Does God or Santa Bring the Gifts?

This morning after the church service, an older couple wanted to ask our children if Santa had come. They quietly questioned me beforehand on whether Santa was taboo in our house. Many parents in our church do not focus on Santa, as Jesus is, of course, the real reason for the season.

At our house, we love the Santa game, but the celebration of Jesus' birthday, and subsequently, the power of God, is even more real. Little Miss has it all figured out:

She rips open her stocking. With a sharp intake of breath, she cried out, "I got what I wanted!" and held up a small toy. "God must've told Santa! He must know him!"

"Oh, yeah." I said, "God knows everybody. How do you think he told him? A burning bush? An angel?"

"An angel," her older brother said, and looked down, focusing on his toys again.

But Little Miss exclaimed, "He knows his number!" and made the telephone hand gesture against her face.

******

So Little Miss knows who to ask for things, whether a small toy or big need. He will always provide, and will use any means necessary....even Santa!

Be blessed this Christmas - I know we are!

Merry Christmas!

As I was rushing around today in a panic, finishing cake orders, preparing our own food, and listing all of things I haven't done, I look over at a plant sitting beside the washer. It is my grandma's Christmas Cactus and it is in full bloom. It made me take a breath, and wonder what grandma would be like on a day like today. She'd probably be frantic, too, actually!

Take care this weekend everyone! Safe travels and all that! And if it doesn't turn out the way you planned - don't tell anybody!

The Periwinkle Blues

These homemade slippers sum up my day. I feel like I have two left feet, am lopsided, and a little blue, verging on periwinkle.

It really has nothing to do with my sewing skills, although Little Miss insists I should stick to baking.

Don't You Bully Me!!

Last night, during a wonderful Christmas dinner for the women in our church, I told of an altercation with Little Miss at school. Even after an anti-bullying rally, and several lessons dealing with bullies, she was "roughed up" by another child her age.

As I spoke, there were women at our table that were outraged, and suggested many ways that I should handle the situation. Those of us, however, who knew Little Miss, were not too worried.

At the age of five, she is already the type to take control of every situation, and is absolutely fearless. I often picture her directing students and teachers out of the building during a fire or bomb scare, and making friends with the fire chief at the same time.

There was a time this summer that she 'told off' an older boy for picking on her brother:

"You want me to do that to you?" she yelled across the beach, as the boy constantly splashed my son. "Oh, no," I thought, "What is she going to do now?" Luckily his mom came and dragged him away.

So it seems, promptly after being bullied, my little toughy stormed into the hallway, grabbed three different teachers, including the vice-principal and demanded retribution. The teachers reassured her that justice would be served, everything documented, and, of course, that she did the right thing. By the time she told me what happened, she'd already got everyone on the job. I almost felt sorry for the other student. Almost.

I did pop in to the office this morning just to make sure I had all of the facts straight. After speaking with the vice-principal, I knew he was a kindred spirit, and recognized that small fear in his eye. I wonder if he was afraid of what I was going to say. What does a parent look like who has such a child?

I think he needs to meet Mr. Man.

Man vs. Futon

Good morning! Just a quick post. Here's a photo of Mr. Man putting together a futon for Christmas company. Can you spot the evidence of Little Miss's quick getaway? I don't think Mr. appreciated her "help".

10 Ways to Survive Nut Season

As the holiday season is upon us, you may be one of the lucky ones to get invited out, and those of us with a nut allergy need to be cautious. Here are a few things to keep in mind. Feel free to add your own.

When going to a person's house for a casual, potlucky, snacky type of gathering:

1. Take your own snacks - and be prepared to share. I know a guy once who took a baked potato with him to every party. He ate only the potato and wouldn't share. Don't do that.

2. Make sure your snacks do not get put on a platter with other snacks. In other words; take your own platter and watch over it (without being obvious - you are supposed to share).

3. If there are a few contaminated items, then avoid them at all costs. Do not shake hands. Hug with your forearms. (If I could draw you a sketch, I would). If it's your kid with the allergy, put mitts on him, and maybe a surgeon's mask.

4. If the contamination in rampant, walk around with your elbows in, or arms in the air, and only stay the required time it takes to chat with your hostess, compliment her on her home, outfit or children.

5. Should you enjoy the conversation so much that you can't bare to leave, then DO NOT EAT, make chewing motions with your mouth, and smile, saying, "Oh, I couldn't. I am SO FULL!"

6. Stay away from squares, anything beige or brown, or any cheese balls with a crunchy look to them. If the ingredients aren't listed anywhere in the kitchen, or recycling, or trash - don't eat it. (I am known for going through recycling to find containers).

8. Take a friend who will tackle people if necessary, or politely ask them to take their cookies to their car (oh, yeah, it's happened).

9. Wash hands regularly. And face, and arms, and neck. Chances are they'll think you're in the bathroom because of food poisoning, and then no one will eat.

10. Don't freak out when others stare - they may be looking for a reason to call 911. (aka the superman complex) Give your neck a scratch or two, and watch their eyes bug out! Everyone needs a little Christmas drama.

Sure hope this helps. We nutters have to stick together :)

The Jackson Pollock in Our House

Tonight my son got out some paints and paper, and set out to make something beautiful. He quickly got frustrated, however, as he tried to maneuver the brush as he would a pencil to create the house-tree-dog picture which forever hangs on our fridge.

I sat down beside him at the table. "Painting is different than drawing," I said. "It does not need to be perfect. You do not have to draw the same thing you always draw. Art is playing with colour, patterns, designs. You can use bright colours or even just black and white.

"There was a man named Jackson Pollock. He put up the paper and dripped, dropped, and spread the paint onto it to make wonderful art. His art also makes millions of dollars now..."

My son's face relaxed and he got to work. His tongue stuck out the side of his mouth as he made his plan of attack. He stood up on his knees on the chair and got ready to splatter paint with his brush onto the paper.

"Wait, wait!" I cried, "Once you make a million dollars, then you can splatter paint in this house!"

About an hour later, Little Miss came in to see what he was doing. He couldn't even look up, he was concentrating so hard on his painting.

"What are you doing?"

"Art," he said, "I'm doing art."

I smiled with pride.

After a quick lesson from the master, this is what Little Miss came up with:

And there is indeed a mess on my kitchen table :P

Family Photo Time!!

Ah, family photo time.

I couldn't help but think of Claire Dunphy, on the show, 'Modern Family' as I tried to contain myself and my need to be a control freak.

