Can't that gnome do some weeding?

The F word

2011-02-26T08:34:00.000-06:00

No, my young children are luckily still not at the stage where they are bringing home curse words from school. Kindergarten is pretty tame, even in public school. We have another four-letter F word in our house. Hopefully blogger won't sensor me, but the word is FISH. Yes, last summer our attempts to get Toby to try supper (namely Salmon) had disastrous results. Our picky eater (aka Toby) needs, how shall I say it, a little "encouragement" to try new foods. I will not force him to eat (I know that's a no-no), but unless he tries a bite of supper I will not serve him anything else. If hunger outweighs his need to not try what on his plate he'll usually take the teeniest of bites, promptly making a face and claiming "I don't like it" before his tastebuds have had a chance to engage. I do at times feel like a bully using such underhanded tactics, but if we left it up to him he'd eat nothing but Kraft Dinner, Buns and Cheese. So last summer after making some lovely salmon fillets the same deal applied, one bite of salmon in exchange for the fruit of his choice. He wrestled with the decision. He cried that he didn't like it, that 1 gram serving portion of pink fish. And then he relented. Shortly after the theatrics, after the teeny morsel perched atop the fork entered his mouth I looked to my husband and said "his face is all blotchy, do you think he's allergic?". The nurse in me must have known better, but the mom-in-denial-who-has-another-son-who-loves-fish-so-much-that-he-has-tantrums-in-the-store-about-fish in me chose to believe my husband when he said "no, it's just because he's been crying". Fast forward a few weeks, salmon again at the request of Luke. It was basically a replay of that earlier night (and many other nights for that matter) except that this time the blotchiness was so obvious even a mother-in-denial couldn't deny it, and accompanied by complaints of his mouth hurting. CRAP! So one doctor visit later we ended up with an epipen and a referral to see an allergist. We avoided cooking fish, but my hubby and Luke LOVE to go fishing, so fishing still took place when we were camping.

It was fine as long as we didn't catch anything, until Toby touched the catch to see what his skin felt like, and got all blotchy again. Fast forward to fall, allergy testing. They testing every type of fish they had and his arm got big and red in every spot they tested. Oh well, he doesn't like fish anyways right? Well we heard the spiel, no cooking fish (the proteins get in the air), no going to restaurants where they are cooking fish or where there might be contamination, meaning no Red Lobster or Joey's (not great but I can live with that), and no Asian restaurants (WHAT?!?!). CRAP! I took home the pamphlet and read about "no caesar salads" (fine the kid won't eat salads) no barbeque or steak sauces that contain worchestershire (like the kid eats sauces, HA!). No gelatin, no marshmallows, blah, blah, blah. I packed "emergency snacks" for preschool just in case whoever's turn it was to bring snack decided on salmon canapes and life was fine. Until one day I made jello with some fruit juice. The boys had that, followed by some new yogurt they had begged for where you crush the container instead of using a spoon, followed by Toby becoming blotchy and his mouth feeling "funny". CRAP! The little voice in the back of my head said "wasn't there something you forgot about? Didn't you read something about gelatin being off limits?" I remembered reading something maybe about marshmallows and gelatin, because I remember being floored at the thought of our little marshmallow lover having to be cut off from the steady supply when he visits his grandparents and them I remembered filing the pamphlet away and forgetting that part. I blocked it out completely. Bedtime snack contained gelatin in both the jello (duh) and the yogurt. As do gummi candies, starburst, some skittles, and other assorted candies, AND MARSHMALLOWS. We amended the allergy information at preschool and Sunday school, called my parents and in-laws, threatening them to hide all marshmallows, and searched for an alternative to his favorite treats.
I was puzzled when Toby brought home a small paper bag from Sunday school filled with a paper loaf of bread and nothing else. Until I read the accompanying colouring page which talked about how Jesus feed the 5000 with a boy's lunch of bread and fish. Then I almost peed myself laughing because Toby had refused to colour or bring home the paper fish, because he's allergic.
Fast forward to last month. Birthday season in our house. My time of year to pretend like I really am Supermom and can whip up whatever cake is requested. Last year I learned about the pleasures of fondant, my #6 reason for being happy, and my fondant recipe contains marshmallows. CRAP!

Luke's Transformer's Cake

We'd bought some vegan marshmallows, and I must say they were delicious, but in order to make them into fondant for two cakes, we'd have to re-mortgage the house. I looked at the boxes of store-bought fondant in Michael's , reading that they had no gelatin, but knowing that they also had no taste. I searched recipes, but depending on the country that posted the recipe, the word fondant can mean a number of things. I ended up calling Kraft's toll free number and to my pleasure, their marshmallows are made only with pork gelatin, not fish. YAY!

Toby's choice: Mr. Tickle cake for the joint family party.

Now don't get me wrong, I'm SO thankful that TOBY is allergic to fish instead of nuts, wheat, milk, eggs, and a number of other things that would make like pretty miserable, but I sure do miss pickerel.

I swear I'm not one of those sappy mothers who can't stand to be away from my children, but...

2010-09-16T22:18:00.041-05:00

We spent the week before Labour Day camping. It was not much different from many of our weekends this summer, or from the week-long trip we had in July.

We had campfires, roasted hotdogs and marshmallows, caught frogs, went canoeing. But it wasn't summer camping anymore. No more sleeping on top of the bags, no more crowded beaches.

We spent 4 nights in Opapiskaw nestled up right next to the lake, with no one else around. It rained every night and part of every day. It was cold. It was wet. Every time the sky cleared slightly we ran out to enjoy, only to rush back under the canopy or inside the trailer when the downpour became too much.

It was still fun. Time at what felt like our own private beach was spent digging in the sand and the boys floating in the dingy pulled by Bruce (who is the only one with a wetsuit).
The morning we woke after our last night it was bright and sunny, and time to pack up and leave. We headed farther East to Falcon Lake which is popular and crowded (especially since it was the Labour Day weekend), but also afforded us electricity and water hook-up. Our 3 nights there were dry and the days were sunny enough to warm the damp chill that had semi-permanently settled into our bones. We enjoyed the sunshine, and on the Sunday we left our trailer and headed farther East to my parent's seasonal spot, where we got windburn from zooming around in the boat much of the day. All four of us did some tubing, although Toby's trip was not surprisingly very brief, despite how slow the boat pulled him with Bruce and Luke. Luke loved every minute on that inflatable monstrosity, (which wasn't surprising after seeing him do every ride Tinkertown had to offer without blinking an eye earlier this summer). After an evening campfire the boys slept while Bruce drove us back to our campsite through the dark winding roads of the Canadian Shield from Ontario to Manitoba. Monday morning we had one last campfire for the trip. I reminded my little firebugs that this would likely be the last campfire until next summer.

Maybe it was the visiting with my parents that started it all with the riding on my dad's boat bringing back memories of when I was young, riding in and being pulled behind my uncle's boat on another inflatable monstrosity...maybe it was that we finished the summer at the same campground we started it in, as we went to Falcon Lake for the May long weekend as well...I really don't know, but that comment somehow made me introspective...and I realized that this was the end of their first year of camping. Yes, there would be next year, but they'd be old pros by then. Luke starts kindergarten this year, and it never bothered me until that moment at the campfire. I looked over at Luke now setting old dead branches he found in the bushes against the picnic table and drop kicking them into pieces small enough to throw on the fire. I expected him to knock the branch off, or somehow not be able to perform such a feat, followed by a tantrum-ish cry of frustration, but again and again the branches would break and he would expertly walk over and toss them on the fire. And I sat there feeling a strange melancholy joy, both proud that he's growing up and can do more things for himself, and mourning that he's growing up and can do more things for himself. This last year was still as circus, but it was a good more organized kind of chaos. I could grab my purse and tell the boys to get their shoes on and off I would go with my two preschoolers in tow. Many days we had places to go and people to see, but there were still many days when I would wake up that morning and decide what we were going to do for the day. And there were more day s than I like to admit where the morning would zoom by and we'd still be in pajamas, quickly dressing before we had lunch. Now those lazy days will be rare instances, and someone else will be spending their mornings with Luke. I won't be the one encouraging him to talk to and play with the other kids. I won't be the one reminding him to say please. I won't be the one praising him. As I sat by the hot fire, a chill ran through me as I realized that I would lose some control over what he does, and now he will have peers that he sees everyday influencing him. I sat there at the campfire and I couldn't stop from crying, while my puzzled husband tried to figure out what he did wrong (I felt so silly crying that I didn't want to discuss why so all I said was "I'm fine", and it really took several reassurances for him to finally get that it had nothing to do with him and even then I'm not totally sure he believed me). I thought of running errands with only one little body trailing, only one sidekick, and I felt like I'm losing one of my wingmen.

I've now survived the start of Kindergarten without any more tears from either of us. My little boy is growing up, but I think both of us are adjusting well.

Summer Bliss

2010-08-03T10:24:00.008-05:00

I've mentioned before that this year we bought a trailer. So far we've had several weekend trips and one whole week stay in the great outdoors of Manitoba. Growing up, I loved camping. And even though last year's "camping" experience with the kids was as much stress as fun, both me and the kids have grown a little older, wiser and calmer, making for a much more relaxing vacation. It's nice to be able to get away from the busy "city" life, not worrying about compulsively checking email or hearing the sometimes daily calls from work begging for me to come in.
There's something so freeing about washing your hair in the river, feeling like something out of a shampoo commercial...

..something so magical about the squeals of little boys when a frog they just caught jumps out of those little hands...something so endearing about smiling faces sticky with marshmallow residue...

...something so hilarious about the giggles of those same little boys when a distraught duck poops on his rock perch at the sight of the canoe coming closer...and how those snickers continue as the campfire dwindles and the boys who should have been asleep long before are tucked in bed still whispering about duck poop...

...something so fulfilling about the thought that years from now there will be two young men who smile at the memories of these moments...

I do love nature (except the mosquitoes of course). But now as the mom, I also find I really enjoy keeping the trailer clean. Those who actually know me, and have seen my house (or my bedroom growing up) are probably still trying to make sense of that last sentence. It's true. I find such satisfaction in my role as "housewife" looking around at the clean trailer. While at home, I look around and only see the messes and feel like I've gotten a big fat F in my wife & mother course. When we're out camping, with mud caked to our shoes and sand falling out of our bathing suits, our habitat is actually cleaner and tidier than our everyday home. At home there is evidence of previous meals that have boiled over hidden beneath the burners, while the dishwasher sits full of clean dishes waiting to be put away, while the dirty ones wait patiently in the sink "soaking". Camping without a dishwasher, I wash dishes after every meal and wipe every surface (even under the stovetop) until it's shiny. At home, There is a layer of dog hair beneath the end tables and forgotten McDonald's toys beneath the couch, and the bottoms of my socks are perpetually blackened while the boys take after their father wandering through the house with their outside shoes on and the dog runs in through the dog door after digging in the garden. The trailer can be swept clean in 2 minutes flat and every toy is put away in the appropriate home before moving on.

I've always said that I'm not much of a housekeeper, but I've learned that maybe, just maybe, I'm simply overwhelmed by 1200+ square feet. Now a 17 foot trailer, that I can handle.

Little Encouragements

2010-04-29T15:19:00.007-05:00

Lately there have been little ways where God has been encouraging me, reminding me that He is there with me all the time and He will provide all my needs (not wants, as much as I wish it sometimes were, otherwise I would not have fruitlessly wandered around in the rain an hour ago at various places I had been yesterday looking for my lost hubcap when it was nowhere to be found, but alas I am well provided for, but do not live a "charmed" life). Many of these encouraging words have come from a new devotional book that I bought from Amazon, written by this lady. It has been hard to stop at just one encouraging story each day, but I do have to pace myself. Other times the encouragement comes in other ways.The biggest compliment I've received in a long time came from the mouth of a 5 year old. Luke had something he found in his room, I can't remember what, but it was something like an old sunday school craft. He was getting rid of old stuff (a habit obviously not learned from me) and he offered it to me because as he explained "you like that Jesus stuff". It seems like a simple, offhanded comment, but as a parent trying to teach my children in the way they should go, it was high praise!

