A Bucket List for 2014

2013 is almost complete and really, I can't wait to get off this train, and jump on another one.  One going to fresh breezes, big smiles, sunny skies and lots and lots of calorie-free cakes and icing shots.  And perhaps ice cream. Rolo ice cream.

To me, it has been a tough year.  Mr. Man doesn't think so. He shrugs his shoulders in his, "it's no sweat" manner and goes back to fixing the world.  But of course, that's the difference between guys and girls.  Stress and drama rolls off his back but pools around in my head for a lot longer.

Alas, since I can't change 2013, I will look straight ahead, stroll forward and anticipate good things to come.

Good Things:

2014 will be my last year in my thirties.  Well, I will have four more months in 2015, but I age quickly... so let's make a bucket list shall we?

Things I would like to do in 2014:

• Publish something.  A magazine article, perhaps, or an ebook?  Heck, it could be a bookmark for all I care, but let's get it in print.
• Lose 20 pounds.  Who are we kidding - 5 pounds.  Or at least stick to my present regime.  Yes, let's just stick to it.  There are no calorie-free cakes and icing shots on this train after all.
• Put on my play pants and play.  Snow angels, snow men, pillow fights (let me take off my glasses first), or the Wii (we've had it two years and I've never played - apparently my score is high, though, as Little Miss feels sorry for my Wii character and plays her once in a while)
• I want to write "swim in a deep lake" or "jump off a boat" but, again, who are we kidding. This is not a list of how to commit suicide.  I just don't think that is going to happen.
• Get rid of the dark circles under my eyes.  I hear drinking helps, or steeped tea bags...or drinking steeped tea bags? I want to be bright-eyed and refreshed as I bound into my forties and get the circles back.  
• Have a Marvel Movie-athon.  Twice.  I am Ironman.
• Learn two more hobbies, like cooking and ironing.  'Cause really, that is not happening here on a regular basis.
• Take a course/lesson in something.  Anything.  But not Crossfit. Again, this is not a list of how to commit suicide.   
• Write more Little Miss/Mr. Man stories.  Really, that would make everyone's year better, wouldn't it!
• Be available to others: my kids, my husband, my friends: and not care about my state of affairs (aka laundry all over the house) when drama hits and I am needed.  But, hey, I do that already ;)

So, as you look toward 2014, are you ready to jump on that train, or are you still basking in the joys of 2013?  I sincerely hope you have a thousand good memories that outweigh the bad, and I wish you God's utmost blessings in the new year!

Merry Christmas!

From
Erin, 
and her Crackerjack Family

Gluten-Free Little Miss: Why I Quit My Job

So, I quit my job.  Well, kinda.  It was a good decision, and there's is no telling if I'll go back part-time, casual or not at all, but I am not to worry about that until the new year.  Until then I am on oven-hiatus.

You see, I've been hired by a gluten-free girl.

That's right. Little Miss is gluten-free.  And nightshades-free, and citrus-free and peanut-free.

And lettuce-free.

And bananas and kiwi-free.

And coffee and beer-free. LOL

Okay, so you get it.  She can't eat anything except chicken, apples and rice.  Well, that's how it feels somedays.

So back to the job:  many people have been disappointed that I stopped baking for customers.  And some are even shocked.  (Which is a nice compliment, actually.)  But it was definitely needed.

Have you seen this face? 

This is Little Miss (age 6 1/2) during her 9-day bout of dangerous, give-me-a-heart-attack hives in April.

Or how about this face (below) when she was about  2 1/2? Back then it lasted three days.

  

This is the face that is in my dreams.  This is why I quit my job. Who can bake for others, and plan wedding cakes and tastings and pretty sugar flowers when your little one needs you?  It takes all of my brain power to figure out what she can eat.

Since April 2013, Little Miss has been going through rigorous testing to see what this is.  I've blogged a bit about it while trying to stay positive and humorous, but it has been difficult.

After blood tests, X-rays, MRI's, EEG's, allergists, anti-histimines and PediaPred, we sent a blood sample away at the end of August to a Naturopath Clinic and the results that came back shocked me.  So many food intolerances, and not one of them could I have predicted.

Lettuce? Seriously?

But with help from family and friends, Mr. Man and I got to work.

What's ironic, is that for my entire life, mom and I have been reading ingredients lists on packages and recycling, always looking for the dreaded word, peanut.  Now, we are looking for peanut, soy, gluten, wheat, barley malt, lemon concentrate, orange zest, potato starch, cashews, walnuts,....and the list goes on.

Really, I've just had to make everything from scratch.  But luckily, that was how I was raised.

However, I could eat porridge, for pete's sake! She can't even eat porridge!

So where is God in all of this?  

Watching.

He hears me.  He knows how my mind works.  He knows when I've had enough.  And He supplies my need. He is with the friends who arrive with gluten-free pancake mix.  Or with the blog follower who sends reassuring words.  He is with the doctors and pharmacists who listen and ask, really ask, what I need from them.

When Mom was in my situation and I was the child, there were no peanut-free products or gluten-free recipe books.  No one had ever heard of a peanut-allergy before.  Now, I have facebook friends sending websites and recipes everyday, librarians voluntarily ordering books through interloan libraries, and cake customers dropping off their own personal stash of gluten-free recipe books for me to borrow.

This is when you know who loves you and loves your kid.  Who knew gluten-free rice krispy treats at a friend's place would bring such excitement?  Or a little rice dish placed beside the mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving, such reassurance?  That a co-worker takes the time to give the right candy to our kids would brighten our halloween?

There are times when I think, "Is this really what it comes down to? Food?  Are we not just wearing ourselves out for nothing?  Can't we just eat a big soft pretzel and call it a night?" 

I am overwhelmed as others are hurting in worse ways, some losing their marriages, some their lives, and I think, "let's just give up and go help someone else."  I am tired of her crying over ketchup. I am tired of brown rice, and using beets instead of tomatoes.  I am tired of being tired.

There is a knock at the door and my last client walks in to talk about her upcoming wedding cake.  It's a big one, and we have lots to go over.  Suddenly she asks about my daughter.  I am surprised, but I have been writing about it on my business blog so most of my clients would probably know.