I wanted something fun and unique, veering away from the traditional Christmas portrait. I imagined dressing as spies, adorned in sleek, black masks, with guns at the ready (okay, maybe just finger or water pistols), but Mr. Man just laughed.

"Where are you going to find water guns at this time of year?" he asked.

******

So we dressed in black and white, and blue jeans - even matching socks, and went to the mall. We bought an appropriate black sweater at the last minute for our son who didn't quite match. Fuzzy black stuff spread across his pristine white shirt and I made an inward sigh.

Little Miss's red curls were going frizzy. I stepped into a kid's jewelry store and spent way too much on a hairbrush and hairband.

"Would you like an added accessory for a reduced price?"

"Sure, sure."

"How about a family discount card for future purchases?"

"Sure, sure." I said absently, as Little Miss starts crying in the corner, not getting her way on the accessory.

So now she was frizzy, red and blotchy. Another inward sigh.

As Mr. (who is the only one calm, and pristine by this point) smooths over everyone, we go into the photo store. The photographer was also red, blotchy and a little frizzy. Apparently we wore an inappropriate colour, and varied too much in height. And at this, there was no appropriate background, no customer relations, and no fun poses.

Inward sigh, and a little vein poking out of my neck.

The most interesting pose we got was all of us wearing Santa hats (which took a little persuading of our little ones, and a slight fear of head lice).

From the start, I went in with a photo budget, and since most of it went with the sweater, hairbrush and accessories, I spent $22.95 on the boring, unhappy family photos.

We bought the kids a last minute muffin at a local coffee shop as a thank you for getting through it, and quickly took them home to bed, letting them sleep in their clothes, thereby getting sweater fluff on the bed sheets.

I should've known it would turn out like this first thing this morning, when we were awakened by the Christmas tree falling over.

Grandma's Baking

As I am getting cookies and treats ready for tonight's Santa Claus parade, I find I am missing my grandma. Her number one love language was through food. She cooked and baked constantly, and remembered everything that you loved.

Every summer we would come to stay, and she would feed me tapioca pudding until I was sick of it. She would let us put sugar on our cereal when mom wasn't looking. She would make melt-in-your-mouth shortbread cookies (pressed with a fork), and lots of rice krispy squares. It was as if she had been preparing all winter for when we would come in July.

I remember all of the quirky things she did. She used a spatula to get every bit of mashed potatoes out of the pot - and she always whipped her potatoes with a hand mixer to make them extra creamy. She would poke toothpicks into the top of any dessert before wrapping it plastic wrap so as to avoid smearing the icing. And she wouldn't let a bit of food go to waste.

It certainly helps to remember her when I have many of the tools that were from her kitchen: measuring cups, spoons, a rolling pin, and even her aprons. She always had a cutting board hanging on her kitchen wall that had a cat painted on it, and it is now in my home kitchen.

And, to top it off, the very chocolate cake recipe that I use almost every week for customers is the one that she used to bake for us.

So tonight, after the parade, family and friends will enjoy hot cocoa (with extra chocolate and marshmallows), festive rice krispy squares, and extra chocolatey haystack cookies.

I will make sure to lick the spoon clean in honour of my grandma.

*******

Grandma once said, "Your grandfather never understood how a woman needs chocolate."

Amen, grandma, amen.

A Taste of Her Wardrobe

One morning Little Miss came downstairs wearing brown stretch pants, three t-shirts in various colours and lengths, and a green knit sweater. Mr. Man and I, who were sitting on the couch having coffee, stared at her.

She tilted her head to one side, letting her red curls fall. "What?"

I leaned over to Mr. and muttered, "I wish I looked good in anything I wore."

He laughed.

*****

"Where ever did you come from?" I asked Little Miss, admiringly.

She stated, simply, "China."

'nuff said :)

Our House

The first time I saw what is now our house, I said, "Ugh, it's yellow, keep driving!" And we drove on. But our real estate agent said we'd best check it out. I think she knew it was all we could afford. And Mr. Man could actually stand up in it.

Nobody had actually done anything to the house in about 15 years, and it was falling apart. The bank had foreclosed on the house from the previous owners which made it sell at a low price, but, oh, the cost of taking it on! The bushes were growing over the front door, the porch was rotted through, the back mudroom smelled of cat pee, and everything was SO DIRTY!

And, to top it off when we went to move in we discovered that during the showing, an area rug had been put down to cover up a bald patch in the staining of the wood floor. Hours of work that we hadn't counted on.

So why did we buy the house? A big, beautiful backyard, and three cheerful crabapple trees. It was a secret garden amidst a ramshackle dwelling. The pixies were there, they were just asleep!

We have been here eight years, and like so many other home-owners, there are projects that have never been quite finished. Unpainted trim, mismatched door handles, and that one drafty wall that just never gets fixed. Things, I hate to admit, that will probably be left until it is our turn to show the house for a new buyer.

But, Mr. Man, his tool belt, his friends, and their tool belts, have done amazing things to this place. One bathroom (with no shower) has now become two and a half (with two showers); we now have two kitchens (one beautiful family kitchen, and one smaller, cute kitchen for the cake shop). The house has almost doubled in size, and the floors are all (mostly) level.

Yet, now as I look around the house I see paint that needs repainting, windows that need repairing, and a dog that needs...well that's another story. The upkeep never ends. The kid's toys are strewn about, and their fancy drawings cover every inch of the fridge and bulletin boards. Our secret garden has turned into a jungle of bicycle helmets, Tonka trucks, sandbox toys, and broken sports equipment.

But isn't this what we signed up for? To fix up a house and then to live in it? Pets, kids, accessories...all of life's wonderful messes!

I can still see the pixies behind the bushes; the treasures beneath the toys. We live in a happy house, a noisy house, and a well worn house. And I don't even mind the yellow siding...much!

The Therapy in Cake

I never thought having a cake business would bring so many broken hearts to my door. But when you think about it, "celebration" cakes can be remembering a lost one, surviving cancer, a 100th birthday....

Today a large order got cancelled because on her 100th birthday (today) the birthday girl went into the hospital. The excitement of the upcoming party was too much for her. How sadly ironic that celebrating a milestone possibly affected that milestone. Tears were shed on the other end of the phone, and, of course, I gave my sympathy and reassurance.

When working with people, it is important to remember that they are people first, customers, second. Sometimes the warmth of the shop and the sweet smell of fresh baking bring a feeling of rest to someone scrambling to put together a party.

