Reflections, Labradors, and Glimpses of Little Miss

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

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

But oh, I am feeling contemplative today.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Heaven help us all.

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

Outrageous, really.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Little Miss and Taking Down the Tree

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Boy, did it ever.

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

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

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

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

The Plan:

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

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

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

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

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

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

But expect to provide a little funding...

Little Miss and The Fruits of the Spirit

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

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

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

Blank faces.

"Grasshoppers," answered Mr. Man.

"Eww!" came the cries.

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

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

"An apple tree!"

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

"Maple syrup, I suppose."

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

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

This was getting out of hand.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Gluten-Free Little Miss: Why I Quit My Job

So, I quit my job.  Well, kinda.  It was a good decision, and there's is no telling if I'll go back part-time, casual or not at all, but I am not to worry about that until the new year.  Until then I am on oven-hiatus.

You see, I've been hired by a gluten-free girl.

That's right. Little Miss is gluten-free.  And nightshades-free, and citrus-free and peanut-free.

And lettuce-free.

And bananas and kiwi-free.

And coffee and beer-free. LOL

Okay, so you get it.  She can't eat anything except chicken, apples and rice.  Well, that's how it feels somedays.

So back to the job:  many people have been disappointed that I stopped baking for customers.  And some are even shocked.  (Which is a nice compliment, actually.)  But it was definitely needed.

Have you seen this face? 

This is Little Miss (age 6 1/2) during her 9-day bout of dangerous, give-me-a-heart-attack hives in April.

Or how about this face (below) when she was about  2 1/2? Back then it lasted three days.

  

This is the face that is in my dreams.  This is why I quit my job. Who can bake for others, and plan wedding cakes and tastings and pretty sugar flowers when your little one needs you?  It takes all of my brain power to figure out what she can eat.

Since April 2013, Little Miss has been going through rigorous testing to see what this is.  I've blogged a bit about it while trying to stay positive and humorous, but it has been difficult.

After blood tests, X-rays, MRI's, EEG's, allergists, anti-histimines and PediaPred, we sent a blood sample away at the end of August to a Naturopath Clinic and the results that came back shocked me.  So many food intolerances, and not one of them could I have predicted.

Lettuce? Seriously?

But with help from family and friends, Mr. Man and I got to work.

What's ironic, is that for my entire life, mom and I have been reading ingredients lists on packages and recycling, always looking for the dreaded word, peanut.  Now, we are looking for peanut, soy, gluten, wheat, barley malt, lemon concentrate, orange zest, potato starch, cashews, walnuts,....and the list goes on.

Really, I've just had to make everything from scratch.  But luckily, that was how I was raised.

However, I could eat porridge, for pete's sake! She can't even eat porridge!

So where is God in all of this?  

Watching.

He hears me.  He knows how my mind works.  He knows when I've had enough.  And He supplies my need. He is with the friends who arrive with gluten-free pancake mix.  Or with the blog follower who sends reassuring words.  He is with the doctors and pharmacists who listen and ask, really ask, what I need from them.

When Mom was in my situation and I was the child, there were no peanut-free products or gluten-free recipe books.  No one had ever heard of a peanut-allergy before.  Now, I have facebook friends sending websites and recipes everyday, librarians voluntarily ordering books through interloan libraries, and cake customers dropping off their own personal stash of gluten-free recipe books for me to borrow.

This is when you know who loves you and loves your kid.  Who knew gluten-free rice krispy treats at a friend's place would bring such excitement?  Or a little rice dish placed beside the mashed potatoes at Thanksgiving, such reassurance?  That a co-worker takes the time to give the right candy to our kids would brighten our halloween?

There are times when I think, "Is this really what it comes down to? Food?  Are we not just wearing ourselves out for nothing?  Can't we just eat a big soft pretzel and call it a night?" 

I am overwhelmed as others are hurting in worse ways, some losing their marriages, some their lives, and I think, "let's just give up and go help someone else."  I am tired of her crying over ketchup. I am tired of brown rice, and using beets instead of tomatoes.  I am tired of being tired.

