I’m not one that is constantly dreaming up ways to become independently wealthy, but if I were, and if I had suddenly decided that exploiting my children was expectable, I have the best idea!

Colin should have his own reality show. 

I mean he’s so delightfully mischievous.  He’s so adorably sinister. And he knows it.  It’s such a contrast to Evan who is constantly in a state of panic of upsetting us or doing something wrong.  I understand that too has it’s set of problems. 

On the boat with my sister, Deanna, her husband Steven and my adorable nephew Ryan one beautiful afternoon, Colin tried my patience to the maximum.  For many reasons really, but specifically because of his new favourite word.  He loves to use the word fudge.  And no, not like, “This is good chocolate fudge”, but, “Ahh fudge!!”  I’m used to Evan who threatened to call Kid’s Help Phone when I told him to be quiet.

“Colin, when you use a word in the place of a bad word, it means that word is bad, and you must never do that!”

And he’s all, “So I can’t say Fudge?” with his hands on his hips.

And I say, “Yeah, that’s right.

And he’s all, “So I can’t say fun?” hands still on the hips, smirk on face reeking of attitude.

And I say, “Yeah that right, if you use fun in the place of a bad word, than fun is now a bad word.”

And he says, “TAAHH” and walks away.  I thought we understood each other.

So Colin decided that on this beautiful day on the boat enjoying the Mahone Bay Harbour, that he’d say “Mother Fudge!”

And after I pulled him aside to explain how offended I was, and how disappointed I was that he said that, he said, “Why, cause I said your name, Mother?”

There have been times when I have caught myself holding in a chuckle when he said the word fudge, but in this case I was not amused.  My sister however, had to turn away.

Later in the day Deanna asked Colin what we did the day before and he told Deanna how we went to buy new book bags at the mall. “Yeah, but den our credit card didn’t wurk.” 

That we full out laughed at.

** In an effort to provide full disclosure, their debit machine wasn’t working, just keeping it real.**

Soccer season has come to an end, so I thought I’d write about The Zippy Queen.  Since I won’t have to plunk my lawn chair next to hers, I can pretty much say whatever I want and hope she’s forgotten it by next soccer season.  But first, some history.

The Zippy Queen’s real name is Melissa Hiltz.  I went to school with Melissa at Hebville Jr  High school and then onto Park View.  As what usually happens when moving from middle school to senior, you tend to lose touch, you say hello in the hallway, you still ask to cheat off each others homework in Biology, but you tend to eat your lunch with your newly found crowds.

Shortly after high school, Melissa found herself a husband while I sewed some wild oats.  

“Different strokes for different folks.”

We met up again last year on the soccer field.  We both have 2 boys that are similar in age.  Her oldest son, Tylor, is 10, just old enough for Evan to idolize him.  

And I discovered something else about Melissa.  Along with getting married, having kids and picking up a job at the South Shore Regional Hospital, she also picked herself up a little bit of an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder about Zip Lock bags.  She carries her hand sanitizer in a zippy, all the kids snacks in a zippy, toilet paper in a zippy (you know, for peeing in the woods during soccer games).  I think we counted 10 in her possession during our last game.  After further prodding, she has Zippy’s in every shape and size and prides herself on getting Zippy’s from other countries, one’s that are unavailable to us in Canada.  Seriously!  

Poor thing.  We had a lot of laughs on the field at Zippy Queen’s Melissa’s expense.  But I have to admit, I admire her organizational skills.  She’s one of those people that you want with you if you’re stranded on a deserted island.  

I mean, everything would be in a zippy and would remain dry.

I was introduced to Tracy Frank through Melissa and through soccer as her son plays too.  One afternoon we  had a great day on Carabou Lake with Tracy’s parents.  I went on a tube.  I laughed so hard I think I burst something.  It could have been my bladder.  Then on the way home, as the kids were nodding their heads in exhaustion, I explained how lucky we were to have had such a great day.  That people from your past always pop up again, so it’s important to be kind.  

And then Evan, being so wise, reminded me that we’d spent the entire summer laughing at Melissa about her Zippy bag obsession.

We’ve been trying to catch a fish all summer long.  I mean it.  We go to the wharf, we go out on the boat, we go in the afternoon, at dusk; doesn’t matter, no fish.  We fish beside little twelve year olds that are taking home mackerel by the bucket loads, and all we want to do is catch one bloody fish so our kids can know what it’s like.  I don’t even want to eat it.  I mean, that would require me having to deal with blood and guts, and I’d rather not do that.  David even went out and baught all new rods because he was sure it must be the rods that are incompetent, not us. 