We sit down at the kitchen table and she shares with me about urtacaria (acute hives and swelling) and how she suffers from severe rashes and swelling due to a wheat-intolerance.  In fact, she is allergic to peanuts and nuts, and is sensitive to many grains, and milk.  She shows me the marks on her fingers from where she swelled so big, her fingers split open.

I jump up and quickly grab the large file folder I have on Little Miss, including photographs of her hives.

"It's like I am looking in a mirror," the young woman said, "that's definitely urtacaria." My heart pounded in my ears as I felt God in the room.  This was the answer. It had to be.  I was doing this right.

Urtacaria occurs in some people when their immune system is so completely attacked by in-tolerated foods that it cracks up.  Breaks out.  Little Miss's lasted for nine days.  This young woman had hers last for months.

Lyndsay is now on Prednasone every day, has had her gall bladder removed, as well as part of her liver.  She believes none of this was necessary if she had known how to eliminate gluten and other foods from her diet.  She believes in what I have been doing.

And she believes if we keep Little Miss from her food intolerances long enough, she will be able to eat some of it again, most likely in limited quantities or spaced out intervals.

So just when I'd had enough, the Lord sends exactly the right person to me.  Almost a perfect stranger.  That's how I know He's watching.  And that is enough for me at this time.

I don't know what is going to happen.  I don't know if April's disaster was viral or food related or a combination, but I know I am on the right track.  And if ever you need confirmation for what you are doing, God will send it.  He's watching.

To each of you who have helped us through the last few months (and they are not over yet), know that I appreciate you.  Every recipe or website sent through facebook or email, every book dropped off at the house, and especially those of you in church who ask Little Miss how she is, it all means a great deal to us.

Thank you.

Erin

Two Silly Girls, Mr. Bean and Bathroom Humour

I sadly spilled coffee on myself this morning and since all my other pants were in the wash already, I had to walk the kids to school with a freezing thigh in the frosty weather.

But I was reminded of another story...

One of my dearest friends was a fellow student in University.  We met on the first day of intro-week, and while other students ran wild through the dormitories, drunk and body-painted, we found ourselves hiding on my dorm room floor, each confessing we were terrified.  We (figuratively) held on to each other and almost 20 years later have never let go.

So when we were able to get away together to the big city of Toronto, we jumped at the chance.  There was a baking and sweets show, and since we both loved baking and sweets, we booked a hotel and our tickets.

While at the show, other than eating and snapping pictures of incredible cakes, we attended one small lesson on cake decorating.  Like the English classes we giggled and snorted our way through in university, this class was to be the same.

The workshop was led by professional pastry chef, Jorg Amsler, who, a surprise to us, was Swiss.  My friend, a proud immigrant from Switzerland, cheered and pumped her arms in the air, giving her nationality away. During a short Swiss German conversation with Chef Amsler, my friend was in her element.

I leaned in to whisper, "All I know how to say is 'ich mues uf s'WC'," which means 'I have to go to the bathroom', and we snorted and giggled just like we were nineteen again.  Jorg continued the class in English.

As I scribbled down what he was saying, my friend started looking through her large bag.  There was a lot of huffing and sighing going on as she pulled out wet papers, soggy tissues and a slightly opened bottle of water.

The bottle had leaked throughout everything in her bag.  I groaned. She groaned.

And then, as she proceeded to lift her carpet bag, we discovered her entire lap was soaking wet from her waist down to her knees.  "Oh no," she moaned, and then burst out laughing. We giggled and snorted again, trying to get ahold of ourselves as not to insult the Swiss Chef.

"So much for taking your photo with him!" I laughed. It looked as if she'd peed her pants.

Luckily we were planning to go back to the hotel afterward anyway, so we got in the car to head out, but not before she went into the bathroom, and pulled a Mr. Bean. (well, at least part of it :) )

There were loads of other things that happened.  I lost my camera (in the bathroom) on the first day.  We were too loud in the restaurant and people nearby got up and left.  She spilled a whole coffee into my car seat and I had to sit on a plastic bag.  And that was just the first day.

When we got to the hotel, we asked the concierge for some paper towels to help clean up the spilled coffee.

"Oh, yes. Of course we have them. Just hold on," and he disappeared around the corner and never came back.

Two more times throughout the weekend we stopped in at the front desk and asked the same man for paper towels.  And each time he'd say, "Oh, yes. Of course we have them. Just hold on," and he'd disappear around the corner and never come back.

So at the end of the weekend, my friend dashed into the bathroom and stole the box of kleenex, mumbling something about paper towels and the crazy concierge.

But despite blotting the seat with kleenex, I still had to ride home sitting on a plastic bag.  But I wasn't the one with the wet bum.

My dear friend had not packed any other pants.

A Cop, A Nurse, and a Personal Trainer...a regular crackerjack day.

The house is very warm as the fireplace has been stoked. A three-year-old boy is standing in his underwear. Plants are knocked over, one small tree is up on the kitchen table.

One woman is practicing sit-ups on the floor, another is calmly making salad and apple crisp.  There is pee on the floor, an infant is about to fall down the stairs and another little girl is pounding on the piano.  There are toys everywhere.

Unable to move, I have my head down on the table, with blurred vision, a swollen face and a wet cloth over my left eye, watching the sit-ups.  I feel drunk, mugged, and extremely hungry. There is a green paper ticket close by, slightly damp, and accusing.

*****

Sometimes a think there is a drama fairy following me around, sprinkling pixie dust over me at her leisure, or perhaps a ridiculous fairy touching me with her wand.  Why can't it just be the tooth fairy giving me random quarters under my pillow? Of course, then I wouldn't have any teeth - and then she'd have a go at Mr. Man's.

With a life like mine, I have discovered how important it is to have a nurse as a BFF.  Whatever they learn in nursing school pours over into their everyday life.  Coping strategies include calmness during stressful situations, a straight face when you tell them something gross or tragic, and they are always, ALWAYS equipped with emergency kits and medicine - sometimes great tupperware containers full.