Some of these little "words" of encouragement may seem silly, but I guess I'm a little silly, so God has to speak my language. Like the balloon that Toby got in sunday school on Easter, just a simple latex balloon (I requested his favorite orange colour on his behalf as they were passing them out). On the balloon was a cross and beneath it "He Lives". That balloon floated right up to the ceiling for nearly 2 full weeks and at the 3 week mark, it no longer floated up, but still stood upright, making it easy to read. It may not be much, but every morning when I woke up and saw those words, I smiled and it was just the reminder I needed.

Yesterday, while the boys were in preschool I went grocery shopping, and I decided to go to Superstore to do it. Now although most things are cheaper there, the shopping carts are not, and I have more than once gotten to the parking lot and discovered that I do not have a loonie in my bag. Yesterday was much the same, except that other than a few pennies and a nickel, I had no money...don't judge, but I spent my last twoonie on a slurpee, which I SO did NOT need, just an hour earlier in total ignorance of the fact that I would need a grocery cart very soon.

So although I was no longer thirsty, my "to buy" list was long and even 2 handbaskets would not suffice. I needed a cart. I searched the glove box, the console and every other nook and crannie of that van thinking that there must be the much needed coin somewhere.Nil, nada, zip zilch. There was nowhere nearby that I could think of to get a loonie, and I was running out of time. So in desperation I threw my reusable bags into my bag and strolled confidently to the cart return area, thinking "surely there will be a cart sitting loose"...okay I don't have that much faith, more like "please, please, please let there be a cart sitting loose, even a renegade Walmart cart that has wandered far from home would suffice". Nil, nada, zip zilch. So as I'm walking into the store (fruitlessly scanning the parking lot for strays, and debating on shoving a woman into the just loaded trunk of her car so I can abscond with her cart...I may be a Christian, but I still get tempted), there's a cart resting up against an old pick-up in the handicap parking. In the truck is a man who asks me if I need a cart.

Now this may not be as amazing or incredible as some of the stories I've heard where a Christian needs something really expensive and gets cash left in her mailbox for the exact amount, or where someone needs something specific that may not be super common to give away and that exact item is left on their doorstep. A shopping cart in a parking lot doesn't have nearly as much pizzaz, but this blog entry is about encouragements, not full out miracles. I'm not in need of some huge miracle, just a little encouragement...and a new hubcap.

RV owners

2010-04-13T07:46:00.000-05:00

My childhood vacations were spent camping. I don't remember ever tenting it until the annual College and Career Group camping weekend with my church friends as a young adult. We had a tent trailer. I still remember the momentus day that our family bought that first tent trailer. We were driving home to Pinawa from a trip into Winnipeg, and by the side of the road, in all it's green glory, was a teeny little trailer with a for sale sign. It must have been cheap, because my parents bought it on the spot. I don't remember if we ever went on any vacations prior to that day, but I sure remember the ones after. A few years later we were over at family friends' place (enjoying a hot summer day, swimming in their pool) and in the driveway was a tent trailer. It was bigger (although just about anything was bigger than our little green one) and it had a stove and a sink that swung outside and back in so you could cook or wash dishes wherever you pleased (that was my favorite feature). My brother and I were starting to get to that age where sharing a bunk was rife with arguing an elbowing, so upgrading to a bigger model where the table converted into another bed was really just a matter of survival on their part. The couple who owned it had grown children and wanted to downsize. They had set the trailer up to start getting it ready to sell. My parents made arrangements to buy it on the spot.

We had many good trips in both those tent trailers.And I've always thought that one day, we'd buy a tent trailer of our own.That day was yesterday. My husband has been casually scanning kijiji and other sites looking at what's out there as far as trailers go. Most were sold before we even had a chance. Then one came up for a 17ft hybrid that is small enough for our minivan to tow (once we actually get a towing package installed that is). Bruce contacted the owners and I contacted my dad, who studied up on the model and scoured the internet for other options. He called back saying "it sounds like a GOOD deal". We took our trailer inspector (aka Dad) with us out to Carman yesterday evening to look things over. Bruce got the nod from the inspector and started wheeling an dealing. Luckily, I was able to keep busy with the kids. Not only am I not good at haggling, but I'm downright uncomfortable with it. I'm the type of person who's most likely to blurt out something along the lines of "we'll pay you double your asking price" not because I'm rich, but because I feel like I'm cheating people to ask to pay less.I'm the type who hates being the only person in a store or at a garage sale, because I feel like I'm insulting the salesperson by walking out empty-handed. Needless to say I hid behind the car door pretending to help Toby with his snack (while feeling guilty that Bruce was trying to not completely empty our bank account and possibly insulting this elderly couple in the process) until I saw the handshake. But in the end we bought it. And I can't wait to get it home and then out somewhere with trees and firepits.

20 Little Reasons to be Happy

2010-03-02T22:48:00.006-06:00

19 days ago, Joyce's blog started 30 days of Happy. She challenged other to share their happiness. I've been busy marking papers and completing student evaluations for my "part-time" job as a nursing instructor. Believe me, finishing those is reason enough to shout from the mountaintops (until 5 weeks from now when I'll be doing them again). Now it's time to catch up and give some of my reasons for being happy lately...
1. Snowmen and the fact that I see this one every time I look out my kitchen window.

2. Helpers with the baking (okay this doesn't always make me so happy).

3. That my in-laws are pretty darn great.

4. And so are my parents.

5. Bubble baths.

6. Being able to bake birthday cakes rather than having to buy them.

7. That Luke's teachers are ecstatic that he is finally coming out of his shell.

8. That despite the teacher saying that they could, Luke did not want the germ-infested stuffed bear, that every snotty preschooler in his class takes a turn bringing home, sleeping in HIS bed. (and that my parents were gracious enough to keep enough of my old junk that we could get suitable accommodations for dear Brownie Bear).

9. That once in a while I can make myself feel good by giving my kids something that I always wanted but never got, as rare as those things are.

10. Whipping cream

11. A dog who doesn't mind being used as a prop.

12. A not-so-productive morning that produced a couple big smiles and a straw house that would make the three little pigs jealous. (and as much as I hate to admit it, those matching pajamas also make me happy).

13. Happy meals and subs (no cooking, yet everyone actually eats).

14. The miracle that after buying one of those little plastic brick-makers on clearance last spring, I actually remembered where I put it this winter.

15. That they don't ALWAYS fight.

16. Laughter.

17.NO MORE DIAPERS!

18. Tonight's date with my smallest boyfriend. Snuggling up on the couch to watch a new Thomas video from the library while I allow both of us to stuff our faces with Cheesies, M&Ms, jujubes and Shirley temples, (while everyone else is at the Moose game).

19.This face.

20. This face.

My first Christmas without her

2009-12-28T14:51:00.002-06:00

I did pretty well this Christmas. No crying in the service when we attended my grandparent's church for the Christmas Eve candlelight service that she loved so much. I held back the tears when my mother opened the "Tree of memory" glass ornament I gave her. I wanted so much to give her what she really had wanted, but what can you do when you ask your mom what she wants for Christmas and all she can tell you in a quiet, shaky voice is "I want my mom back"? I held myself together at the big family gathering where her absence was as obvious as a big gaping wound despite everyone's eforts to press on with the festivities. Luckily I was alone in the car every time I heard this song on the radio, because I lose it every single time.

And it was just November past
She said goodbye, and breathed her last
And the great grandchildren miss her so
But if she could she would let them know …
This is my first Christmas
First time to hear the angels sing
Glory, hallelujah to the risen king
And a holy night is what this is
‘Cause this is my first Christmas
This is my first Christmas.
-excerpt from "My First Christmas" by Carolyn Arends.

December frenzy

2009-12-12T08:42:00.007-06:00

I thought Christmas was busy enough last year. This fall I accepted a second job as a "clinical facilitator" which roughly translates into bringing wide-eyed nursing students into the hospital and trying to let them do nurse-things while trying to prevent them from damaging the children we are trying to help heal. It's been a busy term juggling students between my regular job days where I get to do the work myself (instead of standing by cringing). And home life is just as busy as ever. - Hence the lack of blog entries these last months.

But now add the Christmas rush, the decorating, the buying gifts, the baking (which used to consist of a carefully planned list of quadruple batches of 8 different recipes to provide my family with platters and my mother with a freezer stocked, as well as tins for relatives, now not even requiring a slip of paper - how hard is it to remember shortbread and gingerbread?). That would be busy enough, but lucky me the school term happens to end at Christmas meaning slogging through and marking the last of the student papers, filling out in-depth 15 page evaluations on each student, and scheduling meetings to break the news of how they did just in time for Santa.

I love tradition. Already bought all the candies for decorating the gingerbread house that I have to make sure we get around to baking. Already decided what the boys should wear to see Santa at the mall...

Bruce took the dog (and the boys) to the pound to get Rita a Santa picture for a fundraiser one Saturday while I was working. It was a picture for Rita, but the couch was big enough for them all. I like the tradition of going to Polo Park and getting the pre-requisite picture of the boys with the ornate background and the Santa with a real beard, but this year I'm just going to have to resist my anal tendancies and say good "enough".

What is a GOOD bye?

2009-11-09T05:28:00.003-06:00

My grandmother is dying. I'm terrified that she won't make it until we get to see her today. Yes, I've told her I love her, but I haven't actually said Good Bye yet. I know where my Nannie is headed. I know that she is ready and more than willing to go. We've talked about it so many times over the last months. But now, as I face saying Good Bye to the woman who has been my example and impacted my life to the point where I owe her everything, because I know my faith began because of her, I can't bear the thought of not having her here.
I thought I was doing well with this, I knew she wouldn't last long. But there was that part of me, knowing that she likely wouldn't make it until Christmas, but still hoping that the boys could make her one last Christmas ornament, that maybe we could make her gingersnaps this year and bring them to her so she can see how part of her will carry on. For all the baking I do, and how I can impress with my fancy cheesecakes and scones, I still can't get her gingersnap recipe to go right. That's my favorite memory of her, the two of us in her kitchen baking gingersnaps. But I know even if she made it through Christmas, it wouldn't make it any easier, I'd just find another reason for her to stay.
I keep reminding myself that this is what she wants. She wants to go home, she's been ready since my grandfather died last year. I know wishing her to stay is utterly and completely selfish on my part, but I can't help it. And there's that part of me that hopes she dies soon after we say goodbye. I know she wants it, and I don't want to see her suffer any more. And I read back over the words I've typed and I see I's all over the place. Once again, I've made it all about me.
Whenever I visit her, she goes on and on about how proud she is of me, and how happy she is that her granddaughter has found the Lord. She talks about her great-grandsons being raised in a Christian home, and how important that is.She thanks me for little tiny things that I've done that she's already thanked me for several times.She faces death like it's no big deal and goes on and on about me picking her up one day when she didn't have a ride. I need to learn some of that selflessness. So today I will take my family in to say good bye, and hopefully today she will be the selfish one, to take our love without feeling like she needs to give anything back. She has given more than enough for one lifetime.

The Curse of the Nurse.

2009-08-22T15:17:00.028-05:00

My parents let us use their trailer at the lake for a few days as a vacation. It was fun, except for all the fun parts.

Walking along the docks trying to catch minnows, leaning over the sides with the nets. Thinking about the near drowning kids I see at work. And panicking when Toby manages to pry his hand clear of mine and take off running down the docks.

Catching a painted turtle on a minnow hunt,and while my kids lean in to get a better look at him on the dock, my mind flashing to a nasty turtle bite I've seen.

Being down at the beach and wanting to help build the canals and waterfalls, but scared to get too involved and taking my eyes off them, because I know that even in shallow water kids can drown.

Sitting around the campfire, roasting marshmallows and making s'mores. Holding my breath every time one of the kids gets up to walk around the fire, remembering kids who lost their footing and ended up with burned hands and bums and faces that come into the hospital every summer and are often stuck there until fall, enduring painful dressing changes and skin grafts that never look quite "normal" again.

I'm trapped between wanting my kids to have a wonderful full childhood, packed with memories and experiences, and wanting to lock my children in rooms with padded walls and soft low furniture to keep them safe.