Truth be told, I don’t do the fishing.  I take the pictures.  But this one evening, I’d forgotten my camera, so I thought I’d help the boys and when Colin gave up in frustration I gave it a go.  I was at the stern, Evan and David on the swim platform on the back of the boat and Colin was watching a movie inside.  I don’t know how to fish, but it was relaxing up there by myself.  

Then I felt something on the end of my rod, but I didn’t get to excited, as I have caught sea grass before and got everyone excited for nothing.  But soon I realized this was different.  It was moving.  I screamed, “I got something, a fish I think, oh my God, guys come here I think I got a fish!”  The kids ran up to the stern, they were jumping up and down screaming, “Mommy, you did it, you caught a fish!”  David said, “Keep reeling it in, Mommy.  See, told you we needed new rods.”  And me, without a camera!

As the fish made it’s was to the boat and is squirming around, the mood suddenly took a dramatic turn for the worst.  See, we weren’t prepared to catch anything.  We didn’t have plier, a bucket, net, we had nothing.  Evan didn’t want it to die and Colin wanted to keep him for a pet. I would plunk him in the water every few seconds to get air and scream, “David, what do we do?”  He eventually got pliers, but those hooks are tricky little suckers.  We put the fish in our bailing pail while we decided what to do.  David was getting the hook out while the kids screamed and I threw up my hands saying “why did you give us boys then??”

We decided that it was best for him  and for us to let him swim away and be with his family, since I wasn’t likely going to clean and eat it without having a mutiny on my hands.  

And the kids vow to never fish again.  

But now… I’m hooked!

Evan is such a cool kid.  He’s pretty intense that boy.  Here he is right before tennis with his head and wrist bands, golf shirt buttoned up to the top and Adidas sneakers.  He’s standing beside his instructor Brogan.  Brogan is the typical tennis instructor.  Nice guy, smart, handsome, great family, athletic.  I didn’t mind taking Evan to tennis one little bit.  Just sayin.

As the summer progressed I allowed Evan to start biking to swimming and tennis lessons with his friends.  That’s the beauty of living in a small town where everything is in close proximity and if they do something remotely unsafe, someone else’s mother would bring them home by the scruff of their neck.  I’ve done it.  

I slowly and very selectively started to allow Colin as well, thou I felt a lot less confident with Colin than I did Evan.  I mean, it wasn’t easy to make that decision.  Even still on Sundays when the town is busy with tourists who’d rather rubber neck it and drive into sidewalks as oppose to park and walk, I won’t allow the kids to go without a parent.  

When Colin would go with them I’d sometimes follow them with my car and spy, and I would warn them within an inch of their lives that if they didn’t walk their bikes on cross walks or use helmets or not use their hands or veer off the streets that I approved or do anything remotely silly while biking, that the privilege of riding their bike had essentially become null and void.  And I said it with an intensity that I believe Colin started crying and ran away screaming, “I don’t want to ride my bike anymore.”

Some may question my reasoning for allowing my kids to ride their bikes unsupervised so young.  That’s ok.  Trust me, I did too.  See I grew up in a wee little farming community near Canning, Nova Scotia called Shefield Mills.  Yes, there, where the bald eagles are.  Thou then no one cared much about the eagles.  Back then our community was known more for pig farming and corn growing and for fun and entertainment we would play tag in the corn field and balance on the pig manour holding pit .  We were also the community you passed through to get to Look-Off Mountain and where you rolled up your windows and hit recycled air if you were lucky enough to have it. Marketing it as “The Home Of The Bald Eagle” was much more successful. Go figure.  But really, if you haven’t been before, you really should go.  And go here for lunch.

My sister Deanna and my cousins, Colin, Cory and later Andrew, would bike daily to the corner store and felt free.  I don’t know if they have that corner store anymore.  Goes to show you what an impact we had on candy industry in that community.  We would stick a playing card in the spokes of our back bike tire with a clothes pin, and would pick crab apples and occasionally throw them at each other.  That just may be the fondest memory I have as a child.   In my memory I was just like the boys and didn’t wear a shirt; the one and only benefit to being a late bloomer.

