Mr. Man is Away and Q is in the Hedges.

I am buried deep in the hedges today, trimming branches that have been ignored for years.  The hedge is well over ten feet tall (almost twice as high as I am) and despite the tools I have acquired I am reluctantly going to have ask for Mr. Man's help.

I don't like asking for his help.

This is indeed ironic as he is Mr. Man, the epitome of a rescuer, helper, superhero; assisting everyone who is in need at any moment.  I sometimes want to hide his phone so others cannot find him.  In fact, just the other day I received a random text stating, "You husband is the bestest!"  I figured he'd helped another person crossing his path.

Needless to say, I don't want his help.  He is the superhero and I am Q, holding the fort, arranging his schedule, and playing with the cool gadgets.  Today's high efficiency spyware include extendable hedge clippers and a 6' tree trimmer.  Oh, and a rickety, aluminum ladder.  The only spying I get to do is looking at my neighbours as the hedge branches come down.

I have been in this position before.  Two years ago I wanted to redo the upstairs bathroom all on my own.  And I would've done it easily had I not had to trim the ends of the quarter-round.  I may be good with a saw (cue the dresser story) but this would take a saws-all or some other power tool unfamiliar to me.  Would I wait for his help? Of course not.  My son (a bystander during many of my schemes) and I found the proper tool in the basement, attempted to put the blade on and "go to it."  Unfortunately, I could not get it to work.  I would have to give up and ask for help.  It was the sensible thing to do.  But I was determined.

My memory is lacking in how I managed to figure out how to work the saw, whether I watched youtube, or asked Mr. a hypothetical question, "Say, for instance, someone wanted to know...?" But I found myself running the saw fairly perfectly.  No sweat.

It was the next morning as I was on my hands and knees sawing bits of wood out of the wall,  I heard the words, "What the hell is that sound?" and the sound of footsteps on the stairs. Mr. came to the bathroom door and found me in my favourite nightie, barefoot, with no headgear, furiously holding on to this whirring, beast of a tool.

He told me to stop and tried to offer his help, but I had a saw in my hands. Q, determined not to need a hero, had lost her mind.

Instead Mr. Man stood nearby, watching over me, ready to call 911 should I injure myself.  There's my hero.  Looking back, I should've let him help.  Determination does not mean smarts.

So, although he won't let me learn to use the mitre saw, I have paved my way into other cool gadgets.  And today as I am in the hedges, I am fully dressed, with work gloves.

I just close my eyes, though, when the branches fall on my head, and wait for him to come and do the tall stuff.

Is Santa Real?

The other day, while his sister was at a sleepover, my son asked if Santa was real.  Ugh. The dreaded question.  That is, before the birds and the bees.  Thankfully it wasn't, "Why do I feel so weird inside when I look at Emily?" but rather, "Is the wonderful, magical man who brings toys and delight to me once a year, real?"

Back on March 17th, I put together a cute St. Patrick's Day scene for a photo shoot for my cake blog: a green-dyed cupcake with part of it cut away, green painted footprints leaving the scene, and teeny-tiny dishes strewn about as if a little leprechaun had had a delicious green cupcake picnic.

My kids came home and looked at the little scene where I had my camera set up.  While Little Miss admired it, and moved on, her brother looked at it in wonder.

"Oh, look, mom, it's been eaten!"

I was sitting in an armchair reading a book in the other room, and I looked up in surprise as I realized he truly believed a leprechaun had come.  We'd never talked of leprechauns before.  In fact, Little Miss made me look it up on the internet.  She said, "the footprints are just paint."  But still, his imagination was undeterred.

I showed him the paint tray which he had been using just the day before, with the little shoes I had used to create the footprints.  I thought for sure he'd know I did it.

"OH! He took the shoes!" he cried, as Little Miss scolded me for using her toy's shoes.

I couldn't believe it, and I couldn't break the spell.  I didn't want to.  It wasn't until after his dad came home, that he started to question it.

Alone in the kitchen after supper he asked me if I had done it.

"What do you want me to say?" I asked.

"The truth."

"Yes, I did it.  I wanted to do something fun and cute, and it was fun and cute, wasn't it?"

"Yes." And then he went back to eating his ice cream as the whole discussion rolled off his back.

That night the kids brought it up again, but this time with bigger questions.  "Well, who fills our stockings? and what else isn't real?"

