Busted on the Bloor Line: Holiday.

We spent the first summer weekend as a family up at the cottage, and the weather was glorious. Seems very strange to me not to be batting away blackflies and freezing at night in May–the blazing hot sun felt odd, out-of-place, but it wasn’t entirely unwelcome. In preparation for a piece of writing that I’ve been working on, I’ve been thinking a lot about the befores and afters of my life. The cottage, like any piece of property that’s been in the family for generations, is full of ‘befores,’ missing furniture, old china, odd artwork, photographs–not so much ghosts haunting but tangible, telling  bits and pieces of the story of our lives up there. And while it might be falling down around us, the cabin we stay in is over sixty years old, it’s still full to the brim of what family and a good childhood and all kinds of other sentimental stuff.

But it’s also a bloody danger zone for a 19-month-old baby. An old sewing machine that doubles as a TV stand is full of needles, string and a 19th century power cord, frayed and just the right strangling size. The cupboards don’t close all the way and are baby-proofless, which means he was in and out of them ALL weekend. I have never worked so hard as I did this long weekend with that baby. Running here, running there, toddling after him, keeping him safe, trying to keep him cool, entertaining him, distracting him, and then finally just giving into his urge to open and close a particular metal cabinet about a thousand times (each time taking out a different spice jar; closing the cabinet; opening the cabinet, taking out another spice jar; closing the cabinet; opening the cabinet–see the pattern, I just about lost my mind). He’s no obsessed with the water, the boat, and chases after them both with the determination as you can see in the above picture.

Before I had the RRBB, I fantasized about what life would be like up at the cottage for my own children. Happy, adventurous, enjoyable, safe–a place to grow not just your body but your interests, your sense of self, important lessons. But, as with anything in life, my memories are mixed up with how I like to spend my time at the cottage. Sitting. Reading. Writing. Playing cards. Watching movies. All things I was so beyond exhausted to do this weekend. In panic mode is not the way I want to spent my parenting years. Trapped by anxiety of his almost-death moments chased by the utter boredom of running around after a little being you can’t remotely converse with at 630AM isn’t ideal–I can romanticize it. I can happily exist in it afterwards. I can laugh, make jokes, and giggle–but when I’m knee-deep in chasing, cajoling, and calming down a baby whose more raw energy source than human, it makes it so hard to relax.

I’m sure I’ll get there.

I’m sure I’ll find a way to be more of myself up north.

I’m sure he’ll be less and less enthralled by all of the bits and pieces he shouldn’t be getting into.

But for now, I am more tired than ever after a weekend up north. How did that happen? What about my Canadian cliche? I want a dock, a beer, the Tragically Hip, and a good book.