And yes,  Sheffield Mills in 1984 and Mahone Bay in 2009 are very different, but it’s my hope that their memories of the freedom and splendor of biking with their buddies in the hot summer air are exactly the same as mine, except with sunscreen and helmets…        and without the playing around manure.

Just the other day I had dinner at my sister-in-laws and she made this unbelievable corn salad.  Then I went on my favorite website, The Pioneer Woman, and she made a similar salad.  THEN, I went to the grocery store and local corn was in season and 12 cobs was only $1.99.  I consider that an omen.  

I made this corn salad, and even though Colin ate a bowl full and announced that it wasn’t as good as Ra-Ra’s Corns salad, I decided that it was good enough to share with you, but I will warn you, this salad does need an herb.  I didn’t have any, and while I do have a pot full of herbs, they didn’t make it because we had to let go of our gardener.  It was a sad day.

Corn salad

5 cooked cobs of corn.  Cut corn niblets off the cob

1/4 cup diced red, yellow, orange, green peppers

1/4 cup red onion

2 diced green onion

2 stalks of diced celery

Tbsp olive oil

Tsp rice wine vinigar

Squeeze of a lime

salt and pepper

Diced fresh herb (I’d say 2 Tbsp parsley or basil)

Sure these little tiny BLT poppers might seem a bit tedious, but I’m letting you, they’re adorable!  They’re like a little mini bacon, lettuce and tomato sandwich but without the carbs.  They’re a hit at any summer party, and really very simple.  They’re almost too cute to eat…well…almost.

BLT Poppers

Cherry tomatos

4 slices of crispy fried bacon diced

4 leafs of romaine dices very small

tsp lemon juice

2 Tbsp sour cream

salt and pepper (don’t skimp)

Hollow out the tomatoes, set aside.  Mix the other ingredients and stuff inside the tomatoes.  Chill and serve.

On Sunday I went to a baby shower for my colleagues at work.  It sounds confusing I know.  Patrick, a writer, married our proofreader, Jana, and they’re going to have a baby. Which is delightful because I will get to smell it and coo at it and give it back.

 When I arrived at the hall I was met by a soon-to-be-grandmother who gave me a little picture to pin on my shirt and was instructed not to cross my legs or feet.  And these women are brutal!  Within 2 minutes of sitting down someone came over to tell me the gig was up.  She took my tag and added it to her dozen. 

 I was given a sheet of questions and predictions and my suggestions for names.  I explained my formula for baby naming to the lovely ladies sitting next to me.  And since many of the girls I was talking too thought it was very cleaver, I thought I’d share it with you. 

 Before choosing a name for a baby say Prime Minister first.  For example…Prime Minister Evan Hennigar.  It works.  Prime Minister Moses Martin does not.  Fortunately for Moses Martin, son of Coldplay lead singer Chris Martin and Actress Gwyneth Paltrow, Prime Minister of Canada is unrealistic and would be a disappointment. 

 I was chatting with Kendra Fevens who didn’t think that her son’s name worked with my formula. Prime Minister Hunter Fevens.  And while she may be right, there are exceptions.  If it doesn’t work with Prime Minister, try it by saying Gold Medalist first.  See, that works- Gold medalist Hunter Fevens. 

 So my advice to Jana and Patrick is this, don’t name your child like they’re a baby.  And what everyone says is true, it goes too fast–except age 3.  That seemed to take awhile.

On many levels, I feel like I’ve failed my children.  Like I’m a bit of a disappointment.  I mean, I don’t camp (more on that in a future post), I don’t give them a lot of freedom (more on that too), I’m not a good goalie, and I won’t let them get Grand Theft Auto.  See, you can see how disappointed you’d be as a 6 or 8 year old boy.  

Now, if I had girls, I could play barbies until the cows came home.  She’d always have perfectly manicured nails and her biggest dilemma in the run of her day would be which pair of my fabulous heals should she wear.  

So when I read on line that Sidney Crosby was going to be in Cole Harbour bringing the Stanley Cup home, I thought, I have an opportunity here, to make up for some of my short comings of a mom to boys.  Crowds I can do!

Friday morning I went to work like any other, I later went to swimming lessons to surprise the kids and tell them that we were going to see Sidney Crosby.  I could hardly wait to tell them.  I met an upset Evan who was unimpressed about seeing Sidney Crosby because he didn’t get his level 6 badge.  It wasn’t until about Hubbards that he was finally excited.

