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 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?

The Re-Upholstered Chair: Part 2

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

What have you been working on?

Erin

A Re-upholstered Chair: part 1

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

We were so proud of ourselves!

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

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

What are you working on this month?
Erin

Why Did You Park on the Grass?

During our elegant meal of leftover lazagna last night, Mr. casually asked me, while looking at his plate, "So, why did you park on the grass?"

We have a fairly large driveway with enough room to park three cars so it was a legitimate question.

"Did I really? I didn't know."

"You must have had to get out of the car and walk on the grass to get in the house," he explained.

I shrugged and continued eating.  I don't think either of us ever looked up at each other during this exchange of words as neither of us was really surprised that I'd done something odd.

Oh, the days I've found the portable phone in the freezer, or the milk in the pantry. Wearing my shirt backwards or pouring apple juice on my cereal in the morning was not uncommon.

You know you are a mother when you drink cold coffee in the morning and eat your eggs standing up. One time I poured a cup of tea only to realize after my first sip that I hadn't boiled the water.

There just isn't any time to pause and think, what is wrong with this picture?

Yet I found myself, this morning, after driving the kids to school, stopping at the grocery store to pick up the one item I'd run out of in the cake shop (sadly, this made the third trip to Foodland in two days - I swear they smirk at me each time I go in there - but I'll get a free knife with 25 stamps!) Suddenly I was struck with an overwhelming desire to sit still in the car for a moment and just breath. I found it odd but important.  Like it may be the only moment I would have to do this today.   The kids were delivered to school, I now had everything I needed to start baking, I had just enough bananas to make the cake I needed, and the clients weren't coming for another five hours.  What could go wrong?

Yet, the need was there.

To be still.

I sat there, looked out at the quiet street to my right, listened to my own breathing and took stock of myself.  I was all right.  I was content.  Life is good.  I was thankful.

Then, I put the car in reverse, and pulled out of the parking lot suddenly realizing the dog was probably eating the cat food at that very moment and the cellphone I left on the coffee table (I think) was inevitably ringing causing Mr. Man to wonder if I had forgotten my phone, which indeed I had.

Onward and upward, the quiet moment had passed.  But it has still stuck with me.  In the midst of a busy life, full of ridiculous errors, life is good.  And it is important to pause, reflect and rest in thankfulness.  It is okay that time is passing.  It is okay to be busy, and have a full life.  Just be sure to laugh at the car on the grass, and take time to rest, even for a moment.

The dog did not eat the cat food.  My cell phone was found in my coat pocket and had been there the whole time.  And now I need to go back to the grocery store as I forgot to buy vegetable oil.

Sigh.

But I didn't park on the grass this time.

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.

Memories of a Living House

It’s silly to some that a house could be a living being; a place filled with voices and glimpses of memories, resting on deep, deep roots.  It can take years to build such a place, and sometimes you don’t realize it has been created until it is gone.

            We were met with shaking news yesterday. Our childhood home had been destroyed by fire.  Although my parents had moved out while I was in University, it was still in their possession, and it was the last place I lived before I “grew up”.

            The place was thick with memories: the sound of screaming fights between sisters; the smell of mom’s meatloaf; the rough feel of the front railing that I was supposed to sand.  I can picture the laminate kitchen floor, and the back entranceway with all of dad’s ball caps hanging above the door. There was the wood trim Dad had brought to its original glory, the TV room where Lord knows what was hidden under the couch, my sister’s room where guinea pigs multiplied, my brother’s room where the ceiling fell in, and my parent’s room where the most significant discussions in my life happened while mom folded laundry.

            The big front window was where my friends and I hid on our last Halloween night after egging several cars that drove by.  Mom physically kicked my butt and said, “The dumbest thing you can do is come here to hide! Now they know who you are!”

I had to wash the neighbour’s car the next morning.

