Mrs. Google

My Mom is Mrs. Google. At least that's what her friends call her. A wealth of random facts, she is constantly spouting information on birds, flowers, ailments, treatments, vitamins, housewares, kids, painting, and of course, husbands. She almost always has the answer.

Yet she is careful with her information. She admits when she is incorrect, a possible wikipedia error of sorts. She thinks before she speaks, and may not speak at all if it does not benefit.

On many of our nature walks on her property, she points to berries, vines, birds, or animals tracks, and teaches my kids as much as she can. "That stone wall was made in 1882." "See the red berries left for the birds to eat?" "Look at the moss growing up that tree trunk!" The kids listen intently as she points out everything.

Mr. Man sometimes joins in. "Look!" he says pointing down, "deer poop!"

While the kids gather round excitedly at the sight, Mrs. Google whispers in my ear, politely, "Actually that's coyote poop. You can tell by the hairs in it..."

As much as I smile and love her, it does make me think she would be the perfect "mom" candidate for one of Marion Keyes' novels.  You know the funny character who always lightens the mood after a heavy chapter?  She always makes me laugh.

"...it's also long, whereas a deer's is round. Or at least that's what I've been told. Oh, look! Our little bridge. It's made of oak, you know, so it won't rot."

Love you Mom!

Little Miss and Grade One

I admit, I had this written about six weeks ago and forgot to post it:

"So Little Miss is off to school this week with her brother - every day.

I knew I would be a little upset about this so I unconsciously made my world VERY busy, botched eight batches of cookie dough, made the van breakdown, got the dog sick, thereby keeping me from thinking of my childless days all week.  But when Mr. called to say he was coming home late I was surprised how perturbed I was.

"So I guess I am going to go try my hardest to get home on time, then." says he, after listening to a great deal of sighing coming at him from the phone.

For years I've been counting the minutes from 4pm to 5:30pm when Mr. Man walks in the door, scoops up the children, makes the perfect supper and saves me from insanity.  For years I have waded through what Mrs. Google calls "the witching hour" where sweet, lovely darlings turn into screaming, hungry beasts and I pray that this is the day Mr. will surprise me and pull in the drive.  Perhaps with flowers.

But today I had no screaming beasts nor sweet darlings, just me, my work, and an entire season of Friends reruns.  So why am I disappointed that he may be home late, if I do not need rescuing?

I think I'm lonely.

Ack, whatever.  Do I chat up the Jehovah's Witnesses and ask how their day is going?  Do I listen intently to telemarketers and buy up stock in hydro because they had such a nice voice?  Do I peer out my windows in hopes that a neighbour will be out and I can ask for an egg?

No, I did none of that.  I can't be lonely.

So what is this mixed feeling of melancholy, desperation, and uncomfortableness?  And how long will it last?  What will it take to cheer my spirits and be thankful for this new change in my day-to-day life?"

*****

So as I read this, six weeks later, I realize I have chatted up the Jehovah's witnesses, I have peered out the windows looking for neighbours, and I have even run to the phone thinking it is ringing, when in fact, it was in my imagination.   I was even pleased to see the health inspector at my shop door this week just to have conversation.

I have been blessed with spurts of Little Miss being home: a day with a cold, two days with a terrible ear infection, and one night and a day with the stomach flu. Not the best of reasons, but nice to have her, just the same.

"Mom, when is it that I get to go to school everyday?" She mumbles one night as I was brushing out her curls.  Ack, poor thing.  She's lonely being home.

I realize she is ready to be at school full time, and with the speed that she is learning to read and write I can finally be happy that she is there, with her brother, filling her mind with wonderful knowledge that she tells me all about when she gets home.

And perhaps a call from Mr. Man everyday at lunch is all I need.

ADD and the Crafty Internet

I have been perusing the blogosphere this winter as the cake business is in it's slow season and I am surprised by the many unfinished blog pages that are out there.  Their authors have stopped submitting posts for months, perhaps years, and they are left to dangle in the internet world, incomplete.  Where have these people gone? What has happened that the recipe they promised is not posted, or the details of their trip have gone missing?  Did they forget their password?  Are they hurt?  Are they DEAD?

I am also surprised by how many bloggers, upon returning, mention a mental illness, or a syndrome as an excuse for the long/short-term absence. "I'm so sorry I haven't written, as I have been in an emotional low right now," or "OMG, I can't believe it's been three months since I wrote, my ADD has certainly kicked in! LOL!"  Okay, I am slightly exaggerating, and realize that I may, in fact, fall under one of these categories if I am not careful.

I come from a long line of "starters."  We start something, fly high with it, and then, when we get bored, walk away from it, and leave it unfinished.  From ridiculous collections, to absurd hobbies, many in my family have tried several jobs, activities and projects only to be overcome with lethargy, and answer, "Oh, I'm not doing that anymore" to friendly inquiries.  Ebay has taken over several of these lives, and their purses.  Etsy is another, with all of its handmade wonderfulness.  But Pinterest has got to be one of the best feeders of us attention deficit and obsessive compulsive consumers.  We find ourselves clicking away, pinning and repinning our next project, our "get rich" scheme, and all the possible ways to DIY.  Delicious!  The living room fills with the tools we need: modge podge, hot pink yarn, various colours of felt, googly eyes, owl shaped buttons, and sisal rope.  My heart rate increases as I turn a rusty bowl into a piece of art, or knit a sweater that looks like a puppy.  How many ways can you turn a piece of paper into a flower?  Bags and bags of hot glue and cloth remnants cover the coffee tables.  By January, the vein in Mr. Man's forehead strains itself each time he walks into my "crafting corner."