I wasn't ready to let it all go that day so I asked, "well, what do you believe in? Fairies? Pixies? Ghosts? Santa?"

"Well, Santa's real!" Little Miss firmly said.

"And I know the tooth fairy is real - unless you do that, too!" my son said, accusingly. I just laughed.

We've never done the Easter bunny thing or the leprechaun thing or the elf on the shelf...but in the belief of something unseen, they clung to the tooth fairy and Santa Claus, until today.

"Is Santa real?" my son asked, while his sister was away.

"What do you want me to say?" I ask.

"The truth."

As I looked at my son in the rearview mirror of the car, I knew that when he would return to school in the fall he would be too old to believe in Santa.  That the other kids probably would know the truth already.  And I know with his sweet little heart, he would not break the news to the ones who did not, including his little sister.

So I told him the truth.  And he went back to eating his ice cream as the whole discussion rolled off of his back.

It was only my heart that broke.

Why I Choose to Be Disorganized

I hate being organized.

Okay, I hate trying to be organized.  I have never been organized.

Being a self-proclaimed CEO of the Schaafsma Household, I expect myself to be uber-organized, with all my ducks in order, etc., etc., but it's too much.  To get my desk cleaned off, bills paid within the deadline, and everything filed, is a monthly accomplishment.  To do it daily is ridiculous.

Likewise, the only way I am going to clean up after dirtying a dish is to make my kids empty the dishwasher before I even wake up in the morning - so there are no excuses.  I need my kids to keep me tidy.  Pathetic, isn't it.

Walking through the aisles of the public library this afternoon, I averted my eyes while passing the self-help, homemaking, and family cooking sections.  No matter how many times I have attempted to improve myself, I eventually go back to my "old ways".

"Old ways" include baking homemade muffins filled with whole grains, berries and/or chocolate chips, and leaving the bowls, spoons and measuring cups on the counter. Doing a full load of laundry, washed and dried, and dumping it on my bed to be folded later, only to be thrown to the floor as I crawl into bed at the end of day. And finally, my husband's favourite, when changing the bag of milk, I cut the corner off, let it fall into the top drawer, and leave the used bag of milk in the sink, expecting it to wash and recycle itself later.

Sad.  I know.

Okay, so these are extreme, and heaven help me if my mother-in-law reads this, but I am my father's child, and expect to be picked up after, even though there is no one to do it.  Fortunately, I married a man who cleaned his mate's room in college, and was trained by an uber-organized woman to clean up after himself, love the one your with, and even pick up after them, (a.k.a. enabler).

Part of it is mom's fault, but I love her for it.  I grew up in an artist's home.  We painted, we imagined, we created with clay, props, knitting, dolls and the like.  Who had time to clean up?  While others learned how to cook and clean and take responsibility, I was having too much fun.

One day a few years ago we had both moms over for a visit.  The dads were helping Mr. Man build something mannish, while the women sat inside with the kids.  My mother-in-law got out the ironing board and ironed Mr.'s work shirts (but not his cape) while my mom sat and read stories to the kids.  Two totally different ladies.  And two totally different offspring.

I went away for a week back in April, and Mr said the kitchen counters were spotless except for the two days my mom came to stay and help.  "It was as if you were home!" he said, laughing.  She was having too much fun cooking and baking, building forts in the basement and going for walks.  The work would get done, but not right away.

Over the last few years, Mr. and I have met just about halfway.  I've learned how to clean house, thanks to a few friends and pinterest, and he has stopped freaking out and running around cleaning if someone is coming over.  In fact, friends have stopped warning him and just show up in order to keep him from working up a sweat.

He should just do it like me. I just pile the dirty dishes in the dishwasher, the oven, or a box out back.

There is a new neighbour next door, who I am sure I will write about in length this year.  C-r-a-z-y.  However, I have yet to invite her in as my house has kids, a large dog, crumbs and kids artwork all over.  Is a new person ready for this?  I don't know.

Luckily we have a grand gazebo in the backyard complete with a futon, table and chairs in which to entertain.  So far she is a backyard neighbour.  Plus, she might steal something...

Honestly, I don't do a lot of what I used to.  I've grown up.  And mom even comes over and cleans up things I've missed.  She, too, has grown up.  (But she brings fun activities with her.)  I pay the bills mostly on time, I fold the laundry and teach the kids how to do it, and I actually like sweeping.  Mr. Man has stopped doing the chores over again after I have done them, and has succumbed to letting me throw the milk bags in the garbage instead of washing them out (because they never get washed out).

