The Day After Boxing Day

It is boxing day of boxing day.  December 27th.  It is the day life begins again after the excitement and buzz of Christmas.  The presents are opened and all over the room are bits and pieces of transformers, miniature dolls and strips of wrapping paper.  There is leftover turkey and blueberry pie in the fridge, and Mr. Man is back to work dealing with car accidents and Christmas tree fire claims.

Where did it all go?

I grasp at the signs of yesterday: our old dog, exhausted from travel, hunkered over his new dog bed; kids lingering in new pyjamas; the Christmas cactus hanging onto its last blossoms; the piles of Christmas cards and church bulletins with carol hymns carefully typed inside.

Christmas 2012 was delightful.  It was calm, content, and satisfying.  How do I know?  Perhaps because I do not have one single photo to capture the festivities.  I was too busy enjoying the conversation, the joyful faces, and, of course, the food.  The holiday is not complete without mom's mincemeat tarts.  And watching A Muppet Family Christmas.

Perhaps it was because all of Christmas day I was down and out with a terrible cold keeping me from fussing and worrying about everything.  It left me with just enough energy to sit up on the couch to watch and listen.  An unforeseen chance at soaking in Christmas instead of trying to control it.

Perhaps it was because of the horrendous shooting in Newtown, and the deaths of two volunteer firemen in Webster, NY, that I cherished each moment with my children and our extended families.  As much as I wanted the kids to experience the excitement of Santa and needed everyone to get along, the blessings of good health, safety in our travels, and the warmth of a wood stove (don't forget the invention of cough syrup), was certainly enough to say it was a calm and contented Christmas.

In the midst of the evil of this world, and the threat of what could be, on this boxing day of boxing day, I grasp and hold onto the the last few scents and signs of Christmas, and whether or not I have pictures to prove it, know that the Lord has blessed us in all of the ways that matter.

I hope yours was even as half as good as ours.  Many blessings to you.

Erin

The Mystery of the Tooth Fairy

The tooth fairy.  I don't think I ever narrowed it down to what she looked like. She, yes, I believe she is a she.  Floating clothes, soundless movements, lots and lots of glitter.  Really, she's the only fairy I've really known, but never seen.  And who knows what she does with all of those teeth!  There's no way she would keep them.  Not my fairy.

Little Miss and her big brother entered into their own world of tooth fairy-ness a little over a year ago, and have since lost eight teeth each.  Although I have forgotten most of the details, Little Miss loves the story of how she lost her first tooth.  She will tell anyone who asks.

"It fell out when I bit my brother in the foot," as if that is a regular occurrence in anyone's house.  With her flaming red hair and fiery temper, none of us is surprised that she'd sink her teeth into any part of him.  I've seen it in slow motion at the kitchen table.  She's colouring; he steps in to tell her how it's done; she turns her head, leans forward, and chomps down on his right shoulder.  Normal behaviour, right?

Anyway, her tooth came out.  Do we reward her?  Of course!  Tooth fairies do not care how the tooth came out - they just want the tooth.  And the fact that we were miles away, camping in Quebec, was quite a feat for our friend, the fairy.  I think they had to send a young one.

We discovered so long as you keep the tooth in a sock, under the pillow, the tooth fairy will find it.

Several other teeth in our household have been yanked out, swallowed, or lost.  Although we encouraged the kids to send notes to the tooth fairy explaining the tooth-in-the-belly syndrome, or to watch the toilet for the next few days, the kids weren't interested and let the fairies off the hook.  According to six-year-olds; no tooth, no treats.  It just wasn't legitimate.

There was one morning our little man woke up to find a shiny coin and a box of candy under his pillow, only to see the exact same candy wrapper on the coffee table downstairs.  Mr. Man had suspiciously eaten the same candies that the tooth fairy had delivered the previous night.  I listened to what the kids had to say (after I ran upstairs and gave the him what for).

"Daddy had the same candy you have!" Little Miss had her wheels turning, "How'd that happen?  Should we ask him?"

Her brother was just happy to enjoy his treats and couldn't care less about his father's antics the night before.

"How does the tooth fairy even get the stuff here?" she enquired, eyeing up a few of his candies.

"Oh, some have the tooth fairy deliver it, and sometimes the parents do it," he answered. But he clearly was thinking of another house.  No big deal, was the impression I got.

So by the time Mr. came down to join the show, with his answers to possible candy questions, the two little ones had moved on to something else.

Earlier this week, while eating her loot from her eighth "loss," Little Miss asked me if God was in charge of the tooth fairy.

"Oh, I suppose.  He did make everything.  But I think he leaves her alone to do her job."  At least that's what my fairy would want.

"He should look after her though 'cause rides on a broom,"  she states as she munches away.

"And she looks kind of like a witch, " added her brother.

It could be because we've just come through halloween, but I think these two have a very different version of what their tooth fairy looks like than I did as a kid.  There is no way I would leave my tooth and invite a scary-looking being into my room just for quarters.

But at least in the battle between reality and make believe, they know Who's got a handle on it all.  Just like God calling Santa on the phone, they know He's got the safety of the tooth fairy on His mind, also.

Worry; the Ugly Baby

I have this inherent need to be prepared for the big things in life...natural disasters, medical problems, work issues, emergency situations, and of course, big life changes.  Flashlights at the ready, extra warm blankets on the beds, epi-pens and band-aids, stocked pantry...Mr. Man's cape ironed.  You know, regular emergency stuff.

The moment I became a mother, I swear I gave birth to not only a beautiful babe, but to two other ugly babies: Guilt and Worry.  I had been given such a great responsibility that I Worried I wouldn't be able to handle it or to keep the baby safe, and then I, of course, felt Guilty for being imperfect and for Worrying.

Worry is the bigger "ugly baby" for me than Guilt.  If I am not careful I can be consumed by it.

Even now as my kids are school-aged, I worry about crazy stuff.  Are my kids going to get lost today? Are they going to fall off the sidewalk as we walk down main street?  Will someone take their pizza money?

Am I feeding them enough meat?

Do I need to spend more time reading with them, or doing math flash cards?