So have you guessed what happened?

No, I did not get mugged, and yes, a child peed on the floor.  Apparently, if you hang the kid upside down the pee will stop leaving the culprit's bladder. Did you know that? I guess they teach you that in nursing school.  But don't you dare use the wrong cloth to clean it up, as nurses have issues with germs.  (At least we didn't use the bum cloth on the kid's face.)

The sit-ups? Simple enough: my personal trainer. She's eager.  'nuff said.

The rest of the mess was any regular day in the life of three moms.  No surprises there.

So what happened to me?

I have an unpublished post tucked away about my driving skills and how awesome I am.  Yes, I know, a terrible lie, and subsequently, this is the day I get pulled over by the police.

Of course, I did what anyone would do: I bawled my eyes out.

I bawled on the side of the road, I bawled as I drove down the road, and bawled in my friend's driveway. By the time I got in the house, I looked like I'd been beat up. But that's not all.
Nothing compared to the stinging in my eyes a few minutes later.

Peanut butter.

I am not kidding.

And don't let nursey tell you otherwise. It WAS peanut butter. Nothing else has that effect on me.

Just as I had accepted my life as an outlaw, the fairies hit me again and I realize I've been poisoned.  My eye is swelling and then my lips, and once again I am reminded of the movie, Hitch, drinking antihistamine from a straw.  Nursey quickly gives me a large dose of liquid benadryl from her huge medicine bin and I moan and complain until the drugs hit me and I fall to the table.  The antidote works quickly but I am done over and unable to function.

At this point all havoc breaks out in the living room.  A kid is peeing on the floor, giving us that far off look of "I know I shouldn't do this but ah, such relief."  Plants are being pulled over, puzzle pieces are being thrown and the piano is giving out some loud sharps and flats.  The mothers are up and running and suddenly I am shaking, freezing and starving like any druggy would be when completely high.

As the fairies giggle in the background, the commotion settles, sit-ups are back in motion and I eat way more than allotted by my trainer.  And the heat is turned up until I stop shivering.

Throughout all of this, the trainer is laughing and the nurse calmly continues with our visit as if nothing has happened and I am not passed out on her table.

Mr. Man finds out and texts that I am not allowed to go over there again.

But somehow, he is not surprised.

Little Miss and the Lime Green Tights

Sometimes the number one battle with Little Miss on school mornings is brushing her hair. With her dark red curls, a few tangles and two fiery tempers, we battle the brush.

Today it was lime green tights.  I mean really lime green. And a hot pink corduroy skirt, and a long sleeve-purple shirt with green and pink polk-a-dots.  Good grief.

Mom told me once never to reason with this child, as I will never win. Little Miss is not only stubborn, but smart as well.  Even Mr. Man has been caught without a retort at times.

"You may have too many colours going on there...you might want to change those tights," I said.

"No, I like them.  There so cosy."

"Well, the purple ones would be cosy too, and match your shirt."

And in a huff she went back to her room.

A few moments later I hear, "look, mom!" and there she is in all her glory: lime-green tights, hot pink corduroy skirt, and a long white t-shirt with a red sweater.

You've got to be kidding me.

"Now you have FOUR colours!" and an argument ensued.  She stormed back to her room and I went downstairs.

A few moments later, she called me from the top of the stairs, dressed in the same four colours, a smile on her face, asking if she can wear this tie-dyed red and white headband.

An explosion went off in my head and she ran into her room, stripped off all of her clothes, stood there stubbornly (freezing) and wept.

At this point I realized Mr. Man was hiding in the bathroom.

Finally, I got her to put on purple tights, the hot pink corduroy skirt and the purple top with green and pink polk-a-dots.  My original plan.  No lime green tights.

She slipped out the front door as her brother and I ran and got our coats.

As soon as I got outside I saw the ridiculous headband on her head.  "Well, at least I brushed my hair!" she exclaims.

Fine.

Then I notice that the coat she chose was her down-filled vest. Her lime-green down-filled vest.

Sigh.

She would've matched after all... at least during recess.


And as we walked down the street to the school, Mr. Man drove by, honking the horn, big smile on his face.

My Fear of Water (Part 2)

These days, most of my friends know I prefer dry land. Perhaps it is the life jacket I tie on perfectly tight while everyone else has it laying beside them. Perhaps it is the strong grip I have to anything I can hold on to, or the sheer look of terror when big waves come on from a nearby speed boat.  Once I found myself unconsciously holding the hand of a five-year-old as the boat took off, as if she was going to save me.

"Hey, you guys should buy a boat," I hear every summer. (We're the only family without one in our "gang").

"Erin's not a boat person," is the answer every time.

A few years ago, Mr.'s buddy was taking people out on the boat to see a sunken ship deep in the underwater of the lake.  I glanced down to the depths and saw the shadow of the boat and was overcome with the urge to throw up and pass out. 

"Mmm, wow, cool," was what I said, taking slow, deep breaths.

I didn't tell him until years later that I was terrified.

It's not that I haven't tried to get over it.  I have gone on numerous canoe trips, even taken white water canoeing lessons (nightmares every night), but I still cannot look down into the water.  I can't think of any reason I have this phobia - perhaps watching "JAWS" movies too early in life?

So last week after two days of gentle coaxing from friends to go in the rowboat onto a quiet lake, my son came over and said, "Mom, it's okay. It's goes so slow," making a planing gesture with his arms.

Unfortunately, this slightly insulted the owner of the boat who'd put a "motor" on it recently.  Indeed, it was slow.

So, with my children watching, and the owner fussing over my seating in the boat, I had Mr. triple check the lifejacket and I got in. 

We headed out, quite slowly, my girlfriend manning the engine.

Unfortunately, she had never used the motor before.

With both our husbands "instructing" us from the dock, she drove into the dock, then backed up away from the dock and headed out. 

We forgot to take into account, her dog.

Suddenly, there was a splash and the large labradoodle was swimming after us, easily catching up with the lack of speed of the boat. Of course she goes for her beloved owner, right into the path of the motor. Husbands are shouting at the dog and at my friend, and as she reaches for the dog collar in one hand, and holds the motor in the other, the boat is shaking back and forth.

