We’re breaking all kinds of records this week. And not the kind we like to break.
It can be a dangerous situation for all the folks (and pets!) without air conditioning or fans. Glad to hear of all the “cooling centers” around the county.
Be cool and share your cool if you have it, everyone!
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Posted in Bainbridge Island, WA, regional, weather
How do you keep cool under hot circumstances?
“We’re having a heat waaaaaaaaaaaavve…..”
“It’s hot out here. It’s hot and it’s monotonous…”
[And why do so many musicals sing about heat?]
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Posted in Bainbridge Island, WA, regional, weather
This week was one of those weeks that reminds me why I love living in this Pacific Northwest area.
THE BERRIES ARE HERE!!
In one day, in one morning, really, here on our island the Kid and I picked pounds and pounds of raspberries and blueberries. Raspberries at the Suyematsu Farm, blueberries at Bainbridge Island Blueberries/Island Holly Farm (sorry no links; I couldn’t find any, silly farmers, but there is www.soundfood.org for a list of farms in the region), both within a few miles of our house.
Awe-some.
Freshly bathed berries dripping wet. Yum. Is your mouth watering yet?
For all my bitchin’ and moanin’, this region suits me just fine, thanks.
Are you enjoying the fruits of summer?
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Posted in Bainbridge Island, WA, food, outside, regional
Tagged blueberries, raspberries
We had a little visitor this weekend in our house. Uninvited.
Unless you call a half-opened door an invitation.
It was a sparrow (a song sparrow, I think), which in the realm of possibilities around here for what wild critter could be traipsing into your home was pretty benign.
Naturally, I freaked out, screamed, ran in circles, and then called the hubs in. He brought a fishing net to get the bird, but ended up just using his hands to gently carry out the little guy.
Look at him with his beak open. He might have been in shock. He sat on the hubs’ hand with his mouth wide open for a minute or so. Just like the Kid would if the hubs held a My Little Pony gummy above her head.
He flew off and we haven’t heard from him since. He doesn’t call. He doesn’t write.
Caregiving is such an unappreciated job.
Maybe that was his poop on the deck railing.
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It’s official. The Kid doesn’t need her mommy anymore. She’s dumped me like yesterday’s fried calamari, cold and limp.
What happened, I wonder. Even after she finished kindergarten, she still managed to talk in baby talk and call for “Mama.” She still wanted help drying off after a bath. She still asked to be carried to bed.
But today, a new page turned, a new chapter begun. Next, she’ll be hitchhiking with her surfer boyfriend across Belgium and putting down college as “so bourgeois.”
Yes, today, friends, I got the half wave when I dropped her off at camp.
You parents of older kids probably know this device.
It’s given when the child is not facing you, when the child is literally walking away from you.
She keeps her arm straight by her side, and as you squeak out “bye, honey, love you….’ she raises just her finger tips and move them in the form of a wave. But really more like a slo-mo basketball dribbling maneuver. Or closing a really big jar’s lid.
Only your heart is the ball. Or in the jar.
The half wave, I call it, but even that is being generous.
Made even more effective when your baby, your child, the person you’d give you life for, wears a hoodie, so you can’t even see the side of her face.
Sure, I chuckled out loud at her nonchalance, but inside I was sobbing that my baby, my only baby, is apparently just not that into me anymore.
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Don’t tell the chickadee this, but I’ve pining over someone else lately.
This guy:
The American Goldfinch.
Sure, some might say he’s a little on the flashy side, maybe even too disco ball-ish. But he catches your eye, doesn’t he?
Only down side is he’s a sloppy eater.
But he’s not the first at the Let the Dog In! household….
Do you have any summertime crushes?
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You may know a few people who fudge when it comes to telling their actual age. Our society is youth obsessed, after all. I admit the number “39″ springs to my mind often enough that I’ve pretty much convinced myself that is my age.
Or, I’m just old enough now to lose track of reality and will go with the easy, that-seems-close-enough-not-that-it’s-any-of-your-business answer.
But you might be surprised to know that since I birthed the Kid, my age, or its “real-ishness,” has taken a backseat to a more critical number: my child’s age.
Or, my child’s age in terms of age cut-offs for certain summer camps.
This may not be an issue for you if your child is not, like mine is, at the young end of the school district’s cut-off. This means that many summer camps accepting, say, hypothetically, 6 year olds, will not take my almost 6 year old girl. A girl who’s spent the past school year hangin’, shall we say, with those very same 6 year olds.
With truthful information about your young child’s age, the online registration machine in effect becomes the five foot wide bouncer of whatever today’s Studio 54 is (see how old I am?!). Probably very similar to the real-life reaction if yours truly tried to get into whatever today’s Studio 54 is….
Some “creative accounting” becomes in order.
Besides, I’m old and may not accurately recall what year that was that that baby got ripped out of me. I forget things.
I’m not saying I’d recommend this behavior, or even admit here and now that I might have done this behavior. I’m merely observing and commenting on reality. A reality I’m pretty sure is shared, parent-wide, when signing your child up for camps.
Summer camps. For summer days.
When the days are long.
When you have nothing else going on, except the talking-talking-talking of your beloved child.
I’m sure you’re mature enough to understand.
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Posted in aging, Bainbridge Island, WA, brilliant ideas, growth, parenting