I just have to be ready for anything.

What will happen if there is a fire?

What will happen if I get sick?

It can really get me down.  Tell me I'm not the only one.

I honestly don't know how many times I have asked Mr. Man what to do if the car drives into the lake. Do I roll the windows down or leave them up?  Do automatic windows even work when they are wet?  

I just have to be ready for anything.

GAAAHHG!

So now I have come up with a remedy to clear my mind when Worry tries to take over.  I start an anti-worrying game, kind of like positive thinking, but sillier: The Positive "What ifs".

"What if... Little Miss was labelled a genius?"

"What if ... the person we helped on the street was a billionaire looking for an heir?"

"What if ... I got a call from a school that said I was the only person qualified to do the teaching job?"

"What if ... God sends us to Peterborough?"  "Or Africa?" 

The closest I got to a real adventure was a phone call one night in which the person at the other end was asking me to judge a cake competition in Arkansas.  I said, "What?"  And the lady went on and on about their culinary school, and how they need a fourth judge and someone gave them my name...

"Oh, wait." I said, suddenly realizing what was going on, "You need the Cakes by Erin from Illinois.  You are speaking to the Cakes by Erin in Canada."  And as she went on to appologize and try to get off the phone, my shoulders slumped, I hung up the phone, and kicked the sofa.

"I could've done that you know!" I said to Mr. Man.  "Crap!"  And I continued on making boring chicken with boring rice, in my boring corningware, in my boring house.

So, hey! What if I hadn't told them I was from Canada?  What if they hadn't believed me and paid thousands of dollars for me to fly down there, stay in a hotel and pretend I know something about culinary arts?

Could've happened.

One day I decided to engage Mr. Man in my game.  I threw some of these ideas at him, "What if a baby got dropped off on our front step?"  "What if it was an heir to billions?" "What if you became a volunteer fireman?"  "What if you became MAYOR!!"  He ignored me at first, then went a bit pale, then put a pillow over his face.  Eventually I could tell he had something to say;

"Oh, I know!" he said, excitedly, "What if everything stayed the same?" And he waved his hands in the air like it was some big deal.

Hmmph.  Well, that's no fun.

I'd like to think that I would be calm and controlled if something terrible ever happened.  Perhaps I could be the woman who steps in to take care of any situation, but probably not.  It doesn't matter how many flashlight batteries are in the cupboard, or how many cheese strings I pack in my purse.  Shit happens.  And of course, the Lord holds me and my family in His hands.  And I know that Worry is a sin.  SO WHAT if I drive really slow around lakes and rivers?

But the fact is that Jesus says, "Do not worry about tomorrow, for today has enough trouble of it's own.  Take heart! I have overcome the world."  So today I will try not to fret over wee things and focus on the tasks at hand. Tomorrow?  I won't worry about it.  I will focus on the positive "What Ifs".

"What if ... the day is perfect?"

Well, who knows?

"What if ... Mr. Man joins the church council!!"

A Boy at Rest

Boys.  What do I know about boys?  Not much.  Every day I am surprised and perplexed at what my son does.

But I do know that in certain scenes, he is perfect.

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.

Little Miss and the Cake Show

I'd heard about Canada's Baking and Sweets Show through Facebook, but really wasn't interested until it was announced that Duff Goldman, from Food Networks' "Ace of Cakes" was going to be there.  It wasn't him so much that I liked about the show, but his team of cake decorators, and how each of them had their own specialty.  If you want to hear more about me going on about the show click here.

Little Miss even likes "the cake show" and pulled out the DVD's the other day (perhaps to cheer me up since I had a cold).  "You know, he's coming to Canada in a couple of weeks," I said, "pretty close to here."

"Do you have to fly on a plane or can you drive to get there?"  She's measures things by vehicles now.

"Well, he'll have to take a plane, but we could drive." Of course she immediately wanted to go, but at that point I hadn't planned on taking the trip.  Eventually when the opportunity arose, I couldn't take her anyway.

But after a half-hour wait in line, I got him to sign the book for her :)

A Conversation Between Two Excitable Gingers

Today I received a call from Little Miss's principal informing me my girl would be moving to a different class, in a different building.

Hmmm.

Apparently, there are too many grade one's in the present building, and a handful need to be moved into the junior school's split grade 1/2 class.

And because Little Miss is SO independent, SO self-confident, and SO outgoing, her teacher has elected her to be one of the few.  In the back of my mind, though, I wonder if it is with a cheerful heart that her teacher pushes her off onto another.  We all know Little Miss can be a handful.

"I'm assuming I do not have any choice in the matter?"  I ask.

"Um, no," the principal says, "but her teacher says she is so independent, so self-confident and so..."

"Oh, yes, I have no doubt she can handle it."  I'm more worried about someone else, I think.

Later, after explaining to Little Miss what was going to happen (and to her big brother who would be seeing her in the school yard), we talked about how we would break it to Mr. Man.  A plan was made.  After a few pointers, Little Miss decided she wanted to tell him herself.  We went over the important parts: how it was all going to be fine, and that her big brother would be there to help her around the big grade fours and fives.

Here's how it went down:

Mr. Man arrives in suit and tie.  Little Miss, in her curly, red ponytails, guides him over the club chairs and asks him to sit down.

"Daddy, come sit here.  I have to tell you something and I don't want you to get upset."

"Yes?" He is amused but at the same time I can tell he is trying to guess what this is about.  I sit in the corner of the room on the steps behind them.  He looks back at me and I grin.

"Daddy, I am moving to the junior school," she says certainly, her hands in front of her, moving in her signature chopping motion. "There are too many grade ones and three kids are moving to the junior school and I've been picked as number three."

"Well, what grade will you be in?" he asks.

"ONE, dad.  Everything's the same." She's getting worked up.  Her calm voice has been forgotten.

"Did you get picked because you were bad?" There's a smile behind his eyes.

"NO, I TOLD YOU!  There are too many grade ones, and my teacher says I am brave!" She exclaims, arms up.

"Oh, because of the big kids." He's uncertain again.

"Yes, and [my brother] will be there to save my life!"  Um, maybe not the best choice of words...