They sit, they breath; sometimes they talk. I smile, feed them sugar, and sometimes lend a listening ear. I am thankful for the opportunity.

"I've lost my Nouns"

I am a mind-wanderer. During random moments of my day, my mind goes off in a funny direction. If you ask me what I was thinking about, it would take a wild tale as to how I got to the topic on the tip of brain.

For example: I am driving into our village, and all of a sudden I think, "isn't it nice to live in a small town where you only have to memorize the last four digits of your phone number?"

What?

I go upstairs three times before I remember what I went up there for in the first place. And I can't blame anyone for distracting me because I am usually home alone.

I saw a female comedian once who said when she hit her forties she "lost her nouns". "I'm looking for the ____. I can't find my _____." The word was there at the tip of her tongue but she could never find it. I am not even in my forties and I'm having similar symptoms.

There was one Christmas my sister and I went shopping for Mr. Man. There was this CD that he really wanted so we went into a big electronics store and spoke to a salesperson.

"Can I help you?" the sales guy nicely asked.

"Yes. I need to find a CD for my husband. I can't remember the guy's name, but he's a country singer, and he sings a song on the movie CARS. [Our son was big into Lightning McQueen that year.]"

"Hmmm." He looks at me, then at my sister, and then at me again.

"His name has the long 'a' sound, like James, or Clayton. Oh, and the song he likes has a short name, kind of odd. A thing."

"The Tick?" he guesses.

"Erm, maybe," I say. But it does sound familiar...

"Brad Paisley. The Tick." he says, assuredly, "I have the same CD. We don't have the song from the CARS movie, though."

"Oh, that's all right, this CD must be the right one." I grab it, thank him, and look at my sister.

I shrug my shoulders. I must not sound that stupid after all!

My sister, during this whole conversation, rolled her eyes twice, sighed, and opened her mouth in disbelief as he correctly guessed what I was asking for. Now, she was rolling her eyes again.

Mr. loved his gift, and was considerably impressed with me.

I don't know if they work on commission in the electronics store, but that salesman should get a big bonus! I have a mental picture of him picking my head up off the floor and screwing it back on for me. And then handing me my CD, of course.

So, anybody out there have their head on straight?

A Small Wind Chime

Just a quick blog about Little Miss's craft today:

I could hear her stretching out great lengths of scotch tape in the kitchen, but was too busy to go and see what she was up to. Eventually she came in to where I was and held this "creation" of elastic, plastic forks and gobs of tape in her hands. She had a big smile on her face as she asked, "Guess what I made?"

"Why, it's a wind chime! Aren't you a smarty pants!" I said. She laughed and laughed and we hung it up outside the shop. We quickly shut the door since it was so cold today, and watched her chime through the window.

There was a sharp intake of breath, and she shouted, "it's MOVING!"

Oh, the pride! She was busting!

I love being her mom :)

Man vs. Toe

Several of my stories centre around how Mr. Man has saved the day. He is not always caped, however, and has his Clark Kent moments, and, apparently, his kryptonite.

A couple of weeks ago, Little Miss had a fall and pulled the nail off of her middle toe in the process. We have never seen her in so much pain. She who hurts herself on a regular basis, had hit her pain threshold. I won't go into the details, but Mr. and I changed roles in that instant.

I went into high Mommy gear, yet surprisingly handled the situation (and my emotions) calmly, remembered my first-aid, and talked her through it. Although my heart raced, I was able to put on a good front and deal with her wound.

All the while, Mr. Man was pacing the floor, increasing in volume and colour, tripping on his "cape", and finding it hard to breath as his Little (Lois Lane, if I may) lay in distress. Doors were slammed, shoes were kicked, and the WORDS! Oh, there were words!

When it was all over, he apologized for losing it, and we had an exchange of raised eyebrows, as if to say, "What the hell was that all about?"

She wiped her nose on her sleeve, he came back down to size, and carried her upstairs for bed. His muscles were of use once again.

Downstairs, I washed and pressed his cape, put the band-aids away and had a glass of wine.

Cheers to WonderWoman, for once.

A Little Taste of the Irish

While on our holiday in NYC, our hotel was actually in New Brunswick, New Jersey. So one night after a long day of walking, we decided to find some "night life" near our hotel.

I write "night life" because real night life and I do not mix well. I have never felt comfortable in the bar/night club scene, and would walk around like a deer in headlights the whole night despite the caped Mr. Man (an experienced night-lifer) on my arm.

Nevertheless, we were on an adventure! Out doing something different! I am out of character! Bold! Crazy! Spontaneous! We are in a different country for pete's sake!

We head down the main street and can hear the music coming out of a nearby bar. There is a huge, shaven guy standing out in front holding the typical bouncer stance.

We keep walking.

We head down main street and can hear music coming out of a nearby bar. There are stairs going down into the dark basement of a dilapidated building leading to the entrance.

We keep walking.

We head down main street and don't hear anything. At this point my spontaneity is fizzling. As a last ditch effort, Mr. asks the giant bouncer from the first bar if there is any quieter pubs around. He tells us, not in the grunt I was expecting, but in a normal, I'm-really-a-college-student voice, to head further down main street to find what we're looking for.

We keep walking.

But we seriously can't find it. So we turn around again, and head back. But in order to avoid the helpful bouncer (I don't want to hurt his feelings) we cross the street and take the long way back. Lo and behold, we come across this dark wooden door with a sign hanging overhead. It says, "Tumulty's". It was very quiet, but you couldn't see inside from the street (and it was above ground) so I sent Mr. in to see what it was like.

He goes inside, and then comes out, saying, "I think you're going to like this." We go in and are greeted by a friendly barman. There are people at the bar, laughing it up, but no loud music or scary dancing. There were old wooden beams throughout the ceilings and walls, and even the booths themselves had the worn, wooden, rustic look. They had little candles on the tables, and I felt like I was in The Carrag, from the movie, Leap Year. (FaVouRiTe!!) The TV had the sports channel on, and the smell of the fryer and pitchers of beer were in the air. I was just waiting for someone with a thick Irish accent to come around the corner.

We chose a booth, and a young guy (minus the accent) waited on us. I had my light beer and Mr. had his ale. I was cosy in my dream movie world, and Mr. smiled at me, imagining himself patting me on the head. "That's my girl," he is saying, "Live it up."

---------------------------------------

I should tell you that Tumulty's is a real place, and they do have live music and dancing on Friday and Saturday nights. So there are lots of opportunities for everyone to live it up :)

What's in Your Nightstand?

