Operation Squirrel Rescue

    If you are familiar with my past stories, you'll understand the dynamics of some of us in this house: myself, Mr. Man, and, Little Miss, to name a few. Other characters in this charade have had cameos, and you will most likely see them again in this new series. 

    Little Miss is now attending college (WHAT!!), vibrantly running a world of drunkards/agriculture students and dorm life. Besides minute visits from our son and his friends, Mr. Man and I are most definitely Empty Nesters. Many things have happened over the last few years, and, as a new stage in my life has begun, others have encouraged me to write again.

***

   

Looking back at our homeschool days, we certainly embraced Lil's love of animals: dogs, cats, a rabbit, fish, a painted turtle, a collection of crayfish, one dead squirrel, and two Pekin Ducks. I finally enrolled her in our local 4-H program, where she worked with horses and beef cattle and made a significant number of pies. 

     "One dead squirrel?" you say. 

    I got a call from Lil' at work one day, quite distraught. She had found a dead squirrel floating in the kiddie pool and was wondering what to do with it. Our neighbours were always around to help, and of course, her older brother, but with the thought of someone else taking control she was determined to manage it herself. 

    "You'll have to throw it over the back fence," I said, wondering if my colleagues were listening, "Use the shovel." 

    She agreed with the suggestion but not before she admitted the whole story. "I tried to save it, you know, by breathing into it." 

 What?! 

 "I didn't get too close, just enough to blow at its mouth." 

 "Oh, okay." Good Grief. We had already been through a rabies scare with another squirrel and a baby field mouse. I'd hoped she learned. 

     As she continued the story, I couldn't help but smile as her heart shone through. She had taken her red plastic shovel, scooped the poor squirrel out of the pool, and laid it on the ground. An 'expert' at CPR, she pressed up and down on its tiny chest with the shovel, in hopes to get its heart going again. She blew at its mouth by leaning over the shovel. And, after giving up as an animal paramedic, she called me. 

     And then, of course, I told everybody. They had all listened in any way. 

    Later, Little Miss was proud to tell me she'd stood at the back fence and offered a blessing, giving the squirrel a proper send-off as she finally tossed it over.

Peanut Allergy: Save Their Life and Apologize for it Later.

When I first started this blog, I was writing about growing up with a peanut allergy.  It eventually turned comical as I introduced my children on the scene, and dramatic, as life ensued.  Today I am again writing about my peanut allergy, as it again has shown its ugly face.

And I thought I was so safe.

I have never known why I have my allergies.  No one else in my family does.  I was born with it.  God gave it to me, I guess.  I spent most of my childhood mad about that.  And most of my adult life, really.  But, within the confines and safety of my life I really kind of forgot about it.

Little Miss and her brother are both teenagers now.  Mr. Man and I dream of days where we have a clean house, time to ourselves, and we don't have to drive the kids everywhere, and feed them three times the amount we eat, and so on.  The Big P (as in, peanut) occasionally showed up in menu planning for camping, going for ice cream, or trying to find a certain almond butter.  Mr. and the kids would go out of town and come back all washed and changed, "We had peanut butter last night, Mom! But we didn't like it - not one bit," they'd lie.

But really, I have a safe life - my home is safe and this is where I spend my time.  The majority of my friends have known me for years and know the drill.  No peanuts.  No exceptions.  Easy peasy.

Well, then I made new friends.  Wonderful new friends who had children who needed friends.  And the Big P reared its ugly head.  Everywhere.  Off a kitchen table, off a person's clothes, off a piece of paper, in a neighbour's lunch (in a small room), and in a dorm 1000s of kms from home.  With no car.  And no Mr. Man.

So really, I shouldn't make new friends.  That's the lesson. 

Well, no, but there are two things I want to say to those of you who know someone who has a serious allergy, or has one:

1.  A reaction to something as oily as the Big P can happen ANYWHERE.  Even if you think you've cleaned your house, she may still find that one little spot under the counter and rub it in her eyes.  Guess what? It's not your fault!!  Insurance brokers or lawyers may say otherwise (dirty rats) but a reasonable allergic person knows there is an extremely high probability of coming in contact with the Big P as soon as she steps out of her house.  I've got it off a steering wheel of a friend's car or off of the cleanest leather couch.  Some of us refuse to hold door knobs or handrails because they know the stakes.  And it's always going to be like this. 

