Garbage, garbage, who's got garbage....

I live in a house obsessed by garbage. Or, more accurately, I live in a house with people obsessed by garbage. Spouse's obsession is expressed by expending an unbelievable amount of energy in avoiding taking out the garbage. MIL on the other hand can’t wait for the night before garbage day - she begins before dinner to scratch through the recycle bins, eyeing the neighbours ‘curb-sides for evidence of blue or black boxes, and packing up every stray bit of tissue, newspaper and flotsam into the bins. Topher, however, makes her look like an amateur. He is obsessed beyond all proportion with garbage and garbage trucks. We have, at last count, 5 toy garbage trucks – a virtual fleet – complete with toy garbage cans, bins and skips. And toy garbage. Yes, that’s right, toy garbage. My life is not complex enough, not full of enough crap, that I can’t find myself on a regular bases twisting bits of tissue, newsprint, cotton balls and foil into little teeny tiny crumpled up balls for Topher to use to fill up the toy garbage cans, bins and skips, which are then lined up on the living room floor for the fleet of toy garbage trucks to drive by and empty. And we aren’t done yet. No, despite having the afore mentioned fleet of toy garbage trucks, my eldest is bereft, deprived, crippled even, or so he tells me, by the fact that he does not possess a side-lifter garbage truck.

And this is not all. No, not by a long shot. In addition to the fleet of trucks, the crumpled up bits of pretend garbage and the various miniature bins, cans, and skips, he also must PLAY garbage. This entails loading up his boy-sized blue recycle bins and his boy-sized trash cans – all of which are housed IN MY LIVING ROOM – with sofa pillows, the morning’s newspaper, toast crusts and anything else that isn’t nailed down and then the show really begins. He “drives” the garbage truck (aka the sofa) complete with terrifyingly realistic sound effects, climbs down out of the “truck” to pick up a bin and toss it into the “hopper” (aka the other end of the sofa) before climbing back into the truck, starting up the compressor and the hopper, and then “driving on” to the next stop on his route. And god help any of us if we want to either sit on the sofa during this time, read the paper, or have a cushion to perch on.

As if this wasn’t enough of a zoo, now Winston has joined in. The other morning I found him sitting on the sofa, arms held out in front of him as though gripping a steering wheel and heard from his mouth the unmistakable sounds of vrrroooooommmm, errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrtttt, sshhhhhhhhhhhhhht beeepbeeeepbeeep – the sounds of the garbage truck on its route – while Topher tossed the contents of bins out onto the sofa next to Winston. HE IS ONLY 17 MONTHS OLD FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!!!!

So you can well imagine the excitement this morning when the garbage and recycling trucks lumbered down the street. There, sitting on our front porch still in their jammies and munching on toast, were my two blond haired obsessive compulsive angels (and their Ouma), waiting and watching the trucks going about their business. The boys shouted and waved at their heroes and were rewarded by honking horns and return salutes...life for my boys will never again be the same, for surely, in their minds, it can’t get any better than the day the garbage men honked the truck’s horn and waved at them.

Ah well. I console myself with the idea that winter will soon be upon us and it will be too cold for the boys to sit on the porch waiting anxiously for their heroes to ride up the road....but by then they will have a new hero......the snow plow driver. For the record, I am drawing the line at making pretend snow.

Saint Kate

Lately I’ve been getting up at 5 a.m. – not because I want to, mind, but because the Winston is determinedly up at that hour. Not so long ago he would cuddle for an hour in bed next to me, allowing me a few more precious minutes of sleep, but not any longer. The boy is up and no amount of snuggling, cuddling, nursing, whispered cursing or threatening is going to get him to lie still for one more moment.

So, I’m up too. Now, a reasonable person right now is asking, “Why isn’t your husband getting up once in a while and letting you sleep in?” – to which I say, “Brilliant question!” But I have no answer. I suspect is the “penis rule” – you know, the one that means they have to hold the remote control, dress the kids in dirty clothes, consider mowing the lawn once every 10 days a major contribution to the household chores, can’t figure out how to open the dishwasher to put in dirty dishes….I think you get the drift. The “penis rule” also seems to cover both hearing the baby cry at ungodly hours and getting up at an equally ungodly hour with a crying baby.

But actually, I’m okay with this ungodly hour thing. Because it is an amazing ace in the hole. I’ve got this routine….nurse Winston, pull on some over-stretched Lulu Lemon things, grab sneakers, the dog and Winston and head out into the dawn for a walk. Summer had finally arrived to our sub-arctic mosquito swamp so it is lovely – and we walk through the parks down to the river and back into the neighbourhood to do some hills. Winston is happy in the stroller playing with his toes and blowing raspberries at any passing joggers, Fan is happy sniffing the air and running through the long grass, and I am contentedly deluding myself that this walk is going to help firm up my stomach and tighten my ass. Best of all though is that when we get back home, the house is still dark and quiet….I can have coffee, read the paper, eat breakfast and absently poke yoghurt into Winston’s mouth in relative peace and quiet.

No histrionic Topher, no husband banging through cupboards looking for what is right in front of his nose, no mother-in-law singing out inane non sequiturs, no father-in-law standing about in his socks, waiting for someone to notice he is hungry so the food can magically appear in front of him…. just Winston and I munching and slurping away. And for all this, this getting up early, enjoying the fresh air, a peaceful breakfast alone, I get an added bonus….everyone thinks I am a saint. A martyr. A gasp – good mother! Genius. Now I just need to figure out what my party trick is going to be this January when it is minus 30 outside…..