Last night when I went to bed, I found myself on the floor, looking in, underneath, and around my night stand for a pen. I couldn't find the sudoku puzzle book (that I complete from back to front, by the way), or a pen. These are the things I found instead:

- several unfinished Bible studies (gasp!),

- workout shorts I thought I'd lost (and never look for),

- novels my mother gave me (and I said I'd read),

- hair elastics, lip balm, candle snuffer (but no candles),

- Polysporin, buttons, bookmarks, and Fisherman's Friends,

- and one large flashlight to use all of this in the dark.

Missing: one sudoku puzzle book, pens, and the electric fireplace remote.

Someone once told me you can tell a lot from someone's junk drawer. But what about a night stand/side table?

For me it is a special place, often forgotten, which greets me during the night when I can't sleep. It supplies little cures for bad hair days, small cuts on Little Miss, and a hiding place for the unfinished. At times, it holds Mother's Day cards, candies, and other treasures from my children. Other times; a dirty sock, snotty kleenexes, and strong cold medicine.

So let's confess: where is your place to stash things? What is hidden in your night stand?

Excerpts from Halloween 2011

Isn't it interesting how siblings can be so different? A mother of six told me just this weekend that no matter how many kids you have, there is always a different combination of family genes in each.

My two children are almost direct opposites. One is bold, out-going, excitable, and on the straight and narrow, dragging everyone along behind her. The other is quiet, shy, sweet yet sneaky, and definitely a follower.

So as halloween approached you can guess one was counting down the days, and the other was ignoring it.

"I'll just hand out candy with mom," my son says, and ignores any costume ideas his sister threw at him.

"I want to go as a pirate...no, a princess!" Little Miss exclaims, and imagines the haul of candy she would get. "No worries," she looks at her brother,"I'll get enough candy for both of us!"

But, come halloween night, amidst creating jack-o-lanterns, and hanging up hockey-tape-spider-webs on the front porch, my son decides maybe he does need to go out after all.

"I want to be a chain-wielding-ghost like on Scooby-Doo!" he says. And Mr. Man rises to the rescue, toolbox in hand, takes the chains off the back of our camping trailer, and finds an appropriate bed sheet for over our boy's head.

They race out the door to join the rest of the kids, and about three houses down, after tripping on his sheet, bumping into a few people (literally), my little ghost comes home, tired, yet contented with his small bag of treats.

The rest of the evening, he hands out candy with his mom while Little Miss greets the neighbourhood and charms them into giving her extra loot.

Magically, it was as they'd planned all along. I just hope Mr. remembers to put the chains back on the trailer before summer comes.

In the Mind of Little Miss

Some kids say the cutest things. Little Miss, however, says things like, "I know how doctors cut people's arms and legs off...with a SAW!!"

Looking Through a Windshield

Did I ever tell you about the time I was hit by a car? Even my husband doesn't believe me. I was about 18 years-old and visiting a family in northern Ontario. They were a pastor and his family who I'd grown close to; a sporty guy with a wild sense of humour and his sweet wife who cooked, cleaned and looked after anyone who crossed their doorstep.

One night the pastor and I went walking. I think we were headed to the YMCA. When I think back to that night, it was raining and I was wearing my brown leather jacket. I can remember crossing the street at the intersection, and from around the corner came this car.

The car hit me in the legs and knocked me so hard I rolled up onto the windshield. I could see the look of shock on the lady's face as this blond teenager flew up into her view. My friend reached out and grabbed my arm before I flew over the rest of the car, and brought me back down to the street.

The driver got out and asked if I was okay. I could tell she felt bad, worried, and frightened. I felt all right, probably from shock, and told her it was okay. We kept walking. It was really weird. In hindsight, I probably should've gone to the hospital, but we went for a swim instead.

Ironically, the only part of my body that hurt was the arm my friend had pulled to rescue me. Many sessions of physiotherapy ensued.

And the next day, every time someone came to the house, my friend shouted, "YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE WHAT HAPPENED TO HER LAST NIGHT! I SAVED HER LIFE!!"

============

This summer I ran into my friends again while delivering a wedding cake. We laughed about old times, including this story. Funnily enough, his version involves a lot more of him shouting, running, and lifting me, and the car (and driver) was much bigger.

My version of the story, I think, is closer to the truth and, ultimately, is used as a scare tactic to make my kids hold my hand as we cross the road.

The Death of Cable

So we've decided to shut off our cable. At least, we want the cable turned off, but the company's not going to do it for another three weeks. Luckily, my kids believe everything I say, and they have not been watching the TV. So this is what has been going on around here:

1. The kids made a brilliant treasure map for Little Miss's lost yoghurt cup. (In the door, past the couch, over to computer, then to the piano...)

2. Mr. Man built a large sandbox in the backyard. It still needs sand, though...

3. Mr. Man is presently building himself a Mr. Man workshop in the basement. Extra tall.

4. I've dusted off some old CD's. Other than that, my behaviour is just the same :)

5. The TV/DVD player is being used as a CD player.

6. We now have play-dough, magic markers, hot wheels cars, and wooden blocks all over the living room floor, which had been put away for more room to watch TV.

7. We made muffins, and ate them. All of them.

8. I no longer hear the whine, "oh, can't it wait until this is over..." when I ask anyone to do something. Things are finally getting done.

9. Little Miss turned a delivery box into an airplane with hot pink ribbons out the back. Then she turned it into a bird. Then back into a box. Then her brother tied up her Barbies with the hot pink ribbon.

10. We still watch movies as much as we want (we're not crazy), but I was tired of having to quickly turn the channel as an inappropriate commercial came on for perfume, or underwear, or other things that seemed to need sex to sell it.

"Why is she taking her clothes off?"

How many more times can I say,"she must've been hot," before they catch on?

"Mommy, he said a bad word. O, he said another one..."

It doesn't help when the word "underwear" is considered impolite in my daughter's' world.

We actually only got cable when our son arrived, so we had something to watch while I was breastfeeding, but the kids are at that age now where they are absorbing EVERYTHING and it is time to turn it off.

So how do we spend this cable money? We could pay off some debt, save for another trip, put it away for an emergency fund. There's always the kids' education funds...

And then it came to me. "I know! More internet!!"

How It All Got Started...

I was recently reminded of why I married Mr. Man. And why I call him Mr. Man.

