When I started at the newspaper years ago, I met one of my favourite bosses ever, Dave.

Dave is tall and handsome and funny and sincere and caring and encouraging and smart. He listened. We bought each other coffees and he bugged me each time I went outside for a cigarette. He was the proudest when I quit. I work-adored him.

One of the things that showed Dave’s true character was his devotion to Big Brothers. He was an in-school mentor to a boy whose name escapes me, but that Dave treasured. No matter how busy we were or what the weather was like, Dave made his appointment with his little guy. They’ve been partnered for years, and their friendship has blossomed outside of school.

After I heard about the mentor program, I was dying to be involved. (In-school doesn’t mean you tutor, but meet in the school environment for a fun hour to chat, play games, go for walks, do crafts etc., which sounds so fun.) But my work location, commute, time, pregnancy and subsequent maternity leave prevented me from being able to commit to a school/location. So I never got into it, as much I wanted to.

Until now!

The stars have aligned in the perfect scenario for mentoring: I work minutes from the school, have a flexible schedule, and am finally settled. So a few weeks ago, when Big Brothers/Big Sisters ran an ad in our local paper, I emailed right away.

And this week, I got the news that they’ve matched me with a boy named Carl. He’s 11, in grade 6 at my old senior public school. He loves art.

We meet next Wednesday. I’m excited and nervous all at the same time. Last night I read through all the mentor paperwork on suggested activities, what to talk about, how to manage the relationship.

I’m thrilled.

Obviously I can’t divulge too much about Carl — and definitely want to talk to him about what I write here to make sure he’s comfortable — but I do want to document our (hopeful!) friendship in its parallel to Lucy.

Wish us luck.

(ps — today is the last day of NaBloPoMo, and I’m looking forward to a nice break this weekend. It actually wasn’t hard to post an additional two days a week, but it will be nice to have the flexibility to skip a day…)

Are any of you taking advantage of the exchange rate and doing some cross-border shopping?

Transport Canada is reminding parents that it is unsafe to buy car/booster seats in the U.S. for use in Canada. (Not?) surprisingly, American car seats do not meet Canadian federal safety regulations (eg: U.S. laws allow for lower weight limits), making them illegal here.

Apparently, American seats are showing up in car seat safety check clinics across Canada.

Obviously this is one bargain to pass up. (Thanks to Lisa for the link.)

After a busy few weeks of scrapbooking and erotic excitement (!), tonight is a laid-back Durham Mom’s Night Out.

We’re meeting at good ol’ East Side Marios in north Whitby for some cheese capaletti, funnel cake and chit-chat. I love it when the waitress asks if we’re going to share our gargantuan desserts, and we scoff at her.

C’mon out and join us!

Curious George started it.

The little monkey is trying to maim children with his lead-laden face and construction hat. His poisonous nature has spread to toy monkeys everywhere, creating an army of killer primates on a quest for world domination.

They’ve enlisted the help of testosterone-emitting rapid response vehicles and troop carriers to transport mass groups of monkeys. Rabid, super-pecking ducks — who lull their prey into a false sense of security with their beady eyes — can be seen for miles, marching behind the trucks with a quack-quack-quack.

The chubby, tripped-out frog beckoning you with his enchanting smile? He’s the bad-ass distraction on the northern front.

Beware!

Last night. Eric and I are sprawled on the couch watching Project Runway Canada. The frame flips to a flamboyant man covering half-nekkid swimsuit models in shimmering body cream. I’m silently watching my husband out of the corner of my eye, waiting for an Eric-ism…

E: *dramatic sigh* All the best jobs are wasted on gay guys.

C: *feigning surprise* Which one?

E: The lotion rubbing guy. That’s my job!

So, how d’yall navigate letting Other People look after your babies?

We’re very fortunate to live really close to my parents, and relatively close to Eric’s dad and brother. They’re great for booking in advance if we want to go out for a long period.

But we’re at the point where it’d be nice if a neighbourhood teen could watch Lucy just for a few hours so we could grab dinner, or sit in the house for the night so we could see a movie.

But I don’t know if I’m comfortable letting a non-relative look after her just yet. I’m sure this is just First Child Syndrome,  as I remember funding my social life by watching kids in my small town — mostly pairs of them, as if the parents had learned to just be thankful anyone would taken their ruffians for a while. I think it’s just that only family have looked after Lucy, so looking elsewhere would be new and scary.