I will never be the "tidy mom," or the "organized mom," but like my mom before me, I will be the "creative mom," and most importantly, the "loving-supportive-good-for-a-laugh mom." When averting my eyes from the organization section in the library, I am not looking down in shame, but in pity.  Pity for those who have not reached my level of maturity and self-worth.  I am disorganized, but  such a lovely person - and my kids love me.

Mr. Man? He just buys them candy.

Little Miss vs. Hollywood

One of my most favourite movies of all time is "You've Got Mail," with Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks.  A sweet, romantic movie, a tiny mouthful of bad language, but otherwise, harmless.  Meg Ryan's character (Kathleen Kelly) owns a quaint little children's bookstore, while Joe Fox (Tom Hanks) builds a huge Fox Books box store and puts her out of business.  Meanwhile the two of them are falling in love over the internet, not knowing it is with each other.  Cute, romantic...harmless.

Or so I thought.

The other day I pulled out my polymer clay, and set up a station close to the living room as my favourite movie is only in VHS form in our house.  I pop it in the VCR and as I start to mould the clay into that day's order, two little people coming running in, jump up on the couch and quietly watch the movie with me.

Very quickly Little Miss begins dissecting my VHS friend into bits and pieces of sin and shame.  It wasn't fun.

"Why is she hiding the computer?  Doesn't she want her husband to know she's on it?  Isn't it wrong to keep secrets?"

"Well, yes," I say, "daddy and I always tell and show each other our facebook pages, and like sharing funny things... I just like it that she runs a shop and it's a lovely romantic movie..."

"He called her his girlfriend - They're not MARRIED? Why are they in the same house?  Well, where is HE going now? [In a different scene]  Does HE have his own house?"

"Well, yes, he has his own house," I sigh, thankful for that truth.

"But he DOESN'T LOVE HER!"

"Oh, good grief, it's okay, it all works out.  Let's turn this off...." but she not listening to me anyway.

And then when she sees their Fox boats, she blows them out of the water...

"What kind of a boat is THAT?  They live down there? They have it all set up like they don't need to pack ANYTHING!" She is outraged that such a frivolous life exists.

And so, from the beginning to the end, the movie, my favourite movie, has been turned upside down; the sins of the flesh, the wanton greed, and the bad business manners have been revealed and shaken in front of my face.  Sigh.

I am sorry.  Hollywood is no match for the purity of spirit and firmness of Christian law in the heart of Little Miss.  She expects everyone to walk a straight line and there are no exceptions.  Little Miss has a constant call to arms when it comes to fairness in Wii time, the size of your piece of pie, and now, the disgrace that movies have left in our minds as "harmless".  Of course, does this change how I feel about the movie? No. I still love it, and I will still want Meg Ryan's hair every time I watch it.  Do I mourn for that innocence I once had?  A little.  I never cared for rules as much as she does, nor did I ever see my world in such black and white terms.  But it does bite a bit when I have to explain why movies are portraying ideas that are not what we believe they should be.  This past year, amongst her friends, she's learned of separation, divorce, terminal sickness, step-siblings, and death.  She hears of one parent leaving the home of a friend, and wonders why.  If she could, I know she would step up and set them all straight.  In her world, everyone knows the rules, and why wouldn't they obey them?

Well, why wouldn't they?

That day I just wanted to watch a movie about a girl with her own little store, meeting a man who sweeps her off her feet.  Instead, I exhibited a lot of sighing, mumbling and explaining.  Now I need to teach Little Miss about grace.

Indeed I feel sorry for her future husband.  He won't get away with anything.

Now, let's see what she thinks of Finding Nemo...perhaps Dory and Marlin swim too close together or spend too much time alone in the whale??

It's Amnesia: I Have Forgotten Your Bra Size.

I am going to assume a lot from you in this post, and I'm sorry.  There is a whole lot to say in between the lines, and since I think you are either Lady Elaine, and others who know me well and/or my mother, you probably know the extra, unspoken stuff anyway.

When you have a section of your life taken away with amnesia, most of it comes back.  You have to work hard at some of it, asking questions, looking at pictures, but sometimes it will not come back until you are confronted with it.  It is an odd feeling walking by someone who you don't know but they know you because you went bra shopping with them and they opened up their heart to you at one point in time.  It is odd to get asked the question, "who said I love you first" and you have to turn to your husband and ask him, because you really can't remember.

