we go to the libwary?” almost every day. He loves playing with the build-a-blocks but struggles with the concept of sharing (which isn’t my favorite thing, either). Molly would rather be riding her bike, but I’m hoping she’ll come around. What’s not to love? With art classes, story time, and activities galore, we’ll be spending lots of time there. Most importantly: the library’s air-conditioned and our house isn’t!

It’s hot. Mercilessly, unbelievably hot. The streets are deserted. Lush, green lawns are a thing of the past. The ice-cream man refuses to venture out, lest he be mobbed by sweaty, feverish five-year-olds. Air conditioners struggle valiantly, pumping out muggy air in vain. And through all of this, life must go on. I must find a way…….. to finish my chores. What happened to Super Mom? Can’t she accomplish everything? Forget it. Super Mom is splayed on the kitchen floor, cooling herself on the tiles. She is ever graceful, just like a spread-eagled squirrel heat dumping itself on a rock.

I’m only exaggerating slightly when I say it’s too hot to work. Yesterday I vacuumed my bedroom and nearly passed out. If I’d tried to do the whole house, I might have died! Imagine the headlines: “Stoic Mother Killed by Dust Bunnies”. What a way to go. My kitchen is buried under piles of dishes, mounds of Cheerios, and the remnants of microwave meals. The dinner table is lost beneath artwork, crayons, and crusty shards of playdough. Miss Havisham herself would feel comfortable here. The only cool time of day is at six in the morning, and there ain’t NO WAY I’m getting up that early. Logically, I should clean when the sun goes down, but by then I’m as frazzled as a thunderstruck ferret. I’m stuck in a vicious cycle of apathy.

Like unwashed feet, a messy household is a sign of summer, along with sliding doors that are open all day. Barbecues cook breakfast, lunch, and dinner. We have popsicles for breakfast, as snacks, and for hydration. Any meal that requires boiling a pot of water is simply not made. And any chore that requires breaking a sweat can be put aside until winter. The oven can be used to store dirty dishes until the scraps become penicillin. Use the heat to your advantage, I say! When your bathmat starts crawling across the floor begging for death, simply hide it in the laundry hamper. In this heat, any task that requires movement is not worth the effort, unless that task involves scooping more ice cream. For that, I’ll exert myself like a long distance runner in the Sahara Desert!

After six years of parenthood, it’s obvious that my kids know more than I do. Why else would they argue with me all the time? Sure, they’ve existed for less than a decade, but that’s enough time to have the universe figured out. It’s also why they impart their wisdom loudly and repeatedly, whenever I instruct them on anything. “You’re going to spill that,” I told three-year-old Andy, as he carried his too-full water glass to the table. “I’m NOT,” he insisted, seconds before his cup smashed on the floor. “Don’t touch that, it’s hot!” I told six-year-old Molly, just before she singed her hand on a scalding soup bowl. “Why’d you do that? I told you it was hot!” I chided as I checked her fingers. “It didn’t look hot!” she cried. See? According to my offspring, stupid ol’ Mommy is as dumb as a rock.

The reason we warn our kids is because, as adults, we’ve been there and done that. I learned that sticking a metal fork in an electrical outlet will blast you across the room. In my defense, I was four, and I was trying to make my own light saber. But because of my experience, all the outlets in my current house have plastic safety covers on them. I don’t want my offspring to suffer as I did; my internal organs are still recovering. I know it’s tempting to try and catch a bumblebee in your bare hands, but trust me, bees don’t like that. Wanna guess how I know? This little scar on my thumb should tell you.

At this point, my warnings have turned into white noise, and my kids hardly acknowledge me. The best example of this was with Andy; last week, he figured out it’s really funny to make himself burp. To do this, he would clench his stomach and force up air. “Don’t do that,” I chided, “you’ll make yourself barf.” Guess who finally figured out that Mommy was right? My little son, straight after he upchucked yesterday’s dinner all over the floor. Trust me, there are times I don’t want to be right.