There is a knock at the door and my last client walks in to talk about her upcoming wedding cake.  It's a big one, and we have lots to go over.  Suddenly she asks about my daughter.  I am surprised, but I have been writing about it on my business blog so most of my clients would probably know.

We sit down at the kitchen table and she shares with me about urtacaria (acute hives and swelling) and how she suffers from severe rashes and swelling due to a wheat-intolerance.  In fact, she is allergic to peanuts and nuts, and is sensitive to many grains, and milk.  She shows me the marks on her fingers from where she swelled so big, her fingers split open.

I jump up and quickly grab the large file folder I have on Little Miss, including photographs of her hives.

"It's like I am looking in a mirror," the young woman said, "that's definitely urtacaria." My heart pounded in my ears as I felt God in the room.  This was the answer. It had to be.  I was doing this right.

Urtacaria occurs in some people when their immune system is so completely attacked by in-tolerated foods that it cracks up.  Breaks out.  Little Miss's lasted for nine days.  This young woman had hers last for months.

Lyndsay is now on Prednasone every day, has had her gall bladder removed, as well as part of her liver.  She believes none of this was necessary if she had known how to eliminate gluten and other foods from her diet.  She believes in what I have been doing.

And she believes if we keep Little Miss from her food intolerances long enough, she will be able to eat some of it again, most likely in limited quantities or spaced out intervals.

So just when I'd had enough, the Lord sends exactly the right person to me.  Almost a perfect stranger.  That's how I know He's watching.  And that is enough for me at this time.

I don't know what is going to happen.  I don't know if April's disaster was viral or food related or a combination, but I know I am on the right track.  And if ever you need confirmation for what you are doing, God will send it.  He's watching.

To each of you who have helped us through the last few months (and they are not over yet), know that I appreciate you.  Every recipe or website sent through facebook or email, every book dropped off at the house, and especially those of you in church who ask Little Miss how she is, it all means a great deal to us.

Thank you.

Erin

Little Miss, Prayer and Medieval Times

Last weekend we were heading into the big city of Toronto. "This is urban," my eight-year-old son said (obviously a subject he'd learned in school).  We were excited to take them so close to the CN Tower and the Roger Centre, and there was no cow in sight.

"Ooooh," they said, and we pulled into the parking lot of Medieval Times. Great fun was about to happen.

Earlier that day I was hit with a huge dose of anxiety. My hands were shaking, and my back was getting tight.  I went up to my room where I could be quiet and relax.  My "what if's" were rambling around in my head and needed to silence them in order to enjoy myself on this first of many summer family trips.

I sat down on the floor to pray, and nosy Little Miss poked her head in.

"What'cha doing, mom?"

"I'm praying."

"What for?"

"For safety so mommy won't worry."

"Oh," she stepped back out of the room and after a few seconds came back in.

"Can I pray with you?" she asked.

"Of course."

She sat on the floor beside me and we prayed together, she repeating after me, and working so hard to do it right.  There have been a few times where I am struck with how innocent and trusting my children's prayers are. They have no doubts.  They don't question how God will answer their prayers, they just pray.  No analyzing, just pure hearts seeking God.  I know without a doubt that a child's pray is powerful, and cherished by God. If you want something done, ask a child to pray for it.

So she prayed, and I felt better.

Hours later we pulled into the Medieval Times parking lot in Toronto (about a 2 1/2 hour drive from home). We hopped out, found the sunscreen and water, and suddenly our son is putting his sunglasses on upside down. Seconds later, he faints.

I scoop him up, throw him in the back of the van and immediately fly into action. In a few minutes he was sitting up and talking. Little Miss holds a cold ice pack on his back and says, "Well, we never prayed for this, did we mom!"

No, I suppose we didn't. But I was calm and collected as I dealt with the drama, which I may not have been had we not prayed for our day.

Mr. Man arrived, panting, with large pieces of pizza to fill our son's empty tummy as Little Miss shouts out, "It's your turn to faint now, daddy!"