Please don't feel guilty when you've done your best.  And please have us over again.  Please?

2.  Secondly, when there is a serious reaction going on - and I mean serious - the allergic person may not be in their right mind.  This is very hard for me to say (and very easy for my mother to say).  Someone needs to take charge, and the patient may quite possibly want to run and hide.  Call it shock, call it fight or flight, that person may make every excuse in the book not to jab that epipen in their leg and call 911.  Please, please, do everyone a favour and as Nike said, "Just Do It!" 

Save their life and apologize for it later.  I know this idiot would forgive you.

For those of you who are interested in how to use an epipen, check out this link: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FXlqSuzzrws



Erin

Reflections, Labradors, and Glimpses of Little Miss

It is a cool morning in August and I (and my hair) are grateful the humidity has disappeared for at least today. School is starting in just a few days and it is the perfect time to reflect on this past summer.

Spring and summer in our little village is delightful, as are most little towns in Southern Ontario, filled with the sounds of cardinals and squirrels (much to the chagrin of our pup) and the smells of lilacs, roses and phlox. I can't help but think of my friend as I write this who dislikes flowery language in books and will close this link immediately.

But oh, I am feeling contemplative today.

Our son has turned into a labrador puppy this summer. No longer soft and cuddly, his hands and feet have grown so much, you can tell he has a growth spurt approaching.  And like the beloved canine, he trips and bangs into things, clumsy with his limbs.

Little Miss, forever the main character of my stories, has walked through a magical curtain. She astounds me with her beauty and self-confidence, neither of which I had at her age, although Mom would say otherwise, and I can't help but stop and study her.

Then, all of a sudden, I see a glimpse of my girl as the green panties she's chosen show through under her yellow lacy dress at her cousin's wedding.  Oh, how the sunshine was her nemesis that day, unbeknownst to her.  Her saving grace was the beautiful bride who drew all attention, as she should. Only her doting, studious Mother noticed and grinned.

Mr. Man, as ever, is his heroic self, taking emergency trips to the drugstore for his cyclical women, bringing home paper products and bars of chocolate.  He arrives, caped donned, with a small bead of sweat on his brow, holding the sweetie at arms length as not to get hurt in the distribution.

He and his trusty labrador descend to the safety of the basement, happy in the company of each other, for the next five to seven days...

Gone are the days of cake baking, food intolerances, and childish questions. Our summer was filled with babysitting courses, vacation bible school leadership, and scoffs at parents.  Gone are the cuddles on mom's lap, and candies as rewards. This summer I found myself looking up at them, chasing them for hugs, and giving money as rewards.  Oh, the heartbreak.

And so begins part two of my life with CrackerJacks and Nutters - the enormous need of humour and reflection as always... but with teenagers. 

Heaven help us all.

The Atlantic Canada Whirlwind Trip - Part 1

Grand Falls Gorge, Grand Falls, New Brunswick

We are in the midst of a 11-day whirlwind tour of Atlantic Canada.  Beautiful! Amazing! Exhausting!

Little Miss had received acceptance to the AVC's (Atlantic Veterinary College) summer camp for the middle of July, which is on Prince Edward Island, so we jumped at the chance to go as a family.  Unfortunately, Mr. Man could only get a few days off, so much of the trip has been zipping down the TransCanada Highway, racing the clock (time change and all) to get to a new province each day. We keep saying the two of us will come back another time after the kids are grown.