Or to call and apologize that you didn't celebrate your parent's anniversary, only to be told you actually did.  AND said a rather nice speech.

And then to be told I had agreed to be their power of attorney, and we'd had such a serious conversation about it...and yet, I know nothing about being power of attorney.

So, in sitting with another couple this weekend, talking about old times, I realized that most of my memories have come back.  I remember our wedding and most of the details. I remember living in a honeymoon trailer for six weeks after the wedding, and now I remember somebody destroyed our car and hotel room during the ceremony...but I digress.

Still, almost 12 years after I awoke in the hospital, there are people who I have not come in contact with.  And they wander out there in the world not knowing that I don't know them.  Do they miss me? Did I go bra shopping with them?

A few months ago, in a room filled with people, a woman my age came up to me, and exclaimed, "Oh, I thought it was you!" I had no idea who she was.  Was she from Mr. Man's work? From his group of whatever he's president of?

Then she pulled over another, older lady, and said, "Mom! Remember Erin? She was so-and-so's roommate!" I had a roommate named so-and-so?  I looked to my left for Mr. who had suddenly disappeared.  My source of knowledge was gone and I was a scared deer in the headlights of a foreign car with highlights.

They both looked at me with big, welcoming smiles on their faces, and I must've looked odd because instantly their faces dropped.

"You don't know, do you?" the first woman asked.  I didn't know.  And now I really didn't know.

"So-and-so died," she whispers.  If I remember correctly, she put her hand on my shoulder and tenderly told me of the death of her friend, how her husband up and married the next girl around and is a disgrace to his children, and oh, the children.  She shook her head back and forth.

I had a roommate named so-and-so and she died? "I'm so sorry," I said.  I really was.  "I had no idea."  I really didn't.  Later, after I found Mr. and our friends, and I told them of the conversation, they weren't much help in the information department.  The woman remains nameless, as does her mother.  BUT the roommate has since entered into my memory bank and, yes, I am knocked over that someone so young could pass just like that.  And I didn't even know her.  Well, kinda didn't.

Any good ol' bang on the head can cause amnesia.  Or a stroke or blood clot.  Are you at risk?  Want to know what you can do to prepare yourself?

Things that I have learned in trying to remember:

• Diaries/journals are amazing sources of information.  What ever happened with that guy in University?  Page 10 in the pink booklet - went off to be a bachelor/hermit in the woods.  What happened to your guitar? Page 1 of the purple book - I gave it away.
• Photo albums are a top solution to the memory bank.  You live through photos.  What your mind cannot remember, it absorbs from a photo and works around it to fill in the blanks.  
• Friends and relatives are very important, especially those who have been a part of that time forgotten. They can answer your questions, and in Mr.'s case, give mostly honest answers.  He did try to tell me I promised to make his lunches and iron his shirts.  Not going to happen.
• Lastly, take every moment to cherish your loved ones.  

And for the ones who I haven't seen in the last decade...if I ever see you, I'm sorry.  I don't know your bra size anymore.

Erin

If You Find Yourself Having an Allergy Attack

Sometimes when a story hits, I have to wait for the fall out to settle before writing it down.  Fall out, as in, what my mother will say...  So here is a post several months after she has calmed down.

Rules to Follow: if you find yourself in an allergy attack:

1. Don't eat candy. Don't eat candy in a mixed bowl or bag. Don't assume one is the same as the other. Don't eat candy.

2. If you eat candy and your throat starts to swell, don't run out of the building, away from people.

3. If you eat candy and your throat starts to swell, don't run out of the building, and leave your epi-pen behind.

4.  Always carry Benadryl.

5.  If you run away from your epi-pen and have no Benadryl, don't run to the nearest pharmacy.  They will give you night-time benadryl and say it will work.  It doesn't.

6.  Pharmacists can mix drugs but are not ER doctors.  They will, however, hand over an epi-pen if you scare them enough.  And don't scream at them while they call 911.  That's not nice.

7.  Send the caped Mr. Man over to the pharmacist after the ambulance has come to settle them down and settle the bill.  Hopefully they will remember his face rather than yours.

8.  Be kind to the attendants, nurses and doctors.  It's not your fault they think you are a druggy looking for your next fix.  They are trained to be sceptical.

9.  Be kind to your nurse, and don't scream the f-bomb whenever she touches the IV.  And when she says be quiet, be quiet.