We had started dating for a few weeks when my sister, living a few hours away, had a fire in her apartment. I immediately decided to head out and help her in any way I could, and (the not quite) Mr. jumped in and offered to drive.

Up until then, I had not had the opportunity to open up about myself, perhaps to be a bit mysterious, perhaps because of trust issues, but all of sudden, on the verge of rescuing my little sister, I felt bold enough to talk about myself.

And talk. And talk. And talk some more.

So by the time we had finished our three hour trip, I felt very satisfied with myself in all I had shared with my new boyfriend. But much to my dismay, and disbelief, he turned and looked at me and apologized, "I'm so sorry, I didn't hear anything you said. You see I've been so nervous driving that I had to concentrate on the road." As he gets out of the car, the back of his t-shirt is completely soaked with sweat. Oh, dear. Apparently, this was the first time he had driven on a major highway since a near fatal accident a few years back. Oh, Mr. Man!

So then, we find my sister. Her roommate had left a candle burning in the apartment and while she was out shopping, the apartment caught fire. There was my little sis, reeking with smoke, in shock, and clutching this brand new purse like it was the only thing she had in the world.

First we got her fed, and then went to a local store to get her some things. A watch, I recall, was one of the items. The cashier was wrinkling up her nose as she rang through the items and casually asked if we smelled smoke. "It's me!! My house burnt down!!" my sister retorted, and even though I was laughing, thankful for the comic relief, the cashier was so embarrassed she had someone come and replace her.

When we got back to the apartment, "smokey" remembered her things were, in fact, stacked in the garage, but she couldn't get the door open. She and I reefed on that door latch, wiggling, pulling, pushing, and so fed up that we could cry, when Mr, with the now-dry t-shirt magically lifts the garage door open.

"Smokey" and I stood there with our mouths open, and I'm pretty sure she whispered "my hero."

He gave us a crooked smile, and said, "you just had to push on the top a bit."

But that was it. He was in. He was it.

My Mr. Man.

********

So despite all of the crappy days we've had, the broken shovels, the broken strollers, the broken vans, the broken furnace, the broken cars, the broken toys and jewelry, the crappy dog, and the cat that got hit by a car, Mr. and I have this story to remind us how it all got started. Happy Thanksgiving... kind of.

Planes, Trains, and...Peanuts

I was talking with another mom, (we'll call her Betty), recently about riding in airplanes with her six-year-old son who has a nut allergy.

There are such things called "buffer-zones" now, in which the airline stewardesses ask people not to eat or buy nuts during a flight in which there is an allergic child. Betty said they went on three flights this summer. On the first flight the stewardess asked the first few rows around them to stay nut-free. On a second flight the attendant asked only the left side of the plane to refrain from eating nuts. And on the third flight Betty's family was refused any such treatment. Confused? So was she. "And," she said, "they obviously don't clean very well in between flights as there was a peanut right under his chair." Yikes.

So here I am, on a bus to the states with 51 other people, in seat 13. A few people in front of me; a lot behind. Mr. Man was seat 14, the aisle seat, stretching out his legs. We are excited, a little tired from the early start, and quite comfortable. The tour guide is going over her list of the beginning of the itinerary, and nobody is really listening. But just then, she mentions the duty-free shop. "It's great for snacks like chocolate, liquor, and bags of nuts."

Most people would go for the liquor, I figured, but the bus suddenly seemed smaller with the idea of nuts floating around. Sure enough, when the bus stopped, all of the above were bought and brought onto the bus.

Mr. and I, we bought hand antiseptic.

As the elderly and naive shovelled handfuls of mixed nuts into their mouths, waved at their friends, and touched all the seats as they moved up the aisle, I leaned closer and closer to my precious window seat, soaked myself in antiseptic until I stunk, and waited to get off. I figured, "let them get it out of their system, eat them all and I'll wash my hands with this stuff every time I move." Honestly, I don't think that "stuff" even works, but I held onto it like life raft.

I was asked later why I didn't tell them I was allergic, but actually we had. It was on our application for the trip, but there is nothing that could be done. For children, there are "buffer zones" and peanut-free snack rules, but adults are adults. We are old enough to take care of ourselves. People don't think an adult would have an allergy, it's just in the kids. Besides, the bags were opened; the harm had been done. I would just sit still and wait. There would no shaking of hands on this trip.

Eventually, they closed up the bags, and I subtly walked off the bus with both my arms straight up in the air.

We had a fabulous trip; safe; eventful; lots of fun! Three days later we get back on the bus with the same 50 people, and cross the border into Canada.

Two hours from home I hear the rustling of bags, smell the nutty aroma and start to cry.

As an aside: One fellow passenger who we got to know pointed out that eventually all of these allergic children will grow up and enter the work force. It will be interesting to see if their adult life will be safer than mine or just the same. Once you're an adult, are you on your own, like me, or will there be "buffer zones" then, too?

Seafood Linguini

Many of you have asked when I am going to blog about my NYC trip, and really, I barely got back and was swamped with work. But even while the mixer is on, and there is icing on my glasses, I smile as I reflect on some of the the things that happened while in New York. I will tell you one story now:

Mr. Man and I stuck to some pretty tame restaurants, as I knew we would, initially because of my allergies, but later on we realized how much money we would save by sticking to simpler, faster foods. SUBWAY became our friend. Hot grilled chicken sub with lettuce, tomato, cucumbers, red onion and green peppers, and a dollop of honey garlic sauce fed me for two days. Mr. was strictly ham, cheese, and pickles. Seriously, no imagination.

One time, we found ourselves on 5th avenue, surrounded by fancy, expensive shops and where do we go in for food?

Good ol' Wendy's. Yep, their fries in NYC are just as good as in Belleville, Ontario.

Living. It. Up.

So, on our last day in the city, our tour bus took us to South St. Seaport and pointed us to this Italian Restaurant by the marina. Grilled chicken just didn't cut it anymore, so we raced over to get an outdoor table. The ambience was nice, you could smell the waterfront, and the restaurant itself was so comforting, I decided this would be where we have a real meal. Mr. ordered a ravioli, and I ordered the seafood linguini.

So there I was, smiling away, dipping my bread into the oil, and the waiter brings out our plates. My mouth dropped open. There was this towering plate of pasta complete with a lobster tail, and a circle of oysters, placed in front of me. And as I looked closer, among the expected shrimp and sliced calamari were tiny octopus tentacles. Or squid tentacles. It really didn't matter. This numb feeling appeared in the pit of my stomach, and as I looked around at the other customers "oohing" and "aahing" at my plate, I thought, "What have I done? Now I have to eat this!"