I'm used to the eye rolls and "well you turned out okay" when I make a comment on safety to my parents who often take care of my children. Never mind the fact that my mother did a brief stint as a teenaged candy-striper and saw one unlucky motorcyclist,and spent years ranting to us children that she never wanted us on motorcycles. My husband knows better than to question my judgment, but even he can't understand, because he hasn't seen the horrible life-changing things that can happen in the blink of an eye. Granted, I don't see all the kids who go for a snowmobile ride and come back with smiles and happy memories. I just see the broken limbs, internal injuries, and the families that the ones who aren't going to make it are leaving behind. I have another friend with whom I've worked at the hospital who's now a mom and now getting the eye-rolls as well. So, I'm lucky that I have someone in my life who understands.

So, no, my children aren't allowed outside while the grass is being cut. No, they can't put another log on the fire. No they can't ride in the back of the pick-up truck (even though I did on a busy highway as a teen several times and somehow I "turned out okay"). No, they aren't allowed to play on a trampoline. No, they aren't allowed to skateboard, bike or rollerblade, even for a minute, even on the quietest of streets, unless they have a proper fitting helmet strapped on their head. No, they aren't allowed on an ATV, dirt bike or snowmobile, even to do a quick test drive on an empty back lane. You may find something here unreasonable, and probably things will change as they get older(and more responsible, she says with her fingers crossed), but if everyone saw what I do at work there'd be a whole lot more children walking to school dressed up like hockey goalies.

Drama Queen requests an end to all this Drama

2009-08-15T09:23:00.017-05:00

SATURDAY
5:30am- Bruce's alarm goes off, waking up Luke. Luke is alternating coming out of his room whining to get up, and laying in bed crying to get up. This wakes up Toby, and by the time Luke's Monkey Light turns on at 6:15am signaling that he can get up, everyone is grumpy, especially me. After being out later than I should on my Stonewall Epiphany and having trouble sleeping with my mind racing from all the excitement (and maybe the latte), this morning came WAY to early.
8:02am- I finally shake my grumpiness and we decide to start breakfast. As always these days, Toby wants "blueberries...with a...bit of...sugar" (in his high squeaky voice) as his fruit.
8:04am- Apparently the "blueberries...with a...bit of...sugar" taste funny. They taste fine to me, but Toby refuses to take my word for it. Refuses to have any other type of fruit. Refuses to just eat the #%@&%$ berries.
8:10am- trying to diffuse the situation and get the #%@&%$ berries out of the way The In-MOM-erator 3000 steps in. At the site of the disappearing berries a tantrum ensues.
8:56am-the tantrum has ended, but the stubborn boy has decided that he will not be eating breakfast today.
10:23am-a fresh bowl of "blueberries...with a...bit of...sugar" followed by Rice Krispies masquerade as a "snack". We both think we have won this battle, but the war is far from over.

SUNDAY
5:30am- Bruce's alarm goes off, waking up Luke. Luke is alternating coming out of his room whining to get up, and laying in bed crying to get up. This wakes up Toby, and by the time Luke's Monkey Light turns on at 6:15am signaling that he can get up, everyone is grumpy, especially me. Deja Vu.
8:12am- everyone is showered and dressed, the boys are just finishing the TV show that kept them from forcing me to jump out of the shower to referee fights. I'm enjoying a few minutes of peace, but know that the boys need breakfast. The phone rings and I discover that the in-laws aren't coming to church, CRAP! During the call the boys have made it downstairs and have started with the Hot Wheels, and now don't want to come up for breakfast.
8:23am- Luke is starting his breakfast, but Toby is staging a sit-in downstairs. He's not playing anymore, but refuses to come upstairs for breakfast. As the sit-in wears on, the howls from the basement grow louder, although it is not an organized chant, it still gets his point across. All he needs is a protest sign. I didn't realize that breakfast had become so political.
9:08am- after a sit-down negotiation, a truce has been declared and breakfast restarted. Guess we're not going to church, since we should have left 3 minutes ago and I'm just sprinkling "a...little bit...of sugar" on His Highness' berries.
12:45pm-there is a surprisingly smooth relaxing atmosphere of having a lazy Sunday morning at home. It has put me at ease, and now I'm getting excited...it's nap time in 15 minutes for both boys and I can see light at the end of the tunnel. The phone rings, apparently my grandma went into the hospital last night and now needs to get home, and since the paramedics had cut off her nightgown, she's got nothing to wear. The boys try to put away as many toys as they can while I run around looking for things to make my grandma decent enough to get home.
1:25pm-Victoria Hospital emergency room. Luke is persuaded by stickers, but people are looking at Toby screaming in the hallway, only screaming louder if staff approaches to try to help. And after trying to hear the story from my grandma's nurse, I walk out behind my grandma wearing bright red pajama shorts and the only button-up comfortable shirt I could find in my closet. It's fleece and it's hot outside, but my grandma is too busy trying to say thank you whilst apologizing for imposing to even notice the heat. Luke trails behind. I've got new prescriptions and a purple patient belongs bag in on arm and a screaming Toby under the other. As we walk past security I swear to the guards that he is my child, and this is not an abduction in progress.
2:12pm-The screaming finally ends when we finally make it into the apartment and I pull out the box of toys. I call my in-laws and although he missed church because he wasn't feeling well, he willingly comes around and picks up the kids so they can have some semblance of a nap. After running out for the prescriptions and a few groceries. I get to spend the afternoon visiting with my grandma without being interrupted every 23 seconds.
7:40pm-My parents arrive home from the lake. My grandmother reluctantly is driven to their house for the night. She's upset that they had to come home early from their vacation "when they didn't have to". She knows she almost died and that her heart needed to be "shocked", but now wishes that those paramedics hadn't come because then she'd be gone and my parents wouldn't have had their vacation spoiled by her, and I wouldn't have to spend the day away from my children. I still don't get the logic of all that, but she's facing cancer, and a fatal arrythmia seems like a much easier out.

MONDAY
5:21am- Luke's not waiting for Bruce's alarm anymore. His internal alarm clock is now set. Luke is alternating coming out of his room whining to get up, and laying in bed crying to get up. This wakes up Toby, and by the time Luke's Monkey Light turns on at 6:15am signaling that he can get up, everyone is SUPER grumpy, especially me.
7:55am-Today, both boys are happily requesting blueberries. There are pink lady apples is the fridge, so that they'll be cold, just how Luke likes them. Strawberries used to be Toby's favorite, until he discovered the joys of blueberries this summer, but there are still strawberries in the fridge ready to be eaten. There are still 4 bananas in the fruit bowl, but I know these are destined to become banana muffins, because there are a few brown spots, and more importantly there are no stickers on them. Luke will only eat a perfect blemish-free banana, and Toby will ignore a few brown spots as long as there is a sticker on it. I'll have to remember to complain to Chiquita and Del Monte, because after being pulled off the discarded banana peel, the stickers will only stick to 2 more bananas before it ends up as just an oval of no-longer-sticky paper in the fruit bowl. There are red grapes that were well tested in the store to make sure that they were the firmest bunch for my beloved picky husband, which my beloved picky youngest will only eat whole on the stem, despite my trepidation about choking. But they are whole and still on the stem, so it shouldn't be a problem. Not to mention all the watermelon sliced into triangles in the downstairs fridge or the untouched cantaloupe, which won't do for Toby, but Luke likes melon so much that he begs for it in the store when we already have it at home, except that his melon craving dissipates as soon as we enter the front door. But blueberries, well I figure there's probably about 18 left in what used to be a 2 lb container. 9 blueberries each...I don't think that counts as a serving in the food guide...18 won't even do if I could somehow serve them to one without being one of those moms who plays favorites. I'm getting tired of writing, so you must be tired of reading, so I'll spare you a play-by-play of today's dramatics, the begging, the pleading, the bargaining. Let's just say it breakfast took a while and by the time we made it out of the house to go grocery shopping for more blueberries (amongst other things), it was close to 11am.

TUESDAY
5:23am-you guessed it.
8:04am-breakfast seems to run surprisingly smooth. I'm not sure if it's because I know this is my last day off, or if Toby feels his point is proven, or if we're both just too plain tired to play games.

WEDNESDAY
4:05am-I wake up and sneak out of bed and go out to sleep for a while longer on the couch.
5:20am-My quietest little alarm on my palm pilot goes off. I quickly turn it off. And stalk into the bathroom like a Ninja. I leave the bathrroom door open with the light on for just a minute hoping it is enough to wake Bruce before his alarm goes off. I get into the shower turning the water on ever so slowly and gradually.
5:32am-Bruce walks in. Judging by how long it took him I'm guessing my light signal didn't work and he slept until his alarm went off.
5:33am-Luke walks into the bathroom, already whining and crying. Bruce sends him back to his room. I shampoo, rinse and Luke repeats...and repeats, and repeats.
6:04am-Luke is still going on like the world`s going to end. The monkey light is set to go off early today at 6:10am, but I`m dressed and just finishing up my makeup, realizing that nothing will hide the bags under my eyes, if I was even motivated enough to try. Bruce tries to send him back to his room yet again. Toby`s awake and chatting in his room, and has been since 5:33am. I yell to Bruce to give it up, let Luke come out. I grab Toby out of his room, and everyone is dressed and loading into our respective vehicles by the time Luke`s monkey light would normally come on at 6:15am.
6:28am-I usher the kids into my parent`s house. I`m trying to play the part of caring mother who is torn about leaving her children to go to work, and I`m hoping my father can`t see the excitement in my eyes. I stay awhile anyways, making sure to leave with enough time to stop at Starbucks for a VENTI Caramel Frappucino (that means big ole blended milky, caramely and espresso-y goodness). YUM!
I dream that I`m headed off to a day of pampering at the spa, but after the preschool drama, I`m happy to even head to work for the next 2 days. Working in the PICU has plenty of drama, but it`s real drama, not tantruming over blueberries. Besides, the kids can`t whine with breathing tubes in, they can`t refuse to eat with a tube that goes through their nose down to their stomach, and I`ve got lots of drugs to help anxious kids settle.
I admit to being a bit of a drama queen at times, but I even I can`t handle all this drama.

The Path Not Taken

2009-08-09T20:41:00.010-05:00

On Friday night I drove to a little cafe in Stonewall to meet Oria Dale. She`s currently in Zimbabwe (an has been for quite some time) working as a photographer & missionary. I thought it would be cool to pick up my friend who lives in Stonewall and we could sit in the coffee shop, looking at the beautiful pictures and catching up. What I didn`t expect was the churning up of those old feelings inside. Soon after we got there, this beautiful woman with her dreadlocks pulled up in a scarf making her look like the artist she is, stood up and began talking about what`s going on in Zimbabwe, and what she and some other artists are striving towards. She is a part of Artisan ("a creative network for people grappling with issues of Christianity within the arts"), where she and a friend brought this international network to Zimbabwe. She is also part of 24-7 Prayer where from time to time it looks like she posts updates.

Although what she`s doing sounds wonderful and amazing, that`s not the reason for this post. When she was talking about Zimbabwe and the people and conditions there, I felt a familiar feeling that I haven`t felt in a long time. When I was in nursing school my plan was to go to Uganda after I graduated. I pictured myself there helping the orphans of the AIDS epidemic. I studied the spread of AIDS throughout the regions and wrote papers on it. I took courses like "Death in the Family" trying to prepare myself for helping these children who only knew loss. When Bruce and I started dating I told him one day that I was planning on going to Africa when I graduated and I wasn`t going to let our relationship interfere with those plans.

My Stonewall friend went to nursing school with me, and when Oria was finished talking she turned to me and said she had a strange feeling, flashing back to nursing school, because it could have been me up there talking.
And although I argued that the dreadlocks wouldn`t have looked nearly as good on me, she was right. It could have been me coming back from doing something wonderful for God in Africa. And part of me feels that it SHOULD have been me.

But obviously I never made it. I took the easy road. Life here was so comfortable, I`ve never left the continent, all my family was here...and there was Bruce. The person I loved most, and he loved me too. How could I leave all this? Truthfully going there terrified me, and as graduation drew near, I made the excuses that I didn`t know how I would get set up there, that I didn`t know of any organizations that fit for me to go over as both a nurse and a missionary to help these kids, but the truth was, I didn`t look very hard. The next excuse I found was that I had no experience and it would be better to work a year or two first. After that I saw the aboriginal children right here in Canada who need love and thought Ì don`t have to travel to the other side of the world to help children when there are so many here who need help. And I had managed to convince myself.