You've got to be kidding me.

"Turn the motor off!" they yell.

"It's okay!" she yells back, but I know different. I am frozen in place and can't do anything except put my head down into my lifejacket and moan.  I am seriously going to barf.  I would like to pass out right now and let it all continue without me.

As quickly as it started, it also ended. We did not fall out, the dog did not come to a brutal, bloody end, and the boat calmed.  It took a few encouraging, delightful words from she-who-is-good-at-pretending-it-was-all-in-control-from-the-beginning for me to look up.  I started to relax my shoulders and look out at the cottages going by.  It was nice. I was all right.

"Geez, I hope the cops don't come over to find out what was going on!" she suddenly said with a chuckle.  I realize then that she does not have her boating license. Sigh.

You've got to be kidding me.

My Fear of Water (Part 1)

On my second date with Mr. Man, he took me to the beach with friends to go sea-doing. While he was apparently doing turns and tricks in the lake to show off and impress me, I was on another one, trying to stay on and not throw up. When I finally got back to shore, I had a hard time peeling my fingers off of the handles, I was hanging on so tight.

Of course I didn't tell him until much later, years later.  I am afraid of deep water.  He never knew I missed his impressive "moves" on the "doo".

In June I found a great deal on a trip to Niagara Falls and Mr. and I drove over for our anniversary.  I was so excited to be there and to get away on such a special day, I think the hotel concierge picked up on it and offered us other things.

"Have you ever done the Maid of the Mist?" she asked with a big, friendly smile.

"No, we've never had the opportunity," I said excitedly.

Mr. was looking hesitant, and not wanting to damper my enthusiasm, was trying gently to turn me off the idea.  But I was excited and signed us up.

When we got to room, he finally spoke up. "Do you know what the Maid of the Mist is?"

"Yes, we get to walk close to the falls and get all wet!" I said.

"It's in a BOAT!" he cried, "And they go INTO THE FALLS!"

Suddenly, my heart was in my mouth and I couldn't speak.  OMG, I thought. I wanted to get out of it.  Fast. In five minutes I had stupidly caused our deaths.  Panic, panic, panic, panic.

"$217.84!," he exclaimed, "@%^@%!" (Okay, maybe that was me.)

Shaking, I called down to the front desk and whatever I said, they ripped up our tickets and that was that.

Later, we walked down to the falls and snapped a few pictures. I glanced down to see the Maid of Mist, filled with people, on it's way into the falls.  They were all going to die, I thought. Ugh.  I looked at Mr. with my peripheral vision to see a crooked grin on his face.

Yes, this is what keeps our marriage alive. I make messes and he cleans them up.

Oh, and here's a final photo of me standing far away from the falls.  Notice the too-small t-shirt with I love California on it? Mr. had to buy it in the front lobby for $10 because I forgot to pack any shirts.  You've got to be kidding me, I had said. Sigh.

Rescued again.

Little Miss, Prayer and Medieval Times

Last weekend we were heading into the big city of Toronto. "This is urban," my eight-year-old son said (obviously a subject he'd learned in school).  We were excited to take them so close to the CN Tower and the Roger Centre, and there was no cow in sight.

"Ooooh," they said, and we pulled into the parking lot of Medieval Times. Great fun was about to happen.

Earlier that day I was hit with a huge dose of anxiety. My hands were shaking, and my back was getting tight.  I went up to my room where I could be quiet and relax.  My "what if's" were rambling around in my head and needed to silence them in order to enjoy myself on this first of many summer family trips.

I sat down on the floor to pray, and nosy Little Miss poked her head in.

"What'cha doing, mom?"

"I'm praying."

"What for?"

"For safety so mommy won't worry."

"Oh," she stepped back out of the room and after a few seconds came back in.

"Can I pray with you?" she asked.

"Of course."

She sat on the floor beside me and we prayed together, she repeating after me, and working so hard to do it right.  There have been a few times where I am struck with how innocent and trusting my children's prayers are. They have no doubts.  They don't question how God will answer their prayers, they just pray.  No analyzing, just pure hearts seeking God.  I know without a doubt that a child's pray is powerful, and cherished by God. If you want something done, ask a child to pray for it.

So she prayed, and I felt better.

Hours later we pulled into the Medieval Times parking lot in Toronto (about a 2 1/2 hour drive from home). We hopped out, found the sunscreen and water, and suddenly our son is putting his sunglasses on upside down. Seconds later, he faints.

I scoop him up, throw him in the back of the van and immediately fly into action. In a few minutes he was sitting up and talking. Little Miss holds a cold ice pack on his back and says, "Well, we never prayed for this, did we mom!"

No, I suppose we didn't. But I was calm and collected as I dealt with the drama, which I may not have been had we not prayed for our day.

Mr. Man arrived, panting, with large pieces of pizza to fill our son's empty tummy as Little Miss shouts out, "It's your turn to faint now, daddy!"

We laugh, and when her big brother says, "at least I didn't pee my pants," we knew he was all right.

By the way, Medieval Times is awesome!

Mr. Man, the Accountant

After two years of struggling to look like I knew what I was doing with a computerized bookkeeping program, my accountant finally said, "You know, I think it's time you let me take over." I breathed a sigh of relief, glad for the excuse to stop.

"Well, I could do it," I hear. Mr. Man has stepped in again.

"Knock yourself out, "I said, but I still planned on handing everything over to Mr. Accountant in March.

So one weekend, Mr. got out the IBM and surrounded himself with my Adidas shoebox full of receipts, and the endless stacks of papers I had thrown on and around my desk.  This was going to take a while.

After a few questions about the program and where everything was in my "tracking system" of cake orders, he started inputting my income.

"Where are the customer receipts?"
"Um, well, I kind of stopped doing that since nobody wanted one."
"Well, how do you know what you sold?"
"It's on the calendar...see here I've written the cake title and who it was for."
"But where's the price?"
"Oh..maybe it's on an email...er, no, they contacted me through facebook...  Let me look."