So far what we have learned:

1. Mr. Man wants to move to New Brunswick.
2. Many Ontarians move out East from the Toronto area and open bed and breakfasts.
3. Nova Scotians drive slowly.  And have fabulous accents.
4. UNESCO has taken over.
5. Islander Canadians apologize much, much more than Ontarians...
6. You can get around Atlantic Restaurants without eating shellfish (Mr. is allergic).
7. Speaking of driving: Nova Scotian drivers need signs on the highway stating "WRONG WAY" as they tend to merge in the wrong direction.
8. Cows Ice Cream IS indeed the best.
9. The ocean is a fascinating place.
10. Little Miss will develop a bruise for each province travelled: falling down stairs, tripping on rocks....why STEP into the ocean upon your first look when you can FALL in it while completely dressed??

More to come!

Erin

Little Miss and the Ballet

Last year I took ten-year-old Little Miss to the ballet for the first time (for both of us).  The production was Swan Lake, which Lil' was familiar with thanks to Barbie, and so, in our finest, we joined up with friends to be educated in the fine art of dance.

I did wonder what she would think of the storyline - certainly Barbie gives the movie a happy ending.  Would she be upset? Would she hate it all? Would she notice how snug the prince's tights are? Do I want to have a conversation about men's snug tights?

But as a matter of fact, Little Miss was quite in awe of the whole event.  Where we sat, the look of the theatre, the lighting, how the scenes changed, and, of course, the costumes.  She only once mentioned how there were no words spoken.  I watched her more than I watched the show - her beautiful face lit up from the stage lights, her mouth hanging open, her body leaning forward to get a better look. I hadn't seen her this enthralled since we went to Medieval Times in Toronto a few years back. 

SO not the same caliber.

And when the afformentioned men's tights came up... all she said was, "I hope they get paid a lot because those outfits don't fit! It's right up his butt!"

And of course, I chickened out and said nothing. Phew. Bullet dodged.

It was during the second act that the hiccupping started.  Really loud hiccupping. Heaven knows what she did but Lil' had them.  She held her breath, plugged her nose, tried everything she could but they kept coming.  Beautiful ballet dancers are gracefully twirling across the stage in silence and the two of us are trying not to giggle as loud chirrups are projected throughout the quiet auditorium.  Good grief.  It was like a bad Mr. Bean movie.

Eventually the ballet ended.  The prince is dead, and the princess cries, lying over him.  The curtains close and I look at her.  "No, it's not done yet. He's not dead," she says, looking like she has a big surprise. "You'll see."

"No, honey," I say, gently, "That's all. That's how the adult version ends. He gave his life for hers." (Remind me to throw out the Barbie version when I get home - those liars). 

She tried one more time to assure me it wasn't over, but eventually realized the curtain would not be reopening.  It was a sad moment of stepping out of the world of Disney into a place of unfairness, grief, and deep meaning in art rather than happy endings.  And she elegantly survived.

If only real-life events would be continue to be smooth transitions for her as well.  I hugged her tight and we went out for food.

We head to another ballet this Christmas, and hopefully, just as excellent an evening.  And, much to the chagrin of those on stage, just as many hiccups.

The Pile

It is mid-morning, the kids are at their grandparent's place, I will be heading out to 'the office job', and amidst the quiet the turtle tank filter is swishing away, taunting my bladder.

It is rare that the house is so still.  Even hear the hum of the refrigerator can be heard from the next room.  Is it supposed to be that loud? I have never noticed before.  There is nothing in it anyway, short of freezer-burned shrimp I bought when Little Miss was studying Newfoundland last year.

I am attempting to deep clean the house while the kids are away. I read recently in a self-help site (as they are SO helpful) that if you pile all the clutter on the bed (or in the middle of the room, as I have done) then it is easier to deep clean around it.

But what to do with this pile? I can't remember that part of the article.  Will I be too tired to go through it at the end of all of this - or will I turn it into a useful pile, throwing a blue sheet over it and calling it a coffee table?

Is this how hoarders get started.  Perhaps they pile things on the bed in an attempt to clean things up, get tired, and then simply push it to one side of the bed in order to sleep.  Of course, Mr. Man would then be replaced by a mound of mismatched socks, books on Chaucer and Mary Poppins, and endless recharging cords.  Needless to say, Mr. keeps me from becoming a hoarder.  Chaucer does not keep my feet warm.