We laugh, and when her big brother says, "at least I didn't pee my pants," we knew he was all right.

By the way, Medieval Times is awesome!

Little Miss and the Medical Tests

When I look back on the beginning of this "Crackerjacks and Nutters" blog, it was meant as an outlet for me to find humour amidst a life of frustrating allergies, other illnesses and self-inflicted sleeplessness.

It is easy for me to find laughter with such a delightful family and my uncanny ability to bring drama upon myself. Sawing up dressers seems to be the one instance most people are talking about.

The year 2013 has certainly brought on more medical appointments, rushes to the hospital, and, as a dear friend stated, a good use of OHIP.  But lately, it has to do with Little Miss.

I've tried to keep my chin up, but frankly, I don't do well with faking it. I've never been able to keep a straight face, or hide my dislike about something. The one thing that kept me going was the pure delight in her eyes each time she was going to try something new at the doctor's office or hospital.

"I want a picture of my brain to take to show and tell," she'd say, and of course, she would be so interested in every detail of every test.  We watched youtube videos over and over of EEG's and MRI's and we explained the "caterpillar" marks on her arm she'd get during the allergy test.  She explained in detail to my mom how they took her blood with a prick and a poke and got three bottles, covering it with a bandaid from left to right...

She was sad she didn't ask for a copy of the x-ray like Franklin the Turtle did in "Franklin Goes to the Hospital."

She told the EEG technician how to do his job, correcting his placement of the stickers and lying so still to prove she could do it.

And oh, the questions.

"How do spell MRI, mommy?" and her brother would snort with laughter.

"Do they show movies in the MRI?"

"What do my brains look like?"

And then, frustration set in.  Everything was going wrong. It was all a waste of time.  Friends were praying for answers, and there were none. There weren't any conclusive pictures at all.

Five minutes in the MRI machine, and they pulled her out, saying the pictures were too blurry.  In fact, they weren't prepared for a child at all.  They had expected a 40-year-old woman.  You've got to kidding.

The second MRI involved proper care with a paediatrician, two sedation nurses and enough sedative to knock out a horse (if you ask me).

But as I posted that afternoon on Facebook:

Apparently sedative can either knock you out to sleep through your MRI or it can make you completely manic, shaking, climbing the walls, seeing things and trying to escape from the hospital room.  Guess which one is Little Miss?

She even tried to pour apple juice in her eyes to clear out the blurriness.

So no MRI. Instead, she wolfed down a cheeseburger, passed out on the couch, and then threw up.

Funny at first, but now, not so much.  Seeing your daughter with eyes so dilated, and in such fear, is not funny.  And I can't get it out of my head.

The doctor's office called and wanted to try again in Kingston with anaesthetic. I said no.  With our luck she'd be allergic.

And finally this week, after waiting for months, Mr. Man took her to her allergy test.  Perhaps it was the gory pictures I sent of the horrible rash she'd had for nine days, or the long list of health problems and allergies in her mother's medical history, but in any case, they didn't want to test her.

Sigh.

Mr. says it's a sign from God that she is fine and we don't need to put her through all of these tests.

I tend to think there is something He is protecting her from.  A wild monster lurking in the MRI machine, or some evil doctor has infected the allergy lab samples and she was about to be poisoned.

But that's just me.  Instead of holding my chin up I make gigantic "what if?" statements and fill my crackerjacks blog with another dose of crazy.

We don't know what happened back in April.  We don't know if it will ever happen again.

And that sucks.

But she is still smiling, still bossing her brother, still bossing the world, (and I don't think the sedative ever totally wore off) and I am thankful for that.  Thanks to everyone who has been with us through this.  Let's hope this blog continues to be filled with fun and crazy, and not anything so forelorn.

Just wait to see what I've done to the bathroom...

*****

Twice I have asked people to pray for NO DRAMA: once was just before the allergy test (obviously it worked), but the only other time was when I was pregnant with Little Miss.  After an ambulance ride with our son, and the need to get quite a distance to the hospital, I really needed NO DRAMA.