10.  Lastly, if there is a hospital and a pharmacy equal distances from where you're having a reaction, run to the hospital - not the pharmacy.  You won't need an epi-pen, you won't have to pay for ambulance and drug fees, and the pharmacist will sleep well at night.

And don't post an obscure facebook status that doesn't explain why you were in the hospital.

Sorry mom.

I am a Great Driver

I am a great driver! Confident, self-assured, sensible...

Er, well... perhaps I have a tiny bit of a heavy foot.  I blame our steep driveway which gives me a kick start before I hit the road.  But in the same week I was labelled "a rocket" and "a hurricane" by family members who happened to be along for the ride.

I never go too far over the speed limit: just enough... because I am a great driver.

Once, as I pulled off the highway I noticed a policeman with his motorcycle standing at the stop light, waving me down.  Did I feel nervous? Guilty?

No.  I assumed something had happened, perhaps an escaped convict, and he needed my assistance. It couldn't possibly be me. I am a great driver.

Mr. Man calls me something else.

When I was 16 all you had to do was pass this written "exam" to be able to drive with your parents. It just so happened a girlfriend sat nearby, blinking codes to me as the instructor looked the other way.  I raced out with my 365 and entered the world of driving.  I was on hyper-drive, blond, and fearless.

Years later, my best friend said she had been terrified every time I drove her somewhere.  When asked why she didn't tell me, she answered, "But you were cool. So cool."

Mom and Dad signed me up for driver's ed; the cheap version through the highschool. The instructor was someone doing community service and we ate him alive.  All we wanted was to get behind the wheel.  When I finally got my hands-on lessons, the instructor realized I could go forwards, but not backwards.  A sort of backwards driving dyslexia.

Nor could I park.

In fact, throughout my driver's test I failed every parking test: parking on a hill, parallel parking, parking between yellow lines.  I even parked wrong when we got back to the ministry's parking lot.

But I passed.  He said, "As long as you keep driving, you're fine.  Just don't stop."

In other words, I am a great driver.

But he must not have tested me on driving backwards since I have reversed into quite a few things over the years.  My in-laws love to point out that I have backed into my sister-in-law's car (making quite a dent), my sister's car (who ignored the dent), my sister-in-law's again, and then my sister's again. (And no, not all on the same day).

The other day my son came in the house and exclaimed that someone had shoved mud into the back of our car.  I ran out and sure enough the tail pipe, the trailer hitch, and major parts of the back bumper were filled with dirt and grass, and some had fallen on the driveway.

I searched around the yard and in the car for other damage, but even the change drawer was untouched.  It was a random act of violence and I had stupidly left the gates open the night before.

Sigh.  "Don't tell your dad," I said, "he'll just blow it out of proportion." There was nothing I couldn't tidy up and no damage had been done.

But I forgot.

That night, there was a huge, red Mr. Man freaking out in the backyard about vandals, etc.  The kids ran and hid, and every neighbourhood teenager felt a shiver up their backs.

Then suddenly, all was quite.

He came in the house and approached me where I was working and trying to ignore the commotion.

"Did you back into something?" he calmly asked,

Bing! A light went off in my head. "Um, yeah," remembering a certain embankment I hit the night before, "I guess I did."

And he turned on his heels, left the room, mumbling words like, "crazy", "insensible", "constant", and I went back to what I was doing, truthfully unsurprised by my actions.  Twenty years of driving, and I am still that 16-year-old, on hyper-drive, blond (highlights) and fearless.

And so I keep on driving forward....

Little Miss and the Head Cold: The Queen of Determination

At seven-years-old, I am continually stumped at Little Miss's determination.  Her terrible two's turned into three's, four's...and now seven's. And nothing deters her, not even a cold:

Every time Little Miss gets a head cold it always goes up into her ears.  I tell her to stop sniffing up her nose, that it will go into her brain, but she knows I am making it up.  

(I tend to do that. I told her once at the EEG department, the technician was going to take her brains out and put in a little hamster on a wheel.  And after asking me the millionth time about my childhood, I told her I was an orphan who got locked in a closet for years.  Mom didn't appreciate it - but Little Miss called my bluff every time and just rolled her eyes at me.)

Anyway, colds do go into her ears and create a great deal of pressure, making her hard of hearing.