And here's the rub: after all of this pondering it is now time to leave for work.  Such is my life - I read and research how to do something, and then never do it.  Mr. says he is the 'doer'. Perhaps I will toss the pile into the mudroom...

I Hate Camping

I hate camping.

I used to like camping.  But I hate it now.  Why do we camp?  To see nature? I can see that without camping.  To get away? I can do that without camping also.  For peace? Nah.  Family time? Double Nah.

Don't get me wrong - I still camp, but I do it for my kids and Mr. Man.  They love it.  They fish, they ride bikes, they swim, they fish some more. They make fires and cook over the campstove. They love sleeping in the tent trailer and talking about how great a sleep they had the next morning.

Someone might say, "Oh, you should try REAL camping," but I've done it.  I've trekked through the woods, pack on my back, canoe over my head, and paddled to a site where you slept in a pup tent and pooped in a hole.  I've camped in the cold, wearing a toque at night and sleeping in a down feather sleeping bag to keep even slightly warm (and waking with a swollen face since I am allergic to feathers).  I have my badge in white water canoeing after a week of paddling, shouting, dodging rocks, and trying not to fall out as we tackled the rapids.  Never. Again.

That may have broke me.  Or perhaps it was that fall trip where it continually rained, and rained, and rained, until our feet sunk in the mud around our cooking station, and we could not do ANYTHING.

Or maybe it was last summer:

After several weeks of summer passing by, I realized the kids had not had a camping trip.  Mr. couldn't get time off work, so the kids and I went on our own.  Off we went to a beautiful site out of the way, right along Lake Ontario.  The site was covered in green grass and apple trees loomed overhead.  We were to have a wonderful three days.

Unfortunately, a storm had come up a few days before and knocked the majority of the apples onto the ground.  Painful on the feet.  Luckily we found a clear spot to set up the tent, and there was a picnic table to place everything on.  We strolled down to the beach, and played in the waves.  We went to the nearly museum to take a tour.  We sat under a maple tree and read books.  Mom even came to visit, and helped us with supper.

Then, it happened.  Little Miss fell on the tent.  Broken tent poles.  Her big brother and I tried to rig something up to keep the dome upright, but to no avail.  Of course, Lil' felt terrible. Finally a kindly gentleman came over from a nearby site, and with his magic toolbox, attached the tent poles temporarily so we could sleep at night.  Several other neighbours offered us their spare tents.  All was well.

We heard that it may rain the second night, so the kids and I had purchased extra tarps to hang over the tent and the dining area.  We had plenty of trees to tie the tarps onto, but, alas, we couldn't quite reach them.  No matter how we wrapped or hung or strapped the ropes, it just wasn't as great as Mr. would have done.  But we were proud of ourselves.  Bring on the rain.

It wasn't until we were having lunch that the rain started coming down. And down. And down. Our tarps were dipping with pools of water so we took turns pushing a stick up to spill it out the sides. Geez, this was fun.  Eventually one of us starting questioning how long it was going to rain.

It just so happened that mom and dad lived close by, so we thought it wouldn't be too anti-camping to take a drive over to the farm.  Once it was agreed on, we couldn't get there fast enough.  As we jumped into the jeep, we could hear the water crashing off the stickless tarp roof.  It had given up as well.

Of course, it might have been the fact that the tarp was tied to the jeep...oh, good grief.

Pulling in to mom's place, we were soaked, hungry, and Little Miss was barefoot. She had lost a sandal in the lake.  All we had was what was in the jeep.  Food and books.  Life's importancies.  We spent the night wearing mom's clothes, sitting by the fireplace, and wondering how we would find the campsite next morning.

The rain never stopped until well after we were asleep.

Mom helped us pack up the next day.  Wet, gross, defeated, broken; just like I felt. The tent went into the garbage along with the frying pan (I had burned our breakfast).  Everything else was thrown into the jeep in a heap.  I couldn't wait to get home.

We've been on trips since then that have been cold, wet, and uncomfortable, and yet, some with sunshine, warm lakes, and wonderful breezes. Despite the situation, however, each time I ask the kids what they liked best, they reply,

"Oh, just...EVERYTHING!"

