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

My Fear of Water (Part 1)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Rescued again.

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.

Finding Humour in the Storm II

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

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

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

Then I notice the bottle of Benadryl hidden under the kitchen table. I can't quite remember what I called her.
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On the day the rash went away, the dog ran away.  You've got to be kidding me.

I drove away, not looking back.
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And finally:

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

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

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

Erin

Finding Humour in the Storm

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

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

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

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

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

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

****

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

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

*****

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

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

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

The smoke alarm was going off.

You're kidding me.

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

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

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

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

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

It Could Be Worse

Recently, coffee with a friend reminded me of this blog post I never shared.  Written over a year ago, I was just starting to deal with my health in a new way, and was too vulnerable to post it.  But in speaking about processing and handling grief with my friend, today I will share it. 

"Have you ever started your day going in one direction and then have it swiftly changed for you? Was it your health? Career plans? Marriage? So often we ride through our days, just trying to get by, and the Lord can seem busy with someone else. Then other days His presence is so clear and real, and it doesn't matter if you don't get your daily list done: you know what is more important.

He comes in swoops and bounds at times: so evident in the air around us: a smiling face, a section of a novel, similar conversations within a few days. It is at these times that you "hold it in your heart" as Mary did while watching Jesus grow up.

It is when your direction gets swiftly changed that you grab onto the holy times spent with God, even though life comes crashing down.

Driving down the highway to a doctor's appointment this week, I was too overwhelmed to pray. I talked it out instead. Look at me talking to myself in the car. I was preparing myself for whatever God had in store. I've said before I worry, and I was worrying. What if? What if? What if? I imagined the worst case scenario and prepared myself for it.

But instead, I got news that I hadn't planned on. It shocked me. It turned me right around and sent me in the opposite direction. Like in the novel "Saturday Morning" by Lorraine Snelling, God spoke to me and asked, "Do you trust me?"

Even this morning I am second guessing the doctor - maybe I said the wrong thing that brought about her diagnosis? Maybe it was all in my head?

But I know He has me in his hand. He was so real to me leading up to this week. I could see Him everywhere. He was filling me up so I could count on Him within this trial.

And yet, it could be worse. There is always something worse. This is my mantra today. It could be worse.

Perhaps I am in the denial stage. We will see."

I have heard others with this same mantra "it could be worse" and yes, it's true, but lets not diminish the pain we are feeling. And the anger.  I ultimately got so angry I could see red, and I cried and cried, mourning over the loss of the freedom of being healthy.

The grieving process still circulates as symptoms arise and I am reminded of my epilepsy.  Doctor's appointments, EEGs, powerful, expensive drugs will forever be in my future.  But most days I am in acceptance.  If it doesn't get worse than this, I can handle it.  That is my mantra now.  Still not the best mantra, but it is my reality.

And still, I know He holds me in His hand.

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.
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There.
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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?

Worry; the Ugly Baby

I have this inherent need to be prepared for the big things in life...natural disasters, medical problems, work issues, emergency situations, and of course, big life changes.  Flashlights at the ready, extra warm blankets on the beds, epi-pens and band-aids, stocked pantry...Mr. Man's cape ironed.  You know, regular emergency stuff.

The moment I became a mother, I swear I gave birth to not only a beautiful babe, but to two other ugly babies: Guilt and Worry.  I had been given such a great responsibility that I Worried I wouldn't be able to handle it or to keep the baby safe, and then I, of course, felt Guilty for being imperfect and for Worrying.

Worry is the bigger "ugly baby" for me than Guilt.  If I am not careful I can be consumed by it.

Even now as my kids are school-aged, I worry about crazy stuff.  Are my kids going to get lost today? Are they going to fall off the sidewalk as we walk down main street?  Will someone take their pizza money?

Am I feeding them enough meat?

Do I need to spend more time reading with them, or doing math flash cards?

I just have to be ready for anything.

What will happen if there is a fire?

What will happen if I get sick?

It can really get me down.  Tell me I'm not the only one.

I honestly don't know how many times I have asked Mr. Man what to do if the car drives into the lake. Do I roll the windows down or leave them up?  Do automatic windows even work when they are wet?  

I just have to be ready for anything.

GAAAHHG!

So now I have come up with a remedy to clear my mind when Worry tries to take over.  I start an anti-worrying game, kind of like positive thinking, but sillier: The Positive "What ifs".

"What if... Little Miss was labelled a genius?"

"What if ... the person we helped on the street was a billionaire looking for an heir?"

"What if ... I got a call from a school that said I was the only person qualified to do the teaching job?"

"What if ... God sends us to Peterborough?"  "Or Africa?" 

The closest I got to a real adventure was a phone call one night in which the person at the other end was asking me to judge a cake competition in Arkansas.  I said, "What?"  And the lady went on and on about their culinary school, and how they need a fourth judge and someone gave them my name...

"Oh, wait." I said, suddenly realizing what was going on, "You need the Cakes by Erin from Illinois.  You are speaking to the Cakes by Erin in Canada."  And as she went on to appologize and try to get off the phone, my shoulders slumped, I hung up the phone, and kicked the sofa.

"I could've done that you know!" I said to Mr. Man.  "Crap!"  And I continued on making boring chicken with boring rice, in my boring corningware, in my boring house.

So, hey! What if I hadn't told them I was from Canada?  What if they hadn't believed me and paid thousands of dollars for me to fly down there, stay in a hotel and pretend I know something about culinary arts?

Could've happened.