On this particular day she was still having trouble hearing after two weeks of the sniffles, but she was in a good mood.  I figured her ears were plugged, and on the verge of an infection if we did't deal with it.  So I pulled out the decongestion medicine, but like any kid, she hated it. Unlike those other kids, she's got hot red hair and a fiery will to match.  Often, I just give up.

But she seriously couldn't hear, no matter how many times she tried to fake it.

Mr. Man and I were sitting on the couch with Little Miss in between us.  There was nothing noisy going on, he was checking his facebook (what an addict - seriously!), I was reading a book for geniuses (ahem), and our son is eating pancakes in the kitchen.  Mr. Man has yet again impressed us with his pancake mastery.

At one point our son steps into the living room and asks, "is anyone going to eat the last pancake?"

As Mr. and I both shake our heads no, Little Miss shouts, "pardon?" looking carefully at her brother's face (reading lips...hmm).

"Does anyone want the last pancake?" he asks again.

She smiles, the epitome of goodness, and pleasantly says, "Oh, yes, there's room!" She pats the couch beside her, tosses the pillows aside, and makes room for him on the couch immediately.

I hid my grin and looked at Mr.  I couldn't bare to tell her she'd heard wrong - she was being so kind -  so much so that I moved over for him, despite knowing he didn't even want to sit down.

Mr. Man interjected, "Did you not hear what he said?" looking down at her beside him.

"Yes!" she perked up, "he asked if there was room for him on the couch."  Big smile.

Really? I thought. That did not even sound like "last pancake"!

When he told her what had really been said, he and I burst into a fit of giggles. We just couldn't help it.

Little Miss quickly covered her face in embarrassment.  But instead of becoming furious, she suddenly looked up.  I assumed she realized her game was up and she would have to admit she couldn't hear.  

(Ultimately meaning I was right - just saying).

But, of course, instead of admitting anything, with a determined twinkle in her eye she exclaimed,

"I am still not taking the medicine!"

Sigh.  The bottle stayed in the cupboard, a waste of $13.99.

Ah, even when proved wrong there is no bending of her determination.  Let's hope she will always stand up for the good guy. Whatever side of a cause she'll be on, it will be the winning side.

The Plight of a Mother...and a Muddy Dog

Outrageous, really.

I stormed out of the house because I was SO MAD no one was listening to my instructions.  Not even Mr.  Just before I got into the car I saw the muddy dog cowering in the corner of the lawn.

"Get in." I yelled, "you're going for a bath." He jumped in.  At least someone listened.

My temper cooled off as we drove the twenty minutes to the dog wash but I took my time giving Duke a good wash, rinse, wash again, rinse again...oatmeal bath, conditioner...hmm, what else do they have here...looking at my watch ever so often.  I tried to imagine at what point they would miss me, or better yet, when they go around town looking for the missing dog (he does run away a lot - which was why he was muddy in the first place).

Finally, after a large chunk of time we drove back.  I walked in the door to find Mr. Man holding my cell phone, mad that I'd left it behind.  The kids were still where I'd left them in the living room, not noticing I'd even left.

Mr. suddenly noticed the dog who came in behind me.

"You told me he was in the basement!" he called out to the kids.

Sigh.  Duke and I looked at each other.  They didn't notice either of us were gone, nor had they searched for us.

I went back to doing the dishes, Mr. hollered at the kids to get up and do something, and the dog ran out into the muddy yard.

Some days you just wish you'd stayed in bed.

Little Miss and Taking Down the Tree

I was recently called "a rock star" as a mother when it came to teaching my kids to do things on their own.  They were in the "zipper club" at school because they could get their snowsuits on by themselves, they've made their own lunches since kindergarten, they can make their own breakfast and now they are learning to use the stove (with supervision).

I admit I am a bit scary to some children, when I ask them how they help their mommies.  One little one hid behind her mommy's legs as if to say, "you can't change me!"

One reason my kids are like this is because I had too much to do with running a business and the home.  I taught them to do the things like getting their snowsuits on, getting dressed, even peeling potatoes, slicing the cheese, husking corn and getting down the crackers for snack.  Things they could do so I could get the bigger things done, while also giving them self confidence at the same time.

But most of it has to do with Mr. Man.  It is ingrained in him to do stuff.  My son always comments about it. "What's dad doing now?" or "When is he going to stop?"  Plus they see him with his cape on, saving the neighbourhood from a snowstorm, or cleaning up some mess I've made.  What.a.keener.