Our tour guide had warned us that some restaurants may have servings that are too large to finish, so I decided to use that get free card right away. I tackled the lobster tail, thankful for good friends who'd taken us out to a seafood buffet previously, so I didn't look like an amateur. The shrimp and calamari were no problem, but I seriously had to turn my senses off in order to eat the pasta around those tentacles. I no longer smelled the lovely waterfront, or saw the ambience around me. I smelled fish, saw octopus legs and thought about all of the people who caught food poisoning from eating oysters.

In the end, I scooped some of the oysters in with the pasta, stirred it around, and placed the empty shells on the discard plate, along with my lobster shell, as though I had tasted them all along.

So, I ate, I survived, I paid three times the price I thought I was, and I came away with a good story. Go big, or go home, right?

My Magic Bag

As many of you are aware, I am nervous about heading out because of my peanut allergy. I don’t dare say anything to Mr. Man as he in his own world of worry: leg room, muggings, directions… so he has enough on his plate. I cannot tell my mother – she’ll just get it all mixed up and think I DID have a reaction, and upset everyone. So instead, I will tell you!

At times I get really excited. I booked us broadway tickets, and mapped out all of things I (and Mr. Man) want to see. It’s true, he did say I could take him anywhere…but I’ll include a few things I think he will like!

But I have this shadow that follows me. It sits on the edge of my thoughts, waiting. We have no control over what is planned for us, do we? It could all be taken away at any moment. A car ride, a fall at the park, a dark stranger. I need to stay safe for the kids. The kids need to stay safe. Mr. needs to stay safe. So I have this constant fight with myself to have a relaxing time, to put the shadow to rest and trust that everything will be all right. Mr. says that's why we believe in a loving God. I do not have to be prepared for the worst all the time.

Funnily enough, I got my results from my sleep deprived EEG last week. I am (or my brain is) “essentially normal.” Whatever that means. Aren’t we all “essentially normal”? Is anyone normal?

Based on today's and last day's blogposts, I guess the EEG doesn’t measure the levels of being a nutter. I am, with all of my worrying and stressing, "essentially," a nutter.

So here I am packing for my trip to NYC. In my magic bag I have three epi-pens, one new pair of pants, new groovy running shoes and insoles for walking, one camera, batteries and SD cards, US cash for taxis, various maps, updated VISA card, passports, other ID, sunglasses and hair elastics.

Also inside my magic bag is a small pocket filled with neurosis that I will pull out, shake, and replace whenever needed. Drama tends to follow me, but I think my magic bag can handle it.

So here I go, clutching my bag full of adventure on one hand, and leading my big, handsome Mr. Man on the other. What fun!

Bubble Girl

One of the scariest things about having a food allergy is travelling. When I woke up with amnesia a few years ago, one of the things my mom would do was put on a movie to ease the tension. I had short term and long term memory loss, so watching a movie that had nothing to do with my real life took our minds off everything for an hour or two. One of them was called, "Bubble Boy". It was the stupidest movie ever, but I loved it. And it is how I feel a lot.

In the movie, a teenage boy is allergic to everything and so his parents keep him in a plastic bubble to protect him from having a reaction. Eventually you find out his mother kept him in there longer than necessary, BUT it was so amazing to me that a writer could understand that people like me are actually out here, living in an invisible bubble.

The bubble, for those of you who do not understand, surrounds us and stretches out to only those places where we feel safe from harm. For example: my bubble extends its curve to MacDonald's and Denny's and, presently, Montana's (not in the past), but does not even brush against Asian food places, church potlucks, or Dairy Queen. If I go into any of these places, the bubble will break and I may have an allergic reaction. So I feel I miss out on a lot, and it makes me nervous to try new things and new places.

So this returns me to my opening sentence. Travelling is hard. How much food can I pack in my backpack that will sustain me if I am in a place that only sells Asian food (i.e. I am never going to China)? If I have three epi-pens, we can speak the language, and have enough fare for a taxi, how much time does that give us to hail a taxi, and get through traffic to the hospital? And what if the hospital is full? What if they won't treat me because I'm Canadian? And what if they tell my mother? She'll NEVER let me go out again. Back in the bubble.

And what if they won't let me bring my home-baked, peanut-free, soy-free food with me over the border? What if? What if?

Then, three times in one month I have a freak allergic reaction to something right here, within my safe places. The first, sitting in a family member's chair: I broke out in itchy hives. The second, using the wrong chocolate coating: again I broke out in hives, and had swollen eyes. And the third, at a friend's house my eye started itching and swelling. Only one of those times did we know what had caused the reaction.

So, if I am reacting to unknown things within my small world anyway, why not risk it in the big world? I know the Big Guy's got my back. And those three epi-pens I ordered will come in handy. AND I'm married to the best insurance broker in the world so he's got my back, too.

And, maybe I'll just have to bake the border patrol one of my delish red velvet cakes so they let me take all of other baked goods across with me :)

Destructo-Boy

There once was a young man who was ready to leave home. His father lovingly patted him on the back and handed him an envelope containing all the money he and his wife had put away for him over the years.

"We are so proud of you, son, and we want to give you everything we can to help you start out your adult life. But now that you are an adult, the first thing to do is pay back your debts as soon as possible."

And with that, he took the envelope, opened it and pulled out bill after bill, reciting, "This is for the dent in the car...the scrapes on the bathroom wall, the broken window...your mother's broken necklace...." He listed item after item until his son had paid him back for all the things he'd either broken or lost.

When finished, he lovingly patted his son on the back, handed him the envelope and walked away.

The bewildered boy who had been through such a change in emotions in such a short time, glanced down at the envelope to find one twenty dollar bill left for his future.

My son's alter ego is Destructo-Boy. I may have mentioned this before. It appeared when he was four-years-old and has taken over his brain. My sweet, tender-hearted little one has purposely pulled things apart, scissored up lawn chairs, exploded tubes of bathroom products, scratched walls, furniture, etc...having absolutely no reason to do so.

I like to think he has a scientific brain, with an overwhelming desire to see "what if?" "What if I stick my fork in the table and pull?" "What if I draw with permanent marker under the livingroom rug?" "What if I paint my sister's face with nail polish?"

Sometimes things happen by accident; I'll give him that. Once, as a punishment, I had him hand wash the dishes (one chore I despise). Unfortunately, the drying rack tipped over and three of my rarely-been-used wedding plates smashed on the floor. He burst into tears, and there was nothing I could do but sigh, hug him and send him on his way. It was, simply, an accident.