And for the next half an hour I showed him the insides of my head: I had filed away every order in my photographic memory instead of writing it down.  Some came from email (I have three accounts), some from Facebook (I have two accounts), some from phone (written in a book, a  notepad, and a few illegible sticky notes (written while the oven timer was going off), and then there were the online sales on a totally different website...

And that was just the income.

It was all coming to light: the reason I had trouble preparing for tax season.  Okay, but I found each and every customer! For the next day and a half, there was a lot of sighing, muttering, and Mr.'s hands waving in the air, shaking an invisible head. He had to wake me up a few times that night to ask me where a certain invoice was.  Invoice? What's that?

Mom stopped by for a visit while this was all going on.  She looked at the steaming redhead on the couch, with his head in the computer screen, and his arms waving, out of the corner of her eye.  She raised her eyebrows.

I smiled at her. "This is what keeps our marriage alive, mom." I said, a little loudly, "I mess things up, and he rescues me!"

All I can hear is some growling, and muttering about "constant" and "crazy" coming from the other room.

Now everything is labelled, I have strict instructions and have to stick to them.  I think he's saved Mr. Accountant a lot of trouble (and a big pay check).  But, despite all this, Mr. is impressed with how well the cake business does ;)

Happy 12th Anniversary, to my super, Mr. Man.  May I continue to bring spice to your life, and craziness to your day - and may you continue to rescue me from myself, and never get bored!

Erin

Little Miss and the Medical Tests

When I look back on the beginning of this "Crackerjacks and Nutters" blog, it was meant as an outlet for me to find humour amidst a life of frustrating allergies, other illnesses and self-inflicted sleeplessness.

It is easy for me to find laughter with such a delightful family and my uncanny ability to bring drama upon myself. Sawing up dressers seems to be the one instance most people are talking about.

The year 2013 has certainly brought on more medical appointments, rushes to the hospital, and, as a dear friend stated, a good use of OHIP.  But lately, it has to do with Little Miss.

I've tried to keep my chin up, but frankly, I don't do well with faking it. I've never been able to keep a straight face, or hide my dislike about something. The one thing that kept me going was the pure delight in her eyes each time she was going to try something new at the doctor's office or hospital.

"I want a picture of my brain to take to show and tell," she'd say, and of course, she would be so interested in every detail of every test.  We watched youtube videos over and over of EEG's and MRI's and we explained the "caterpillar" marks on her arm she'd get during the allergy test.  She explained in detail to my mom how they took her blood with a prick and a poke and got three bottles, covering it with a bandaid from left to right...

She was sad she didn't ask for a copy of the x-ray like Franklin the Turtle did in "Franklin Goes to the Hospital."

She told the EEG technician how to do his job, correcting his placement of the stickers and lying so still to prove she could do it.

And oh, the questions.

"How do spell MRI, mommy?" and her brother would snort with laughter.

"Do they show movies in the MRI?"

"What do my brains look like?"

And then, frustration set in.  Everything was going wrong. It was all a waste of time.  Friends were praying for answers, and there were none. There weren't any conclusive pictures at all.

Five minutes in the MRI machine, and they pulled her out, saying the pictures were too blurry.  In fact, they weren't prepared for a child at all.  They had expected a 40-year-old woman.  You've got to kidding.

The second MRI involved proper care with a paediatrician, two sedation nurses and enough sedative to knock out a horse (if you ask me).

But as I posted that afternoon on Facebook:

Apparently sedative can either knock you out to sleep through your MRI or it can make you completely manic, shaking, climbing the walls, seeing things and trying to escape from the hospital room.  Guess which one is Little Miss?

She even tried to pour apple juice in her eyes to clear out the blurriness.

So no MRI. Instead, she wolfed down a cheeseburger, passed out on the couch, and then threw up.

Funny at first, but now, not so much.  Seeing your daughter with eyes so dilated, and in such fear, is not funny.  And I can't get it out of my head.

The doctor's office called and wanted to try again in Kingston with anaesthetic. I said no.  With our luck she'd be allergic.

And finally this week, after waiting for months, Mr. Man took her to her allergy test.  Perhaps it was the gory pictures I sent of the horrible rash she'd had for nine days, or the long list of health problems and allergies in her mother's medical history, but in any case, they didn't want to test her.

Sigh.

Mr. says it's a sign from God that she is fine and we don't need to put her through all of these tests.

I tend to think there is something He is protecting her from.  A wild monster lurking in the MRI machine, or some evil doctor has infected the allergy lab samples and she was about to be poisoned.

But that's just me.  Instead of holding my chin up I make gigantic "what if?" statements and fill my crackerjacks blog with another dose of crazy.

We don't know what happened back in April.  We don't know if it will ever happen again.

And that sucks.

But she is still smiling, still bossing her brother, still bossing the world, (and I don't think the sedative ever totally wore off) and I am thankful for that.  Thanks to everyone who has been with us through this.  Let's hope this blog continues to be filled with fun and crazy, and not anything so forelorn.

Just wait to see what I've done to the bathroom...

*****

Twice I have asked people to pray for NO DRAMA: once was just before the allergy test (obviously it worked), but the only other time was when I was pregnant with Little Miss.  After an ambulance ride with our son, and the need to get quite a distance to the hospital, I really needed NO DRAMA.

So there I was, as big as a house, 11 days overdue, on the phone to my friend calling off the prayer.  "I can't take it anymore!! No more praying - it's working TOO WELL!"  And then, soon after, my firey red-head was born with an over-dramatic, four-minute KA-BANG!

Sigh. Prayer works.  Even when you don't really want it to.

The Week He Went Away: Part 2

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

The Search:

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

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

The Confession:

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

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

Me: Same here.

Him: What?

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

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

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

The Find:

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

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

Here is "The Before":

The Fix:

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

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

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

So now...what to do with this? 

Erin

The Week He Went Away

This post has been a long time coming as life has filled up my days, and funny stories with Little Miss have taken the forefront of my "nutters" blog.  But some of my faithful followers have been asking when I'm going to talk about what I did the week Mr. Man went away.