Now a decade later I sit at my computer in my comfortable house with reliable electricity and running water, and I worry that I`ve missed out on something really big. I feel that I`ve failed. I love my job and feel fulfilled when I`m able to help, but I`m stunted in sharing my faith and resort to praying for babies and sleeping children when no one`s around. The hard days when a child is dying and the family is trying to come to grips with the fact that there is no hope, those are the days when I cry all the way home, but love my job the most. It sounds sick writing that, but I feel like I`m doing what I was made to do when I have days like that. And I think that`s how I would feel in Africa. And it makes me question if the life I`m leading is what God wanted, or if the other path was what was meant for me. I looked at Oria, two years younger than me, doing wonderful things with people she has made her friends, and I look at my husband and my children and think that I wouldn`t have them if I were in Uganda or Zimbabwe. Growing up, the biggest desire of my heart was to get married and have children. And I have to think that it seems to me that I couldn`t have this life had I not chickened out.

Maybe one day I`ll still make it over there, maybe once the kids are grown Bruce and I could go together. I don`t know. But for now I guess I`ll stick to praying for Oria over there, and the children at my work here.

A relief and a burden.

2009-05-11T08:09:00.003-05:00

I try to be a good Christian example for my kids. Unfortunately they see me at my worst more often than anyone. Sleep-deprived, frustrated and annoyed from not getting a moments peace (day or night) hardly sets the stage for the gentleness of Christianity to shine through. I keep trying my best, and although it's a lot easier on those days when the kids are miraculously sleeping past 6 am to spend time doing devotions in the peace and quiet, I also want to hold back and wait until they are awake so they can see me. It takes 100 times as long to read that same passage of scripture, but I show them how important it is, even if there are interruptions every 5 seconds. Luke often asks me to read him a story from my "grown-up" bible. My NIV version may not be quite as easy for him to understand as his Children's version (or the Veggie Tales video versions for that matter), but he loves it all the same, especially Daniel in the Lion's Den. I love that he sits there absorbing God's word, even if some of the words are above his understanding.

Last night I could tell Luke was feeling sick, and since he's a back-sleeper I knew that his runny nose would soon turn to nighttime coughing. We prayed before bed as always, and his first wake-up (if he had ever actually made it to sleep) was about an hour later. I helped him blow his nose and gave him a dose of tylenol because he felt warm, and just as I was shutting his door he called to me. When I asked what he needed he asked if I could pray for him one more time tonight. I'll tell you, my heart soared, my little boy asking for prayer because he was sick may not seem huge, but day after day when he says grace he spews out the same words like a robot, which makes me worry that he sees prayer as a monotonous task. We've tried explaining that it's just talking to God and you can just talk to him like you do a friend, but he often shies away from spontaneous prayer on his own.

Then last night when I crawled into bed, still thinking about my son's prayer request, I had a terrible worry. What if after we've prayed for a night of rest that he has a terrible night and thinks that God wasn't listening to us. He's only 4, but I worried that this night may lay a foundation of uncertainty rather than faith. I'd like to tell you that I prayed about it and felt peace about it and drifted off to sleep, but I didn't. I begged God and worried until I fell asleep.

After an okay night with only one big coughing fit, that didn't turn into hysterical crying (from either of us), I am thankful for the good night, and hope that it helps both my son's and my own faith to grow.

The In-MOM-erator 3000

2009-04-17T15:40:00.011-05:00

Do you have one of these under your sink? As a child we always had a garbage disposal. When we moved my dad would uninstall it and our beloved in-sink-erator would move with us.

After we were first married and I would be peeling carrots and potatoes for stew, I always got frustrated at not being able to peel right into the sink, turn on the water and flip a switch..and POOF! like magic have my mess would disappear. Needless to say the good old garbage disposal was high on my home reno list. Bruce had never had a disposal, so he didn't see the need, but he wanted to eat, so he humored me. After some help from my father, Bruce was able to...okay, so it didn't quite go that way...after Bruce stood around watching my father install my special purchase from Sears, I looked down into my drain and saw the familiar, comforting sight. AHHHHH! Less environmentally friendly than compost (although we do try to do that too), but so much easier. All the less desirable parts of produce disappearing with the flip of a switch. The only down side is the grinding, grating, rumbling beneath the sink.

I want my children to grow up eating a variety of fresh fruits and vegetables, so I buy fresh produce even when it's not all that cheap. But I want my children to enjoy eating fruits and vegetables and develop a life-long habit of healthy eating, so I try to keep the house fairly well-stocked. I often find myself walking over to the fruit bowl and seeing a pristine pear, but I leave it because one of my kids may want it. Fast-forward a few days, when the pear is not so pristine, a little bruised from being shoved around the bowl and bashed against the bananas. Many snack times that pear has been offered and refused. It is now looking tired, beaten and a little mushy. Since we live in Winnipeg and local produce amounts to mushrooms and onions this time of year, the pear wasn't cheap. How I wish I could rewind back to when that pear looked edible, and I actually felt like eating it, but I can't, so I turn on the water, rinse off the pear and toss it into the in-mom-erator 3000 (aka me). The kids didn't want the pear, they've been inhaling strawberries for the last few days at $4.99 a pound. I finally broke and bought the big pack and somehow they don't feel like strawberries anymore. As the days pass and some of the strawberries start to get the deep pink of upcoming fermentation, I convince Luke to have a bowl. I'm dropping the hulls and leaves into the sink (because even I have limits), and as Luke comments that he doesn't want any mushy ones I start popping every other strawberry into my mouth. Only the non-mushy get the privilege of making it into the bowl, all else goes into the trusty in-mom-erator, unless I can convince the boys to have a smoothie. Last Christmas the mandarins were a hot commodity in my house. I bought box after box. At first the boys ate and ate them. Then the boys kept asking for them, peeling them and then I'd find them sitting around, sometimes without a single segment missing. Have no fear in-mom-erator 3000 can make that unwanted orange disappear.

Yes, the in-mom-erator 3000 is unparalleled at handling unwanted fruit, but that isn't all it can do...see how it quickly consumes the chicken left untouched on plate. Crusts a problem? Not only can the in-mom-erator 3000 take care of those unsightly pieces of sandwich but it provides an exchange service, trading crusts for a piece of her own sandwich with nary a crust in sight. All that unwanted food quickly disappears and the only down side is the grumbling sound...something about "fussy, ungrateful children"

What's so Good about Friday?

2009-04-10T16:32:00.007-05:00

Before I was a parent, I thought I knew how much God loved me. I had loved my family, I had loved my friends, and I knew it was kinda like that. I love my husband absolutely, utterly, completely...but there is still the give and take of a marriage and its love relationship. I’d sacrifice for my husband without question, and I figured that was a lot like God’s Love...

That was before I glimpsed what His Love was like from God’s point of view. That all happened when I had children. I love my children dearly. It doesn’t matter if they’re constantly doing things I’ve told them not to do. It doesn’t matter if they refuse to give me a hug, or continually forget to say “thank-you”. Although I can’t say I have God’s patience with them when they are whining on and on about something insignificant, I can tell you that I still love them as much as when they are happy and smiling and behaving. I may be angry at their bad behaviour when they act like monsters, but I love them even in that anger.
Young children are incredibly self-centered. But I dare say that as “adults”, many of us are only a little better. While we wander around this planet doing things we know we shouldn’t do, whining about our lives instead of being thankful that we have been blessed with so much, thinking our life is all about us, there’s God watching, (sometimes shaking his head I’m sure), and loving us. We may love God, but truthfully our love with God is more one-sided than reciprocal. It’s like our love for Him is small, compact, pea-sized, and His for us is enormously mountainous.
I like to believe that I would be willing to give up my life to save another. But then, I think about Abraham being willing to kill his son for God. I can’t say that my faith would be strong enough to be willing to give up my child’s life. At work, I see worst case scenarios some days. Parents faced with a terrifying diagnosis, watching their child suffering, or dealing with a dying child. So often I see that same look on the mother or father’s face and I know that they are wishing that they could do something, anything to put themselves into their child’s place, to sacrifice themselves instead of having their child go through the pain. I don’t think I recognized this before I had my own children, and I hope that I never have to experience it first-hand as a parent.
But I am that child. My Father sacrificed His son, a part of Himself, to save me when I certainly didn’t deserve it. I know I still can’t fathom the immense depth of God’s love, but I now understand the nature of the sacrifice that was made for me.

Spring chicken to Mother hen...when'd that happen?

2009-03-28T20:01:00.010-05:00

When I was 21, I started working as a grad nurse at Children's Hospital. For years I was the youngest nurse on the ward. The teenagers liked having me as their nurse, because even though I was a grown-up I was still young enough to understand them. I know that more than 10 years had passed and I'm far from 21. I was not so ridiculous as to think that the teenagers still viewed me as a slightly older peer, but I still thought that they would see me as a little older nurse who was still somewhat cool.

Last night I worked on my old ward, and I took care of a teenager who had been on some heavy pain medication the night before...too heavy. Apparently the kid was as high as a kite, and acting more than a little goofy. So last night after he was back on planet earth and vaguely remembering the previous eve, he mentioned how embarrassed he was. "I was flirting with a nurse who was old enough to be my mother!" he told me. I remembered that his nurse from that night had been one of the nurses who started not long after me. She was a few years older than me, but not much. I tried to rebuke him explaining that "she's not old enough to be your mother, your nurse last night is only a few years older than me"...a blank stare was my response. That's when I did the math and realized that I was 17 when this young man was born. I AM OLD ENOUGH TO BE HIS MOTHER!

I know I'm not in my 20s anymore and I've long since realized that I can no longer be the "cool older-cousin-type nurse" to the teenagers, but I was hoping I was still seen more as the "cool-auntie-type nurse". But no, somewhere in the past years I've changed in those teen eyes. I am now a full-fledged adult...an uncool, out-of-touch Mother Hen, not to be trusted. When did I get old?

Ratty frayed towels and sheets with holes.

2009-02-19T19:04:00.021-06:00

Yesterday I went on a bit of a shopping spree. I bought half of a set of new towels for the bathroom (the first half I got for Christmas) AND I also bought a new set of sheets.
When Bruce and I were engaged and preparing for getting married and living in our own house, we bought good quality towels. We also bought several sets of sheets, both flannel and jersey knit (because my husband wasn't used to using a top sheet and didn't think he could be comfortable in traditional sheets...but that's another story). That was back in 2000. Now it's nearly 9 years later, and the towels are looking like rags with frayed hemlines and the occasional bleach spot. I'm sure the dog won't mind being dried off with them, but I'm embarrassed when we have company in our bathroom. Our flannel sheets has a huge run like a cheap pair of nylons and our jersey sheets are warped and stretched out of shape with pencil-sized holes scattered about. Our quilt that was hopelessly dated and had a rip or two (thanks to Rita), was lucky enough to also be replaced this Christmas with a swanky new duvet (thanks to Mom & Dad).

I'm very thankful that I still get a little spoiled at Christmas, even though I'm all grown up. And I know that I'm blessed to be able to live with the means to go on a mini shopping spree now and then. But the thing that makes me feel truly blessed, that thing that makes me so very grateful, is that I was actually needing new towels and sheets. When you look at the divorce statistics I can't help but feel scared. Each year in Manitoba there seem to be between 2300 and 2500 divorces. More than one-third of marriages in Canada will end in divorce before the thirtieth anniversary. I never used to worry when I saw the statistics, I'd just use my cock-eyed optimism and say that our love was real, so divorce would never even be a thought. Seeing friends' marriages end, and learning how truly hard it is to keep the marriage life-raft afloat when dealing with children and two shift-workers desperately sleep-deprived and stressed, I've learned that divorce doesn't mean that it wasn't true love. Do I think I'll end up a statistic when it comes to divorce? NO WAY, NEVER!...well, I don't think so, and I certainly hope not. But I now realize that I have to work to keep it. Maybe bite my lip so that nasty remark stays inside where it belongs. Maybe do something sweet to remind my sweetie how much I love him a little more often.

