One day it will end...

[8:52pm, my eight-and-an-all-important-half year old boy, R, meekly descends the stairs after bedtime.]

R: Mom, I'm too angry to sleep.

Me: What's wrong?

R: I can't stop worrying. And it's making me angry. And my brain won't shut up.

Me: Come here.

[R crawls into my lap, all coltish knees and elbows, slinging his arms loosely about my neck. He's my one who needs softer parenting, who tries so hard to be good he cries when things fall apart at the seams, who wants the world to be black and white and perfectly straight lines and easy decisions, because everything should always be right and fair. He's my one who's content to be alone tinkering on a project by himself for hours, whose shoulders cinch up at a cross word, who barks at peers because his nerves are so easily set on edge. He's my one diagnosed with mild anxiety.]

Me: What are you worrying about?

R: I'm worried about the end of the world.

[I look into his eye and answer sincerely, with the slightest trace of a smile—not a condescending one, but a relieved smile that this pop parenting quiz is less sticky than I'd imagined, what with the outbreak of summer; parents speaking of world politics within boy earshot; the eight year old's newly found and quickly voiced mortification at random acts of parenting; and our recent policy of battling anxiety through honesty—by allowing him to learn what is going on inside his own head to better understand why he gets distressed, and thereby helping him slay the monster and giving him more control over his agitation. (It's all baby steps. And so far it's working for us.)]

Me: Well. You are not the first person to worry about that. At all. I think everyone at some point in their life has worried about the end of the world. You are not alone. Does that help?

R [sighs]: Yes.

Me: Does it also help to know that you don't need to worry about it because it's likely not going to happen in your lifetime? The world has been trucking for a long time, and it'll keep trucking after we're gone.

[I erred on the side of NOT discussing climate change with my anxious eight year old at bedtime. Sue me.]

R: Yes.

Me: And who's job is it to worry?

R: Yours.

Me: Right. And you did the right thing, coming to talk to me. Always come and talk to me. Especially if your brain won't shut off with worry. Do I help?

R: Always.

Me: Okay. Off to bed. Love you.

R [Unfolds himself from my lap and kisses my cheek.]: Love you too.

Spoiled Rotten

This morning when I came into the kitchen I was met with a surprise. On the counter was a puddle. An expansive one. Clear, but not water.

Well, not exactly.

Our watermelon rotted.

Poor cat, at first I accused her of knocking over a water glass. She was insulted. Sorry, Minette.

No. No, this teeny, tiny, mini watermelon—home from the grocery store a measly three days—had cracked and spilled faintly foul-smelling water across the counter.

I'm lucky it didn't drip into the crack between the counter and the stove. Ugh.

It was deflated. The rind no longer felt solid, and when touched it had the give of an under-inflated basketball. I've never seen anything like it.

So I'm sharing. Because I've already made four kids poke it, and showed my underwhelmed Mr Lannis (of course this evokes his bemused bafflement by my need to broadcast the peculiarities of Mother Nature and isn't it cool that this happened without a mark on the rind?! Yesterday this entire melon was completely firm! Fascinating... WHY IS HE NOT CAPTIVATED?!).

One torn, soft, putrid watermelon. And please enjoy the dirty splendor of our sink. I'm full of gifts today. You're welcome.

I blame Mr Lannis' defunct grocery shopping. This shit never happens when I'm on duty...

Why do I read last?

Why? Why is it that the last thing I get to on my mental list each day is read?

And we're talking the ultimate last thing: after laundry, and housekeeping, and kid activities, and baking, and organizing, and gardening, and meals, and... and... and...

And everything else that would be done if the day had more than a measly 24 hours to its name.

Oh, sure, I read newspaper articles and Internet blogs, but I'm talking about books.

Fiction. Stories. Transport-me-to-another-realm epic tales. Literary fiction. YA lit. Classics. Zombie apocalypse thrillers. Smut. Anything.

Why is reading—one of my favourite pastimes in this ever-loving world—dead last?

Which means, if you're keeping score: it doesn't happen. (Gasp!)

I know, right? I'm a reader for crying out loud!

Hell, right now I'm even blogging during a rare kid-free moment instead of reading. (And as we can clearly tell that doesn't happen very often nowadays, either.)

This needs to change. My Kindle currently holds 78 unread books, and my To Read list is umpteen kilometres long (which is really long, for my metrically-challenged friends, trust).

And it's summer.

Summer. The historically relaxed time of year, when one can take the time to lounge, sleepy-eyed under an atrociously floppy hat and the unforgiving glare of the sun, and read.

So. I'm making myself a pledge to read this summer.

I will unplug. I will sit. I will—despite maintaining a schedule chock full of daycare charges—pretend I am on vacation. I will put up my feet. Keeping dishes, laundry, and lack-of-ants a priority, I will pretend our house is a cottage and maintain a minimal level of housework.

I. Will. Read.

(Wish me luck.)