I hate going to the vets. HATE it.

It was my turn to take the dog in. The behemoth-sized dog of very little brain and very few manners. Of course, it’s just puppy exuberance that makes him jump and cavort and pant and drool incessantly, but the sheer size of him makes the old ladies clutch their teacup things tighter and glare. Huh. You’d think he peed on them or something.

Their eyes get huge when I tell them he’s only seven months old. ‘So,’ they squeak, ‘he’ll get bigger?’

‘Oh yes’, I always say. ‘MUCH bigger. We’re feeding him horsemeat and growth hormones. And pretty soon, we’re going to start him on cats. Our aim is to hire him out to a traveling circus as the World’s Largest Dog.’

Usually by then Jasper will flop to the floor and do something doggishly-constructive like lick himself or gaze fatuously up at me, looking foolish and harmless (except for his monstrous size) and they’ll start to relax. THEN he’ll spot something dangerous and coming to eat us! (like the goldfish tank! Or the scale!) and give out a loud, dangerous-big-dog ROWF, and up in arms go the wee little dogs again.

Jasper is always glad to see the vet, something she attributes to his breed (while kindly not mentioning that he might be dumb as a post, since the last time he saw her she was removing bits that I daresay he would rather we didn’t touch) while petting his wind-milling tail and lurching to huff him up onto the table. He usually piddles a little with joy and contorts to lick her ear or whatever he can reach while she fiddles and does secret vet things and tells me sweet lies about how all dogs are rambunctious as puppies, and he’ll grow out of it.

I always nod and smile and think about how if he grows anymore we’re going to have start finding a direct supplier for his food. Maybe we can just drive him into the feed store every day and line him up under one of the bins. Or maybe…

I was cut off by the vet. “He’ll settle down,” she said firmly and a little breathlessly, as Jasper adoringly rammed his head into the crotch of her pants. “He will. But you might want to get a flyer on the obedience classes we offer.

So you enjoy him more.”

With the bigger boy in school, I’ve gotten a lot more one-on-one time with the girl. Most of the time I LOVE IT. She’s a smart cookie, and deeply stuck in that stage where she likes to help with the dishwasher, the laundry, the cooking….

(Yes, I know, child labour laws. Does it count if I’m working alongside her and she gets a freezie when she’s finished?)

Some days, though, I’d like to RUN AWAY. And NOT COME BACK.

Today was one of those days.

We had errands to do, she and I, and we zipped into town, did banking, coffee-ing, and pet food getting, then did an emergency pants change and dashed into a Frenchy’s,  just to look around.

I think she’s going to be a shopper. She commandeered her own bucket and started flinging things in. “Ooo! Pitty!” Into the bucket it went. “Pink! Sparklies! Wosey need.”

By the time we left, she had weeded through all her new things and picked out the few we were keeping (leaving behind the feather boa, the baby-sized hot pants, the silver lame shirt that looked like it was straight out of the seventies). I was just finishing paying the girl behind the counter (and mentally congratulating myself on getting out before nap-time) when a shout shook the building. “Mommy! They have Barbies!”

Oh God. I shook my head at her. “No Barbies, honey. Not today.”

She looked mutinous and clutched the naked pink thing tighter. “Wess, Mommy. Barbie. Wosey need Barbie.”

I shook my head.

Her brow furrowed.

I shook my head.

And the building fell off its foundation. Her ear-splitting siren yell was echoing around the room (people were ducking down beside the bins – they probably all thought I was going to shout Incoming!) as I tried to pry it out of her hand.

Well. One thing we don’t have to fear is malnutrition. For a three-year old, she’s strong.

 I waited until her arms jabbed the air near me, then swooped in, success!, and tossed the mangled doll at the pile. I exited with her under one arm, the bag under the other, and a splitting headache. I think the people whose ears weren’t bleeding gave us a standing ovation when we hit the doors, but I was too embarrassed to look. (Or offer first-aid.)

 It didn’t help my mood any that the siren blipped a few times and switched off peacefully once she was buckled into her car seat and I gave her her blanky.

She gazed at me in the rear-view mirror, thumb in mouth, blanky nestled close.  All was forgiven. “Night, Mama! I sleepy. I have nap.”

I considered pulling over and kicking the tires for awhile. But, really, I envied her.  How nice to be able to get over all hurts and disappointments with an old quilt and a rest!

The kids and I stacked wood this afternoon – even the almost-three-year-old importantly choosing a stick and hauling it over – and I must say I’m impressed with the variety and number of creepy-crawlies that Nova Scotia has. Truly, a wilderness wonderland.

 Except it’s not so fun when all those strange and new bugs are on your shirt. And inside your shirt.

Now I am determined that we will all meet nature as a learning experience. And the vision of Mom hopping up and down chanting GET IT OFF GET IT OFF!  doesn’t cut it.