My marriage has outlived all my linens (except those tablecloths that sit in the closet, never on the table). I think that's something to be proud of. I can't wait until these towels get ratty...

Is the Mama Chipmunk at all worried that Junior might choke?

2009-02-08T18:36:00.010-06:00

Have you ever been to summer camp or some other childhood activity where they had the Chubby Bunny contest? If not, playing Chubby Bunny is seeing how many marshmallows each kid (or maybe adult) can fit into their mouth and still be able to say "chubby bunny". I haven't seen this since my youth, but I'd imagine that these days I'd be more worried about the enormous risk of choking to enjoy the puffy-cheeked, barely audible, spit-splattering fun.

If you're wondering how many tater tots an almost 2 year old can fit into his mouth, I'm not sure because I only gave him 6 on tonight's supper plate, and although it dismayed me when I saw that he had crammed them all in at once when I went into the kitchen to get my glass of water, I could also tell that he had room in there for at least a couple more, especially because he was asking for more with those still in his cheeks. We are working hard teaching one bite at a time, but he doesn't seem to get it. It's those days when he's grabbing raisins by the handful and shoveling them in that I hope I can remember my Heimlich maneuver.

Kickin' my childhood to the curb.

2009-01-04T06:56:00.015-06:00

It seems in life there are two types of people. The pack-rats and the purgers. I'm a pack-rat. I always have been, and I can't see that changing any time soon. I was the girl who once kept a collection of bus transfers, although I didn't need much encouragement to throw that away. I am however, still grieving the "loss" of my rock collection (that took up 4 ice cream pails beside the shed in our yard) that apparently melted with the snow one spring when I was about 8. On a side note, my parents thought they were getting payback this year when they brought Luke home from the lake with a big box of rocks, but they didn't know I had a rock tumbler stashed away in my crafting pile, and they simply gave Luke and I a project.

However, I did marry a purger, which is the cause of some marital strife in our household. Over the last 8 years of our marriage my husband has slowly whittled away at my mountain of "useless stuff". Gone are the out-of-style clothes that will likely never fit me again. Gone is my collection of shopping bags from fancy boutiques and once trendy places. Gone is my purse collection (although I am working on building that back up, except that now the purses are larger). Gone are most of the notes passed back and forth during class and the bulk of letters that were stuffed in my locker, the movie stubs, the tickets from the roller rink, and those other little scraps of paper that were once so important (yes, I have kept a few in a shoebox...unless they melted last Spring). My 3 garbage bags of stuffed animals has been pared down to 1/2 of a big moving box. The other half of the box, as well as a second one filled with Cabbage Patch Dolls, Barbies, and a teensy doll house with little plastic 80s precursors to Polly Pocket which I can no longer remember the name, that once smelled as fruity as Strawberry Shortcake, but now smells of stale air. My childhood reduced to 2 boxes, that is, as of last year.

Lately my husband has been in purge mode. We need walls in the forgotten part of our basement and to build those walls, we need space. My husband really wants those walls, at the expense of many of his Hockey and Baseball cards, Sports Illustrated magazines, Sports memorabilia and trophies. Now Christmas is over, the tree and decorations are down and boxed, and now is the time of year when the husband heads back into the crawl space, and the out-of-sight out-of-mind theory can not protect my childhood mementos. So the other day, out came my childhood, smelling a little musty but still in good shape. I had to sacrifice the giant stuffed schnauzer that my grandfather gave me, and the rest of the stuffed animals to protect my Cozy Teddy bear. I gave up all my Barbies, the suitcase of novelty shaped erasers, glittery pencils and dime-store treasures, but it didn't seem to be enough to protect the larger stash of Cabbage Patch dolls with a hamper of clothes. And then I discovered my mother's baby doll, Barbie and some old records from her childhood, which my father must have accidentally packed in my stuff, in his hurry to get my mountain of junk out of his house. When I called my mom to see if she wanted these things back, maybe it was the sound of desperation in my voice, maybe she remembered all those times I spent hours in my room trying to purge but ending up reminiscing and coming out with the tiniest of discard piles, but she suggested that I bring the Cabbage Patch dolls, their bed and all the clothes over to her house so she can see about getting rid of the musty smell so we can find a home for them. I hope I understand her right when I think that this is all a code for her harbouring my fugitive dolls until the heat dies down. So as not to be fooled again by promises to give stuff away that get lost in the heap of junk, Bruce packed up the box and it now sits in the van awaiting transfer to the more secure facility. Hopefully my childhood will make it back home someday when the walls are completed. I'm so thankful for my mom buying me some time...I almost forgive her for getting rid of my rock collection that fateful spring...almost.

Pee Eye See You

2008-12-28T13:11:00.013-06:00

"Kids, your dad got a job in Winnipeg, so we're moving". I'm not sure what the exact words of that conversation were or when in the grand scheme of things it took place, but I was somewhere in the first half of grade 5. And although I had lived in Winnipeg before, I had lived in small town Pinawa since I was 2, so I didn't remember life any other way. I do remember being excited to move to the "big" city where most of my extended family lived...and where there were malls that contained more than a post office, pharmacy, bank and The Bay (which was 2/3 grocery store and 1/3 everything else).

If you don't know Pinawa, Manitoba, it was built around a nuclear power plant where pretty much one or two members of every household worked. That one member was my dad, with my mom working at the bank in the mall. Everyone knew everyone else, and nobody's door was ever locked. I remember once when my parents decided to become "Block Parents" and listening my mother explain how important it is for kids to have somewhere safe to go if they got lost or needed help. I laughed and said that's silly, no one can get lost in Pinawa, and you could go to any house if you needed somewhere safe.

Although my trips to Winnipeg were always fun, and I never had reason to doubt that I'd like life there, I knew I was going to miss my friends. With only 7 girls in my class we all got along as a tight little gang of friends, trying to find our way amongst all the boys (I think there were 20 or so of them). I knew I'd especially miss my best friend Jenny, who I spent hours playing Barbies and whatever else with.

After all was said and done, we moved, and in February, right in the middle of grade 5, I started at a new school in the big city. I was terrified, standing there at the front of the class on display as the teacher introduced me. At recess, no one spoke to me. At lunch a girl named Lindsay came over and we talked and I thought "Finally! A friend." But I quickly learned that Lindsay was the class outcast and even talking to her made me an outcast by association. Lindsay and I got along okay, but she was a little strange and I wouldn't say we had lots of fun together. And not having anyone else as a friend was hard. I remember the culture shock of a whole new world. Small town living had left me a little naive, and when kids at school were talking about sexual terms and phrases I had no idea what they were talking about...even when I was teased for my last name. That summer, Lindsay and her mom moved away and I never heard from her again. I hate to admit it, but I was glad. I started grade 6 with no friends once again.
One fall day at the bike racks after school, another girl and I had the same bike, and as it turned out we lived close to each other. I'm so glad Jennifer took a chance at becoming my friend. After that, Jen invited me into her circle of friends, her family and her church. In the end, God's timing was perfect, Jen and I are still friends, and at that church my faith grew and took shape into a friendship with God, and I met my future husband. I don't regret the tough friendless times, because I know they both made me grow and they helped pave the way for so many of those friends that I hold dear as well as my marriage, which I know is a precious gift. I never regret leaving that small town which was all I knew, because when I see the ravages of teenage boredom in a small town among my former peers, I wonder if I too would have turned to drugs, alcohol or suicide.

As long as that blog was, I was really writing because of a whole other event in my life, which has stirred up so many feelings from grade 5. Tomorrow I start a new job. I've worked on the Children's Hospital surgical and burn unit since I was a student more than 10 years ago. I've made so many friends doing a job that I love. But for some reason I felt an urging to move and learn, so I applied for a job in the Pediatric Intensive Care Unit (PICU). I wasn't even sure if I would take the job when I faxed in my transfer form, but I was soon cornered by the Unit Manager who offered the job without me even having the benefit of time to waste thinking about it while there were interviews. And now after the mandatory 4 weeks notice, here I am on the eve of my new job. It's only for a year during someone else's maternity leave, and I've floated to PICU a few times before and always enjoyed working there (even though I haven't taken care of the really sick kids on ventilators yet). Over the next couple months, I'm going to be buddied with other nurses, and spend some days in a classroom learning the things I don't yet know, so I needn't worry about my skills or about killing anyone. But once again, I'm 10 years-old with butterflies in my stomach hoping that someone will like me. I have the urge to bake something to win them over...but then I think I'll look like I'm trying too hard. I'm trying to figure out which uniform to wear, wishing I had the time for a haircut and eyebrow wax. Trying to figure out what to pack for lunch...certainly not the leftovers from tonight's fish supper. I can't stink up the lunchroom on my first shift. Here I am, that awkward girl inside me panicking and screaming "why would you do this to yourself again?". But you know what they say, no pain, no gain.

Silly rabbit, Christmas isn't just for kids.

2008-12-23T05:31:00.005-06:00

I hear so many people say "Christmas is for the kids". I can see how people can think that, especially for those who Christmas is more about traditions and celebrations than God. I know I shouldn't be surprised at the feeling that Christmas is just another day to dress the kids up and give them stuff (I wonder if the pagans are as disappointed at what we've done to their Halloween). After all, try finding a box of "holiday" cards in Walmart that actually say "Merry Christmas". A few years back at work, the annual Christmas tea was replaced by the winter something or other tea. I respect those who celebrate Hanukkah, Kwanza and whatever else their beliefs lead them to, but I'm more than a little saddened by the all the people out there who celebrate "Christmas" that are totally missing the point. It's so easy to get swept away, even as a christian, in the shopping and baking and get-togethers. It's disheartening to watch Jesus be pushed out of the way to make room for traditions and celebrations. At the same time I want to have some traditions with my family. I want my children to appreciate the birth of Christ as the center of Christmas, but at the same time I don't want my boys to grow up resenting our faith for spoiling the "festivities". And I must say it seems so hard to juggle both sides of this season.
Unfortunately, the children get more excited at the gifts beneath the tree than the reason for the star on top. I've been trying to spend as much time talking and reading to my kids about the first Christmas (and why we celebrate this miracle every year) as we spend making the actual Christmas preparations. But the abstract birth of our Saviour two thousand years ago can't compete with the concrete pile of gifts with their names on them or even the invisible scent of gingerbread baking. This morning I was up at 4am and couldn't sleep. I went out into the living room and picked up my bible. It felt so wonderful to just have some quiet time with God, and I walked away from that experience understanding that my children may be too young to be able to realize the depth of the importance of the real Christmas, but I am not, and if I can give Jesus center stage amidst all the flurry of shopping and wrapping and baking, then my children will grow up seeing that, and hopefully He will be more important to them once they can fully understand. I know that it is still important to tell my boys about Jesus' birth and how it is the reason for the season, but I now realize that what is more important is my example.

Lunch is the most important meal of the day.

2008-11-30T12:46:00.006-06:00

Thirty-two years ago today someone very special was born. I first met her in grade 7 homeroom. She was blond, quiet and so short that she fit under my chin (which considering that I am only 5'2" means a lot). Soon after that we both happened to be hanging around the school at lunch while everyone else went to McDonald's, and we ended up sitting in the gym bleachers watching intramural sports and breaking all the rules by eating in the gym...well, maybe not all the rules, but the one about "NO EATING IN THE GYM" (we were quite the rebels). I remember how easy it was to talk to this girl who I'd only just met. I remember being surprised at how much this "quiet" girl could talk. I remember how talking to her put me completely at ease...unfortunately it put me so much at ease that I forgot the necessity of covert eating in the gym and got busted by the gym teacher when he saw my granola bar. I got kicked out of the gym, but Susi came with me and we got to finish both our lunch and our conversation elsewhere.

The years went by and we grew up (well Susi grew up, I merely got older- so now we're the same height). We spent few lunch hours apart in junior high, even fewer apart in high school. In university we'd trek across campus to find a quiet alcove, stairwell or hallway to eat our lunch.