So there I was, as big as a house, 11 days overdue, on the phone to my friend calling off the prayer.  "I can't take it anymore!! No more praying - it's working TOO WELL!"  And then, soon after, my firey red-head was born with an over-dramatic, four-minute KA-BANG!

Sigh. Prayer works.  Even when you don't really want it to.

The Lunch Rescue

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sigh.  How long until their dad gets home?

Finding Humour in the Storm

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

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

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

*****

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

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

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

The smoke alarm was going off.

You're kidding me.

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

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

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

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

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

Little Miss 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 :)

Looking with Wonder

My right eyelid is twitching again and I am reminded why I started this "Crackerjacks and Nutters" blog.  It is so easy to fall off the horse that's holding you up.

Perhaps it is the third cup of coffee I chugged this morning, or that I am listening to James McDonald shout at me from the speakers of my tiny radio in the cake shop, but I am definitely jittery this morning.  Even my hands are shaking as I type this.

Time to breathe.
.
.
.
There.
.
.
.
Nope, still twitching.

Maybe my blood sugar is low and I need to eat a cupcake...

*****

All of the silly worries that build up to anxiety.  What do you do to bring it all back down?

This brings to mind a conversation I had with my eight-year-old son last night:

It was at bedtime after we prayed for what tomorrow would bring; he and his sister, playing and learning at school, and I, entertaining potential wedding clients through delightful conversation and delicious cake.

He leans over to me with a big, innocent smile on his face.

"Wouldn't it be nice, Mom, if you woke up tomorrow and God had made your store all perfect and pretty for your customers?"

Ah, yes, I think.  A surprise interior decorator.

"Decorating fairies," I said.

"No," he corrected me. "Angels."

Such sweetness, and loyalty to his Father. I swallowed up his words and held them in my heart.  He is such a gift to me.

It is in these moments that I realize no matter what worries are in this adult brain of mine, God sincerely wants me to enjoy the little things in life, and, like a child, look on it with wonder and the magic of all His world contains.

No amount of caffeine or sugar will bring that about.  In all the moments I waste on worry, God sighs and says, "Oh, Erin."

What about you?  Does He sigh and shake His head in love as you once again fret about the things you shouldn't?  Or have you learned to look around with wonder and take joy in the moment?

A Game of Cards at the Schaafsma's

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

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

So hey, why not buy it for the fam?

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

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

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


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


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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He was winning.

The Mystery of the Tooth Fairy

The tooth fairy.  I don't think I ever narrowed it down to what she looked like. She, yes, I believe she is a she.  Floating clothes, soundless movements, lots and lots of glitter.  Really, she's the only fairy I've really known, but never seen.  And who knows what she does with all of those teeth!  There's no way she would keep them.  Not my fairy.

Little Miss and her big brother entered into their own world of tooth fairy-ness a little over a year ago, and have since lost eight teeth each.  Although I have forgotten most of the details, Little Miss loves the story of how she lost her first tooth.  She will tell anyone who asks.

"It fell out when I bit my brother in the foot," as if that is a regular occurrence in anyone's house.  With her flaming red hair and fiery temper, none of us is surprised that she'd sink her teeth into any part of him.  I've seen it in slow motion at the kitchen table.  She's colouring; he steps in to tell her how it's done; she turns her head, leans forward, and chomps down on his right shoulder.  Normal behaviour, right?

Anyway, her tooth came out.  Do we reward her?  Of course!  Tooth fairies do not care how the tooth came out - they just want the tooth.  And the fact that we were miles away, camping in Quebec, was quite a feat for our friend, the fairy.  I think they had to send a young one.

We discovered so long as you keep the tooth in a sock, under the pillow, the tooth fairy will find it.

Several other teeth in our household have been yanked out, swallowed, or lost.  Although we encouraged the kids to send notes to the tooth fairy explaining the tooth-in-the-belly syndrome, or to watch the toilet for the next few days, the kids weren't interested and let the fairies off the hook.  According to six-year-olds; no tooth, no treats.  It just wasn't legitimate.

