Operation Squirrel Rescue

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

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

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

     "One dead squirrel?" you say. 

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

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

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

 What?! 

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

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

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

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

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

Little Miss and the Ballet

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

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

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

SO not the same caliber.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Little Miss and the Mouse

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Good grief.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

But that's another story...

Little Miss vs. Hollywood

One of my most favourite movies of all time is "You've Got Mail," with Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks.  A sweet, romantic movie, a tiny mouthful of bad language, but otherwise, harmless.  Meg Ryan's character (Kathleen Kelly) owns a quaint little children's bookstore, while Joe Fox (Tom Hanks) builds a huge Fox Books box store and puts her out of business.  Meanwhile the two of them are falling in love over the internet, not knowing it is with each other.  Cute, romantic...harmless.

Or so I thought.

The other day I pulled out my polymer clay, and set up a station close to the living room as my favourite movie is only in VHS form in our house.  I pop it in the VCR and as I start to mould the clay into that day's order, two little people coming running in, jump up on the couch and quietly watch the movie with me.

Very quickly Little Miss begins dissecting my VHS friend into bits and pieces of sin and shame.  It wasn't fun.

"Why is she hiding the computer?  Doesn't she want her husband to know she's on it?  Isn't it wrong to keep secrets?"

"Well, yes," I say, "daddy and I always tell and show each other our facebook pages, and like sharing funny things... I just like it that she runs a shop and it's a lovely romantic movie..."

"He called her his girlfriend - They're not MARRIED? Why are they in the same house?  Well, where is HE going now? [In a different scene]  Does HE have his own house?"

"Well, yes, he has his own house," I sigh, thankful for that truth.

"But he DOESN'T LOVE HER!"

"Oh, good grief, it's okay, it all works out.  Let's turn this off...." but she not listening to me anyway.

And then when she sees their Fox boats, she blows them out of the water...

"What kind of a boat is THAT?  They live down there? They have it all set up like they don't need to pack ANYTHING!" She is outraged that such a frivolous life exists.

And so, from the beginning to the end, the movie, my favourite movie, has been turned upside down; the sins of the flesh, the wanton greed, and the bad business manners have been revealed and shaken in front of my face.  Sigh.

I am sorry.  Hollywood is no match for the purity of spirit and firmness of Christian law in the heart of Little Miss.  She expects everyone to walk a straight line and there are no exceptions.  Little Miss has a constant call to arms when it comes to fairness in Wii time, the size of your piece of pie, and now, the disgrace that movies have left in our minds as "harmless".  Of course, does this change how I feel about the movie? No. I still love it, and I will still want Meg Ryan's hair every time I watch it.  Do I mourn for that innocence I once had?  A little.  I never cared for rules as much as she does, nor did I ever see my world in such black and white terms.  But it does bite a bit when I have to explain why movies are portraying ideas that are not what we believe they should be.  This past year, amongst her friends, she's learned of separation, divorce, terminal sickness, step-siblings, and death.  She hears of one parent leaving the home of a friend, and wonders why.  If she could, I know she would step up and set them all straight.  In her world, everyone knows the rules, and why wouldn't they obey them?

Well, why wouldn't they?

That day I just wanted to watch a movie about a girl with her own little store, meeting a man who sweeps her off her feet.  Instead, I exhibited a lot of sighing, mumbling and explaining.  Now I need to teach Little Miss about grace.

Indeed I feel sorry for her future husband.  He won't get away with anything.

Now, let's see what she thinks of Finding Nemo...perhaps Dory and Marlin swim too close together or spend too much time alone in the whale??