What's so Good about Friday?

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?

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.

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?

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.

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

"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.

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.