There was one morning our little man woke up to find a shiny coin and a box of candy under his pillow, only to see the exact same candy wrapper on the coffee table downstairs.  Mr. Man had suspiciously eaten the same candies that the tooth fairy had delivered the previous night.  I listened to what the kids had to say (after I ran upstairs and gave the him what for).

"Daddy had the same candy you have!" Little Miss had her wheels turning, "How'd that happen?  Should we ask him?"

Her brother was just happy to enjoy his treats and couldn't care less about his father's antics the night before.

"How does the tooth fairy even get the stuff here?" she enquired, eyeing up a few of his candies.

"Oh, some have the tooth fairy deliver it, and sometimes the parents do it," he answered. But he clearly was thinking of another house.  No big deal, was the impression I got.

So by the time Mr. came down to join the show, with his answers to possible candy questions, the two little ones had moved on to something else.

Earlier this week, while eating her loot from her eighth "loss," Little Miss asked me if God was in charge of the tooth fairy.

"Oh, I suppose.  He did make everything.  But I think he leaves her alone to do her job."  At least that's what my fairy would want.

"He should look after her though 'cause rides on a broom,"  she states as she munches away.

"And she looks kind of like a witch, " added her brother.

It could be because we've just come through halloween, but I think these two have a very different version of what their tooth fairy looks like than I did as a kid.  There is no way I would leave my tooth and invite a scary-looking being into my room just for quarters.

But at least in the battle between reality and make believe, they know Who's got a handle on it all.  Just like God calling Santa on the phone, they know He's got the safety of the tooth fairy on His mind, also.

A Boy at Rest

Boys.  What do I know about boys?  Not much.  Every day I am surprised and perplexed at what my son does.

But I do know that in certain scenes, he is perfect.

Little Miss and Grade One

I admit, I had this written about six weeks ago and forgot to post it:

"So Little Miss is off to school this week with her brother - every day.

I knew I would be a little upset about this so I unconsciously made my world VERY busy, botched eight batches of cookie dough, made the van breakdown, got the dog sick, thereby keeping me from thinking of my childless days all week.  But when Mr. called to say he was coming home late I was surprised how perturbed I was.

"So I guess I am going to go try my hardest to get home on time, then." says he, after listening to a great deal of sighing coming at him from the phone.

For years I've been counting the minutes from 4pm to 5:30pm when Mr. Man walks in the door, scoops up the children, makes the perfect supper and saves me from insanity.  For years I have waded through what Mrs. Google calls "the witching hour" where sweet, lovely darlings turn into screaming, hungry beasts and I pray that this is the day Mr. will surprise me and pull in the drive.  Perhaps with flowers.

But today I had no screaming beasts nor sweet darlings, just me, my work, and an entire season of Friends reruns.  So why am I disappointed that he may be home late, if I do not need rescuing?

I think I'm lonely.

Ack, whatever.  Do I chat up the Jehovah's Witnesses and ask how their day is going?  Do I listen intently to telemarketers and buy up stock in hydro because they had such a nice voice?  Do I peer out my windows in hopes that a neighbour will be out and I can ask for an egg?

No, I did none of that.  I can't be lonely.

So what is this mixed feeling of melancholy, desperation, and uncomfortableness?  And how long will it last?  What will it take to cheer my spirits and be thankful for this new change in my day-to-day life?"

*****

So as I read this, six weeks later, I realize I have chatted up the Jehovah's witnesses, I have peered out the windows looking for neighbours, and I have even run to the phone thinking it is ringing, when in fact, it was in my imagination.   I was even pleased to see the health inspector at my shop door this week just to have conversation.

I have been blessed with spurts of Little Miss being home: a day with a cold, two days with a terrible ear infection, and one night and a day with the stomach flu. Not the best of reasons, but nice to have her, just the same.

"Mom, when is it that I get to go to school everyday?" She mumbles one night as I was brushing out her curls.  Ack, poor thing.  She's lonely being home.