There is a certain craziness to the intensity they feel to impress and please him in any way.  "Let's do something so daddy is really happy when he comes home!" I hear. "What else can we do to make him happy?" or "Daddy likes that, let's do it!" Good grief. A whole bunch of keeners.

So when the first day of school after Christmas became a snow day and I had to cancel my plans, I thought it would be the perfect job for them to take down the Christmas decorations for me.  I know I'd left them up a bit longer than usual, much to Mr.'s dislike, so it was a good idea.

I just milked the whole "Daddy will love it" scheme, and knew it would get done.

Boy, did it ever.

Little Miss immediately took over.  The tree, the lights, the boxes, everything.  She knew how it was to be done, and everyone had to listen.  

Very quickly her brother and I found something else to do.

After a few hours, she had it all packed up, I'd had to help her get the Christmas tree lights down which is not a story I will repeat, and we put it all away in the basement.

My son thought it would be helpful to take the tree right out of the house for his dad.  This is usually Mr.'s job but we thought we could do it with the right plan.

The Plan:

• knock the tree over
• grab it by the stand
• drag it down the hall and out the door
• take the stand off outside
• leave the tree outside.

And so we did it.  Unfortunately, there was water in the stand so it poured out all over the living room and hallway.  The tree was quite dry and most of the needles fell off onto the hallway floor, and down the vents.  The wind was so strong it almost sent the tree flying over the retaining wall along with the kids.  And the kids were still in their pyjamas.

BUT I have to say I was extremely impressed with their determination to get it all done.  It was fun, after all, to make a huge mess and to accomplish a "dad" task.  Not only did they get the tree outside and the stand off, but they dragged it to the backyard (Little Miss shrieking instructions all the way) and heaved it over the fence where our numerous trees have gone (no, not the neighbour's yard). It took three tries for the four-foot-tall children to heave the tree over a three-foot fence, and then they climbed over it to push it away.  All in their jammies and heavy mitts.

I didn't dare tell them I would've quit once I got the stand off, and we didn't dare tell their dad about the mess we made.  We'd cleaned it all up anyway.  But Mr. was so impressed that he praised them AND opened his wallet.

Of course, now each morning I find Little Miss cleaning the kitchen, hoping for praise and a little funding.

So, when the kids are old enough, I'll send them over to your house to do some drywall or other crazy task.  Just tell them their dad will be so proud and it will get done.

But expect to provide a little funding...

Little Miss and The Fruits of the Spirit

I forgot how much material can be found in a child's interpretation of heaven, God and how it all works.  Little Miss, a walking bubble of questions, keeps us on our toes when it comes to bedtime Bible stories.

One day last week we started reading about John the Baptist.

"He had messy hair, wore animal skins and ate locusts.  Do you know what locusts are?" I asked.

Blank faces.

"Grasshoppers," answered Mr. Man.

"Eww!" came the cries.

I read, "John says, 'The axe is awaiting! If you do not bear a tree with good fruit it will be cut down and thrown into the fire!'"  Harsh words.

"What kind of fruit would you bear if you were a tree?" I asked, trying to keep their attention.

"An apple tree!"

"A Maple Tree! Oh, that doesn't have fruit."

"Maple syrup, I suppose."

"I would be an oak tree so I could grow nuts, " said someone extremely mature.  Snort, snort, snicker, snicker, hahaha...

"But I can't eat nuts!" cried the innocent, food-intolerant Little Miss.  More snorting, snickering and laughing.

This was getting out of hand.

"Well, the Bible says the fruit of the spirit are love, joy, peace patience..." I pulled on the reigns, "Those are the fruit we need to grow."

I won't go into the questions on throwing trees into the fire.  I really had no answers for that...

The next night, we read about Jesus being tempted in the dessert, and how Satan would have us make bad decisions and lead us to sin.

"Remember the fruits of the spirit?" I asked, "he would like us to have bad fruit.  What are some bad fruit?"

"Locusts," said my son, remembering John the Baptist's choice of food. Snort, snort, snicker, snicker, bwahaha...

"Um, no... How about lying [eyeballing my daughter], or cheating, or picking on your sister [eyeballing my son]? Those are the bad fruits."

"And you get your tree chopped down!" Little Miss cried out, very seriously.

Ah, yes. Exactly. "Quick, let's pray."

There was a whole lot more discussion from Mr. Man about forgiveness, bible memorization (how can Jesus possibly know that when he doesn't have a Bible in his hand? Little Miss asked), and how sin is not actually a good thing (good grief), but we'll leave it at that.  We straightened out some ideas and helped confuse others.