"And when does this happen?" he asks.

"Tomorrow." Again with the chopping motion, "I start the day in the primary school and then they take me for a tour at the junior school, and then that's it!"  She is definitely excited.

Mr. asks me a few worried questions, rubs the top of his head, and then wanders upstairs for awhile.  I think he'll be okay.  It's hard having a daughter who knows everything.

We'll just have to wait and see how this next adventure pans out.

*****

And for a taste of what Little Miss does when I'm not on my mac...

What Erin Forgot

 I recently pulled a book off the shelves of the library, took it home and after reading the first chapter, took it back.  This doesn't happen very often.  What Alice Forgot, is about a 39-year-old woman hitting her head and losing ten years of her memories.  She forgets her marriage, her three children, and anything that went on between the ages of 29 to 39.

Can you imagine??  Forgetting your children?  Or if you do not have children, look back on the last decade of your life and run through all of the changes that have happened. Your job, or jobs.  Your relationships, friends...bad dates.  Places you've lived.  People you've met.  Any wrinkles?  Weight gain?  If I woke up today, I would be shocked by how long it takes me to get out of my arm chair.  And why the heck am I making cakes, instead of teaching math?  But I digress.

Another book, Remember Me? by Sophie Kinsella, is about a young woman waking up in the hospital having forgotten three years of her life.  She discovers she is in extraordinary shape (she can do the splits), is the boss of her company, and is married!  This book, perhaps because it is more entertaining than disturbing, I did not put back on the shelf.

Both my mother and I, at different times, experienced the eery feeling of deja-vous when we read the first chapter of Remember Me?  The idea of losing ones memory for exactly three years is not too far from home.

Although when I woke up I couldn't do the splits.

I joke about my husband being a superhero: an insurance salesman by day, a secret caped crusader by night, Mr. Man.  But really, he has had to be.  Less than a year after he marries the girl of his dreams (ahem) she is rushed to the hospital with what is called a tonic-clonic seizure (previously grand-mal) and wakes up without any memory of the previous three years, forgetting him, their wedding day, and their life together.  

He says he was just happy I wasn't a vegetable.

When the attendant asked me if I knew who Mr. was, I said his name was Robert.  

His name is NOT Robert.

I seemed to know he was important, though, and asked him if we were married.  Strangely enough, I seemed okay with the fact that we were.  We are?  Okay, well then, on to the next thing.  Why does my dad seem so old?

It must be because Mr.'s so darn cute.

We've been married eleven years now, (I remember ten - ha, ha) and have been through a lot together.  And even though I will never be able to do the splits, be the boss of a big company, and never planted a yard full of sunflowers (you need to read the book), our story will always be pretty interesting.

But it's still not funny when I call him Robert.  

Memories of a Living House

It’s silly to some that a house could be a living being; a place filled with voices and glimpses of memories, resting on deep, deep roots.  It can take years to build such a place, and sometimes you don’t realize it has been created until it is gone.

            We were met with shaking news yesterday. Our childhood home had been destroyed by fire.  Although my parents had moved out while I was in University, it was still in their possession, and it was the last place I lived before I “grew up”.

            The place was thick with memories: the sound of screaming fights between sisters; the smell of mom’s meatloaf; the rough feel of the front railing that I was supposed to sand.  I can picture the laminate kitchen floor, and the back entranceway with all of dad’s ball caps hanging above the door. There was the wood trim Dad had brought to its original glory, the TV room where Lord knows what was hidden under the couch, my sister’s room where guinea pigs multiplied, my brother’s room where the ceiling fell in, and my parent’s room where the most significant discussions in my life happened while mom folded laundry.

            The big front window was where my friends and I hid on our last Halloween night after egging several cars that drove by.  Mom physically kicked my butt and said, “The dumbest thing you can do is come here to hide! Now they know who you are!”

I had to wash the neighbour’s car the next morning.

            Dad built us a “fort” outside, too sturdy to be any fun.  The maple trees filled our yard with bright orange leaves each fall.  We played soccer and baseball in the backyard with our cousins every summer.  Watercolour paints, brushes, dry muffins and a cup of tea surrounded mom regularly at the dining room table.

            For me, as for any teenage girl, my room was sacred.  When voting for who would get the large attic as a bedroom, I won by sheer tidiness (not the case anymore) as my sister continually got lost in her belongings.  For years I arranged and rearranged the furniture in my gigantic room, blasted rock music to the rafters after a bad day at school, and cried my eyes out when rejected by a boy.  I would sit at the bottom of the stairs and gab to my girlfriend with the phone cord stretched through the crack in the attic door so my mom wouldn’t hear.

            I chose my path in life here, I found Jesus Christ here, and I stood at the front door in my awful prom dress with my awful prom date and got my awful photo taken (which is now destroyed) here.

I played the piano every night while my parents patiently pretended they could sleep through it here.

            And I spent endless hours sitting on the front porch ironically wishing I lived somewhere else, and was born to a different family here. 

Such is the life of a teenage girl.

            With a faith that promotes not looking on the things of this world, I believe the Lord gives us beautiful things because He knows we need love, enjoyment, comfort and safety.  As I look on the pictures of the melted siding, the broken wooden scalloped tiles, and the smoke billowing out of what was once my room, my heart is broken. 

I know tomorrow I will get over it and realize it is just a house.  But today I will mourn. 

Man, I loved that house.

The Lala "Oopsy" Cake, Part 2:

Once in a while, I tackle a cake that tackles me.  Unfortunately, it happened to be my daughter's birthday cake.  To read the story behind this cake, you will need to read part 1.

I did a bit of research on how other cake decorators have made these Lalaloopsy dolls with their huge heads and tiny bodies, and thought I had a good grasp on what it would take to keep it all intact.  Unfortunately, I forgot that I am not good at structural physics and the cake inevitably falls over without the assistance of Mr. Man.

Here is how the cake progressed.  Get ready.

Day 1:  I made a beautiful loopsy head and mermaid tail out of rice krispy treats.  I refrigerated them for two days before wrapping them in fondant.  I textured the tail and set the pieces aside to harden.  I also baked a sheet cake and put it in the freezer until later.