And so I vent to you, my readers, instead of my family, and continue to plan our mid-October trip...with gritted teeth.

Yours in self-sacrificing-ness,

Erin 

Little Miss and the Mouse

It is time for the 'tail' of a little mouse and a little girl who loved the mouse...

With the onset of spring, our homeschool science lessons had been taken outdoors, and both children were busy looking for insects, creepy crawly things, and, much to my chagrin, creating quite an insect zoo in the back room.

Suddenly, while I was busy reading (ahem), cleaning the house, the kids ran in, exclaiming that they'd found a baby mouse in the window well, and I should come and see it.

Knowing Little Miss and her lack of self control, I repeatedly reminded her not to touch it, throwing in, now and then, a comment about germs and rabies.

I arrived at the deep window well, and indeed, there was the most adorable, perfectly round, perfectly icky brown mouse, nibbling away on some little seed.  I have to admit the little girl came out in me and I suggested we feed it sunflower seeds.  After all, I thought, Mr. wouldn't want us touching it so we might as well...

Within a half and hour, Little Miss had found a tangerine orange crate, pieces of felt, and a bag of sunflower seeds, and made quite a home for 'Tit' - a name portraying Lil's innocence.

Despite my warnings about not touching it, I did hear her older brother squeal at her at least once, for getting too close.

Over the next 24 hours, the two kids watched, protected, and cooed over this little critter, who was too young to be afraid.  The snow fell, and they added more felt underneath the overturned orange crate; early the next morning, Little Miss put in a small dish of water, overjoyed by the ripples in it while Tit drank.  They were loving this.

Mr. was put in charge of breaking their hearts and setting it free.  He gave them the weekend.

It wasn't until that night, when tucking Lil' into bed, that things took a turn.

"Mommy, what is the first sign of rabies?"

Good grief.

"I mean, is it a rash on your tummy, or a sore throat?" as she fidgeted under her covers.  "What if an animal just scratches your skin?"

Grooaaaaann, I thought.  "I am getting your father," who was on Little Miss duty that day.  After we parents swapped positions and I went downstairs, I could hear the tears and the stern words coming from each of my redheads, and wanted to crawl under my own covers.

Apparently, she had not heeded my warnings, and had been bit by her Tit.  (grin)

Instead of confessing earlier that day when it had happened, her brother had told her to keep quiet, and now she laying in bed with an enormous fear of catching rabies.  Good grief.

Of course, now we could save the day, and become the amazing superheroes we were, at least for one night.  Mr. Man, with help from Mr. Google, explained that mice didn't have rabies, and when questioned, I realized the little beast had not broken her skin.  A huge hug, and another bedtime snack, and she was good to go.

Ironically, Tit was never seen again.  You can still see the remnants of the tangerine crate and pieces of felt, and any spare seeds that the birds have not picked up.  When you are visiting, Little Miss will show you the barren area for a small fee.

But never fear my friends, there were still insects to find, caterpillars to feed, and earthworms to dig. Within hours, the children ran into the house, crying out that "there was a bird stuck in the downspout and I MUST save it!"

But that's another story...

Homeschooling Little Miss. Wait, What?

Wow, it's been awhile.  Which means nothing funny has happened since the summer...

Totally not true, but life has certainly filled up.  Up to the top of my impeccable highlights. I did indeed survive a job interview - not the aforementioned, but another, later on in the year with a different location.  I am now away from my kitchen, helping others in pregnancy crisis's and organizing offices while pretending to be organized.

Oh yeah, I pull it off...and then saw things up when I get home.  You'll  only know what I mean if you've read my blog before...

And yet, just as I am delving into the adventure of the employed, God whispers in my ear, "It is time to be a teacher again: it is time to bring the kids home." Wait, What?  And then Mr. Man casually suggests the idea of homeschooling... and I am suddenly very excited.

You know me with schemes! And here they were ENCOURAGING one!  Woot!

Little Miss as the Innkeeper at Christmas

So, it's been awhile, my lovelies, because I have been sailing the schooling seas, learning how to once again be a full-time mom to Little Miss and Mr. Junior, PLUS keeping my new job!

