Lost in Space

I'm sorry for the silence. April was quite busy with family visiting, and it was a struggle to get back into the usual groove of things. It reminded me of gym class when the teacher would shout 'get ready, get set, go!' and everyone shot off and I was caught off guard while contemplating the virtues of Velcro verses laces. 


By the time I started running, my classmates would be on lap number two and I had to pretend my asthma was holding me back.  The only time I run fast is when kamakazi roaches are chasing me--if only the coach knew that. So after waking up from my stupor, I was busy blowing smokescreens, whacking plants, and embarking on missions with aliens.


While it was all fun and games when we had guests in town, the aftermath of their departure was rather torturous. My four year old, Lanes, reveled in having company, especially in the form of her doting cousins. She was their willing confidante, sidekick and co-conspirator, so she was really bummed out to return solo to our crazy a$$ ghetto fabulous apartment.


Lanes was sad not to have any companion or sibling. I had to divert her attention and figure out ways to keep 'her little heart happy', as my aunt puts it. Turns out that I only had about three good ideas and for the rest of it I was thankful she had preschool and friends to pick up the slack!


By three good ideas I mean basically just the variation of one. She loves spending time on the home made dollhouse my nutty sister literally dropped on us so I got her some extra furniture to go with it. As an activity, we spent hours painting and decorating various tiny cupboards, tables and closets. 


By we spent hours I mean, Lanes would splatter on the top coat and when she was in bed I would laboriously 'perfect' it and paint flowers on them. My less than amused spouse, P, made some rude gargling noise about my new 'hobby'. Luckily, Lanes was always appreciative of my efforts.


She was also tickled pink by an advertising strategy used by o.b. tampons of all things. You go to the following website, http://obtampons.ca/apology, type in your name, and an older boy band type of fellow starts singing to you and he whispers your name here and there in the lyrics. 


In the video you can see your name written out in rose petals, on a hot air balloon, the whole nine yards. Enough things to make a teenager delighted! Ok, P was fascinated too, saying he really liked the melody of the song. He fancies himself to be a musician of sorts. That's a whole other blog.

Any old how, I put in Lanes' name and she was gasping with delight to see her name tattooed on the singer's arm and written on the beach and to hear the singer referring specifically to her. She thought he was one of our friends and I tried to explain that it was just a commercial and that we don't know each other.

She ferreted an envelope from somewhere and was meticulously drawing rainbows on a piece of paper. She then scrounged up some of her tiniest toys and then shoved them into the envelope with her 'card'.


She had made it for the 'nice man' who sings for her. "He doesn't know mommy's name, he doesn't know daddy's name, he doesn't know mamma wears glasses. He only knows my name. So nice of him to make a song for me. You have to mail this to him." Lanes has been so adamant we send it that I have hidden it and we are pretending it's on its way to him.


Somewhere out there, in her teenage years, some boy in some glee club will start singing and P will take to following Lanes around all day--especially if he has a tattoo. Or rather, I will have to because it might be too much for P. Considering my affinity for aging Canadian rock stars,  guess it's in the genes. Oh well. 

On Friday, Lanes was packed off to a garden store for a field trip, where she was going to learn how to pot a plant and take care of it. P hoped it would end there because last week she brought home a potted bean plant from school to take care of and I killed her homework. I'm all thumbs and none of them are green.


Soon after, my favorite aloe plant, which I was actually fond of, went to meet its maker. I turned in the trowel. Leave it to me to whack a plant that doesn't even require much tending to. I heard that if you give plants Sprite they perk up for the sugar. I noticed the 'leaves' starting to droop and so I poured a little of the beverage in. It died the next day.

Imagine my horror when Lanes came home with a lovely pot of violets after her trip. Well, they are dark purple, so I'm calling them violets. Tomorrow, it might be called mulch. I think I'll let her take care of it. Preschool is tough work--for me!


I also have to read up on my astronomy. Lanes said they were learning about constellations in school, and about a super nova, which is when ''two big stars crash into each other and they are really far away--like England''. What I know about stars I can write on the side of a thimble. I must get smart before I'm declared a Mornonis Major.

With that I must sign off, as Lanes has jumped on the bed and wants me to go on a space adventure with her. She is the friendly alien and I'm the lost astronaut. After she feeds me blue alien food she will take me home in her rocket. Leave it to Lanes to bring me down to earth when I'm on another planet.  I guess she is biologically obliged to! More musings from BC next week...