In fact, yesterday, with his brand new go-cart, he drove into the side of the house. Luckily, he only broke a large flower pot (one I really liked, mind you) but he was devastated and wailed uncontrollably. Again, I could only sigh, reassure him and send him on his way. Again, it was, simply, an accident.

Unconsciously, though, I was listing all the things he'd broken on purpose, including the couch cushion I had just found a few minutes before, redecorated in marker.

If he'd had any kind of inheritance, I thought, it would surely be halfway spent by now, only at age seven.

God Shuts the Door, or Not.

Even though we are a God-fearing household, there are times when any one of us has doubts. My five-year-old has had several recently, and despite singing Sunday School songs throughout her playtime, she insists that God is not real.

She is very different from me, as I simply accepted my mother's explanations of God's love, and never questioned it until later in life. Little Miss, however, throws out statements like "God is not here," and, "He didn't make everything," all of which are direct opposites of what we've been teaching her.

You have to understand that through all of this I see a little inquisitiveness, a little childish rebellion, and quite a lot of humour.

We have watched the movie "Evan Almighty" together as a family, and have explained that although it is not entirely correct, the movie represents the story of Noah's Ark in the bible. So when we actually read the story from the bible, we pointed out the differences:

One difference is that God himself shuts the door of the ark, not Noah or his family. My daughter looked up as I read this, with interested eyes.

So the next day she was helping me unpack the groceries from the van, and I could hear her talking aloud. As I stepped into the kitchen she turned to me, with her arms full of groceries, and said, "I told you God is not real! I asked Him to shut the door for me and he didn't!"

"You can't boss God around," I said, "but if you want Him to show himself, he's going to do it the way He wants. You sincerely ask Him to, and He'll do it."

She looks up at the ceiling, says, "Show yourself, God," shrugs her shoulders and shakes her head. In a five-year-old world you get about 3 seconds to prove yourself, or all deals are off.

I am sure God can handle it, though, and is smiling at her, as I am.

House Hunting

A number of years ago, when my husband and I were looking for our first house, we realized that within our budget there were some SLIM pickings out there. Even the house we did buy was a huge fixer-upper, but nothing compared to the house of which I am about to tell you:

The real estate agent took us into this older home: two-storey, three bedroom, etc. We walked into the kitchen which was very narrow and long, like a hallway. The counter was very low - Mr. Man, with his height, would find it hard to wash dishes without straining his back - and the upper cabinets were so high up, that I, with my lack of height, could not reach them.

"Look," I laugh, "the top ones are for you and the bottom ones are for me!" He did not laugh.

So we went over to the stairs. The railing (original to the house) was so loose, it was unsafe to use. I gave the "eyebrow" to Mr. as we leerily took the stairs up.

And as we reached the grand finale of our tour, we gasp, screw up our faces with a big "EWW!" when we see the master bedroom. Along the far wall there is a large bed on the right, with a toilet on the left. (No divider, partitions, walls, etc...) GROSS!! We were outta there!

We joked much later that you could practice aiming from the bed...but maybe that is inappropriate here.

We went through houses that had terrible smells, crazy animals, and low ceilings (the real estate agent and I fell in love with this little house and turn to find Mr. Man with his head tilted - he couldn't stand up straight in the thing!) but we found our house with a little imagination, and hope that we could make it ours. And our toilet is always enclosed in it's own special room, called an ensuite.

Dumb and Dumber

One day, when I was supposed to be teaching parabolas to my grade 11's, I stopped mid-lesson and told them a story. [I did this often as grade 11 math can be soooo dry.]

As a teenager I was part of a youth group. Each year near the end of the season, we would plan a campout at a nearby Ontario Park. One year we went up to Bon Echo Lake (some students smiled and nodded as they'd been there with their outdoor education class). We got out of the vehicles, and unloaded our gear, happy to have the drive done.

Now our youth group was from a small country church which consisted of a few misfits (I was the exception, of course) thrown together. There were these three guys; one very tall and thin, shaggy brown hair and big square glasses; another, called Red, with freckles and a really thick red mullet; and the third; a shorter version of the first guy, named after the Duke's of Hazard: I can't mention real names, but his parents seriously included Wayne, Beau, and Luke in his name.

So back to the trip. As I said we all got off the bus, and were really excited about being there. Red ran right over to the lake, stepped in a bit and dove in. Now if you know the beach I am talking about, it is all pebbly and shallow, and you do not go diving into it off the shore. He came up, holding his head, bleeding from the mouth and soon realized he'd pushed his front teeth in.

But of course, since we'd just got there he didn't want to ruin the campout so he kept his accident to himself and his two buddies.

Gradually throughout the afternoon as we set up our tents and got the campfire started, one of the leaders noticed Red throwing up behind a bush. After speaking with him for a few minutes, it came about that he'd been walking around the perimeter of the campsite all afternoon, throwing up from what was most likely a concussion.

So the gig was up, and Red was sent to a nearby hospital. He tall, lanky friend had brought a car, and because he didn't want to miss out on the action, the Duke-ster went with. We found out later, after they were safely back, that while Red continued to be sick out the front window for the entire drive, the Duke-ster, while watching his friend's poor state, proceeded to get sick out the back window!

Needless to say, the tall, lanky guy got an extra marshmallow that night, and my students had difficulty getting back to work.

Changes

As I approach September, it is always a new start for me, perhaps from years and years of school, both as a student and a teacher. So I find myself, in this "new year", reflecting on what I've spent my time on and whether it was worth it; and whether I will do it again next year.

After a few days of contemplation, I still have no idea.

I have enjoyed my friends more - especially since the warmer weather hit. We've had sewing nights, chats over coffee, last minute potluck dinners, and some "women in business" boosting sessions. A couple of girlfriends are starting maternity leave soon, which frees them up (in a way) to spend time together. Others will go back to work or will hibernate (as I am prone to do) throughout the winter.

It has been a busy cake year. Lots of new fads coming through and I kept up with them. Crazy new ideas each week (can you make a severed head out of cake - yes!) Bridal Shows are another sign of a new year, and vendor request forms are knocking at my door. Which will I do? Which benefitted me in the past? Do I want to do so many wedding cakes, or should I switch to pies instead? [snort - just kidding!]