There were 75,000 anxious Sindey Crosby fans lining the streets of Cole Harbour.  There was this un-communicated understanding that kids would be in the front and adults in the back.  No one was pushed or pulled or was rude.  Everyone was excited and happy, proud and in awe.  

Now I wasn’t this big Sidney Crosby fan.  In fact, I’m not  big hockey fan.  But I have to say, I was pretty proud of him.  He was humble.  You could tell he really wanted to bring this back to his community. Sidney waved and thank the crowd.  And he and I had a little cougar/prey moment.  

It was the quickest parade in the history of parades.  Probably 5 minutes total from beginning to end.  And it was a highlight of our summer.

For those who missed it, here are the highlights:

This is what 75,000 people looks like.

And there was a band.  But of course, why wouldn’t there be a band?

And he invited his Nannies, what a good boy!

And he invited kids, and I bet they were a bit excited after that!

Apparently this guy is a big deal.

And here it is, here he is.

I particularly liked this angle.  

They’re hot and tired, but trust me, they’re on top of the world!

During the summer months we’re all wearing little tees that show our bra.  No longer do we have to look like we’re 15 and purposely exposing our black bra straps while wearing our white tank.  

My sister-in-law gave these to me, and I love them.  They hide your bra straps, which is great because it’s way more affordable then buying a different bra for every shirt you own.  They also come with this tape so you can hide your seam or straps.  

Or, like in the case this afternoon, if you to wrap a gift and you can’t fine the scotch tape.

I was driving to work, feeling all…fabulous.  I had on a crisp white blouse, black RW&Co pencil skirt and adorable red paten leather peak-a-boo pumps.  I parked in our parking lot at Lighthouse and on my way to the building I dropped something, so I bent down to pick it up and heard the unmistakable sound of a rip in the ass of my adorable but slightly too tight pencil skirt. 

 I stopped and did what I think anyone would do in that moment.  I looked around to see if anyone was looking at me.  Then I tried to remember what underwear I had on.  Then I reached back to feel just how bad it was, only to discover that it was the lining in the skirt that ripped, not the skirt.  My faith was restored in the Lord Jesus Christ that day. 

 Awhile later I was getting ready to go to Rissers for the day with the kids.  I put on my bikini, pushed everything up and sucked in until I was just about ready to pass out.  I turned to the mirror feeling like I might be able to pull this off.  That spending  the afternoon with their mom on the beach in a bikini wouldn’t cause my children severe trauma.   Just then, the little plastic do-hicky that held the bikini top together at the back succumbed to the enormous pressure and gave way like the levees in New Orleans.  

Again, I was grateful that one of my children wasn’t standing behind me.  It let go with such pressure that if a child was standing behind me it may have taken out an eye.  And as for the bikini top, it shot off too, in the opposite direction.  If that had happened at Rissers, well, let’s not go there.  But I’m going to start going door to door to spread the good word.   He has risen.

Perhaps it’s time for a tank-ini.

I  know we’ve done this before.  I’ve written before about my weight, and how I don’t have a weight problem or am over weight.  I really don’t want to insult or irritate anyone who does have that problem. 

 I weight 130 pounds.  That’s not bad.  But since forever I’ve weighted 120 pounds, with the exception of when I was pregnant with both kids and weight in at 160 pounds.  I was shocked that my skin was able to stretch so much and go back to normal.

 Part of me wants to just accept it. To say, “Tina, just go with it.  You’re a 130 pound women.  Just stop complaining about it and eat cake.”  And you know, that would be fine.  The only issue is that I can’t afford to buy a new wardrobe.  I have to fit in my cloth.  Yes, those, the ones that I just spilt the ass out of.

 Then I watched Bridget Jone’s Diary the other day and she talked about how overweight she was and guess what?  She weighted a whopping 130 pounds.  SO I decided that I’d make changes in my life.  I exercise at Heat Studio, but that I’d exercise more.  I eat well, but I need to cut out my daily chocolate bar.  Yes, I said daily.  I was motivated!  Excited.  I could do this, I thought.

Then David walked in the door with chocolates from Belgium that our friends Natashia and Otto brought back.  Not Hershey’s, not Ganong, but chocolates from Belgium, the chocolate capital of the world.  How could I not?  It would be insulting to not try one…or 6.

 And so…the cycle continues, because I feel so shitty after eating 6 of those scrumptious chocolates…I’m drinking a beer.

Oh Bullocks.