Do you let non-family look after your kids? How old are they? Kids and babysitter, I mean. And what is the going hourly rate for babysitting nowadays?

Lucy started off the Santa Claus Parade lumpy and suspicious: Who were all these strangers lining the street? Why were Mum-Mum and Daaaaddy plowing the stroller through uncleared (bastards! shovel your sidewalks on the biggest pedestrian day of the winter!) walkways and why did they dress me in four layers so I look like a purple Puffalump?

When the parade actually started, Lucy was, as I suspected she would be, terrified. The second the fire trucks and police cars started “WHOOP!”ing “ERRRRR!”ing, she burst into frantic tears. Poor thing.

Once they passed, thought, she started to get interested in the colourful floats, bag pipe and marching bands and animals. She pointed at everything (horsies: “nayyyy!” music: *wiggle, wiggle, dance, dance*), and was a little stunned that complete strangers were dropping candy into her purple fleece hands. It was like Halloween all over!

We had to fight to get Lucy to put on her mittens, so her thumbs weren’t in their correct spots. She still managed to get a candy cane in each hand, until a teenager from the local hockey club ran over with a sucker. Lucy solemnly looked at him, looked at her full hands, then looked at me and said “Uh-Oh!”

Halfway through, she was loving it all, flashing the clowns for Timbits and plastic leis.

Yarrrrg!

Would you like some music with your looting and plundering merry rowing?

We were so thrilled to see the Righteously Outrageous Twirling Corps in the parade, proudly flying two rainbow flags. How progressive. The crowd, sadly not surprising, was kinda quiet when they skipped past. Eric and I cheered.

ohmygod! They mounted the fat guy’s head!

Oh, Santa. Thank goodness you’re okay. Ho-Ho-Ho! (Lucy: “Hohoho!” *frantic waving*)

Happy start-of-the holidays from the Boonies!

One of the best purchases I’ve made for walking/toddler Lucy (as opposed to blob/infant Lucy) is a step stool.

My little darling is obsessed with “a-sim” which is Lucy toddler-speak for washing hands/playing with water (and sometimes holding hands). We’ve no clue what word/phrase she is trying to say (a sink? washin’?), but know what she means.

(Hey, does this make my kid tri-lingual? English, American Sign Language and Lucy toddler-speak?!)

Bright me figured out that if I got Lucy involved in the kitchen, I could maybe get the odd thing done in the kitchen without it being a big battle. As simple a concept as this may seem, I can’t tell you what a difference it’s made. Now I can unload the dishwasher, cook, put groceries away without encountering a epic toddler meltdown, house destruction or resorting to Elmo for the third time that day.

Sure, I have be prepared for a bit of a mess — mostly splashing water on the floor or counter — but it’s worth the time it gives me, and the pure joy Lucy has dunking things in the sink, filling up containers and splish-splashing. She loves it.

I love this Bekvam stool from Ikea, which was just $20. Unlike a lot of Ikea products, it’s solid wood — making it hefty and durable. Even better, Lucy can’t pick it up or easily move it around (although dragging it on the hardwood floors is a daily occurrence). It’s taller than a kid-geared wooden stool, so Lucy easily reaches to the top of my kitchen counters. I personally use it all the time, too, as it holds up to 200 (maybe even 300?) lbs. And it’s got a nifty hand-hole on the top to lug it around.

The only negative is that unlike more traditional step stools, this one cannot be folded and put away. And if you’re stupidly-Ikea-assembly-inclined like me and don’t have a mechanical engineer husband to put the mere eight pieces together, you could be in trouble (note: I’m an idiot).

Aside from that — love!

When you buy a bigger house in the boonies, two things happen: more snow and more driveway.

You can do the math to figure out how pooped Eric and I are. And how even I am eying snowblowers on sale in the Canadian Tire catalogue this week.

Lucy was very excited about the snow from inside the house. Outside? Eh. She kept falling over and getting “guk” with her padded butt flailing in the air. Which led to “Hep!” and “Up-up-up!” Tomorrow we go in search of warmer mittens (I think part of the problem).

(And yes, I know, the Christmas lights are on. We are hypocrites. Just got a little excited to see them on the new house. Oh, and Eric bought a timer, so had to see if it worked. That was Tuesday. Might as well just leave them on now, right?)

(Also, if you’re interested: bottom floor is dining room on left, office on right. Top floor is playroom on left, master bedroom on right.)