So how do I do it?

I don't know...but it's Friday and we seem to be fine, have learned stuff, and the job office is still organized.  But then, again, the house is completely trashed.  Hopefully Mr. Man is late getting home.

Funny things are happening again, and I can't wait to share them with you.  Picture Little Miss as a nine-year-old, wearing training bras and asking about deodorant!

Erin

Grey's Anatomy, the Carousel, and My Job Interview

As Meredith says on Grey's Anatomy, "the carousel never stops turning."  Despite the desire to stay home, watch more Grey's Anatomy, and eat cereal, life has continued on, and I need to get on for the ride again.

I had a job interview today.  My first job interview since I graduated University almost 20 (ahem) years ago.  I can't believe it.  Teaching and the cake business long forgotten, the Lord has brought me to a different place, a world of reaching women in crisis, and giving them my ears instead of my baking.

I spent the weekend getting ready for this important meeting: shopping for an outfit, borrowing a friend's shoes, getting a pedicure and manicure, and trying to forget I had a job interview while remembering I did, in fact, have an interview.

About two hours before the meeting time, I discovered my new shirt was see-through, my new dress pants too long, and I couldn't find the shoes I'd borrowed.  After rummaging around for a camisole and a pair of shoes my nails were chipped and I was sweating terribly. With just enough time to get to the interview I threw my makeup in my purse, printed out my references, and jumped into the jeep.

While pulling out of the driveway, suddenly the gas light came on.  Aargh!  I had no time to stop at the station; I would be travelling on fumes.  Jesus take the wheel, I prayed.

There are certain questions that come to mind when one is in this position.  Do you waste more gas by driving faster or driving slower for a longer time? What does it feel like when you run out of gas? Will I be able to pull over? How far could I get, and could I walk the rest of the way? But then I'd get all sweaty again.  Oh, how I wish I'd printed out the CAA phone number and info I just purchased last week.  Perhaps I could call the interviewers and they could come and pick me up?  Oh, good grief.  What am I thinking?

Thankfully, I safely got to the interview.  I quickly put on my makeup, smoothed out my awkward clothes, and walked to the door.

The interview went well, I think, except for a few minor moments.  Perhaps it was my nerves or my frazzled morning, but I may have put my foot in my mouth.

"What is your best quality?" she asked.

"I'm hilarious." Er...thoughtful...caring...good grief...

"What do you friends think of you applying for this position?"

"They say if you knew anything you'd hire me." What??? Filter...where is your filter?

I am shaking my head even as I write this.  I really am a nutter.  We did laugh a lot, and they scribbled my garbled answers on their papers... I was charming, had the experience, and despite my see-through shirt, looked the part.

Of course, after I shook hands and went out to the driveway, I hit the wrong button on the remote and set off the alarm on my jeep and couldn't shut it off.  Good grief.

I'm home now, hiding under the covers, my see-through shirt all wrinkled.  I will get back on the carousel another day.

Instead, let's go watch a Grey's Anatomy rerun and eat cereal.

Little Miss and Tattling

As of late, I have been pressured, cajoled, and sweet-talked into getting back to my hilarious writing about Little Miss and our home adventures.  This past year my attention was stolen by my other blog, Sweet Kitchen, as a three-post-a-week job, and by other miserly money-grabbers like editing, online sales, tutoring and other things that make Mr. Man sigh.

I have since toned it down, and am ready to be hilarious once again.

That being said, my funny bone is tucked in there pretty deep.  It may take me a while to get it oiled up and in full force.

For now, here is a story of Little Miss to wet your appetite:

Little Miss and Tattling

When tucking Little Miss into bed one night she looks up at me seriously, starts discussing her brother, and telling me what mischievous things he's been doing.

She started in, "I was coming up the stairs and he pulled on my pants and tried to... "

"Aw, come on," I said, as I laid my head on her tummy, "Don't make the last words of the day be a tattle!  I want to remember my boy in a nice way.  Just tell me a story about butterflies or flowers."