            Dad built us a “fort” outside, too sturdy to be any fun.  The maple trees filled our yard with bright orange leaves each fall.  We played soccer and baseball in the backyard with our cousins every summer.  Watercolour paints, brushes, dry muffins and a cup of tea surrounded mom regularly at the dining room table.

            For me, as for any teenage girl, my room was sacred.  When voting for who would get the large attic as a bedroom, I won by sheer tidiness (not the case anymore) as my sister continually got lost in her belongings.  For years I arranged and rearranged the furniture in my gigantic room, blasted rock music to the rafters after a bad day at school, and cried my eyes out when rejected by a boy.  I would sit at the bottom of the stairs and gab to my girlfriend with the phone cord stretched through the crack in the attic door so my mom wouldn’t hear.

            I chose my path in life here, I found Jesus Christ here, and I stood at the front door in my awful prom dress with my awful prom date and got my awful photo taken (which is now destroyed) here.

I played the piano every night while my parents patiently pretended they could sleep through it here.

            And I spent endless hours sitting on the front porch ironically wishing I lived somewhere else, and was born to a different family here. 

Such is the life of a teenage girl.

            With a faith that promotes not looking on the things of this world, I believe the Lord gives us beautiful things because He knows we need love, enjoyment, comfort and safety.  As I look on the pictures of the melted siding, the broken wooden scalloped tiles, and the smoke billowing out of what was once my room, my heart is broken. 

I know tomorrow I will get over it and realize it is just a house.  But today I will mourn. 

Man, I loved that house.

The Grocery Store and the Belly Laugh

Often, I postpone trips into the "big city" for when Little Miss is home from senior kindergarten.  It's better with company, although she does not go at the speed I would like.  I am perpetually impatient as she loses a mitten, fixes her curls, or gets distracted, "Oh, look, there's a birdie!" But it is nice to have a helping hand.

And since she thinks she is 30-ish, she does the grocery shopping.  I pay, of course, but she loads up the cart, places the items on the cashier's counter, puts them all in bags, and places them back in the cart again.  Two major differences between her and I: she can't reach the produce bags, and I can't ride under the cart handlebars.

And we always give each other a high-five in the end.

*****

Earlier this month, she and I stepped out of the house to go for a walk.  I promptly fell off the edge of the sidewalk.

I stopped.  "Well, I'm ready to go home," I sighed.  She looked up at me, and I down at her.

"That was a terrible beginning," I said, and flashed a crooked smile.  Little Miss blasted out a huge five-year-old belly laugh, and we continued on down the road.  She carried my things for me in case I fell again.

On our next trip to the grocery store, I got the cart jammed in the entrance door.  I grumbled, pushed, and complained about carts, grocery stores, and other stuff, and finally got the cart through the door.

I stopped.  "Well, I'm ready to go home," I sighed.  A light turned on behind her eyes, as Little Miss remembered something.

"You said that before!"  And gave another jolly belly laugh.

We continued on, she, packing the groceries, and I, swiping my chip card.  We packed up, high-fived and got home in time to go to the park.

After about a half an hour at the park, Little Miss tripped on something and lost her balance.  She righted herself, and suddenly grinned.

"Well, I'm ready to go home!" she said.

Gave a big belly laugh, that's what I did!

Little Miss, in Disguise!

Happy Spring!

Yesterday Little Miss and I made butter cookies, ["For us?" she asks. "Yes!" I answer.] and are decorating them for Easter.  We bought beautiful tulips from the local florist last week, (I picked yellow and she picked purple), and we are crafting easter baskets from the dollar store.  Anything to avoid spring cleaning...

I am presently working on another story about Little Miss, but until then why don't you pop by my cake site and think about how YOU eat a cupcake!  

ADD and the Crafty Internet

I have been perusing the blogosphere this winter as the cake business is in it's slow season and I am surprised by the many unfinished blog pages that are out there.  Their authors have stopped submitting posts for months, perhaps years, and they are left to dangle in the internet world, incomplete.  Where have these people gone? What has happened that the recipe they promised is not posted, or the details of their trip have gone missing?  Did they forget their password?  Are they hurt?  Are they DEAD?