Yes, Susi and I have done a lot together more than just lunches. Through school, youth group, sleepovers (including some midnight baking sessions), summer camp, ski trips (now, there was a disastrous lunch -for Susi at least, but now she checks expiry dates on all convenience store sandwiches), trips to the mall, and just hanging out at one of our houses, I've learned that Susi is the best girlfriend a person could hope for. She has always been an example of what being a friend is all about, but I think I learned the most from our lunches together. If I forgot my lunch, she would not offer half her sandwich, she would feign satiety and offer her whole sandwich . Then she'd offer her cookies, and whatever else she had. One year for my birthday, she carried custom-made donuts (she worked at one of those smoky donut shops) around in her bag all over campus until lunch when she pulled them out, compete with candle. Who knew that my dream donut of a chocolate-filled maple dip with sprinkles would be so disgustingly sweet. I've always looked forward to lunches with my dear friend, where I can speak my mind where I'm not only heard by the best listener I know, but I'm validated by her gentle words.

Now our shared lunches don't happen nearly often enough and are usually spent making sure our combined 5 children (soon to be 6) are getting their nutrients. But I know when I need a friend, she's just a phone call away. Happy Birthday Susi! Let's do lunch soon.

Not yet 2 and already a Fashionista!?!

2008-11-26T07:16:00.013-06:00

I'm not a big follower of trends, mostly because whenever I see one, I think "I could never pull that off!". But, as a teen my room was strewn with clothes, not because I took off my dirty clothes and dropped them on the floor (because I had a laundry chute for that), but rather, my room was a pile of clean, but rejected clothes. Every weekend night and many weekday mornings I'd try on clothes, not like something about them, and take them off, adding them to the pile of clothes to be put away later. I never thought this part of history would repeat itself until my children were in their teens, and I hoped...nay, dreamed that maybe because I have boys, the cycle would end with me. But life never happens as we expect.

With Luke there would sometimes be some bargaining to get him to pick a shirt and pants that he was happy wearing and that made me happy because they didn't totally clash (I have OMD, but more about that later), but there were few battles. We are now going into hours 2 of today's Let's get Toby dressed battle, in which I'm taking a short blogging break to try to regain some sanity and perspective.

Like I mentioned before, I have what I call OMD - Obsessive Matching Disorder. My bra and panties have always matched (that is, as long as I've been wearing a bra). Back in the day of scrunchies I had an entire drawer full so that I always had one to wear that matched. Even when I'm sick, my clothes may be stained with vomit, but you'd better believe that they match. I'd rather have my hands pulled up into my sleeves with frostbite nipping at my fingers than to wear gloves that clash with my jacket. It's a disease. I know it's unreasonable, but it's like I can't help myself.

On days like today when there are more dirty clothes in the hamper than clean clothes in the drawers, Toby is my OMD shock therapy:

This shirt?
No.
How about this one?
No.
Look at this one? It has an alligator on it!
No.
You could wear this red one...just like Luke's red shirt.
No.
Okay, why don't you just pick one out of the drawer?
No.
Come on, just PICK one!
No.
Let's try pants first then, do you want to wear jeans?
Jeans!
Okay, put these ones on.
No.
Which ones do you want?
These.
(Puts them on)
Small!
No they're not too small, let's get a shirt...
(Pulling the pants off) No, No No!
Okay, how about sweatpants?
No.
and on the story goes...

I no longer care if Toby's clothes match, and frankly this morning I no longer care if he has clothes at all, but it's rather cold outside to be streaking, so I guess we're stuck at home until I get the laundry done for him to pick out something he does like.

I personally would have stuck with "Trick or Treat"

2008-11-01T07:34:00.024-05:00

Yesterday was Halloween. I was working for the first time since the kids were born. I had debated on trying to trade a shift to get the day off, but realized that since there would be many Christmases where I'd have to work, and it wouldn't be possible to find someone to trade that shift, I didn't want to take the chance that the boys might get the idea that Halloween was more important than Christmas. I had hoped that I'd manage to get home in time to see the boys in their costumes, but by the time I left work and called home, they were no longer cowboys. So I had to rely on the pictures that Bruce took.

Well as I predicted it would be a bit of a fight to get Toby into costume because he didn't remember the whole you get candy for dressing up thing (but apparently he snapped out of his crying tantrum as soon as Bruce gave him a piece of chocolate). The boys looked pretty cute in the pictures of them in their cowboy duds, and that made me even sadder to have missed it. Then, Bruce got Luke to tell me what he taught him to say at the door when trick or treating, but it was hard to understand with his mouth full of chocolate. So Bruce showed me the video...

Needless to say, I thought it was cute, but I was a little disturbed. Yes, I guess shouting 'trick or treat' is actually quite rude, and if you think about it really is a threat, but it`s been tempered by years of tradition. However, 'give me all your candy and no one gets hurt' while holding a gun is slightly more threatening. As a mother, I can`t help but worry that some little old lady is still annoyed at the rude young cowboy that showed up on her doorstep demanding candy. As a father, my husband was proud of teaching his son something so "funny".
I'll never understand men.

My Serenity Prayer

2008-10-08T20:06:00.016-05:00

God grant me the serenity
to accept the things I cannot change;
like my droopy eyelids that always make my eyes looks closed when I smile, and the fact that I cannot stay awake for an entire DVD movie.
courage to change the things I can;
like allowing my son to mix play-doh colours even though every fiber in my being screams when I see him squishing them together and I have to resist the urge to yank the glob of doh out of his hands and separate it back into its original colours.
and wisdom to know the difference...especially when my husband points out that it doesn't have to be that way.

Living one day at a time;
but meal planning one week at a time, so I don't have to run to the store every day.
Enjoying one moment at a time;
because when the boys are grown I will miss the days of sitting together reading the same book over and over again...(even though I will probably still have the words memorized)
Accepting hardships as the pathway to peace,
and a necessary part of parenting, (which rarely involves peace, even in the bathroom);
Taking, as He did, this sinful world
and sometimes rotten children
as it is, not as I would have it;
not forcing my neuroses on my family, but allowing them to enjoy life
Trusting that He will make all things right
if I surrender to His Will;
(which is so hard for a stubborn person such as myself to do)
That I may be reasonably happy in this life,
so long as my bra and panties always match,
and supremely happy with Him
Forever in the next,
when none of my compulsions will matter.
Amen.

-Reinhold Niebuhr and Tanya

How does that saying go? You give a boy a fish, he eats for a day....

2008-10-02T05:47:00.035-05:00

...give in to that boy's supermarket tantrums, he eats for a lifetime???

Like many moms, I try to do my grocery shopping sans whining mouths and small hands reaching from the cart to pull things off the shelves. For those mothers who lug their kids to grocery, department and clothing stores every time they go, I salute you. For me, I try to plan my meals and grocery shopping so that as many of those dreaded trips are during hubby's days off. But until I learn how to make a casserole solely out of assorted condiments and over-ripe bananas, some days we simply need to go buy food. There are also those occasions where everyone is home and occupied, when I believe I'm home free, and just as I'm grabbing my purse to head out, Luke inevitably spots me, and so starts the whining...er, bargaining. It's still better shopping with only Luke in tow, at least I don't have to constantly tell Toby to sit back down, before he takes a header of the cart. But like all who have gone before me...shopping with a preschooler adds up to a lot of "I want that"s. Unlike all who have gone before me, shopping with Luke would not be easier if I could manage to avoid the junk food aisles...we'd have to avoid the condiments, the deli, the produce and most importantly the fish counter. I realize that Luke enjoys sauces to dip his food, as most preschoolers do, and I even don't mind giving into the odd request for mock chicken or a pepperoni stick.
I'm sure you're all thinking "why would a child wanting fruits and vegetables be a problem?" Well, it's not that he wants carrot sticks or a different kind of apple...that I could understand. No, the screams from our cart are "I WANT AN ARTICHOKE!!!". I've given in and bought eggplant (which he didn't eat), brussell sprouts (which he didn't eat), dragon fruit (which he didn't eat), and so on. I've repeatedly been burned on produce like kiwis, avocados, green beans and parsnips which I seem to continually buy only for him to spit out with disdain. I'll admit, as we speak, there is a kiwi in my fruit basket headed for such a fate. But I wouldn't know what to do with a fresh artichoke...the only kind I've ever used are the jarred artichoke hearts...but the peppers are right by the artichokes, so I can't seem to avoid them, and the inevitable begging, which escalates to whining and then turns to yelling.
Remember I said "most importantly the fish counter"? Yes, there are things more embarrassing than a tantrum over an artichoke. Maybe he's watched the IMAX's "Deep Sea" one too many times, maybe it's because I used to stop at the fish counter and show Luke the live lobsters and crabs whenever we'd go to a store selling shellfish. But now, as we walk in the door Luke starts asking to go to the fish counter. Our regular grocery store doesn't have tanks with live shellfish thankfully...but it does have rainbow trout. Small and with head still intact must be what's so appealing, but that doesn't ease the embarrassment of a 45 pound, red-faced monster screaming "I WANT RAINBOW TROUT! I WANT RAINBOW TROUT! I WANT RAINBOW TROUT!!!!!" as he is dragged to the checkstands to pay for the food we do need. He used to eat salmon and pickerel, cod, and even halibut on occasion, but in the past year, the fish I serve tends to get pushed around the plate, so you can see my reluctance at buying the elusive Rainbow Trout. Last month, while I was sitting planning meals and making my grocery list I asked Luke what he wanted for meals that week. He diplomatically said rainbow trout, so although we had steaks marinating for supper, I added it to the list...surf and turf. We stopped at the fish counter, where I requested the smallest rainbow trout available. Before it was wrapped I asked the man to hold it up so Luke would actually believe me when I said we had a trout in the cart. The man, quite amused (possibly remembering me pulling a screaming Luke past his counter on previous visits), hammed it up, making the Mr. Trout swim through the air for a while before parcelling it. Although there was still an artichoke request logged that day, it was quickly quelled by threats to release his catch of the day.

Finally. He had won. He had his trout, and surprisingly, he ate some. Expecting a little more peace the following week I zoomed past the fish counter...make that attempted to zoom past the fish counter, only to discover, to my dismay,that I hadn't satisfied the beast, only whet it's appetite. Although...he did do even better with last night's rainbow trout, so maybe I'd better start looking for a good artichoke recipe.

Martha meets Roseanne

2008-09-15T20:42:00.014-05:00

At work I have a bit of a reputation. It's a good reputation to have that I earned through years of bringing in delicious baked goods to share with everyone. I love baking....correction, I love baking without the aid of a toddler and a preschooler. Once you have little helpers you need a lot more time, ingredients (because of inevitable spillage) and patience. Although an extra set of eyes (or at least a keen sense of peripheral vision) to make sure those freshly washed hands stay out of mouths, noses and other not so clean places during food handling is also a bonus. Needless to say, in an attempt to keep what's left of my sanity, the frequency of my marches through the tunnels from the parkade toting tins and tupperware has been on a rapid decline since returning from my first maternity leave. But still, the reputation persists...and I can't say I'm sorry about that. Somehow the reputation of being a good cook/baker comes along with the belief that I live in a spotless house with an elegantly decorated living room and a table of fine china and napkins folded into swans. I think people believe that while my rack of lamb is in the oven I sit in my crafting room teaching the children how to embroider their monograms into pillowcases. I do enjoy crafts...although my completion rate shows that I enjoy the idea of crafting more than the actual crafts themselves. So at work, when I make a comment about the mess I choose to call home, I almost always hear one of two comments..."yeah, right..I'm sure it's REALLY messy" (said sarcastically, if you haven't figured that out), or "well, you have kids". Truth be told...Yeah...Right...it REALLY is messy, and although the toys are new since having children, the general feeling of clutter, mess, and the dog hair tumbleweeds are hardly a new experience for me. If the girls at work spoke to my highschool friends they'd find out how my childhood bedroom was a gigantic pile of clothes, papers and junk - with only the bed clear of debris, and the only visible floor being a small winding pathway past the closet and to the bed. I am simply not a neat, tidy person. I do enjoy disinfecting things and having things clean, and I would also LIKE to put things away so that they're neat and tidy, but I have a hard time putting those wishes into action. So, I am happy to have the reputation of being a Martha, but if anyone were to stop by my house unannounced they'd be shocked to discover I have much more in common with Roseanne...although I don't grab at my crotch in public.