 So I ran around the back of the house and did my girly eek routine (where did that spider go, damnit?) – composed myself and turned around, only to trip over the friendly garter snake that lives under the house. Frankly, I think I surprised Barney as much as he did me.

 Although I was much more vocal about it.

We’ve switched over to canvas carry-alls for groceries instead of the ubiquitous plastic bags. Our local grocery chain helped us out with this by making them available for 99 cents each – they’re nice, sturdy with a green bottle on the front – square-bottomed, wide straps – a very handy little bag.

We’ve probably bought six or eight by now, though, because of all the uses that people keep finding for them. For instance, they’re the perfect size to hold a change of clothes and shoes. Or a lunch, complete with thermos. Library books. Or for taking the recyclables back. They’re just right for a sick dolly and her blankie.

I managed to wrestle several away from my family and went to go check out the produce today. Four sweet potatoes, some gorgeous eggplant and a really nice butternut squash. I didn’t use the little plastic bags for the veggies because – really, who doesn’t wash their vegetables first?

I hummed a little, waiting at the check-out. There was a new girl being trained (I always pick that line. It’s one of my talents.) and I waited, musing over which recipe I was going to use with the eggplant and wondering if I could get B to eat it again. Alton Brown’s lovely eggplant steak recipe, I decided, and put my things on the conveyor.

I was trying to remember if we had cider vinegar at home when I realized what I was seeing. The cashier, talking very quickly to the trainee while she rang items up, was telling her how to bag items. “And of course look to see if they have the bags before you start. Look at the yams! Aren’t they lovely!” she smiled at me while she stuck my sweet potatoes in a plastic bag and put it inside my canvas bag. Ditto the eggplant. I didn’t wait for the squash.

 ”Uh, I don’t need the plastic, thanks.”

Her hands stilled, and she blushed. “No, no, of course not.” She unloaded the plastic bags and put my vegetables (nudely? nekkid? ) back.

I was telling B later how I was saving the world, one plastic bag at a time! glad I hadn’t brought more plastic bags home with me. Of course, I’m sure that the bags in question were immediately thrown away, so not much of a savings there…..

B frowned. I was deep in an explanation of BlogHer Canada’s monthly goals when it struck me – he wasn’t really upset about the environment. Nor the bags.

No, B was concerned about the eggplant.

‘That’s not really dinner, is it?’

Hmph. Some people should be in a bag.

The kids are playing keep-away with the dog and a pair of Rosey’s underpants while ‘Save-Um’s' theme song bleats something about ‘we use our hearts, we use our heads and we beleeeeive’ (although they never really tell you what they believe, the show could actually be about the deep need of preschoolers to get tattoos and eat cheese)

Yes, the underwear are clean.

Cass is home early – a half-day of school today – and he’s sporting a new sticker. Since I didn’t send him to school with a #1! stuck to his tee-shirt, I asked why he had the glitter patch. Was it an award for sitting still? Reading aloud? Raising his hand? Not pushing?

He fended me off with a roll of the eyes. (Blase about school. He’s been there four days.)

Staring through me towards the television, he blinked at me a few times ‘Umm, because I was the best?’ then he cocked his head to the side, obviously waiting to get back to his program.

I waited. There had to be an ending to that.

He realized I wasn’t going to move. Behind me, someone excitedly talked about Betty Barnacle and her glasses. Rosey giggled.

Cass blew out a breath, trying vainly to see around me. “Umm…just the best, Mommy. The best…me! I was the best me I could be.”

If this is how he’s going to communicate, I think the tv’s going out Cleanup Day.

At least he understands that R’s clean panties aren’t for the dog.

I think.

We’ve been eating the 100 miles thing recently, and talking about organic this and recycled that. (And I had  no  idea how much food I eat comes from other countries.) It’s actually been very easy, since we’ve been trying not to heat up the house in this last gasp of summer and have been grilling a lot.

I was pretty sure B wanted some ears of corn or something when he called me at work. (Was the farmer’s stand still open?)

B: The kids won’t nap.
Me: (Of course not. It’s freakishly hot.) Okay. Just put them in their swimsuits and sling them out in the pool. I should be home soon, anyway.
B: Oh, Jess? Is that stuff in the fridge lip gloss?
Me: Eh?
B: Rosey just gave me this little plastic container that stinks to high hell. It’s got some brown and grey goop in it. Is this one of those organic cosmetics you were talking about?
Me: Small plastic container? (dawning horror) Rosey didn’t open  that, did she?
B: No, she just handed it to me.
Me: Wash your hands. With soap. And Rosey’s. NOW.
B: (running water noises, a hint of dread in his voice) That’s not lip stuff, is it?

Me: No, it’s cat poop.

The cat, you see, has problems. And the vet gives out teeny little lidded containers (and a tongue depressor) for…er, collections.

And I don’t think I’m going to wear lip gloss for awhile.