I realize she is ready to be at school full time, and with the speed that she is learning to read and write I can finally be happy that she is there, with her brother, filling her mind with wonderful knowledge that she tells me all about when she gets home.

And perhaps a call from Mr. Man everyday at lunch is all I need.

A Conversation Between Two Excitable Gingers

Today I received a call from Little Miss's principal informing me my girl would be moving to a different class, in a different building.

Hmmm.

Apparently, there are too many grade one's in the present building, and a handful need to be moved into the junior school's split grade 1/2 class.

And because Little Miss is SO independent, SO self-confident, and SO outgoing, her teacher has elected her to be one of the few.  In the back of my mind, though, I wonder if it is with a cheerful heart that her teacher pushes her off onto another.  We all know Little Miss can be a handful.

"I'm assuming I do not have any choice in the matter?"  I ask.

"Um, no," the principal says, "but her teacher says she is so independent, so self-confident and so..."

"Oh, yes, I have no doubt she can handle it."  I'm more worried about someone else, I think.

Later, after explaining to Little Miss what was going to happen (and to her big brother who would be seeing her in the school yard), we talked about how we would break it to Mr. Man.  A plan was made.  After a few pointers, Little Miss decided she wanted to tell him herself.  We went over the important parts: how it was all going to be fine, and that her big brother would be there to help her around the big grade fours and fives.

Here's how it went down:

Mr. Man arrives in suit and tie.  Little Miss, in her curly, red ponytails, guides him over the club chairs and asks him to sit down.

"Daddy, come sit here.  I have to tell you something and I don't want you to get upset."

"Yes?" He is amused but at the same time I can tell he is trying to guess what this is about.  I sit in the corner of the room on the steps behind them.  He looks back at me and I grin.

"Daddy, I am moving to the junior school," she says certainly, her hands in front of her, moving in her signature chopping motion. "There are too many grade ones and three kids are moving to the junior school and I've been picked as number three."

"Well, what grade will you be in?" he asks.

"ONE, dad.  Everything's the same." She's getting worked up.  Her calm voice has been forgotten.

"Did you get picked because you were bad?" There's a smile behind his eyes.

"NO, I TOLD YOU!  There are too many grade ones, and my teacher says I am brave!" She exclaims, arms up.

"Oh, because of the big kids." He's uncertain again.

"Yes, and [my brother] will be there to save my life!"  Um, maybe not the best choice of words...

"And when does this happen?" he asks.

"Tomorrow." Again with the chopping motion, "I start the day in the primary school and then they take me for a tour at the junior school, and then that's it!"  She is definitely excited.

Mr. asks me a few worried questions, rubs the top of his head, and then wanders upstairs for awhile.  I think he'll be okay.  It's hard having a daughter who knows everything.

We'll just have to wait and see how this next adventure pans out.

*****

And for a taste of what Little Miss does when I'm not on my mac...

The Lala "Oopsy" Cake, Part 2:

Once in a while, I tackle a cake that tackles me.  Unfortunately, it happened to be my daughter's birthday cake.  To read the story behind this cake, you will need to read part 1.

I did a bit of research on how other cake decorators have made these Lalaloopsy dolls with their huge heads and tiny bodies, and thought I had a good grasp on what it would take to keep it all intact.  Unfortunately, I forgot that I am not good at structural physics and the cake inevitably falls over without the assistance of Mr. Man.

Here is how the cake progressed.  Get ready.

Day 1:  I made a beautiful loopsy head and mermaid tail out of rice krispy treats.  I refrigerated them for two days before wrapping them in fondant.  I textured the tail and set the pieces aside to harden.  I also baked a sheet cake and put it in the freezer until later.

Day 2:  My son and I worked after Little Miss went to bed, and completed the face and hair of the loopsy head.  I poked a hole in the bottom for a dowel to go through, wrapped the head up so she wouldn't see it, and put it in the cupboard.