A Life of Frogs, Snails and Puppydog Tails.

2008-09-03T10:14:00.022-05:00

Yesterday Luke's friend (and next-door neighbour) came for a few hours. She's a mere 6 months older than Luke and very outgoing, which is good for my little introvert. She loves coming over to play, mostly because ours toys are different, but I also think because Luke lets her be the boss. She flies around the living room from toy to toy, and game to game. When she settles on something, she calls Luke over to do her bidding and play with her. I had a craft at the ready, snakes made out of toilet paper rolls cut and strung together, covered in construction paper and painted scales....yes, not a girly craft, but my first craft choice fell through and this was what I could come up with. From my last visit to her house I learned that she had recently spent birthday money buying toy dragons and monster things that weren't particularly girly, and she had toy snakes at home, so I figured she'd go for it. After the dust settled from her first round at the toys, I showed them the craft. Luke got excited and started to work right away. But he was the only one excited...no, she didn't want to make a snake.
"How 'bout we make a hedgehog instead?"
I couldn't figure out how to make some cut up toilet paper tubes into a hedgehog.
"What about making a snail?"
I was puzzled with that one too. So with a promise to Luke that he and I would finish the snake later, we settled on a board game. After that, the flurry of toys resumed.
While I was in the kitchen working on lunch, I was listening and peeking at them playing...
SHE: Let's play birdies
HE: ACH! ACH! (screaming and running around flapping his arms/wings)
SHE: I'm the mommy bird and you're the daddy bird (sitting on a leftover plastic Easter egg)
HE: chomping noises
SHE: what are you doing?
HE: I'm eating you...I'm a bird and you're a dirty worm
SHE: Stop! I'm the mommy bird and you're the daddy bird!
HE: chomping noises
SHE: Don't eat me! I don't want to be a dirty worm! (regathering her composure and changing the subject off worm eating) Look the egg is hatching! (opens the plastic egg and pulls out a Mr.Potatohead ear) Look at the baby chick!
HE: That's not a chick, that's an ear! (my son, always the realist).
A bit of arguing over the identity of the chick/ear ensued, until both lost interest and moved on to something else.
As I stood in the kitchen I realized that as an outgoing (sometimes bossy) girl, I had a shy introverted boy friend that I cajoled into playing house with my cabbage patch kids, and we'd have picnics in the yard as a family, usually ending in me caring for the babies whilst "daddy" climbed a tree. And like an epiphany, albeit an obvious one, I realized the big differences between the sexes have always been and will always be, regardless of the changing roles in society. We were created differently, and despite Luke's love of dressing up in his "dress", I was living in a house of boys, where we have one toy baby as our only doll, who sits in the toy box 99% of the time. I'm not saddened by this enough to try for another baby (it would likely be another boy anyways), but I do have to grieve for the loss of my dream to have a girl who I can do girly things with. I love my boys dearly, and I am teaching them to be men who can cook and bake, and hopefully clean and do laundry, even if they'd rather eat worms than play house.

We're not "Carnies". We prefer the term "Circus Folk"

2008-08-23T16:08:00.041-05:00

I've said it before, my home feels like a circus most days...my husband and I transient shift workers, coming and going at all hours. Loading and unloading our children into the roller coaster we call a minivan. Anyone who has experienced my driving can attest to the roller coaster comparison...although I guess roller coasters would be more of a carnival or fair thing, than circus-y...but we do have hyper children screaming, and whining for treats, so I guess a carnival isn't too far off either. But still, the circus is the best way I can think of to describe my household. So I was thinking I could take this metaphor a bit farther and introduce you to my family, although my profile has already touched on it.
BRUCE
My wonderful husband...as much as I want to tell you all he's the ring-master, if I had to pick a single title...I think that I picture him more as the strong man. He is the head of the household, but he's a fairly quiet, shy guy, so the title of ring-master seems a little off. But, "Strong Man", that seems perfect. He's great at opening jars and lifting heavy objects, and physically he's the strongest man in the house...but it's much more than physical strength. He's a strong, solid, stable man, which suits my drama queen personality quite well. He's so strong, that having him beside me makes me stronger.
LUKE
Luke always talks non-stop. If he has nothing better to talk about he just starts a play-by-play of what's going on. That would make him a pretty good announcer, except that I think that in circuses, that job belongs to the ring-master, (which I'm sure he thinks he is). Although lately if you asked him what he is he'll tell you he's the snake charmer, but that's just because he is into a snake phase. But I think he's best suited to being a clown. Dressing up, being funny...yeah, that's Luke...so long as he's a clown who can talk. He's already so interested when I put on my make-up, so I'd better watch out. He would have to work on overcoming his shyness to be a clown out in public somewhere, but in our circus home, he's a total clown.
TOBIAS
There's no humming and hawing over Toby...he's an acrobat. No piece of furniture too high, no high flying move too risky. Unfortunately, he performs without a net. Energizer bunny meets chimpanzee meets mountain goat. Baby-proofing has nothin' on this kid. We're lucky that so far that his only permanent damage is a chipped tooth. Want something guaranteed to make Toby smile no matter how miserable he is?... fling him around, or hold him up by his ankles, or any move like that. If we had a giant cannon, he'd be climbing in it right now.

RITA
Nobody knows what kind of dog Rita is. She was found as a starving stray puppy. She's not ferocious, and can withstand being a participant (sometimes willing, sometimes not so much) in both Luke and Toby's performances with surprising poise and patience. She has tiger-like stripes and sometimes has a wild look in her eyes. If she wants something (like breakfast or a trip to the dog park)

she starts growling and howling, although neither could even give the illusion of an untamed beast. But she's our only animal act, so you can enjoy her act, or picket outside our home for having an animal act...although the only animal cruelty here is from Luke wanting to pet her too often, or when Toby tries to ride her like a horse (but to the activists from all the animal groups out there, we stop them as soon as we see it, so please don't start picketing).
ME (a.k.a. TANYA)
I try to stay on top of plucking the odd chin hair I find growing, because I do fear becoming the bearded lady both figuratively and literally. However, I do realize that once most kids become teenagers they begin to gawk at their mother's uncool, "freakish" ways. That and not knowing how hard or fast menopause will hit, I could potentially be the bearded lady in a decade or so, both figuratively AND literally, once the boys' hormones kick in, and mine peter out. Until then, I choose to keep my tweezers handy and enjoy my children always believing that I know everything...or at least something.
Some days in this house I feel like a concession stand worker, trying to "sell" the boys that banana that is fast developing spots..."Bananas heeeerrreee! Get your bananas heeerrreee!", but I can't charge the outrageous prices which makes me more like the cafeteria lady than a concession stand worker.

I guess I'd be best described as the juggling act. No, I can't juggle flaming batons, swords or even bowling pins, but I try to juggle my family and work, and for me that's plenty hard to do.

What I did (and didn't) say to the crowd at the church.

2008-08-08T06:11:00.005-05:00

My grandfather died on Monday. He was a month shy of 89 years, and had been pretty much slowly dying with congestive heart failure since his heart attack in 2004, so it was neither surprising nor terrible that he passed away. I'm sad to lose him, but he was a wonderful Christian man who has been ready to die for quite some time now, so I know he's happy. As both my grandparents are/were especially proud of their grandchildren, we were asked to do something at his funeral, which was yesterday. It was a beautiful funeral, but I laid awake in bed for many hours last night thinking of what else I could have said, that would make people understand how wonderful he was. And it bothered me until I thought I could use this blog for therapeutic purposes. For those of you expecting a smile from a lighthearted blog, you'd better skip this one today. So all eight of us grandchildren, ages ranging from 34 to 6, got up to the stage as a group, my brother went first talking about how when our other grandfather was dying in the hospital, my Papa (that's the one who just died) spent hours talking and praying with my Grandpa bringing him back to Jesus, whom he had left so many years before, and because of him, they are both in Heaven today. One cousin talked about how Papa could fix anything and how he was the reason that my cousin wanted to have a job where he could work with his hands. Another cousin talked about the wonderful times at the lake and my grandfather water skiing at 75 years of age. Someone read a poem, someone played a piano solo, and a couple we too distraught or too young to speak, but we all went up together. I mentioned sitting in my grandparents' basement listening to him play Red River Valley on the accordion. We always loved when he'd pull out the accordion, which he taught himself to play, because that meant my grandma would let us sneak sugar cubes out of the china cabinet to suck on while he played. Lucky for my teeth he didn't play too often. Now I can't hear Red River Valley played without thinking it sounds better on the accordion, or without getting a sugar craving. I didn't tell the congregation of how embarrassed I was one day when my Papa and I walked up to the nearby mall for some groceries and he noticed an old cot in the dumpster. After we had brought the groceries home the two of us rode bikes back, and he pulled the cot out and we brought it home. I was probably about 8 then, and was mortified that my grandfather was a garbage-picker, and even more worried that someone might see us. But, I was sure proud that Christmas when my brother got a red metal hockey net built stronger than anything you could buy, probably even in the NHL, and my grandfather told everyone how we brought the cot home together, and then downplayed the fact that he was the one who transformed an old cot into a hockey net.
I had so many fond memories as we would often stay with my grandparents' when we'd come into the city, but probably the most important was the Godly example they set. From a young child I remember sitting at the breakfast table, everything ready to eat, waiting for my grandfather to finish reading devotions. I remember hating the wait which seemed like forever on the mornings that my grandmother served cracklings (which is like tiny bits of pork fried in lard until they're crispy then strained out to get the dripping lard off and scooped up with bits of bread...I know amazing my grandfather made it to 88 eating like that). As I got older I'd try to listen a little more to the devotions, sometimes more successfully than others, but it taught me the importance of spending time with the Bible instead of letting it go dusty on a shelf. My grandparents both lived as Christian examples, but I told the congregation that the best Christian example was the love my Papa demonstrated for his grandchildren. He not only loved us unconditionally, he treasured us. And it didn't matter what we did or where we went, he was always so happy to see us. And he was so proud of all of us. When I was in Junior High I flew out for a week to meet them in Arizona where they spent part of the winter, and all week he walked about bursting with pride about his granddaughter in for a visit. In recent years, whenever I'd visit him at the care home, or the hospital, anyone who walked in the room would be subjected to "this is my granddaughter Tanya, she's a nurse", and many of them had obviously heard about me from him before I arrived. He bragged about all his grandchildren that way, because he was so filled with love for us, that it overflowed. And no matter how long it had been since we'd been to see him we were always welcomed with an "I'm so glad you came". I can't think of a better example of how God feels about us, and that God not only loves you, He treasures you.

Who would have known Raffi could be so insightful?

2008-07-28T20:16:00.009-05:00

I was never a Raffi fan as a child. I don't know if we owned any of his music, but I certainly preferred my Music Machine record if we did. Now as a parent I've bought a few cheap kids CDs from bargain bins if they have a song that makes me wax nostalgic, or a song I know Luke likes...and I did shell out full price for the CD versions of some Veggietales Silly Songs albums, but generally the kids listen to whatever we choose, which when Bruce is in charge means his music, often in record form. With our digital cable we get music stations, including a kids' one. Needless to say on the Treehouse music station, Raffi gets his fair share of plays on it alongside Fred Penner singing Sandwiches, and The Cat Came Back. I do enjoy the odd Raffi song, mostly because he mentions my name in at least 2 songs I've heard, which may not be a big deal for all the Jennifers I know, but for me, it puts a smile on my face, even as an adult. Yeah, you can hum or even sing along with Raffi, but generally I always thought of his music as, well, Fluff...singing about infant whales, and whatnot. But there is one song that I never remember hearing as a child. It's called All I Really Need. The refrain is simple "All I really need is a song in my heart, food in my belly, love in my family". When I hear (or sing) that simple refrain I feel warm and content with myself and the world. People in North America spend so much time and money on getting enough and being happy that they have no time to actually enjoy having enough and being happy. Just go into any bookstore and find the section labelled "self-help". There's rows and rows of books telling everyone how they can improve their lives, their children, their attitudes. Now I don't want to put down people who read these books in the hopes of improving themselves, we could all try a little harder at that, heaven knows I sure have plenty of room for improvement. But there's also something to be said for being happy with who you are and what you have. I've never read any of those Don't Sweat the Small Stuff books, but my mother the worrier thought they were good. I personally think you don't have to waste your time with any of those books, just pick up a the Raffi album and keep singin'.