Day 2:  My son and I worked after Little Miss went to bed, and completed the face and hair of the loopsy head.  I poked a hole in the bottom for a dowel to go through, wrapped the head up so she wouldn't see it, and put it in the cupboard.

Day 3:  The night before the birthday party, I placed the cake on a glass cutting board, my son iced it, and together we covered it in fondant and decorated everything with the sewing tool, seaweed and buttons.  We put a large-sized straw into the neck of the mermaid as a support and placed a wooden dowel down inside for the head to connect onto.  My son went to bed.

Later, I went to get the head out of the cupboard, and it had gone all squishy!  Melted!  

Mr. Man went to work finding a solution.  He came into the shop with a brand new wiffle ball.  I quickly covered it in gumpaste (it hardens faster) and shoved it full of royal icing and fastened it onto the wooden dowel.  We hoped for the best and went to bed.

Day 4: The day of the party, I went into the shop and found the head had fallen back, dragging the dowel, straw and the back of the mermaid with it.  There was a huge dent behind her on the cake where the head had landed.  

I realized the dowel needed to be inserted into the board so I had to lift the cake off of the glass and place it onto a foamcore board.  In lifting it, the cake cracked in several places.

I called the troops in.  Little Miss wanted to help.

I said, "sure."

"Ooh," She exclaimed, "somebody broke the whale!"

And I shrugged, and agreed.

She also found the original head we'd made, and exclaimed that it looked so much like a loopsy doll!  It wasn't until later, after covering the cracks with seaweed, and putting the hair on the head that her brother told her it was for her!  She was so surprised!

 (Three heads - can you tell which one is real? har, har)

Little Miss made the new loopsy face, her brother redid the work we had done the night before, and I went to work fixing the back, neck and cutting new dowels for the head.  Needless to say, we got it all done, and I kept the head off until we got to the party.

 Voila! The finished product, never to be seen on my facebook or cake blog.  Faded, crooked, broken and looking a little spooky, Little Miss was happy with her cake. 

And,

Ultimately,

 cake always looks like....

This!  

Yikes!  Her head at least stayed on until the end!! 

The Lala "Oopsy" Cake or The Cake Blog Reject: Part 1

What they say about the shoemaker's family is true.  Although he may put out a fine pair of shoes for any customer, his own wife and kids at home have holed shoes, or perhaps none at all.

In my case, it comes down to birthday cakes.  Of course my kids have to have them - they look forward to their birthdays every year.  Little Miss has been planning hers for months, and the plan has changed several times.  Each time, predictably, the cake is extensive.  So the day she came screaming out of a certain aisle at Walmart, jumping up and down about these strange dolls called Lalaloopsy, I knew she'd finally found something she'd stick to.

So I decided I would surprise her with a Lalaloopsy birthday cake!  Great idea, right?  Not right.  Even though I researched how other cake decorators secured the large cake-filled heads on their itty-bitty necks, I was unaware of the challenges I would face the night before the big day.

First, let me explain how much Little Miss loves these dolls.

One night I had to slip into Walmart to pick up a few baking supplies (butter is significantly cheaper there), and she decided to grab her pretty change purse and check out the toy section.  She ran straight to the Loopsy Dolls to pick out the one she wanted.

Now I am proud to say I have a very smart girl.  We counted out her money and she had nine dollars.  I explained the three prices of dolls in front of us and that none of them were nine dollars.  She would have to decide which one she wanted and save up her money to buy it.

She stared at those dolls, and slowly crossed various ones off of her list.  She didn't like the hair on this one, that one was a boy...but she realized the more accessories that were in the box, the more "spensive" it was.  So she finally made her choice.  She pointed to the $19.97 Loopsy doll.

"I want to buy that one," she said, and then pointing over to a more expensive one, said, "And you can get me that one for my birthday."

Wow.  Okay.

So she washed out the fridge in the house and the fridge in the shop, and she searched the couch cushions and various places she stashed coins, and low and behold, she "earned" the necessary $10.

I took her back to Walmart, and she took the doll happily off of the shelf.  While walking to the cash, she takes the box in both hands, looks into the face of the doll and gives a crazed, guttural laugh like she could eat it she's so happy.

"I just can't believe I'm getting this." she says quietly.  And she takes it home and now sleeps with it every night, box and all.

So her older brother and I get to work the week before her birthday to make a cake that looks like the more expensive doll (the one hidden under my bed).

But I'll talk about it more next time....meanwhile, here's a sneak peak.

My Lucky Sunglasses

I should never have lost my sunglasses.

I iced the cupcakes wrong.
The sun melted the buttercream swirls.
The cake slid into the side of the box.
The repair man never came.
I got pushed in line by an old man while waiting for a hotdog.
I got Canada Day parade candy thrown at me by a nasty parader at close range.
I couldn't eat the ice cream at the creamery.  I watched everyone else eat theirs.
We almost got backed over by a huge truck while watching the fireworks.
I almost got in a fight with the driver of the huge truck that almost backed over us.

I should never have lost those glasses.

I wore big, ugly sunglasses over my regular glasses.  It wasn't the same.
I wore a large brimmed baseball hat to shade my eyes.  It wasn't the same.

I missed my $15 Walmart special clip-ons that fit right over my glasses.

Today I got my sunglasses back.  They were delivered to my front door with a smile.

Since then, for supper I made steak the right way.
We beat the storm running home from the library.
Both kids won their soccer games.
And I had two answering machine messages from clients saying how happy they were with their cakes.

Maybe I'll wear my sunglasses all day tomorrow in hopes that the repair man comes calling.

*****

I will say Mr. Man found a small store selling pizza, begged the owner to look into their ice cream freezer, dug through the ice cream bars reading each label until he found a soy-free, peanut-free ice cream bar (probably from 2010) and ran out to hand me his prize.

Such a Super guy :)

Patience is a Virtue

Seriously?  Isn't life supposed to work out when in the Lord's hands?