Sigh.  Teaching the Bible is exhausting. I'd rather teach Math.

Excerpts from Christmas 2013

Santa has been and gone, we have a huge stack of wrapping paper, one child is down and out sleeping through lunch and the other is already bored.

Ah, Christmas.  The season of ups and downs, expectations and disappointments, and yet, the warm glow of an electric fireplace and hot cider brings everyone to a calm medium.  The hope of a ridiculously expensive doll and a remote control truck lingers in the air as we watch A Muppet Family Christmas on the macbook pro.

On the night of our church service, when presented with a new dress, Little Miss exclaimed, "Oh, I love you, Mom! I love Christmas! I love church! This is my favourite day!"  Hugging and hugging and more hugging.  She loved this day.

Of course, later, when told no to something unreasonable, she officially "hate[d] this day!"

*****

Christmas Eve night we gathered up the stockings and a plate of cookies for Santa. "Are you sure he will like these cookies?" my son asked.  They were gluten-free after all (and really did taste awful).

"Of course he will!" boasted Mr. Man. I suggested Santa may be gluten-free himself. After dunking them in chocolate and sprinkles, the kids were satisfied with their presentation.

Poor Santa. They still tasted awful.

*****

Early the next morning at 6:30am there was a loud thump on the roof.  I thought it was the dog making noise, Mr. thought it was ice cracking, but the kids were certain it was Santa.

They ran downstairs to discover he had indeed been there, despite the wailing and begging for forgiveness that came from my son a few days before.  He had been certain he would just get coal in his stocking.

"It is God you need forgiveness from," I told the weeping boy,"and your sister. God is bigger than Santa," I said to him.

He cried out, "but I am SO BAD, and I can't help it.  I am always hurting her." And he promptly covered his head with his bed blankets and prayed like I've never heard him pray before.

Two things happened after that.

1. His sister stood her ground upon his next threat.  Her roundhouse caught him in the neck before he had a chance to pummel her, sending him crying to his mommy.  
2. His prayers were answered.  There was indeed no coal.  He received the remote control truck he'd asked for.

I won't mention the tears that came after he drove it down the stairs.  Sigh.

*****

Christmas 2012 had come with a cold so bad, my mother-in-law sent me to bed and I slept through most of the day and the next.  Looking back I realize that was the most stress-free Christmas I have ever had.  So this year I worked hard to stay calm, and on my feet.  Luckily, as I told Mr. Man, "in my family I am the only anal-retentive one.  The rest of them couldn't care less."  So I did not run around spending my hours cleaning the house or cooking turkey.  The kids helped cook and bake, and when two whole eggs dropped on the floor, I managed to keep cool.  Everyone pitched in and brought food - to my surprise - and everything was gluten-free except my Christmas Quiche and mom's Mince Meat Tarts.  Some things are just too good to change. It would be so wrong.

Later, during the flurry of shredded wrapping paper, squeals of delight at the gifts of LEGO, Christmas socks and a case of beer, we all stopped in shock as someone or something thumped down our stairs (not the remote control truck this time).

"I'm okay," said a tiny, three-year-old voice that promptly burst into tears.  You can't have a family gathering without some drama. With magical hugs and soothing words, she was fine, and the flurry of shredded wrapping paper continued with squeals of delight at the gifts of Old Navy sweaters, car seat covers and a bottle of wine.

More tarts, nibblies and coffee, and we were exhausted.

All in all a perfect day.  Everyone got along, we handled the bumps, bruises and tears with patience and love, and no one missed out on anything.  Despite the short time we've known of Little Miss's food intolerances, my family, who love food, had embraced the challenge and came well equipped to keep our seven-year-old happy, fully fed, and pumped up with as much sugar as the rest of them.  It touched my heart.  And my sweet tooth :)

Now that the tree is down and the house seems so empty, I still hold on to that day.  Arguments will come and certainly discontent and self-absorption is just around the corner, but for a few hours, with the gifts of food, thoughtful presents and a huggy family, we know we are capable of pulling it together.  I hope to have many more days like this.

*****

At the end of the day my son went back to driving his remote control truck, and Little Miss sat and stared at her ridiculously expensive, well commercialized doll she'd been asking for all month, and said,

"What am I to DO with it?"

Sigh.

Oh, yes.  The joys of Christmas.

Erin