Notes from the Blue House

I live where the wild things are. They tear their clothes off before bed and drop them on the floor. They leave tears and broken Lego creations in their wake. They smell like garden soil and peanut butter sandwiches. I love them. Thanks to Maurice Sendak, I am prepared to handle them, to embrace them and to be Queen of all Wild things. I've read 'Where the Wild Things Are' so many times, I know most of it by heart. I've shared it with my boys, in hopes that they'll dream up their own adventures. That they'll create a world of their own to be King in, to be fearless and adventurous in. That's the best part of childhood isn't it? Imagination! I used to pretend that my bedroom was an apartment and I was a grown-up. When I opened my bedroom door, I didn't see a double bed and a desk. I saw a chic living room, a daybed and a kitchen. I knew the layout of my awesome bachelor apartment like the back of my hand.  I'd pretend that I was sauteeing a fanc

I love seeing a pregnant belly. I honestly have to pry my eyes away before the mother-to-be realizes that some scrawny freckled lady is ogling her in the cereal aisle. I imagine the incredible waterworld that baby is living in, it's little legs tucked up underneath it's wee bum. Isn't it understandable that the population in general is in awe of a pregnant belly? I realize, having had two kids of my own, that being bombarded by unsolicited comments from strangers can be a downer. I've heard from plenty of friends of the countless times they've been pawed by strangers who couldn't resist the roundness of the belly. It seems that being touched by strangers isn't widely enjoyed by pregnant women. Except me. I must be the exception to the rule. That was one of my favourite parts of 'showing', I'm like a Golden Retriever. Admittedly, the first few times it happened on the train or in the grocery store, I'd been a bit jumpy. Then I got to thinking.