I am also surprised by how many bloggers, upon returning, mention a mental illness, or a syndrome as an excuse for the long/short-term absence. "I'm so sorry I haven't written, as I have been in an emotional low right now," or "OMG, I can't believe it's been three months since I wrote, my ADD has certainly kicked in! LOL!"  Okay, I am slightly exaggerating, and realize that I may, in fact, fall under one of these categories if I am not careful.

I come from a long line of "starters."  We start something, fly high with it, and then, when we get bored, walk away from it, and leave it unfinished.  From ridiculous collections, to absurd hobbies, many in my family have tried several jobs, activities and projects only to be overcome with lethargy, and answer, "Oh, I'm not doing that anymore" to friendly inquiries.  Ebay has taken over several of these lives, and their purses.  Etsy is another, with all of its handmade wonderfulness.  But Pinterest has got to be one of the best feeders of us attention deficit and obsessive compulsive consumers.  We find ourselves clicking away, pinning and repinning our next project, our "get rich" scheme, and all the possible ways to DIY.  Delicious!  The living room fills with the tools we need: modge podge, hot pink yarn, various colours of felt, googly eyes, owl shaped buttons, and sisal rope.  My heart rate increases as I turn a rusty bowl into a piece of art, or knit a sweater that looks like a puppy.  How many ways can you turn a piece of paper into a flower?  Bags and bags of hot glue and cloth remnants cover the coffee tables.  By January, the vein in Mr. Man's forehead strains itself each time he walks into my "crafting corner."

I sincerely tried to complete most of my ideas.  Some I've completed but they fell apart.  Some I've thought I finished but realized I did not know how to knit.  "Oh, well, I guess I'll donate that..."  And yet some made great gifts for friends and family.  I will soon be known as that aunt who made the weird container gifts for Christmas.

But I promise I will continue to bless you, readers, with my nonsense.  I will work hard to not leave these pages unfinished and alone.  And if for some unforeseen reason I must take a permanent leave of absence I will leave Mr. Man with explicit instructions to announce the end of this blog.  I will not leave you hanging.

Consequently, I have since turned to craftgawker, foodie blogs and twitter.  Just as my father continues to collect tractor parts and bows down to the Massey-Harris god, and Mrs. Google continues to seek random information, perhaps I will become a foodie or a jewelry maker, and quit this silly cake business.  Hmmm.

And, if I am completely organized, you can hear all about it on my twitter account.  But don't tell Mr. Man.  His heart can't take it.

*****

The picture above contains one of my successful projects, a sisal rope basket (yes, the oranges are real.)

The Periwinkle Blues

These homemade slippers sum up my day. I feel like I have two left feet, am lopsided, and a little blue, verging on periwinkle.

It really has nothing to do with my sewing skills, although Little Miss insists I should stick to baking.

Man vs. Futon

Good morning! Just a quick post. Here's a photo of Mr. Man putting together a futon for Christmas company. Can you spot the evidence of Little Miss's quick getaway? I don't think Mr. appreciated her "help".

Our House

The first time I saw what is now our house, I said, "Ugh, it's yellow, keep driving!" And we drove on. But our real estate agent said we'd best check it out. I think she knew it was all we could afford. And Mr. Man could actually stand up in it.

Nobody had actually done anything to the house in about 15 years, and it was falling apart. The bank had foreclosed on the house from the previous owners which made it sell at a low price, but, oh, the cost of taking it on! The bushes were growing over the front door, the porch was rotted through, the back mudroom smelled of cat pee, and everything was SO DIRTY!

And, to top it off when we went to move in we discovered that during the showing, an area rug had been put down to cover up a bald patch in the staining of the wood floor. Hours of work that we hadn't counted on.

So why did we buy the house? A big, beautiful backyard, and three cheerful crabapple trees. It was a secret garden amidst a ramshackle dwelling. The pixies were there, they were just asleep!