And, of course, the family. The kids' schooling is big, important, and VERY BUSY. Fundraisers, pizza days, school trips, homework...it just keeps going. (Sigh) And now we start it all over again. Mr. Man is hard at his work, possibly contemplating whether his year was worth it...but not having the option to change it just yet. (Wait for that million dollar lotto, honey!)

Sometimes changes come when you least expect it: sometimes good, sometimes bad. In our town there has been news of new job promotions, old friendships rekindled, a successful soccer season and new puppies adopted. But alas, many shops are closing in town, businesses failing, basements flooding, and several cases of cancer in our little community.

Life is certainly about constant change, and thankfully, some of it is within our grasp. Do we change things up or do we leave them just the same?

One of my favourite friends says, "If you can't change anything, at least you can change your furniture around!" Just last week, following her example, my six-year-old son moved his room around during a boring afternoon. He pushed each piece of furniture around, huffing and puffing. He had it all planned out in his head and gradually got the job done. There was a big smile on his face as he looked at all he had accomplished. Hands on hips, he gave a happy sigh.

Perhaps I do not need to change too much about this upcoming year. We could just see what happens? Perhaps I need to let the chips fall where they may... but I think I'll choose the colour of them first.

The Triumph of the Caterpillar

Every year I have a battle with caterpillars eating the leaves off of my rose bushes. I pride myself in picking plants that really just need to be cut back a bit each fall - and then get Mr. Man to do it. So a few years ago, I noticed my beautiful rose bushes being attacked, and realized something needed to be done.

Soap and water, is what I was told, so each morning my son and I went out and "drowned" the suckers in an attempt to fend them off. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn't.

But this summer I have had to let the caterpillars win. My daughter, an avid fan of nature programs on TV, has vowed her allegiance to the rose caterpillars and will not let anyone at them.

"They belong free to live in the wild," she says.

Why they can't go to someone else's wild is beyond me.

So come by early June to see my beautiful roses, but for the rest of the summer avoid walking by our retaining wall, as you may find one of my daughter's friends dropping onto your shoulder, enjoying the wild.

My Safe Places

I asked mom a few months ago how she managed to let me go away to summer camp with my peanut allergy:

“It was close to home, close to the hospital, and was only 30 kids a week. Some of the camps had hundreds of kids a week. We thought the small staff would know you and it would be safer that way. They would be more aware,” she answered. “When I came to pick you up and I saw the state of the swimming area,” her eyes widen, “I thought, who needs to worry about food when you are all going to die right here! All those jagged rocks, and snakes, and this young guy sitting there who wouldn’t have been able to help.”

I nod as I remember. And I smile. Gosh, that camp was fun! Some of my best summers, best friendships – life changing! (And mom does have an outrageous fear of snakes…)

But she was right – they made the right decision in that camp. It was perfect for me. We were less than 15 minutes from the hospital and I didn’t start attending until I was thirteen (and my younger sister went with me the first year – much to her dislike) so I was well aware of my allergy and how to handle it. It was the end of grade eight and I was away from home! I was still a shy kid so having only 29 or so other kids to meet was pretty easy, and it wasn’t too long until I was comfortable enough to get myself into trouble. That first week of summer camp was the beginning of a wonderful thirteen-year stretch; from camper, to counselor, to program coordinator; I didn’t stop going until after I was married. It was my favourite safe place.

Best Date Night

Date night these days, although still enjoyable, usually does not involve leaving the house. We snuggle on the couch, rent a movie, sometimes play cards, and spend time together. With two kids under six, and babysitters hard to find, Mr. Man and I rarely see a movie on the big screen or go out to dinner. So when the opportunity arose, we found a niece to watch the kids and we headed out for a backyard party at a friend's.

Of course, as soon as we get there, someone says "aw, they didn't bring the kids."

So, we wish our friend, "happy birthday" and present the cake that we made for the occasion, and submerse ourselves in adult conversation, other peoples' lives, and stories. Drinks all around, plenty of food, and Mr. Man gets a text that our dog has run away.

Now our relationship with our dog is somewhat cyclical. It's good for awhile, then he does something bad and we want to get rid of him. Then we get over it, and it's good for awhile....you get the idea. Eight year relationship. Lots of damage.

Some of the things doggo has done are:

- chew every piece of new furniture we have had in the first five years of his life

- eat five pairs of shoes, pounds and pounds of fondant, three decorating tips, and one bike helmet (adult size)

- brought home a deer leg

- rolls in everything smelly

- escapes out of the yard to roll in something smelly, bring home a deer leg (our neighbours are hunters), or to eat someone's trash

So when we got the text, we did not rise up out of our chairs right away but weighed our options. Chances are he would come back in an hour, barf in the back yard and have diarrhea for three days. BUT the kids had already looked in his regular haunts and was nowhere to be found. Do we enjoy our evening a little longer or do we search for doggo before it got too dark? We packed up.

So our first official summer date night involved walking up and down the streets and creeks of our little town whistling for our dog. We even separated and I drove around a bit. By 9:30pm we gave up as it was too hard to see and hoped he'd come home on his own.

But our sitter was still there, so we decided to make one last ditch effort to have a date. We hopped in the car and drove half and hour to the nearest city. We started to yawn about halfway there.

"Do you want ice cream?"

"No.... Do you want to go to the movies?"

"No, I'll just fall asleep. I thought we'd walk along the boardwalk."

"I don't know.... Don't you think it might be dangerous?"

"(Sigh) Why did we come here?"

So we drove down to the boardwalk and even before we got out of the car, quickly decided perhaps it wasn't a good idea, and losing one dog would be hard enough on the kids, let alone death by mugging.

"So what now? Coffee?"

We went into Starbucks and ordered two grande hot chocolates (extravagant, I know), and settled into the big, red, overstuffed arm chairs. Ah, what a good idea! With a big smile on my face, I think, this was worth the drive. Just then, the barista starts emptying the garbage cans and overturning the smaller, wooden chairs.

"What time do you close?" Mr. asks.

"10:30" was his answer. That gave us ten minutes of snuggly red chair time and a brief conversation of some deep topic you are supposed to have over a Starbucks drink. I think I asked him about work. Sigh.

So we were off again, with hot chocolates in hand and walked over to the movie theatre. There would be a movie starting in forty minutes. A three hour movie. A really great movie; the end of an era, actually, but three hours long. Suddenly we felt really tired. And a little bit old.

So we drove home, snuggled under the duvet, and Mr. Man watched reruns of his favourite show on my laptop while I slept, dreaming of our missing dog, and deer legs.