I prayed and prayed for a dishwasher.  I went by the health unit's rules.  I kept my eyes and ears open for the Lord's leading and the right dishwasher to use.  Doors closed everywhere and finally, amidst frustration and confusion, a machine arrived.

$4200 later, and $1500 to install it, and I had a working, health unit approved dishwasher.

And 6 weeks later, it broke.

And 3 months later, it is still broken.

Lord?

The representative on the other end of the line is in Quebec, breathing heavy and sighing as much as I am.  Poor Alan at extension 214. (I have the number memorized now).  If only he and I were in charge of the world, I am sure I would have a working dishwasher.

It's those middle men.
.
.
.
Lord?

I put my head down on the table (I do that a lot).  I regroup.  I chant, "This is but a moment in my eternal life...this is but a moment in my eternal life."

The irony is I have a ton of work to do but because I am trapped here waiting for the fix-it man to arrive (I am on day five of waiting), I cannot work, but instead fret, pace, whine and eat junk food.

Lord?
.
.
.
Lord?

Did I pray for patience the other day? I didn't, did I?  I know better than that.  Maybe in my sleep?

Did Mr?

He wouldn't dare!  Hmmmm.  I gotta go.  I think I have a call to make.  And it's not to Alan at extension 214.
.
.
.
Patience may be a virtue, but misery loves company.

My Mom Was a Nature Fairy

Saturday night I arrived late to our family campout, tired, smelling like carrot cake, and wearing a large baseball hat over my dirty hair.  It was mom's 60th birthday and I'd just about missed it.

But nobody seemed to mind: twelve kids were running wild, up the treehouse dad had just built, around the pond where a snapping turtle was hiding, and some were hanging from my oldest cousin's t-shirt in a game of touch football.  Adults were relaxing after passing around huge bowls of chili and starting into the burgers.  I was handed a beer and told to sit. So I did.  I caught Mr. Man and my mom standing along the sidelines, hands on hips, watching over everyone.  I could tell who was in charge.

Everybody in mom's family has always been close, always kept in touch, and always cared when good and bad things happen.  Mom turning 60 was the perfect reason for getting together.  Some parked trailers on their large property, some "camped" inside.  It was an all-out eating fest, and I certainly did my part.

As everything panned out the way mom secretly orchestrated it, there was one gift she wasn't expecting.

You need to understand first that before I knew her, mom was a fairy.  If you read any books on the Neverland Fairies, she would be on the page about nature fairies.  Mom knows every plant and flower, both in latin and layman's terms, and can magically grow any of them.  She walks through the woods greeting the winter berries and looking for bird tracks to see who's visited the area.  Ultimately, she searches for the magic.

When she is with my kids, she pulls them into her imaginative play.  They become characters in a story of her creation, and they sip their tea, draw their maps, and spend their millions until she heads out the door and the bubble of wonder melts away.

Once, when my son was very young, I found the magic.  It was at the edge of a ball field were the grass was long and the weeping willows hung so low they formed a green ivy-covered cave.  Tiny bugs jumped along, dandelion seeds floated through the air and I felt a warm shiver up my spine.  Fairies were in this place.  I knew it.  And I thought of mom.

So Saturday night when she called me away from the campfire, I wasn't surprised that she'd found something full of wonder.  What we saw no one (even in 65 years) had ever seen before.

Back behind the barn, whether we turned left or right, or walked the length of the field, we were surrounded by hundreds of lightning bugs.  Fireflies.  It was a sight to behold.  Dancing, shining, enjoying the nighttime, it was as if fairies were at work everywhere, using the firefly lights to shine the way.  While we were having our family reunion on one side of the barn, the fairy world was having a family gathering on the other side.

"It's just like pixie dust!" someone said.  A sideways look at mom and you knew she wanted to run out there, greeting each and every one of them.

So here's to mom on her birthday.

Happy Birthday, Mom.  May you never lose the magic.

We love you!

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!

Peanuts are Back!

I've got peanuts on the brain these days as I read over some papers on allergies I'd written in the past, so I honestly thought I was seeing things when I read "Peanuts are Back!" on a local restaurant.

I can only assume it is not a joke.

This restaurant that had removed all shelled peanuts from their tables years ago, has now reintroduced them.  It was an odd feeling reading that sign.  I had, personally, never eaten there, but have enjoyed eating at another previously peanut-filled restaurant on numerous occasions.  Was their business failing without the shelled peanuts?  Will others follow?  Perhaps they feel we allergic people can go somewhere else to eat.  I will NOW.  


But sure, why not go back?  Nobody said they had to take the little killers away.  Seafood restaurants still serve seafood even though some of us are allergic.  Cows still give milk...


It didn’t bother me so much that they made this pro-peanut choice, but that they went back to it.  Has the battle come full circle?  Have food companies and restaurants tired of taking care of the allergic?  


Quaker Oats has come out with a new line of Cheerios.  You guessed it - Peanut Butter Cheerios.  Why would you possibly consider contaminating the first finger-food for toddlers?  And it looks very much like multigrain cheerios, so don't doubt that mistakes will be made in the shopping aisle.  


So, we’ll see what happens.  I grew up without any "peanut-free" foods.  Allergic-kids are, at present, living in a fairly safe world in comparison.  But if food agencies, schools and restaurants decide they don't care about going the peanut-free route anymore, these kids are in for a real dose of reality.  


They're going to have to do what we did.  Pray.real.hard & don't.eat.anything!

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn's Sister

There are days when Mr. and I relate Little Miss to a street urchin.  Just yesterday the idea of "Huck Finn" entered my mind.  At least one loved by everyone in the village.

There is a new jewelry store in town.  And although Little Miss is hardly dressed to match the sparkly, "do not touch" beauties in the glass display cases, her eyes glaze over as she looks over them.  But what is the ultimate reason for going in?

Her big blues and red freckles peeking out from under her stained sunhat has charmed the shop owner, and she often receives an enormous sucker for her and her brother because of it.

Charming shop owners and business people in our village is not a new endeavour.  Years ago as an unruly two-year old, the local librarians would laugh at the screaming redhead running up and down the aisles of books while her red-faced mother called for her from the children's section (which was one floor down).  Once she even jumped onto the elevator by herself and rode up to the adult section.  I could hear her gasp during the split second it took for the doors to open as she arrived at her destination.  It was one of the rare moments of fear in her I have witnessed.

