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 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.

Little Miss and the Lime Green Tights

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

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

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

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

"No, I like them.  There so cosy."

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

And in a huff she went back to her room.

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

You've got to be kidding me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fine.

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

Sigh.

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


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

The Lunch Rescue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sigh.  How long until their dad gets home?

Finding Humour in the Storm

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

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

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

*****

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

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

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

The smoke alarm was going off.

You're kidding me.

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

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

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

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

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

Little Miss on Divorce

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

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

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

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

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

"We have cake."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mr. Man and His Jacket

My very first date with Mr. Man was at a wedding about 13 years ago.  I cannot remember what I wore, (beautiful, I'm sure) but I know he wore a dark suit jacket and a tie.  During the dinner, I stepped away to visit the ladies room and quickly looked back at him.  I think his head is a bit small, I said to myself, but in actual fact, his suit jacket was just too big.  He did not fit into the shoulders of his jacket.

Most of you know he flies around a lot, wearing a cape and saving people in distress.  Just this morning I saw him bend down to a lady half his height and give his best Mr. Man smile to make her day.  But on his off days, he wears a suit and tie and sells insurance.  (Hence the Mr. Incredible picture).

But I have to say, of all the days when I was most proud of him, one was a Sunday a few weeks back, when he got inducted as a councilman at our church.  We met there, you know.  We had our kids baptized there.  We both did profession-of-faith there (he wouldn't let me do it at the same time as him - but that's perhaps another blog post).  And now he was going to be an elder.

His mom sat close by and was busting with pride.  In her eyes, he might as well have been becoming a pastor.  And of course, our friends were there to support him, too.

He didn't have his cape on that day, but as I looked at him reciting the words we'd practiced on the drive there, I realized his shoulders looked very broad.

He had finally fit into his jacket.

A Game of Cards at the Schaafsma's

So this Christmas I decided to buy a game that the four of us could play together.  I love card games.  Not a lot of people like to play them with me, however.  

I remember playing these year's game, Dutch Blitz, when I was at University.  You had to have agility and speed.  Watch the cards, and move your hands.  Watch the cards.  Move your hands. BLITZ!  It was over in seconds.  

So hey, why not buy it for the fam?

I knew we wouldn't be able to play quickly with Little Miss being "underage" but decided we'd play in teams so it would be well balanced.  I had it all worked out.  And, since the kids were at my mom and dad's overnight, why not give it a go, warm up the cards with Mr. Man, and have fun at the same time?

We cracked open the deck, dealt the cards, played a few rounds, until WHAM! he threw the cards at me and stormed out of the room.

I don't know what happened.  I was just playing.  I can't help that I'm so good...


I got him to come back.  We played one more friendly game and parted amiably.


The kids arrived the next day and we showed them how to play.  We broke into teams:  the "reds" versus the rest of us (we could say "blonds," but I'm not, really).

Nice and slow, friendly, fun.  All these adjectives were there, until BLITZ! Little Miss and Mr. Man win the game.  My teammate starts to cry.

Suddenly I am reminded of the mom who got her kids to hurry up with their supper by racing to see who could finish first.  All she got were three boys, with tears down their faces, choking on overstuffed mouths as the winner cheered.  Not fun.

So after a pep talk from his dad, we play the game again.  And BLITZ! we win!  Little Miss bursts into tears and runs from the room.  What is going on? More hugs and encouraging words all around.

We let it go for a day and head back to the table the next night after supper.  We are faster this time, but different teams.  Girls against the boys.  Boys win the first game.  (I have to confess I kept my one hand on my head so as not to take over my teammate's cards).  I could feel my adrenalin rising as we entered into the next game.  I had all tens in front of me and could not do anything.  There's Little Miss, with her age-six hands, moving her cards in slow motion, and the vein in my head pulsing.

Just as I lose it, grab her cards, and try to take control of our team, my son yells, BLITZ! and the game is over.  Little Miss and I both get up and run from the table.

She returns to play again, but I have my pride.  And now, halfway through January, no one can seem to find the game anywhere.

Mr. Man did remind me, ironically, of a certain glass chessboard that ended up smashed against our apartment wall when we were playing against each other.

He was winning.

The Day After Boxing Day

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

Where did it all go?

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

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

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

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

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

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

Erin