Sebastian is starting to sign, which is exciting, although it doesn't seem like the dam has broken, so to speak. I remember when Olive learned to sign, seemingly all of a sudden, and as though she suddenly understood something wonderful about communication. I remember one day babysitting her and she just signed for food constantly. I think all we did that day was eat and eat and eat because it was a remarkable cause and effect for her. I think the fact that someone other than her parents understood and responded to sign language helped her understand the implication of a sign. But Sebastian is more of a pointer and yeller. I guess it's an effective form of communication on it's own; he usually gets what he's after pretty quickly despite our efforts to always show him the sign first. His "sign" for milk is to wiggle down in my arms as far as he can or just shove his hand down my shirt. His sign for "eat" or "more" is, like I said, just pointing and whining or yelling. It's funny teaching him to use the signs instead because although they are less annoying and somehow more impressive, they're likely less effective. I don't always catch his signs, but I do always hear him when he yells. Sometime I question whether or not it's worth it. I guess if he ever learns more sophisticated words like "cat" or "diaper" it will be worthwhile. Right now he signs "all done." It's an interesting first sign because in signing all done he's not asking for more, but just acknowledging the situation and shows us that he understands. Occasionally he seems to be signing for food. It's a tricky one to recognize because his fingers are often in his mouth. Today we stopped off at the Jean's, the food co-op out in the boonies, and he signed "eat" and pointed at the building. So I took him inside and bought him some strawberries. Lucky kid. 

It's late August. It's blackberry season. We're fortunate to have a gold mine of a laneway and property-boarder absolutely thick with blackberry vines. Coming from the west coast, it baffled me to see blackberries in plastic containers at Montreal and Ottawa markets selling for four or five bucks a pop, not only because they are such invasive weeds here but also because the blackberries out East actually taste nothing like blackberries. I've been trying to take full advantage of the season by getting out with Seb on my back in the Ergo once a day. He loves them, and is usually content to chill out there for an hour or so as long as he can graze on the fruit. Most of my clothes have dark purple stains down the back as a result of little sticky hands.
But we have competition! There's the old guy with a full body get-up, neck brace, handmade vine-grabbing tools, ladder, bucket-clipped-the-belt, and shears. It's intense. In the last few days he's been replaced by the industrious old Chinese ladies next door who done modest leather gloves but seem to be freakishly apt at this whole berry business. They're into making wine, and some sort of blackberry vodka mixture. But amidst the neighbourhood hunting and gathering there is enough to go around. We aren't as diligent as maybe we should be, but we still have at least five big freezer bags full and we aren't done yet. Alex even made some delicious jam the other day.
Other than the berries, the garden needs lots of daily harvesting attention. It's sometimes challenging to incorporate handfuls of kale, chard, calendular, squash blossoms and lettuce into every meal, especially when all we're craving these days is sushi or halibut burritos from The Shed. We also to have a never-ending supply of purple beans, basil, zucchini and new potatoes courtesy of our backyard, my ma's and the Roberts Creek Farm Gate market. But I've been determined to eat as much fresh backyard food as humanly possible and find ways to preserve the rest for less abundant days. Alex made and froze a big batch of fresh pesto last week from garden basil, kale and parsley. I've got a calendular infused oil experiment going on in a jar and paper bag on the porch. We're also trying to harvest as many seeds as we can for next year. It's not the simplest task. I feel like there's a lot to know; each fruit or plant has a different story. Right now I think I safely have a few packets of calendular and borage seeds. The last of the beans are drying on their stalks waiting to be harvested and preserved. The cilantro has gone to seed and we're waiting for it to dry out so we can have homegrown coriander seeds for curry and soups.
Meanwhile, I wait for and fawn over the squash in the garden. The plot they are in also holds some mammoth sunflowers and literally the most intense, prolific, sprawling tomato plant I've ever seen. Yesterday I stripped it of all it's remaining flowers and even tore off most of its fruitless branches and leaves to speed up the ripening process. The branches and leave filled half a five gallon bucket. We have them soaking in water near the fire pit for fertilizer. The squash on the other hand seem to be withering. We neglected to feed it, and judging from the health of the tomato plant I'd say it's leaching all nutrients right out from under the poor things. So I collected some seaweed from the beach, added some comfrey leave and compost and have that brewing as well, hoping the rich sludge which I dilute and water with each night will give some life to these sprawling plants.
I'm kind of in love with the garden right now. There's something so satisfying about watching the little fruits grow each day, knowing that I can help them if I pare here and there etc... Sebastian and I head out a couple times a day just to check things out, and some days when he is napping I just sit on the slope of the backyard amongst the sprawling vines with a book, or not, and feel utterly content.

The last few days have brought a subtle yet undeniable change in season. We've had almost nothing but beautiful sunny days here for weeks, and it continues, but something is evolving. The sunlight is a little different; it hits the garden differently, it's duller in our rooms at five am when Sebastian wakes up briefly for milk. The sea breeze is heavier somehow, weighted with something more than salt air. It's a strange time of year. There's always mild regret for all we haven't done this summer, and an excitement for what's to come. I love autumn. At this time of year I force myself to enjoy the last weeks of summer without thinking too intently about the changes ahead. The fall is rich with complexity, such an intriguing time. We've been fortunate to have so many people visit this summer. I wasn't sure what being immobile would be like after so much moving, but friends just keep passing through, seeking us out. In the last month or two we've had at least a dozen house guests, and several more in the next couple weeks. This week we had five alone. Some days we're tired, crave solitude but mostly we're happy to have people here, aware that the winter likely won't be so generous. We've been trying to spend as much time as possible at the beach, in the ocean, outside by the fire in the evenings. Sebastian and I wander out to the hilly garden every morning to see how things are growing. The peas, herbs and borage are done. The squash is just beginning. The strawberries never did happen, but the weed-like plants double and triple and quadrupled in quantity. The rest is in between. As the sun changes and the prehistoric-sized squash plants and sunflowers cast shadows on the rest of the plants we have to make tough decisions about what we want to survive the most. The zucchini, carrots, beets are hidden in the mass of cabbage and squash, and in the shadows of the pretty but otherwise useless (or should I say useful only with labour-intensive processing) calendular and sunflowers. Leaves are developing mildew because they're not getting sun. But it's amazing, really, how plants adapt. Their will to survive, the competitive nature when it comes to sunlight. We've crammed a hell of a lot of food into four small plots and I think it's all doing alright.
Right now I've got a one year old strolling around the house (he doesn't crawl anymore) singing, maybe a little bored, patiently waiting to go to the beach.

It's been a momentous week or two. We've gone from a baby who throws fits when diapered to a baby who sits happily on his mini toilet seat and pees while simultaneously requesting a story (we got him accustomed to the toilet through books). He is successfully going to the bathroom in the toilet almost every time when he's diaperless. Sometimes he crawls to the bathroom himself when he needs to go. I thought it would take so long, and that it would be difficult for him. I worried for a while it was traumatic for him and was really wary of continuing because I know a transition like toilet training can make such an impact on and be emotionally taxing for children. But after less than a week of struggle he's adapted really well. I still diaper him occasionally throughout the day, when we leave the house and while he sleeps, and I probably always will until he's toilet trained.
Meanwhile, the little guy will be one year old in three days. I'm sure there will be plenty of photos to post a la grandparent's cameras (ours is still broken). We also seem to be stockpiling little videos as he walks more and more so I'll try not to let the blog become devoid of images.