And of course she charmed them into oodles of stickers for her and her brother.

She loves to stop in at the book store everyday after school.  She picks items off the shelves, and confidently asks the owner to "hold" it for her until she has money. She flips through all of the books, and unfortunately sets them on the floor to delve into the pictures.  She "straightens up" the books and when a page gets ripped she receives a compassionate pat on the head and a big box of toys to entertain her.

And of course, dutch crackers and candies for her and her brother.

Earlier this week, a friendly gentleman was gracious enough to gather the plastic baby, hat and bottle which had been strung along the sidewalk where Little Miss had previously been.  He looked down at her with a smile.  He was happy to oblige.

I won't bother writing about the Insurance Office, the Dog Groomers, or the Carpet Store (that, she says, needs another goldfish), because you get the idea.  She's even charmed the crossing guard to let her cross the road by herself (which is SO not allowed).

Huck Finn's sister perhaps.

She dresses in bright, girly colours which are stained with lunch, both down her front and wiped on the back of her sleeves.  Her mane of red, curly hair has a life of it's own, and busts out of any elastic or barrette that struggles to contain it.  I have walked home after dropping her off at kindergarten and found several things along our route that had been in her hair.  Crazy hair day involved a quarter bottle of gel to straighten and braid it.  The local ice cream shop opened yesterday, and I had to teach her to face into the wind so the bright blue bubble gum dessert (the same flavour her brother had) would stop getting into her hair.  It got on her forehead, eyebrows, Mr. Man's shorts, and the ends of her hair, but miraculously not around her mouth or chin.

And, as she climbs the backyard crabapple tree, toad in hand, I think, somebody should write a story about her and her brother (who is not so Huck Finn-ish) that she looks after.

*****

For Holly, who reminded me of my favourite Stella and Sam books.


Above painting found at http://s75owzo.edu.glogster.com/zac-and-ashleys-huck/

My First Cake

When I was a kid living at home, I got it into my head to make my mom a birthday cake.  Cake mix?  Easy.  Icing? Not so much.  I remember searching through her books for a recipe on icing or frosting.  I had no idea how to make it, no concept as to what made it thick and fluffy.  I’m pretty sure I closed my eyes and pointed to a random recipe in the dessert section.

I went to work and combined all of the ingredients in a pot and cooked it on the stove.  I stirred and stirred and it cooked and cooked.  Stirred and cooked.  Stirred and cooked.

Eventually, I lifted the pot off of the heat and let it cool.  It was a brown colour (maybe from too much vanilla) so I decided I needed to change the colour.  I looked into Mom’s pantry and found blue food colouring.  Unfortunately, blue mixed with that particular shade of brown makes puke green.

Once cooled, I poured it onto the round cake that was already placed on a cake plate.  As I started, I realized it really wasn’t thick and fluffy at all, but had the consistency of pea soup.  It ran off the cake, onto the plate and onto the table.  Green sticky pea soup everywhere.

Just then my dad walks in the house and senses anxiety.  He steps into the kitchen, and in his “saving the day” dad-vest, scoops up the plate of seeping mess and whisks it out to the back porch which was directly connected to the kitchen.

He masterly scrapes the icing from around the cake sides and plate with the side of a butter knife (experienced from years of mudding and taping walls in our houses) and makes it look semi-okay.  Whew!  I can breath again as he helps contain the disaster it could have been if mom had seen it!

Throughout the five years I have owned my cake business, when he sees one of my new creations, Dad will chuckle, “You’ve come along way from the drippy green icing I helped you scoop up on the back porch!”


And although there have been MANY disasters in the Cakes by Erin kitchen, and some have been witness to it, I have forever mastered the art of buttercream, and will never, ever close my eyes and point to pick a new recipe!

Little Miss and My Birthday

While window shopping together last week, Little Miss realized she'd missed my birthday.

"Well, it was a bit overshadowed by Easter, honey," I explained. "(Or chocolate and candy, I thought.)

"But I wanted to get you something!" she exclaimed.

"Why don't you make me something?  Get out your scissors and paper..."

"But I wanted to use my money!"  And she stomped off towards home.  

I watched her go, and was touched how upset she was.  I let her run ahead the two blocks home, her arms stiff with fists and a look of determination plastered on her face.  I was certain she would forget it all soon enough.

But later, I plunked facedown on our bed while Little Miss was "doing her hair" in the bathroom.  She came over and started rubbing my back.  "This will be my gift to you," she said to me, wriggling her little fingers along my spine.

"And that's just fine with me," I answered softly.

*****

I told this story to Mr. Man just the other night.  I asked him when he thought I would get over my lousy birthday.  "What does it say in the Bible about how long we should hold a grudge?" I gave him a crooked smile, knowing the truth.

Quickly, without looking up, he said, "Apparently 40 days."

Little Miss on Eternal Life

There has been a lot of discussion around me lately about introverts. If you're shy, are you an introvert?  If you are a "hermit", are you an introvert?  Can an introvert enjoy a party? A heavy discussion?  Do they open up?

I've been called an introvert, and even a recluse.  Especially after I quit teaching.  I snuggle up in my house with my books and laptop, and enjoy the solitude of quiet.  I do not necessarily like to be alone for long periods of time, but I certainly like my quiet.  In the movie, Date Night, Tina Fey's character, Mrs. Foster, explains that her fantasy would be to get a hotel room all to herself and just sit in the quiet.  That's what I am like.

So when Little Miss is home, the ultimate extrovert, I am stretched to the max with 'anti-introvertness', and am forced to engage in the most complicated, and deepest conversations I've ever had.

"Can God bring people back to life?" she asks from the back of the van.

"Yes." I say, uncertainly, wondering where this is going.  Easter was just last week.

"So when is Grandma coming back to life?"

Oh, dear.  "No, she's alive in heaven.  She won't come back here on earth."  My mind is racing as to the questions I am about to answer.