Now I don't tend to sit still for very long, as my mind gets working on the "what if?" questions and "oh, look what's on Pinterest!" exclamations.  Despite his support, Mr. often rolls his eyes, and whispers to our son, "Your mother's crazy."

Hmph. Am not.

On a particular Monday night, Mr. left with friends on a week long trek out to Alberta.  Tuesday morning I dragged out several dressers in the house, carried them downstairs and prepared to make a stunning, lots of drawer space, spectacular, "oh, you are amazing and so thoughtful" surprise for my husband.

I knew what I was doing. My dad's a carpenter.

Originally I was going paint it an elegant antique white, and change the knobs, but then I thought:

1. Ooooh, he'd LOVE a bigger dresser!  Let's combine his tall boy with one of Little Miss's and make one wide dresser, similar to this:

Centsational Girl

2.  When I realized that all the highboys in our house were different heights, I found this one on Pinterest, and thought I could stack them!

Before Meets After

So I measured and measured again, and it would work! (So I thought). Once stacked, however, the top drawer was actually over 6 feet up, even too tall for the Dutchman I married.  So what next?

3.  Let's cut off the bottom drawer! 

Again, no sweat.  I am a carpenter's daughter.

Now I may be a bit naive, but I knew power tools were out of the question without someone hear to apply pressure and drive me to the hospital. I found a bunch of handsaws in the basement and went to work, sawing horizontally around the fourth drawer, slowly, so I didn't get "sawer's shoulder" or some real-life ache like that.  It took a while. Once it was finished, it looked like this:

OK, it's not made of spectacular material, but my friend, Paul, said he was impressed how straight I cut it.

Well that's because I am a carpenter's daughter!

I lifted the upper part containing three drawers on top of another wider dresser, and it looked great - until I looked at it from the side.  It was hanging two inches off the back of the bottom dresser, and there was no way to hide it.

By this time it was 4 o'clock, and I had accomplished nothing. A feeling of dread came over me and I sat down on the couch. I just sawed my husband's dresser in half.  The same dresser that my parents had in Yellowknife when I was little. I felt really ill.

And so I thought,

4.  I have to buy Mr. Man a new dresser.

This isn't the end of the story, but at this point I did learn something. When looking back over the years of partnering with my Mr., I could run through numerous ideas I've had where he said, "NO."  I'd pout, and sometimes get my way, but ultimately he was always right. It wasn't a good idea.

So, while I am the imaginative, spontaneous one (in my safe, little world, mind you), Mr. Man is the sensible, "seeing the big picture" one.  And together we make a great pair.

When he decides to go away for a few days, this is what happens.

So really, it is all his fault.

Erin

Mother's Day 2013: A Terrarium for Mom

After hours of playing with rocks, dirt and plants, the kids and Mr. Man brought in two homemade plant terrariums for Mother's Day! And with leftover plants and dirt, the family taught me to make a terrarium for my mom! 

Can you see what the fairies forgot?  Mom will love it :)

From our house to yours,

Happy Mother's Day!

Erin

The Lunch Rescue

As the kids and I walked in the back door today after picking them up from school, Little Miss went right into one of her lengthy stories.

Lunches are a big deal around here. The kids put them together themselves, some sort of fruit, a yoghurt, a sandwich containing healthy stuff, and whatever snacks we have in the pantry ready to go. I check at the end of the morning to make sure they have enough (or to make sure Little Miss hasn't made just a butter sandwich), and off we go to school. I also hate it when they don't eat their sandwiches, which then becomes their supper...but today we are talking about not having enough.

Apparently, I did not check their lunches this morning, because Little Miss launches right into the defensive "let's confess all our sins right away so as not to delay the inevitable".

"I didn't have enough in my lunch," she states, straight-faced, hands up in the air.

"Actually, I did but by second break I had only an orange and I ate that and then I had nothing. So I asked him [pointing to her brother] if he had anything --"

"-- and I had crackers," he says.

"And you gave them to her?" I ask.

"Yes, but Mrs. D said, well, I asked her, and she said it was okay --"

"-- she said it was okay because we are brother and sister,"  Little Miss butts in. There is a strict sharing of lunches rule at our school because of all the allergies in our town.

I stood there for a moment without saying anything, and the kids stood there in silence waiting to see what I would say.  Am I supposed to get mad because she didn't pack enough? Or for risking school rules? What exactly is she on the defensive for? Let me think.

And then I realized...they SHARED! He RESCUED her!

"Aww," I said, and gathered them up in my arms, squishing their not-so-little faces together, "I love you guys - you worked together! It just warms my heart." And I gave my little monster a big kiss on the cheek.

"I knew I should've gone the other way," he mumbled and ran off the other way around the kitchen table.

One hour later they were kicking and screaming at each other over a worm in the yard.

Sigh.  How long until their dad gets home?

Finding Humour in the Storm II

On the day the rash went away, Little Miss refused to take her Benadryl.  Her feet and hands were itching and the hives were getting bigger, and I had to threaten mommy tears, a trip to the hospital, more blood work, missing a play date, and getting a spanking.

She drank it.
.
.

On the day the rash went away, Little Miss hopped into our big, fancy shower, refused to get out, drained the hot water tank, and sang at the top of her lungs for twenty minutes.  It was a sweet sound.

.
.

On the day the rash went away, as we loaded into the van, I double checked we had food for her, extra clothes for play, water bottles to drink and a cooler full of medicine. Little Miss cheerily volunteered to carry everything out, and promptly got her seatbelt on, eager to go.

Then I notice the bottle of Benadryl hidden under the kitchen table. I can't quite remember what I called her.
.
.

On the day the rash went away, the dog ran away.  You've got to be kidding me.

I drove away, not looking back.
.
.

And finally:

On the day the rash went away, one mom asked Little Miss, "What happened? You're all cleared up!"

Little Miss looks up and says, "I had a shower," and ran off to play.

"Oh, so you were just dirty this whole time." lol
.
.
So not exactly humour...more exasperation, perhaps, but such is life with Little Miss.