I sincerely tried to complete most of my ideas.  Some I've completed but they fell apart.  Some I've thought I finished but realized I did not know how to knit.  "Oh, well, I guess I'll donate that..."  And yet some made great gifts for friends and family.  I will soon be known as that aunt who made the weird container gifts for Christmas.

But I promise I will continue to bless you, readers, with my nonsense.  I will work hard to not leave these pages unfinished and alone.  And if for some unforeseen reason I must take a permanent leave of absence I will leave Mr. Man with explicit instructions to announce the end of this blog.  I will not leave you hanging.

Consequently, I have since turned to craftgawker, foodie blogs and twitter.  Just as my father continues to collect tractor parts and bows down to the Massey-Harris god, and Mrs. Google continues to seek random information, perhaps I will become a foodie or a jewelry maker, and quit this silly cake business.  Hmmm.

And, if I am completely organized, you can hear all about it on my twitter account.  But don't tell Mr. Man.  His heart can't take it.

*****

The picture above contains one of my successful projects, a sisal rope basket (yes, the oranges are real.)

The Week He Went Away: Part 2

So, I have six days left before Mr. Man comes home, his dresser is in two, and I am quickly losing the respect of my eight-year-old son as he helps me drag several dressers upstairs to hide the evidence.  Perhaps your mother is a bit crazy, I think, as I look at him heave-hoing on the other end.  If you are just joining me, you have read this first.

The Search:

I need to get to an appointment the next day which is several kilometres away, so I take the opportunity to search through secondhand stores for dressers. I search and I search. I panic a bit. But I keep searching.

All I need is a decent dresser, and I can paint it if need be. That's what I was supposed to do in the first place.  I find huge, ugly, heavy ones that would not fit into the van, and I find teeny tiny ones that wouldn't even hold all of his socks.  A friend told me to look at some brand new ones, and the price tag was ridiculous.

The Confession:

The best way to confess, I've found is either while you have scissors in his hair, giving the scheduled haircut, or in this case, while texting him in Edmonton.

Him: I'm looking for a gift for you but I think it might be too expensive.

Me: Same here.

Him: What?

Me: I have a confession. I cut up your dresser and now I have to buy u a new one.

Him: Oh. Take back those 14 pillows you bought, and you can afford one.  (I like pillows.)

Obviously he was having too good a time to really care about a dresser he hated in the first place. But he wasn't keen on me paying for a new one, either.  Especially since he was spending so much on this trip out to Alberta.

The Find:

Finally, two days before he came home, my super niece (now 16-years-old, woot-woot!) and I lugged a 5' long ugly brown dresser out of the Salvation Army for $20.  Samantha, who swears she will buy my book of crazy someday, kept shaking her head and saying, "I can't believe we just picked up a dresser".

Really, she shouldn't be surprised by now.  She's been around me enough.

Here is "The Before":

The Fix:

So the kids and I got working, unscrewing the handles, setting up a painting station out in the mudroom, and by the time Mr. walked through the door early one morning, the paint was drying and he would soon have a dresser.  Phew.

So here is "The After":
I primed and painted with spray cans (I am very impressed with how little it took), leaving it an antique white and then painted the handles a Tremclad brown which kept a nice sheen.

He likes it, (I know he misses the periwinkle sometimes), but it is keeping together well, and at least his socks fit into it.  It sits nicely between our two bedroom windows, and my favourite painting by Mrs. Google sits above it.  My first Sally-Ann refurnish! 

So now...what to do with this? 

Erin

Little Miss and the Mother Bird

One morning I came downstairs from brushing my teeth and for a half a minute I could not find Little Miss.  Something passed by outside the north window, and through the rain I could see a little white hand pulling the gate shut.

She came in the back door, wearing her long, hot pink raincoat and running shoes, and was soaking wet.  Before I could give her a lecture on going outside without telling me, she said, "I needed to check on the bird's nest in the tree out front and make sure the eggs were okay in the rain.  I covered it with leaves to keep the eggs dry.  That mother bird is NEVER THERE!"  She shook her clothes off as she gave her own little lecture on taking care of babies, and I hid a smile.

A few days later, I stepped out on the front porch and found two backpacks on the lawn.  I looked up and found the kids they belonged to (mine).  There they were, climbing up a pine tree (Mrs. Google still can't believe it was a pine tree), peering into a bird's nest.  My son says there are two bright blue eggs inside, so Little Miss's leaf protection plan must've done the trick.

But I am amused by how much "mothering" is ingrained in her.  She fusses over her little cousins, carries toy babies with her everywhere, and even marries off her brother's hot wheels cars.  Family is important to Little Miss.

Perhaps that is why she is so inherently bossy.  She wants to be in charge.  She wants to be the "mom".    Or maybe she doesn't think the rest of us are doing it right!  I remember as a girl "trading places" with my mom.  It was a game we played where I would be the mom and she would be the daughter.  I got to boss her around for a time, and she would whine and complain and throw her things on the floor.  When evening came, however, I couldn't get mom to go to bed and let me stay up to watch TV.  That was when the game ended (or when it was time for the "adults" to do dishes).  But I, too, had that desire to be in charge.

Little Miss keeps asking me where the mother bird has gone.  Perhaps she's gone for food, I say, or digging for worms?  She scrunched up her face a bit, trying to imagine where the bird might have gone, but despite what she thinks, I am sure the mother is out there working hard for her babies.  Just like the rest of us.

*****

I was supposed to post this on Mother's Day but was having too much of a good time.  I hope you all had a wonderful day, and I wish you many blessings in raising your children - especially the red-headed ones!