"Jesus came back to life 'cause he's God's son, right?"  She's looking out the window, deep in thought.

"Yes."

"So are we Jesus' daughters?  kids?"

"Uh, we're his friends..."

"But aren't we God's kids?"

"Um yes.  But God gives us life in heaven, not on earth after we die."  And I went into the Easter story again, the raising of Lazarus, anything that could possibly either make it easier to understand or so  complicated that I could possibly confuse myself.  I was sweating.

And just as I think I have a handle on it, Little Miss interrupts, and yells,

"COWS!"

Oh, good grief.  I look out the window at a herd of boring jersey cows and suddenly remember that I was riding with a five year old, with the attention span to match.  My blood pressure lowers back to normal and I am suddenly very tired.  Sigh.

Someone will someday explain eternal life to her better than I can, and for now, I will continue driving through Oak Hills to my home, where I will pull a hoodie over my head, sit in front of my laptop, and lather in my 'introvertness'.  Little Miss can go off and play, contemplating life and death with her barbies.

The Lamb of God

The first time I ever understood what the "Lamb of God" meant, I was entering our summer chapel at the Bible camp I attended each year.

The chapel itself was merely a shell of a building: windows, plywood, and visible rafters housing bats that swooped down during our singing.  But everyone knew this was where you had to behave and listen to important things.  In my last years at Bible Camp, I would be at the front, playing my guitar and leading campers in those same songs I sang on the donated pews.

So, this one particular week, as a counsellor, I walked into the chapel to see the guest speaker hanging homemade banners across the front.  Drawn on them with perfect cartoony strokes (he must've been quite the artist in his spare time) were pictures of lambs.  In black marker he'd outlined, in chronological order, various stories from the Bible in which a lamb was used to seek forgiveness of sins.

There was a lamb to represent the clothing Adam and Eve wore as they were cast out the garden.  There was the lamb Abraham sacrificed instead of his son Isaac.  There was the lamb that Jesus carried as the Good Shepherd, and so on...until the very end, the last lamb picture.  The ultimate lamb sacrifice:  Jesus as the Lamb of God.  He sacrificed himself for the forgiveness of our sins, and that morning in a dusty, bat-filled chapel, I fully understood.

Perhaps, like me, you feel uncomfortable with the idea that some living thing needed to be sacrificed for sins in our biblical history, or that it is still the description included in the Easter story.  But for one moment, it all made sense to me, and I relive it each Easter morning.

I pray, whether you are attending your home church with your parents, visiting a church with neighbours, or sitting at home with a bad cold (like me), that you would somehow be hit with the reality of what Easter really is, and that He is truly the Ultimate Lamb, sacrificed for you and your sins of the past, the present and the future.

Be blessed, for He is risen :)

The Grocery Store and the Belly Laugh

Often, I postpone trips into the "big city" for when Little Miss is home from senior kindergarten.  It's better with company, although she does not go at the speed I would like.  I am perpetually impatient as she loses a mitten, fixes her curls, or gets distracted, "Oh, look, there's a birdie!" But it is nice to have a helping hand.

And since she thinks she is 30-ish, she does the grocery shopping.  I pay, of course, but she loads up the cart, places the items on the cashier's counter, puts them all in bags, and places them back in the cart again.  Two major differences between her and I: she can't reach the produce bags, and I can't ride under the cart handlebars.

And we always give each other a high-five in the end.

*****

Earlier this month, she and I stepped out of the house to go for a walk.  I promptly fell off the edge of the sidewalk.

I stopped.  "Well, I'm ready to go home," I sighed.  She looked up at me, and I down at her.

"That was a terrible beginning," I said, and flashed a crooked smile.  Little Miss blasted out a huge five-year-old belly laugh, and we continued on down the road.  She carried my things for me in case I fell again.

On our next trip to the grocery store, I got the cart jammed in the entrance door.  I grumbled, pushed, and complained about carts, grocery stores, and other stuff, and finally got the cart through the door.

I stopped.  "Well, I'm ready to go home," I sighed.  A light turned on behind her eyes, as Little Miss remembered something.

"You said that before!"  And gave another jolly belly laugh.

We continued on, she, packing the groceries, and I, swiping my chip card.  We packed up, high-fived and got home in time to go to the park.

After about a half an hour at the park, Little Miss tripped on something and lost her balance.  She righted herself, and suddenly grinned.

"Well, I'm ready to go home!" she said.

Gave a big belly laugh, that's what I did!

"Rools," by Little Miss

[Read with one hand on her hip and the other hand chopping the air with every word.]

1.  Everything has to be fair:  if he gets 3 cookies, then I get 3 cookies.  If he doesn't need a bath, then I do not need a bath.  If you're going to carry his backpack, then you have to carry mine, too.

2.  If I cry really hard, and hiccup a lot, I should get what I want.  Especially with daddy.

3.  No teasing me, no embarrassing me, no lecturing me, no bossing me, no correcting me, no complimenting me, no looking at me....

4.  Definitions:
'later' means 'now';
'next day' means 'anytime in the future';
'last day' means 'anytime in the past';
'the thing around the thing' means...well, it's your fault you do   not understand me!

5.  You must drop everything to listen to what I have to say, even if I say obscure definitions like  'the thing with the thing that's big, and, you use it for the thing', and even if I say it three times.

6.  What you are doing is not as important as what I need you to do.

7.  I may be 5 1/2, but in my mind I am 36, and must be treated as such.

8.  Any colours go with pink.

9.  Hair does not need to be brushed.  If I wet it down, that is enough.

10. I know where everything is, what the answer to everything is, and who's responsible for every mess, even if I only just woke up.

And that's a wrap!  Have a great week!

Erin

Little Miss, in Disguise!

Happy Spring!

Yesterday Little Miss and I made butter cookies, ["For us?" she asks. "Yes!" I answer.] and are decorating them for Easter.  We bought beautiful tulips from the local florist last week, (I picked yellow and she picked purple), and we are crafting easter baskets from the dollar store.  Anything to avoid spring cleaning...

I am presently working on another story about Little Miss, but until then why don't you pop by my cake site and think about how YOU eat a cupcake!  