Day 3:  The night before the birthday party, I placed the cake on a glass cutting board, my son iced it, and together we covered it in fondant and decorated everything with the sewing tool, seaweed and buttons.  We put a large-sized straw into the neck of the mermaid as a support and placed a wooden dowel down inside for the head to connect onto.  My son went to bed.

Later, I went to get the head out of the cupboard, and it had gone all squishy!  Melted!  

Mr. Man went to work finding a solution.  He came into the shop with a brand new wiffle ball.  I quickly covered it in gumpaste (it hardens faster) and shoved it full of royal icing and fastened it onto the wooden dowel.  We hoped for the best and went to bed.

Day 4: The day of the party, I went into the shop and found the head had fallen back, dragging the dowel, straw and the back of the mermaid with it.  There was a huge dent behind her on the cake where the head had landed.  

I realized the dowel needed to be inserted into the board so I had to lift the cake off of the glass and place it onto a foamcore board.  In lifting it, the cake cracked in several places.

I called the troops in.  Little Miss wanted to help.

I said, "sure."

"Ooh," She exclaimed, "somebody broke the whale!"

And I shrugged, and agreed.

She also found the original head we'd made, and exclaimed that it looked so much like a loopsy doll!  It wasn't until later, after covering the cracks with seaweed, and putting the hair on the head that her brother told her it was for her!  She was so surprised!

 (Three heads - can you tell which one is real? har, har)

Little Miss made the new loopsy face, her brother redid the work we had done the night before, and I went to work fixing the back, neck and cutting new dowels for the head.  Needless to say, we got it all done, and I kept the head off until we got to the party.

 Voila! The finished product, never to be seen on my facebook or cake blog.  Faded, crooked, broken and looking a little spooky, Little Miss was happy with her cake. 

And,

Ultimately,

 cake always looks like....

This!  

Yikes!  Her head at least stayed on until the end!! 

The Lala "Oopsy" Cake or The Cake Blog Reject: Part 1

What they say about the shoemaker's family is true.  Although he may put out a fine pair of shoes for any customer, his own wife and kids at home have holed shoes, or perhaps none at all.

In my case, it comes down to birthday cakes.  Of course my kids have to have them - they look forward to their birthdays every year.  Little Miss has been planning hers for months, and the plan has changed several times.  Each time, predictably, the cake is extensive.  So the day she came screaming out of a certain aisle at Walmart, jumping up and down about these strange dolls called Lalaloopsy, I knew she'd finally found something she'd stick to.

So I decided I would surprise her with a Lalaloopsy birthday cake!  Great idea, right?  Not right.  Even though I researched how other cake decorators secured the large cake-filled heads on their itty-bitty necks, I was unaware of the challenges I would face the night before the big day.

First, let me explain how much Little Miss loves these dolls.

One night I had to slip into Walmart to pick up a few baking supplies (butter is significantly cheaper there), and she decided to grab her pretty change purse and check out the toy section.  She ran straight to the Loopsy Dolls to pick out the one she wanted.

Now I am proud to say I have a very smart girl.  We counted out her money and she had nine dollars.  I explained the three prices of dolls in front of us and that none of them were nine dollars.  She would have to decide which one she wanted and save up her money to buy it.

She stared at those dolls, and slowly crossed various ones off of her list.  She didn't like the hair on this one, that one was a boy...but she realized the more accessories that were in the box, the more "spensive" it was.  So she finally made her choice.  She pointed to the $19.97 Loopsy doll.

"I want to buy that one," she said, and then pointing over to a more expensive one, said, "And you can get me that one for my birthday."

Wow.  Okay.

So she washed out the fridge in the house and the fridge in the shop, and she searched the couch cushions and various places she stashed coins, and low and behold, she "earned" the necessary $10.

I took her back to Walmart, and she took the doll happily off of the shelf.  While walking to the cash, she takes the box in both hands, looks into the face of the doll and gives a crazed, guttural laugh like she could eat it she's so happy.

"I just can't believe I'm getting this." she says quietly.  And she takes it home and now sleeps with it every night, box and all.

So her older brother and I get to work the week before her birthday to make a cake that looks like the more expensive doll (the one hidden under my bed).