Erin

Finding Humour in the Storm

I haven't wanted to post about this as we are in the middle of a storm of ill health, and there is no telling what the outcome will be, but, as I told one mom last week, if I don't find humour in things I will go crazy.  I spent the afternoon with my head down on a friend's kitchen table as Little Miss bounced back and forth from bouts of hives and thought, it's time to search for humour.

After six days of doctors, enormous amounts of Benadryl and steroids, Little Miss is screaming bloody murder, refusing to take any "yucky" medicine and scratching her feet until they bleed.  With bribing and a forceful voice from Mr. she takes her prednisone "shooter" and sits in agony, listing off all of the toys she deserves for all of this suffering.

And the whole idea of oatmeal on her skin completely pisses her off.

As I sigh for the millionth time this week, my son starts his one man comedy show, including farting noises, in order to cheer her up.  Rude sounds, goofy faces and throwing himself on the floor over and over forces her to laugh, pull of her anti-scratching mitts and join in with the magic of farting with hands and lips.

"All right, this one time ONLY, let's have a farting contest," I suggest, slugging back the last of my coffee. Laughter fills the room, apart from the eye-rolling of Mr. Man, and we have a bit of respite from the stress and tiredness we are all feeling. Finally Mr. joins in and pulls out his cellphone which has a farting app.

I can leave the room and hide knowing he's got it under control.

****

Earlier this week, while sitting in the doctor's office, Little Miss's hands and face start to swell.  I race her next door to the pharmacy and ask where the antihistamines are.  As I yank open boxes, and struggle to rip the protective cover off the bottle, I realize there is no cup included.  A scene from the movie, Hitch, comes to mind and, sorry to say, a part of me, deep down, had to smile. But to excuse my inappropriate humour, by that time the pharmacist had jumped in, handed me a cup and a glass of water, without questioning about the possibility I may not purchase the magical bottle.  LM's swelling went down, and I paid $13.99 for the Benadryl (and kept it in my purse).

For those of you who may not have seen the movie, here is the clip:

*****

With the unpredictability of Little Miss's reactions, I obviously cancelled all that I could in my schedule.  Unfortunately it meant missing a funeral I had wanted to attend. Since I ended up racing her to the hospital that same day, it was a good decision, but it left me completely depressed and feeling defeated.

At the end of that tedious day, just as I was getting the strength to start supper, I looked out the window to see a dear friend stopping by after the funeral, carrying flowers for Little Miss. I ran out the front door with a big smile on my face with not only the joy of actually seeing another person, but one who so easily cheers me up. I hugged her and did not let go for quite some time.

After recapping my day, while still standing in the driveway, finally able to breath easily, her husband suddenly asks, "what's that noise?"

The smoke alarm was going off.

You're kidding me.

He and I run in, finding the kitchen filled with smoke, and struggle to turn off the detector as more alarms go off in the house.

The supper that I had attempted to make was not burned, but the supper spill from the day before certainly was.

We got everything back to normal and I turned to find my friend cheerily putting flowers in a vase, as if nothing was out of the ordinary, and that everything was under control, and I wished she would stay forever. I was a huge mess.

That night, Mr. cancelled his meeting, and came home with strawberries, chocolate sauce, a movie and two cases of Corona.  I think I cried.

We got the kids to bed, checking on Little Miss every so often, and I was able to relax.  But looking back I don't remember having supper...

The Re-Upholstered Chair: Part 2

Let it be said that I, procrastinator extraordinaire, have finished something.  That's right.  I've finished my grandparent's arm chair.  For history on the chair check out part 1 here.

It went from this: (a broken seat, stained material and loads of special memories...)

...to THIS (shiny, gold and beige stripes, comfortable, sit-able and elegant)!  Now to put it somewhere safe.

It really didn't take any sewing once I bought the right tools. And since the material was only $40, and the tools were under $10, it was a steal. Interested in doing this yourself?  I followed everything on this site here.

My mother-in-law, the all-knowing seamstress, told me I did not have to do the piping, so of course I did not.  I'm lazy. I also did not put on the skirting since it looked good without it.  If I had waited to do it, the chair might not ever have been finished.

If you know me well enough, you know I've recently discovered that patterns are a trigger for my epilepsy.  This, of course, was discovered AFTER I bought the striped material, and I had to pause a few times while covering the difficult pieces while my brains unscrambled. But I was determined to get this done.  Mr. just shook his head while I went back at it.  "Your mother's crazy," he mentions to my son. Umm, perhaps.

I am really happy with how it turned out, and now I can say I've re-upholstered something. Can't say I'll jump into this type of project again (especially with vertical stripes), but at least Mr. Man won't be throwing out my chair any time soon.  Or be sitting in it.

What have you been working on?

Erin

Little Miss and Easter

One day in the shop, surrounded by cupcakes and bags of icing, Little Miss appeared at my arm.

"Mom, which is badder for you; TV or candy?"  Without looking at her, I knew she was taking in what was around the room.  Her question made sense.  We had cut the cable a few years ago, and screen time was limited, but, boy, did she have a sweet tooth.

"Um, I would think TV," I answered.

"I think so, too," she said.

I started to explain. A teachable moment, I thought. "With TV, whatever you see and hear sticks in your mind for a long time, but with candy, the dentist can fix your teeth..."

"Hmm, hmm." She started to wander off.

"Don't you want to know my reasons?" I asked.

"No, I just wanted some candy," and off she went.

*****

Last night during a church service, Little Miss drew this picture of Jesus in the clouds. When asked who he was watching over, she replied,

"The Easter Bunny."

Of course. With all of the things we've taught her about Easter, she's got her own explanation in her six-year-old mind.

Happy Easter everyone.  Know Jesus is watching over you as your kids gobble up their candy.

He is Risen :)

Little Miss on Divorce

One day Little Miss came home from school with homework that involved a discussion topic.  She was to find out what made her or her family special.

"My hair is red," she said.  The standard answer.

"Yes, but you are very smart and outgoing," I reminded her.

"Stop talking like that," she said, looking down.  She hates it when I call her smart.

"Well, what about your family.  What makes us special?"

"We have cake."

"I am sure other families' moms make cake, but yes, I suppose."