We have been here eight years, and like so many other home-owners, there are projects that have never been quite finished. Unpainted trim, mismatched door handles, and that one drafty wall that just never gets fixed. Things, I hate to admit, that will probably be left until it is our turn to show the house for a new buyer.

But, Mr. Man, his tool belt, his friends, and their tool belts, have done amazing things to this place. One bathroom (with no shower) has now become two and a half (with two showers); we now have two kitchens (one beautiful family kitchen, and one smaller, cute kitchen for the cake shop). The house has almost doubled in size, and the floors are all (mostly) level.

Yet, now as I look around the house I see paint that needs repainting, windows that need repairing, and a dog that needs...well that's another story. The upkeep never ends. The kid's toys are strewn about, and their fancy drawings cover every inch of the fridge and bulletin boards. Our secret garden has turned into a jungle of bicycle helmets, Tonka trucks, sandbox toys, and broken sports equipment.

But isn't this what we signed up for? To fix up a house and then to live in it? Pets, kids, accessories...all of life's wonderful messes!

I can still see the pixies behind the bushes; the treasures beneath the toys. We live in a happy house, a noisy house, and a well worn house. And I don't even mind the yellow siding...much!

The Death of Cable

So we've decided to shut off our cable. At least, we want the cable turned off, but the company's not going to do it for another three weeks. Luckily, my kids believe everything I say, and they have not been watching the TV. So this is what has been going on around here:

1. The kids made a brilliant treasure map for Little Miss's lost yoghurt cup. (In the door, past the couch, over to computer, then to the piano...)

2. Mr. Man built a large sandbox in the backyard. It still needs sand, though...

3. Mr. Man is presently building himself a Mr. Man workshop in the basement. Extra tall.

4. I've dusted off some old CD's. Other than that, my behaviour is just the same :)

5. The TV/DVD player is being used as a CD player.

6. We now have play-dough, magic markers, hot wheels cars, and wooden blocks all over the living room floor, which had been put away for more room to watch TV.

7. We made muffins, and ate them. All of them.

8. I no longer hear the whine, "oh, can't it wait until this is over..." when I ask anyone to do something. Things are finally getting done.

9. Little Miss turned a delivery box into an airplane with hot pink ribbons out the back. Then she turned it into a bird. Then back into a box. Then her brother tied up her Barbies with the hot pink ribbon.

10. We still watch movies as much as we want (we're not crazy), but I was tired of having to quickly turn the channel as an inappropriate commercial came on for perfume, or underwear, or other things that seemed to need sex to sell it.

"Why is she taking her clothes off?"

How many more times can I say,"she must've been hot," before they catch on?

"Mommy, he said a bad word. O, he said another one..."

It doesn't help when the word "underwear" is considered impolite in my daughter's' world.

We actually only got cable when our son arrived, so we had something to watch while I was breastfeeding, but the kids are at that age now where they are absorbing EVERYTHING and it is time to turn it off.

So how do we spend this cable money? We could pay off some debt, save for another trip, put it away for an emergency fund. There's always the kids' education funds...

And then it came to me. "I know! More internet!!"

To Love, Honour and Vacuum

Sheila Wray Gregoire wrote a fabulous, and for me, life-freeing book about housework, and getting your family to help. "To Love, Honour, and Vacuum" was a book I picked up at the local library to read during a camping trip a couple of years ago. I remember a friend speaking about it when she and I left our careers for our first bout of maternity leave and neither of us knew how to handle housework.

She liked it a lot, but I didn't read the book until my second child was 2yrs old: that's how much I wanted to learn about housework. BUT, when I finally got around to taking it off the shelf and reading it, I found it was not the rule book I thought it was. It did not say how many balls we are to hold in the air, or how perfect we need to be, our how our husbands must never know what we cannot do...

She did have a list, however frightening, of chores that should be done in the house at various times of the week or season (who knew we had to change the air filter on the furnace?). I glanced at it then and came back to it later.