But I'll talk about it more next time....meanwhile, here's a sneak peak.

The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn's Sister

There are days when Mr. and I relate Little Miss to a street urchin.  Just yesterday the idea of "Huck Finn" entered my mind.  At least one loved by everyone in the village.

There is a new jewelry store in town.  And although Little Miss is hardly dressed to match the sparkly, "do not touch" beauties in the glass display cases, her eyes glaze over as she looks over them.  But what is the ultimate reason for going in?

Her big blues and red freckles peeking out from under her stained sunhat has charmed the shop owner, and she often receives an enormous sucker for her and her brother because of it.

Charming shop owners and business people in our village is not a new endeavour.  Years ago as an unruly two-year old, the local librarians would laugh at the screaming redhead running up and down the aisles of books while her red-faced mother called for her from the children's section (which was one floor down).  Once she even jumped onto the elevator by herself and rode up to the adult section.  I could hear her gasp during the split second it took for the doors to open as she arrived at her destination.  It was one of the rare moments of fear in her I have witnessed.

And of course she charmed them into oodles of stickers for her and her brother.

She loves to stop in at the book store everyday after school.  She picks items off the shelves, and confidently asks the owner to "hold" it for her until she has money. She flips through all of the books, and unfortunately sets them on the floor to delve into the pictures.  She "straightens up" the books and when a page gets ripped she receives a compassionate pat on the head and a big box of toys to entertain her.

And of course, dutch crackers and candies for her and her brother.

Earlier this week, a friendly gentleman was gracious enough to gather the plastic baby, hat and bottle which had been strung along the sidewalk where Little Miss had previously been.  He looked down at her with a smile.  He was happy to oblige.

I won't bother writing about the Insurance Office, the Dog Groomers, or the Carpet Store (that, she says, needs another goldfish), because you get the idea.  She's even charmed the crossing guard to let her cross the road by herself (which is SO not allowed).

Huck Finn's sister perhaps.

She dresses in bright, girly colours which are stained with lunch, both down her front and wiped on the back of her sleeves.  Her mane of red, curly hair has a life of it's own, and busts out of any elastic or barrette that struggles to contain it.  I have walked home after dropping her off at kindergarten and found several things along our route that had been in her hair.  Crazy hair day involved a quarter bottle of gel to straighten and braid it.  The local ice cream shop opened yesterday, and I had to teach her to face into the wind so the bright blue bubble gum dessert (the same flavour her brother had) would stop getting into her hair.  It got on her forehead, eyebrows, Mr. Man's shorts, and the ends of her hair, but miraculously not around her mouth or chin.

And, as she climbs the backyard crabapple tree, toad in hand, I think, somebody should write a story about her and her brother (who is not so Huck Finn-ish) that she looks after.

*****

For Holly, who reminded me of my favourite Stella and Sam books.


Above painting found at http://s75owzo.edu.glogster.com/zac-and-ashleys-huck/

Little Miss and My Birthday

While window shopping together last week, Little Miss realized she'd missed my birthday.

"Well, it was a bit overshadowed by Easter, honey," I explained. "(Or chocolate and candy, I thought.)

"But I wanted to get you something!" she exclaimed.

"Why don't you make me something?  Get out your scissors and paper..."

"But I wanted to use my money!"  And she stomped off towards home.  

I watched her go, and was touched how upset she was.  I let her run ahead the two blocks home, her arms stiff with fists and a look of determination plastered on her face.  I was certain she would forget it all soon enough.

But later, I plunked facedown on our bed while Little Miss was "doing her hair" in the bathroom.  She came over and started rubbing my back.  "This will be my gift to you," she said to me, wriggling her little fingers along my spine.

"And that's just fine with me," I answered softly.

*****

I told this story to Mr. Man just the other night.  I asked him when he thought I would get over my lousy birthday.  "What does it say in the Bible about how long we should hold a grudge?" I gave him a crooked smile, knowing the truth.

Quickly, without looking up, he said, "Apparently 40 days."