I snuggled down beside her with my head on her tummy, and she conceded.  As she touched the top of my head with her hands, she began her story.

"Once there was a flower and a butterfly," she said, "Then the butterfly suddenly got REALLY goofy, and was coming up the stairs..."

"Hey! I know where this is going!" I shouted.  And we both laughed.

"Okay, okay, let me start again," She laughed, waving her hands in the air.  She began to tell her story a second time.

"...then there was this flower.  Suddenly the butterfly came over and pulled at her pants...even tho flowers don't have pants..."

Well, that was it.  I roared with laughter.  Ingenious parable of life's lessons by Little Miss.  Don't pull on your sister's pants.  We both ended our snuggle in giggles and I laughed all the way downstairs.

Maybe she'll be the writer someday.

What Do You Wear to Work? A Conversation About Conversing.

Originally written January 2013:

Somebody asked me the other day what I wear to work.  It was an unusual question, one that I'd never think of asking someone before.  Oddly, it shows what interests the asker, rather than what is really interesting.

To answer her I blurbed out some vague answer about t-shirts and jeans, and an apron on the off-chance that I remember.  This led to a short conversation about aprons. Pretty lame stuff, really.

When I was a teenager, I started to watch people.  Read people, I guess, is a better way to describe it.  When you are shy, awkward, and not exactly radiating confidence, you become a listener rather than a speaker.  I had to push myself to converse with new people.

In my people-watching, I noticed were those who were particularly good at striking up conversation managed to tune in to one interesting thing (big or little) about their listener, and would ask about it.  Kids, work, health, recent canoe trip...but not just, "how is work going?" or "how are the kids?"  It was the sincere questions that intrigued me. "What is it like to work in ___?" "Tell me about your son," and other pointed questions that can't be answered with "fine," "good," or "nice."  It allowed the listener to become the speaker.

There are those who are genuine and interested in what people and their lives have to say.  Then there are those who love to hear their own voice continually, or, on the flip-side, who hate a lull in conversation and continue to rattle on about nothing.

I have a dear friend who has been what we call a "professional student" up until last year when he became "Dr." Daron, with a Masters, PhD and a many more letters to his name in cancer research and radiation therapy.  Do you think I could understand what he has done over the last ten years while I have wiped snotty noses, pulled lego out of the tub, made batches and batches of red velvet cake, and taken the dog to the vet?  No, but I try.

So when someone turns to me and asks, "What do you wear to work?" I realize although they may not be really interested, it is one of those questions to which I cannot answer, "fine," "good", or "nice." I am forced to talk about my life as a baker.  I certainly can't complain that people don't understand what it's like to do what I do, when I don't tell them.  Alas, here I am asked, and I stumble over the answer.

I know the answer now, days later.  It's really catchy, too.  "It's what I wouldn't wear, actually," I'd say, "I can't wear my hair down, or have loads of make up on, in case it falls into the batter.  The make up may smear off on my hands, and contaminate something.  Actually, that's why I never wear earrings.  It would be awful to make this giant cake only to find you are wearing one earring when it is all finished."  Funny, eh?  No opened-toes shoes is another one, and I could go on.  But are they really interested?  I sure don't find it interesting - but hey, you never know.

So are you the person who does all of the talking, or the person who asks the questions?  Or are you the person who says absolutely nothing and wears the same coloured clothing as the curtains in order to blend in?

Dare to be different.  If you hear your voice nattering on about your kids or your Nobel prize, stop and look around at who you are talking to. Find out about them.  If, on the other hand, you tend to pull back and get the other people talking, speak up, be proud of what you do, or what you are interested in, and listen to the sound of your own voice.

You may fail.  They may walk away from you because your family did not come off the boat from Holland, or simply because you talk too much about bean sprouts, but keep trying.

And you may continually start talking again because the other person is so quiet. Wait it out. Be gentle. They have something to say, even if it takes them forever to say it.

Me? Tonight, when Mr. and I are out, and I am asked about what I wear to work, I will loudly answer, with a smile, "a t-shirt, jeans, messy apron, and icing in my hair! And (gasp) sometimes pyjamas!"

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.