There’s a difference between “confident” and “smart-Alec”, and Molly and Andy are still figuring that out. Soon, I hope they’ll be able to listen with open hearts and minds. Until then, I’ll keep nagging them while they endanger themselves. Maybe learning the hard way makes a bigger impression; it did for me when I jumped off the toolshed roof using a garbage bag as a parachute. I learned two things that day: gravity is a force to be reckoned with, and I am not Superman. He wouldn’t have broken his ankle in three places!

Much like the mythical Icarus, this summer I flew too close to the sun. In my hysterical frenzy of registering six-year-old Molly and three-year-old Andy for summer camp, I somehow forgot one thing: how would my kids get to their classes? Now, instead of working on my tan, I’m rushing my kids around under the blazing sun in my non air-conditioned van. As one of my favorite cartoon characters likes to say: D’oh!

Andy has science camp at nine in the morning, and the police told me I can’t leave Molly at home alone, so the three of us drive to the Rec Centre. Then, after rushing back, exercising, showering, and making myself look human, we’re out the door again for Molly’s swim class at 11:15. Half an hour later, she has fifteen minutes to shower, dry off, and change before we rush across town to pick Andy up at noon. Then it’s another hot car ride home where I collapse on the couch and pray for sleep. Talk about best laid plans going sideways!

So, in terms of my summer, I messed up. My kids, however, love all the cool things they’re doing. “Mommy, I can swim underwater now! And I can hold my breath for ten minutes! I’m the best swimmer ever!” Molly told me excitedly. This is a huge leap for her, since last year I could barely get her to drink water, let alone play in it. Andy is thrilled with science camp; yesterday, he spent twenty minutes talking about worms and how you shouldn’t eat them (something I hoped he already knew). You learn something new every day.

For my kids’ sake, I’ll play chauffeur a little longer. It’s worth it to see their excited, sun-kissed faces when I drive up to get them. I love hearing about all they’ve learned and how much fun they’ve had. In fact, some days I’m tempted to join their classes and participate. My summers were spent bored out of my skull squinting at reruns on our fuzzy tv. No arts and crafts for me, and I turned out just fine. In fact, kids these days are too spoiled — they don’t know what hardship is! I should cancel summer camp and keep my offspring at home. They’d get along with each other, right? They wouldn’t be screaming and fighting and………. oh no, what am I thinking?? I won’t last a week! QUICK, I NEED TO KEEP THEM BUSY! SIGN THEM UP FOR SKYDIVING!

Summer is finally here, and with it comes my one of my favorite pastimes: barbecuing. Forget about slaving over a hot stove, cooking a dinner that no one will eat. To sustain my offspring, all I do now is fire up the barbecue, chuck on some hot dogs, and call it a day. If I’m feeling adventurous, I’ll grill some corn cobs. With said corn smothered in butter and salt, six-year-old Molly and three-year-old Andy can be tricked into eating vegetables. I call that a win, despite worries about their cholesterol levels.

I can’t say I’m a master of the grill. More often than not, hamburger patties and wieners are served up as burnt offerings. “That’s extra flavour!” I chirp, but my kids are unconvinced. I’ve mastered a parental “trick of the trade” and serve their blackened protein drenched in ketchup and mustard. Who says sausages can’t be crunchy? I’m telling you, that’s extra flavour!

Since my stove pumps out as much heat as a Swedish sauna, it’s now cheerfully neglected. In fact, I haven’t been in my kitchen for weeks, except to grab ice cream from the freezer (another nutritious summer repast). Gone are the days of sauteed vegetables and lean meats; from here on out, it’s pasta salad and pre-cut carrots. Don’t get me wrong, my kids never eat any of the above, but at least I save time making meals. As we sit on our patio, chewing our crispy hot dogs, life is good. Never mind that Andy only eats his condiment-covered bun, or that Molly is finger painting with potato salad. Clean-up is a breeze since I just hose down the table chairs, and kids. If only I could do the same indoors!

As with all the meals I make, I’m sure my kids will tire of burgers and tube steak. They’ll want more sophisticated fare like chicken nuggets or peanut butter sandwiches. But until that day comes, I’m gonna ride the barbecue train until it derails. Rain or shine, who’s up for some blackened wieners and burnt buns?