Then she says, "You and daddy live together," and I am left speechless.  "Toby's dad moved away to Toronto to a new home.  An apartment.  He's got a new job there so he's not going to be coming back.  For a long time.  Maybe never."  Her eyes were so big and serious, there was her usual "there's no way I've got it wrong" look about her, and her hands were chopping the air with every word.

"Well...I guess we are special then." I gulped.  I hate serious conversations. "But you know what else makes us special?  We believe in God and go to church.  Not many people do that, you know.  And daddy and I believe we should stay together no matter what....wait, are you listening?"

Little Miss is suddenly listening to something outside of the shop.  I can hear Mr. Man's voice giving our son a bit of trouble.

"Are you listening? What did I just say?"

Still she doesn't look at me. "Yeah, we believe in God and Toby's parents don't live together because they don't believe in God..."

"NO, THAT"S NOT WHAT I SAID!"

"What's daddy doing?" she asks, and wanders out the door.  You've got to be kidding.  She's like a dog distracted by a squirrel.

Anyway, to my readers: anything Little Miss says is generally out of her head.  I have nothing to do with it.  Well, most of it.

I'll just write down she has red hair and leave it at that.

It Could Be Worse

Recently, coffee with a friend reminded me of this blog post I never shared.  Written over a year ago, I was just starting to deal with my health in a new way, and was too vulnerable to post it.  But in speaking about processing and handling grief with my friend, today I will share it. 

"Have you ever started your day going in one direction and then have it swiftly changed for you? Was it your health? Career plans? Marriage? So often we ride through our days, just trying to get by, and the Lord can seem busy with someone else. Then other days His presence is so clear and real, and it doesn't matter if you don't get your daily list done: you know what is more important.

He comes in swoops and bounds at times: so evident in the air around us: a smiling face, a section of a novel, similar conversations within a few days. It is at these times that you "hold it in your heart" as Mary did while watching Jesus grow up.

It is when your direction gets swiftly changed that you grab onto the holy times spent with God, even though life comes crashing down.

Driving down the highway to a doctor's appointment this week, I was too overwhelmed to pray. I talked it out instead. Look at me talking to myself in the car. I was preparing myself for whatever God had in store. I've said before I worry, and I was worrying. What if? What if? What if? I imagined the worst case scenario and prepared myself for it.

But instead, I got news that I hadn't planned on. It shocked me. It turned me right around and sent me in the opposite direction. Like in the novel "Saturday Morning" by Lorraine Snelling, God spoke to me and asked, "Do you trust me?"

Even this morning I am second guessing the doctor - maybe I said the wrong thing that brought about her diagnosis? Maybe it was all in my head?

But I know He has me in his hand. He was so real to me leading up to this week. I could see Him everywhere. He was filling me up so I could count on Him within this trial.

And yet, it could be worse. There is always something worse. This is my mantra today. It could be worse.

Perhaps I am in the denial stage. We will see."

I have heard others with this same mantra "it could be worse" and yes, it's true, but lets not diminish the pain we are feeling. And the anger.  I ultimately got so angry I could see red, and I cried and cried, mourning over the loss of the freedom of being healthy.

The grieving process still circulates as symptoms arise and I am reminded of my epilepsy.  Doctor's appointments, EEGs, powerful, expensive drugs will forever be in my future.  But most days I am in acceptance.  If it doesn't get worse than this, I can handle it.  That is my mantra now.  Still not the best mantra, but it is my reality.

And still, I know He holds me in His hand.

A Re-upholstered Chair: part 1

Today I am stepping away from my "normal" nutters posts to share a project I am working on to relieve a little stress (and to persuade Mr. man not to throw it out).

My grandparents gave me a petite arm chair when I was in my teens, covered in royal blue faux velvet. As upholstery hobbyists, the two of them had put together this little beauty themselves.  The seat was deep and low to the ground, and the arms, delicately curved, were set in, making it quite narrow.  It was never built to house a large man, and low and behold, it was broken by a certain caped gentleman.

Several times he has threatened to put it out on the sidewalk with a "FREE" sign on it, but I keep hiding it in different places, out of his reach. This chair has gone with me to every apartment and house I've ever lived in, and since grandpa has been gone for several years, and now grandma, it has huge sentimental value.

So last week I set to work taking it apart, and seeing if I could fix the seat.  This is by no means a tutorial, but I am following several on pinterest :)

I took several pictures as it came apart, so I could go backwards when I put it back together.  I found a beautiful gold striped remnant just big enough to cover the chair, making the cost of fixing this girl at just over $40.00.

I paid Little Miss $2 to pull out hundreds of staples. I pulled out several hundreds more, and together we cut out the pattern on our new material.

There were a few surprises as we tore the chair apart: the webbing had come out the bottom because it had not been long enough, and there were, in fact, no springs in the chair seat at all.  I knew I couldn't handle installing springs, so I figure once this is all put together, Mr. Man will still not be allowed to sit in it (...or kids ...or cats, for that matter).

And, ew...we found horse hair. Bleck.

The chair was made of solid wood, but wasn't very secure, so Mr. drilled some added support into the legs (the first screws that had ever been put into this chair) in between thousands of staple holes and a few ancient nails.

The cat made herself a fast home in among the seat padding for a few days while I was in the cake shop.

So yesterday my son and I fixed the seat.  The Fabricland staff were great at pointing out what I needed, and off I went with the webbing, extra seat padding and gold striped material.  Monster sat at one end of the seat and I at the other, pulling, measuring, weaving and stapling until my back ached.

We were so proud of ourselves!

Whether or not this chair lasts in our busy home, I feel empowered taking on this project, and a bit sentimental. As Monster and I were examining the chair and determining how to put in the seat, I found my grandfather's markings underneath, measuring where to place the strips, and allowing us to follow his silent instructions.  It was surreal to say the least.

Next week perhaps I will get back at it. March break is filling up with play dates, and Veggie Tale concerts.  And my lower back has staple gun aches.  I'll go back to my KitchenAid mixers and convection oven for awhile.

What are you working on this month?
Erin