I REALLY liked the part about a chore chart for the kids, and I still do. This was the life-saving part. My kids love the chore chart! They also love the rewards, however I am not as generous as Ms. Gregoire. If my kids still think money is measured by the amount of coins in their bank rather than the value of them - I am not giving them the same amount as their age. But the idea of their age determining the number of chores, and the type of chores is great! Gregoire suggests that even a youngster (my words) can wipe out the cupboards in the kitchen as a chore. It opened my eyes to how I could "use" (for lack of a better word) my kids, and teach them at the same time.

My 4-yr-old daughter's chores include, washing various windows, dusting the livingroom and keeping the coffee table tidy. My 6-yr-old son's chores are dusting the diningroom and stair rails, vacuuming the house and setting the table. They each have a pet to feed, and of course, they have their own rooms to look after, and they work together to load and unload the dishwasher. Now, do they do this on a consistent basis? No. Do they do it when I pull the chore chart out? Yes.

Mr. Man and I both have our places on the chart and the kids love pointing out our jobs. Their daddy leaves early in the morning so he is not present when they do their reviews, but they see evidences that he has taken out the garbage and recycling, and put a sticker on his place in the chart. It's cute!

So, as spring cleaning seems to be on my mind these days I thought I would make a personal list of things that need to get done:

1. dust the inside of the china cabinet and take off the door bumpers so the dust can't get in there anymore. (That'll work, right?)

2. Wash and wax the wood floors

3. Vacuum up on top of the cupboards (okay, I probably won't)

4. Shampoo the carpet, and put away for the warm season.

5. Wash windows (oh, yeah...delegated)

6. Gardening (google early spring tasks for gardening)

Okay so that's enough for this season, lol! Now, Ms. Gregoire says there are those chores that need to be done everyday - e.g. dishes, sweeping the kitchen, making supper. Those are the ones I always tackle, I promise. Hey, come on! I remember when I wore my jammies until 10am while on maternity leave! I've come far, baby!

The Perfect Homemaker...

I once was lent a very traditional book from my grandmother in which each short chapter was filled with thoughts and memories of the wonderfulness homemaking, and childrearing, made. None of it really made that much sense to me as I was a career woman (punch the air!), newly married to a career oriented man, and spring cleaning (and childrearing) was the furthest from my mind.

But there was one chapter that tickled my heart, and makes me forever want to find and keep that book (even if I toss out the rest as hooey). It was a story of a man who felt under the weather, and stayed home from work. He had high hopes of being doted on by his loving wife, who stayed at home everyday. Slowly his hopes are dashed as he realizes his wife is a busy lady... and none of it having to do with dusting and laundry. She was busy donating things for others, painting pieces of furniture, fixing a toaster, digging in the garden, etc. The story ends after his nap: he wanders to the kitchen hoping for a big, warm meal, and finds a note that a sandwich is waiting for him in the fridge (actually I think he may have to make it for himself). His wife is out with a neighbor to cut down an old tree for firewood. He proudly makes sandwiches for the two of them and heads off to meet her for a surprise picnic. When he finally sees her, he is surprised. She is working hard, physically, and enjoying herself. Seeing her steadily piling wood with a kerchief over her hair, after all the painting and other activities she had done that day, he is left feeling sheepish that he thought she sat at home all day waiting for him to come home.

So despite the idea that his wife may have been expected to stay home while her husband was at work, she enjoys it, makes that her job, and works hard at it. Independence within dependence. She was smart enough to fix a toaster, creative enough to do some painting, and not afraid to exert herself! And I love the idea of impressing her husband!

So whenever I think of that story, I shovel one or two wheelbarrow-fulls of topsoil, paint some wood trim, or pull out the sewing machine. I have been given the opportunity to work from home, and although spring cleaning is the furthest thing from my mind (but not childrearing anymore), it is nice to show off should Mr. Man happen to come home sick!