God made weeds too

2008-07-22T14:04:00.020-05:00

So earlier today the boys and I were outside enjoying a beautiful summer day, when something made me do a bit of weeding...that something being Luke. I rarely do weeding, and am very lucky that I have a mother-in-law who is a bit anal-retentive about weeds in the garden. I know when the weeds are getting bad, not when I bother to look at my garden, but when my in-laws show up for a visit and my father-in-law shows up without my mother-in-law. It's not that they didn't come together...no, it's that she couldn't walk past the weeds in the front flowerbeds and spends the first part of the visit on her knees pulling out weeds. When she finally makes it to the door she's carrying a handful of weeds for the compost bin. Some people may be bothered by what they might call meddling, I'm thankful for what I call free labour. I usually then suggest that we head out to the back yard for a little while. I hope she doesn't realize that it's not because of the beautiful sunshine, or how much the boys enjoy the sandbox, but rather a ploy to extract as much free labour as I can before the visit is through. In the back yard she doesn't have to clutch her handful of weeds, but rather throws the weeds into a large enamel-coated handled bowl that belonged to my great-grandmother. It's got a few rust spots, but is the perfect weed receptacle. Which brings me back to today, when Luke brought said bowl over and wanted to pulls some weeds so he can make a "caesar salad". A few years back we made a peanut shaped garden around the big evergreens in the centre of our yard. My goal was to fill it so full of perennial plants that there would be no room for the weeds to grow. My mother-in-law graciously split her plants and the plants of her friends to aid me in my quest, and so other than a few hostas that I shelled out for, my garden was furnished with donations...most of which I have no idea what they are. It is a wonderfully cheap way to garden, but it does have a downfall though. There I am trying to show Luke which are weeds so we can pull them for the bowl, but I'm not sure about some of them. For once I was thankful that our dog Rita had taking up the hobby of digging in the garden. There was a barren area at the near end where her most recent excavations have taken place, but I remembered in the springtime she used to dig at the far end. So Luke and I headed over to what was empty this spring before we filled the dirt back in, and low and behold it was filled with big ugly weeds. In no time we had the "salad" bowl overflowing. Today's experience did get me thinking though. What makes a weed a weed? I think of Shakespeare's line in Romeo and Juliet, "a rose by any other name would smell as sweet". Is there a place in the world where roses are weeds? Is there some woman out in her backyard somewhere hands covered in thorn pricks saying "I wish I could get rid of these roses...they're everywhere! My poor dandelion plant can't get any sunlight, because the #@%&* roses keep getting in the way!" Look up weeds on Wikipedia (click the logo). Weeds are just regular plants that grow well in whatever gardening zone you're in. We live near Assiniboine Forest where the last few summers students have been hired to "restore the native prairie grassland" which really means weeding so that the original weeds can grow back now doesn't it?
So really, who am I to decide what plants should grow in my garden...God made those "weeds" too. They have just as much, if not more, right to grow in my garden as the ornamental grasses and day lilies do...don't they? Of course I am one of those people who will find any way to justify not doing the things I don't like doing, and weeding is one of them...but still. Which reminds me, I'd better call the in-laws and invite them over. There's still plenty of weeds back there.

You may have overheard me at the Children's museum on Thursday...

2008-07-13T08:48:00.021-05:00

Here we are.
Luke, Please, we have to wait for the lady to get off the phone so we can pay to get in....Luke, we have to wait, Luke please wait, Luke come back here, we have to wait. Just wait. Yes, there's the train, but we need to wait. Luke, we have to wait. Just a minute. Okay.
No, Luke we need to put our stuff in the locker first, this way, come on. Yes, you can pick the locker. That one? This one? Just make up your mind please. This one? Good choice.Okay, let's put our stuff in, now put in the loonie...good, turn the key, here I'll help you, all right let's go.
Luke why don't you go in the tunnel with Caleb? Mommy needs to watch Toby, but Caleb will go in the tunnel with you. Luke, Caleb really wants to go in the tunnel with you. I know it's dark, but there are some lights inside, you can do it. Good...
It's okay Luke, Caleb was just pretending to be a snake. That was just him making a hissing noise, you can go back in...yes, I'll come. Come on Toby, let's go with Luke.
No, Mommy doesn't fit on the slide.
I don't know why there's only 2 balls today, but we have to take turns.
Toby do you want to try. Okay, put the ball in the hole, right in there...where's Luke? Luke?! LUKE! Luke, you can't run away like that we'll see the train later. Look at this!....Okay where's Luke now? Luke! LUKE! LUKE! LUKE! Come back here! You can't run away!.....let's go see the car now.
You want to go up there? Okay, but stay where I can see you....Luke are you still up there? Luke? LUKE! LUKE! I told you not to run off! Let's go to the train.
No Toby this way...Toby THIS waaaaay! TOBY! THIS WAY!
Luke you have to wait your turn.
Luke you have to share.

Toby, Justin was using that, give it back please.
Luke? Luke! LUKE! LUKE! LUKE! YOU CAN'T RUN OFF BY YOURSELF! YOU NEED TO STAY WITH US! DON'T RUN AWAY AGAIN!
Time to go...We'll come back another day.
Did you have fun?...Me too!

Welcome to the Big Top...Cue the music!

2008-06-28T16:14:00.018-05:00

I started hearing the circus music not long after Toby was born. I'm one of those people who always has a tune in their head. I'm not sure if everyone is like that, but there's always some song or ditty, either playing in my brain or coming out of my mouth. Sometimes I don't even realize that I'm humming away until someone comments on it, or starts singing along. The latter was the case yesterday, when I was sitting at the computer at work updating patient information, and the physiotherapist beside me started singing a song that seemed like I had heard it somewhere recently...and when I asked her why she started singing it, she gave me a strange look and said that I had been humming it. So maybe I'm crazy...but I think Toby is like me too, or maybe will be one day, because he always insists on having music playing, so maybe his brain has yet to perfect it's own play button.
I've always been a fan of the Cowboy Junkies. As a moody teenager I used to hole myself up in my room and listen to a melancholy album, feeling understood with the slow lonely songs and uplifted by the slightly more upbeat tunes. And I often found a song to relate to my current circumstances, becoming almost a theme song that I could listen to over and over again....and so many of those songs belonged to one Junkies album or another. And their slow lonely music is a good descriptor of my life before I fell in love with Bruce.
After Bruce entered the picture, his eclectic music tastes rubbed off on me and I started listening to a wide variety of music...neither of us ever got into dance music, and maybe that's because neither of us have been much into the party scene. So, it's hard to say what kind of music I identified with most, but likely Pearl Jam...something new to me that I loved. I identify Pearl Jam with excitement..whether it be the excitement of a new relationship, or the excitement of getting searched and frisked for the first time ever at a concert.
When Luke came along I started remembering songs from my childhood...often trying to google the lyrics I couldn't remember. Luke now takes comfort in the song about angels that my mom used to sing me.
I started hearing the circus music soon after Toby was born. I'm not saying it's constantly circus music in my head for the past year and a bit, but it gets more plays than normal from my song list when I'm at home with the kids. I remember trying to feed Toby, (or change Toby, or desperately stop his incessant crying) whilst Luke ran amok around the house. It didn't take Luke long to realize when I was tied up and to act up accordingly.I felt like my own life was so out of control. Then I heard it "DEE DEE DEEDLE DEEDLE DEE-DEE DE-DEEEEE!" (which I've since learned is actually called "Entrance of the Gladiators". You can click the "Welcome to the Big Top...Cue the music!" title if you don't know it.) and it made me smile. Sometimes when I feel so stressed out I'm ready to explode, I quietly sing that little ditty to myself and it calms...almost soothes me. Circus music soothing?!? I know that must sound totally absurd. Like that bearded lady (not that I've actually seen one in a circus)...think of how many women love to be stared at for their appearance...and that is why electrolysis and all those other hair removal products are around...just think of it ladies, you could avoid all that trouble, grow yourself a nice thick beard and get even more second glances...I know, absurd, but amusing, like so many things in life. But that music, I think I find it calming because it reminds me not to take life so seriously...just to relax and enjoy the show. At any rate, that music...that "DEE DEE DEEDLE DEEDLE DEE-DEE DE-DEEEEE!" has become an anthem to my life right now, which, just like the music, can be so annoying that you want to pull your hair out, cover your ears and yell make it stop...but at the same time it makes you so very happy.

Day #2 as a blogger

2008-06-20T07:27:00.006-05:00

So I've spent some time thinking about this whole blogging thing, and whether it's really something worthwhile to do with my time. I know journals and diaries are known to be therapeutic (for any of you younger people out there...that was a blog that people wrote on paper in a book for their own benefit...not to be confused with celebrity "autobiographies", used as a best-selling source of trash on other celebrities). I also know that in the past when I've tried a diary or journal, it doesn't take long until the pages are left blank with good intentions to get to it another day. So if I have any blog readers out there don't go expecting a new blog every day or even every week. Like so many of my other project this will likely end up sitting in a pile of "one day I'll get back to it" projects, but for now I guess I should get back on track and decide if I should even give this blogging thing a go. I lead a rather unexciting life...some may even call it boring. So, I have to wonder if I even have anything worthwhile to post in a blog. Sometimes interesting things happen at work, but for those of you who may not know I'm a nurse at a children's hospital, so pretty much all of those interesting stories are un-postable due to confidentiality issues. I have a few friends who would probably log on once or twice to just to see what I'm posting, but I'm guessing interest would taper, as those people could just look at my facebook status lines and pictures. I probably could be much more productive if instead of blogging, I simply spend that amount of time cleaning up this messy house, or actually washing the piles of laundry that are accumulating in the bedrooms...but if I enjoyed doing that kind of thing I certainly would live in a much cleaner house already. So, I guess what it boils down to is that I'm going to blog, not to amuse anyone, but to simply avoid the housework I don't want to do...like when I was a kid and I was made to clean my messy room, and I'd find some toy that hadn't interested me in months, but I'd start playing with it, just to avoid cleaning the rest of the room. Eventually, my mom would step in and start helping me...so if anyone out there in cyberspace feels like coming and lending a hand getting my house cleaned and my grocery shopping done, feel free. In the meantime I'll keep blogging to avoid it, and if I entertain someone along the way, all the better!

my first official blog entry

2008-06-19T14:19:00.016-05:00

Okay, so I like to pretend I'm all computer savvy, but truth be told I've never even written a blog before...at least until now that is. SO, I'm really not sure what to write. I guess firstly I'd like to dedicate this first blog entry to a fellow blogger...joyce. Now there's a woman who's got it all together. I've only met her live once, but that was enough. It was in a dentist's office...no, I wasn't there for a check-up or a filling...I was there to buy a bag. You see joyce uses a blog right here on blogspot to help others. This woman makes bags so gorgeous that the pictures don't do them justice, and it's not like she lives alone in a quiet house with nothing to do but sew bags, she does it whilst raising a family and then some. So I had managed to snag myself one of her beautiful creations and she was heading into the city, so I had the perfect opportunity to meet this wonderful person. Do we meet at some fancy little cafe for a latte...nope because we're both moms with more important things to do. And because of that I met Joyce as she was bringing her daughter into town for a dentist appointment. But this ordinary dentist's office had been converted by Joyce into a temporary daycare centre. There she was with a gaggle of toddlers in tow running errands. If they were her own kids it would be one thing, but these were other people's kids and there they were all playing nicely in a dentist's office waiting room. I had left my kids at home as it was a day off for my husband. I've got only 2 kids (and they're both fruit of my loins), but I was so grateful to not have to drag them out to pick up this bag, and there she was...not pulling out her hair or screaming at the kids, just calmly smiling and being the kind, caring person it is so obvious that she is. And hopefully I too can one day get my act together like that, although I doubt it, but it sure is nice to meet people who make you want to become a better person yourself. So if you read this Re-Joyce, hats off to you, and if you're ever in the city with nothing to do, give me a call and I'll treat you to a latte.