Venting

I am not a salesperson, I am an artist.  I want to hide out in my studio and make beautiful things.  Things that make me smile, make my heart flutter, and make me feel proud of myself.  Art is difficult since not everyone understands it.  They do not understand how long it takes to make something.  They do not understand the cost of materials, or how hard it is to work with that medium.

Don't tell me it is too expensive, or your aunt could make it cheaper.  Don't tell me your 15 year old son could make it.  This is my art, my pleasure.  I will grab it all, hold it close, and sell nothing, instead of stand here and listen to you dismiss my talents.  You think because you are old you have the freedom to say what you like.  You are mistaken.

I am home again in my beloved shop.  The air is warm and cosy, the colours are welcoming, the sun is bright.  My tools are ready.  I smile.  I love to work with my hands.  I have strong hands, my daughter says.  And you can't put a price on those.

Kijiji Ad: ONE FREE DOG

Today I went for a walk - three times.  Once with my two kids and the dog, once with my two kids and an empty dog leash, and once with my two kids, my husband, and the dog looking forlornly at us through the fenced-in yard.

Sigh.  Dogs.  You love them and they love you.  You hate them and they love you.

Do you remember my story of our date night? When all we did was search for our dog, and by the end of the terrible evening, we still didn't find him?

We found him the next day in the POUND!  He looked pitiful.  And of course I started to cry.  I hate that I started to cry.  Most days I want him to disappear, and the one time he does, I cry with relief when I find him.  I hate that.

We should've known he was a runner since the first day we got him eight and a (long) half years ago.  We brought him home, just 1 1/2 yrs old, with his sad, dark eyes, sleek fur and happy smile.  The next day he jumped through a small window, right through the screen, and disappeared down the road.  Our neighbour eventually found him and brought him back.

The following week while we had company over, he escaped, and we spent our evening driving around town looking for him.  He was waiting for us when we got back home. "Where'd everybody go?" he asked.

I have written and rewritten the Kijiji ad SO MANY TIMES, that I have it memorized:

FOR FREE: one ten-year-old black lab-retriever mix, male, indoor/outdoor dog needing constant companionship, a warm place to sleep and a high fence.  Will pay for allergy medicine, ear cleaner, even dog food and vet bills.  Will not pay the $80 'get-out-of-pound' fee any longer.  Come get him.

But then Mr. hears of somebody having an intruder enter their home.  "The dog stays," he says.

So he stays.  He scares away squirrels, the local groundhog, and various tomcats who torment our kitten.  He also scares the papergirl, the woman collecting for diabetes, and any potential cake customers who may come when the shop is closed. He steals the kids' breakfasts, barfs on the rug, gets ear infections in both ears (and therefore can't hear burglers), has major seasonal allergies, and steals pizza.

BUT, he's so sorry.  He loves me.  He follows me everywhere and needs me during a scary storm or when the kids go off to school, and he reminds me of times when we played 'catch the stick' at the beach.  He is greying now, and slow, and sleeps most of the time.  If we sent him anywhere, I'm sure he would die of heartache, and that I could not handle.  One night away from me in the pound showed me that.

So do I let him back inside tonight, out of the doghouse? Do I let him eat his supper even though he ate the neighbour's garbage? Will I look after him through the night as he gets sick in the backyard?  Umm, well, maybe not...

But I'll put an extra blanket in his doghouse and I'll let him in the house if it starts to thunder.

I can do that.

He needs me, you know.

Geriatrics, sheesh.

The Beauty of Hands

Hands.  Five fingers, 14 knuckles, and five nails.  Some are tanned, some are fair, some have wrinkles, and some are soft and dimpled.  We wave with them, we greet with them.  Deal-making handshakes, secret handshakes, high fives, and fist pumps.

I hold my child's hand crossing the street, I pinky swear that I will bake her favourite cookies.  I pinch her cheek and tap her nose.

How many times have I created something beautiful with my hands?  We craft, draw, paint, cut, eat, and drink with them. We knead dough, form clay, sculpt and turn pottery.

You can tell a lot from someone's hands.

Worn hands from age, from weather and washing.  Mechanic's and welder's hands with permanent oil marks in their nails.  Wounds from tools under a workman's lazy eye.  Medics who wash away germs, dishwashers in steaming hot water each hour.  Housekeeps who sleep wearing gloves and hand lotion.

They are an extension of our looks.  Pretty nails, long and red, or trimmed nails, conservative and clean.  Nail biters, ingrown nails, and dry, chipped nails.
Rings galore, or one simple wedding band.  Or perhaps the remaining tan line of one.

Scolding finger, pointing finger, ring finger, pinky finger, swearing finger, sucking fingers (first 2 or one thumb).  We salut to our soldiers, hold our hearts during allegiance, and raise them to praise our Lord.

Shadow puppets, rabbit ears, talking hand, and an entire signing language.

Teeny tiny newborn hands, and large, grown man hands.

We rub them, snap with them, clap with them, wave them to the music.  We mitten them, carry with them, pet with them, and push and pull with them.

We love with them.  We fight with them.

Imagine yourself without hands.  Like the man on our street who will only nod to you when you wave hello.  His hands are replaced with metals clamps.  Yet he drives his van, he cares for his yard and home, and enjoys life with his family.  He is also a fantastic furniture refinisher.  His only worry, that I know of, is that he may scare the children.

Or the boy born with a defect in his fingers.  A sweet, sweet boy, who manages quite well in everything the other children do, without the freedom of all of his digits.  The other children hold his hands during circle games, and help him put his mittens on.  How long will it be before they won't hold his hands anymore?

Oh, the things we take for granted!  How I love my hands.  

In stories they are made of scissors and hooks, are seven-fingered, broken and mended, invisible, removed, and formed into a V.

And of course, in the Great Book, they were nailed.  The ultimate Potter.  He touched, mended, healed, lifted, praised, fed, nurtured, prayed and rebuked with his hands.  And then were wounded.

Hands.  They have to be one of the most used part of our bodies.  Except maybe the tongue - but that's another story.  How do you use yours?