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.

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.

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....

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.

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

Two Silly Girls, Mr. Bean and Bathroom Humour

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

But I was reminded of another story...

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

My dear friend had not packed any other pants.

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

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

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

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

*****

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

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

So have you guessed what happened?

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

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

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

So what happened to me?

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

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

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

Peanut butter.

I am not kidding.

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

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

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

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

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

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

But somehow, he is not surprised.

Little Miss and the Lime Green Tights

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

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

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

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

"No, I like them.  There so cosy."

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

And in a huff she went back to her room.

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

You've got to be kidding me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Fine.

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

Sigh.

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


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

My Fear of Water (Part 2)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Unfortunately, she had never used the motor before.

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

We forgot to take into account, her dog.

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

You've got to be kidding me.

"Turn the motor off!" they yell.

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

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

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

You've got to be kidding me.

My Fear of Water (Part 1)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rescued again.

Mr. Man, the Accountant

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

And that was just the income.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Erin

The Week He Went Away: Part 2

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

The Search:

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

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

The Confession:

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

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

Me: Same here.

Him: What?

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

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

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

The Find:

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

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

Here is "The Before":

The Fix:

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

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

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

So now...what to do with this? 

Erin

The Week He Went Away

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

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

Hmph. Am not.

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

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

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

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

Centsational Girl

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

Before Meets After

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

3.  Let's cut off the bottom drawer! 

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

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

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

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

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

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

And so I thought,

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

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

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

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

So really, it is all his fault.

Erin

Finding Humour in the Storm II

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

She drank it.
.
.

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

.
.

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

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

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

I drove away, not looking back.
.
.

And finally:

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

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

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

Erin

Finding Humour in the Storm

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

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

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

*****

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

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

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

The smoke alarm was going off.

You're kidding me.

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

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

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

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

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

Little Miss and Easter

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

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

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

"I think so, too," she said.

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

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

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

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

*****

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

"The Easter Bunny."

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

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

He is Risen :)

Little Miss on Divorce

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

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

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

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

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

"We have cake."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A Crazy Afternoon with Vertigo

Vertigo |ˈvərtəgō|
- a sensation of whirling and loss of balance, associated particularly with looking down from a great height, or caused by disease affecting the inner ear or the vestibular nerve; giddiness.

Well it sure wasn't giddiness.

More like the "swirly vortex of terror," Marlin, the clown fish sees in the East Australian Current.  

For anyone who has chronic vertigo - I salute you.  It is awful.

Now perhaps with a bit of panic thrown in I was my own worst enemy but after two hours on the bathroom floor in the fetal position, I wasn't sure what was happening.  I rested my head on the floor, waiting to see if I was going to be sick or faint or explode and decided to self-diagnose:

1.  I was awake all night and drank five cups of coffee this morning:  therefore I was suffering from dehydration and exhaustion.  But why was the ceiling swirling around in my eyes?

2.  I made and ate scrambled eggs from a box for lunch: therefore I have food poisoning.  But Little Miss had some and she was happily watching movies...

3.  I have something called vertigo.  ["What's vergo?" Mr. asks.] "No, vertigo! V..e..r.. moan.."  But I can't even sit up to google it on my laptop.

4.  In my sleepy stupor this morning, I accidently took too many milligrams of my anti-seizure medicine.  This has to be a drug overdose.  It has to be.  I can't see straight.  I feel like I'm going to be sick.  My arms are numb and my back is tight (forgetting I had also been in the fetal position for an hour and a half).

Mr. called the pharmacy and they said I would be fine, it couldn't be the drugs.  The paramedics said it couldn't be the drugs.  The doctor said it couldn't be the drugs.

Once the ambulance arrived and checked me out they said it would be up to me if I wanted to go to the hospital. 

Hmm, a quiet room? A ride in the ambulance? Time away from my kids?

"And two good-looking ambulance attendants?" Mr. says.

I THINK I'LL GO!

*****

I will say ambulance attendants work hard to cheer up their patients.  Of course they both wanted to talk cake once they figured out what I did.  One spoke of the wedding cake that never showed up:  

He was from Trenton. ["Sorry 'bout that," I said, grinning.]  He and his bride were taken in by a wedding cake scam where they had to pay everything up front, and on the day of the wedding, the baker calls, says he was in a bad car accident, and that the cake is destroyed.  No refund.

The following week my new paramedic friend says he hears this same story again, and realized it was a scam.  Needless to say, he marched in, ripped the baker's musty, worn neck brace off and introduced him to several of his officer friends.  Everybody got their refund.  Excited stuff for a cake decorator to hear!

Our next conversation involved his line of work, and I told him of the last trip in an ambulance which was from Napanee, where I grew up.

"You're from Napanee?" he asked, grinning.  "Sorry 'bout that."

*****

The doctor at the hospital came in the room right away, shook my hand and said, "Nice to meet you, Janet."  

"Um, my name's not Janet."

She ran right out again.  Then I looked up and saw a poster directly in front of me: We check your identity several times during your visit here at our hospital.  Have your wrist band ready.

I had no wrist band.  Geez, I hope they don't give me the wrong drugs...

Hours later, after watching Mr. Man play Angry Birds on his phone, pace the room and ignore the sounds of stomach flu out in the hall, the doctor came back in again and checked me over.

"Other than epilepsy, do you have any other health problems?"she asked.

"I have a heart murmur, but it's not serious.  I've just always had it." I assured her.

She checked my vitals, made me touch my finger to my nose, my foot to my opposite knee and walk in a straight line.  Then she listened to my heart.

"You know you have a heart murmur?  It's not serious, though.  Fairly normal," she said.

Mr. and I just stared.  She looked over at her chart.  "Oh, you told me that."

Mmhmmm.  And I'm the one worried about drugs...