One day I decided to engage Mr. Man in my game.  I threw some of these ideas at him, "What if a baby got dropped off on our front step?"  "What if it was an heir to billions?" "What if you became a volunteer fireman?"  "What if you became MAYOR!!"  He ignored me at first, then went a bit pale, then put a pillow over his face.  Eventually I could tell he had something to say;

"Oh, I know!" he said, excitedly, "What if everything stayed the same?" And he waved his hands in the air like it was some big deal.

Hmmph.  Well, that's no fun.

I'd like to think that I would be calm and controlled if something terrible ever happened.  Perhaps I could be the woman who steps in to take care of any situation, but probably not.  It doesn't matter how many flashlight batteries are in the cupboard, or how many cheese strings I pack in my purse.  Shit happens.  And of course, the Lord holds me and my family in His hands.  And I know that Worry is a sin.  SO WHAT if I drive really slow around lakes and rivers?

But the fact is that Jesus says, "Do not worry about tomorrow, for today has enough trouble of it's own.  Take heart! I have overcome the world."  So today I will try not to fret over wee things and focus on the tasks at hand. Tomorrow?  I won't worry about it.  I will focus on the positive "What Ifs".

"What if ... the day is perfect?"

Well, who knows?

"What if ... Mr. Man joins the church council!!"

Venting

I am not a salesperson, I am an artist.  I want to hide out in my studio and make beautiful things.  Things that make me smile, make my heart flutter, and make me feel proud of myself.  Art is difficult since not everyone understands it.  They do not understand how long it takes to make something.  They do not understand the cost of materials, or how hard it is to work with that medium.

Don't tell me it is too expensive, or your aunt could make it cheaper.  Don't tell me your 15 year old son could make it.  This is my art, my pleasure.  I will grab it all, hold it close, and sell nothing, instead of stand here and listen to you dismiss my talents.  You think because you are old you have the freedom to say what you like.  You are mistaken.

I am home again in my beloved shop.  The air is warm and cosy, the colours are welcoming, the sun is bright.  My tools are ready.  I smile.  I love to work with my hands.  I have strong hands, my daughter says.  And you can't put a price on those.

Kijiji Ad: ONE FREE DOG

Today I went for a walk - three times.  Once with my two kids and the dog, once with my two kids and an empty dog leash, and once with my two kids, my husband, and the dog looking forlornly at us through the fenced-in yard.

Sigh.  Dogs.  You love them and they love you.  You hate them and they love you.

Do you remember my story of our date night? When all we did was search for our dog, and by the end of the terrible evening, we still didn't find him?

We found him the next day in the POUND!  He looked pitiful.  And of course I started to cry.  I hate that I started to cry.  Most days I want him to disappear, and the one time he does, I cry with relief when I find him.  I hate that.

We should've known he was a runner since the first day we got him eight and a (long) half years ago.  We brought him home, just 1 1/2 yrs old, with his sad, dark eyes, sleek fur and happy smile.  The next day he jumped through a small window, right through the screen, and disappeared down the road.  Our neighbour eventually found him and brought him back.

The following week while we had company over, he escaped, and we spent our evening driving around town looking for him.  He was waiting for us when we got back home. "Where'd everybody go?" he asked.

I have written and rewritten the Kijiji ad SO MANY TIMES, that I have it memorized:

FOR FREE: one ten-year-old black lab-retriever mix, male, indoor/outdoor dog needing constant companionship, a warm place to sleep and a high fence.  Will pay for allergy medicine, ear cleaner, even dog food and vet bills.  Will not pay the $80 'get-out-of-pound' fee any longer.  Come get him.

But then Mr. hears of somebody having an intruder enter their home.  "The dog stays," he says.

So he stays.  He scares away squirrels, the local groundhog, and various tomcats who torment our kitten.  He also scares the papergirl, the woman collecting for diabetes, and any potential cake customers who may come when the shop is closed. He steals the kids' breakfasts, barfs on the rug, gets ear infections in both ears (and therefore can't hear burglers), has major seasonal allergies, and steals pizza.

BUT, he's so sorry.  He loves me.  He follows me everywhere and needs me during a scary storm or when the kids go off to school, and he reminds me of times when we played 'catch the stick' at the beach.  He is greying now, and slow, and sleeps most of the time.  If we sent him anywhere, I'm sure he would die of heartache, and that I could not handle.  One night away from me in the pound showed me that.

So do I let him back inside tonight, out of the doghouse? Do I let him eat his supper even though he ate the neighbour's garbage? Will I look after him through the night as he gets sick in the backyard?  Umm, well, maybe not...

But I'll put an extra blanket in his doghouse and I'll let him in the house if it starts to thunder.

I can do that.

He needs me, you know.

Geriatrics, sheesh.

A List of Smiles

After several weeks of the "black dog on my back," I have decided to list some of the things that make me genuinely smile:

1.  Upon opening the kitchen cupboard, I find sparkling clean, hand-washed water glasses (instead of the cloudy, soapy dishwasher washed ones).

2.  Upon opening a second kitchen cupboard (not necessarily on the same day), I find the sugarbowl has been filled and the crusties cleaned off the adjoining spoon.

3.  A fresh snowfall, and the sunshine afterward.

4.  A friend stopping by.

5.  A friend stopping by with one or all of the following:
   - flowers
   - latte
   - pie/cheese cake (NOT CAKE)

6.  Watching my kids read.

7.  Picking up my dog from the groomers.

8.  Opening a new tub of margarine and getting the inner swirl first.

9.  Finding out my purse is big enough to fit an entire bag of Fudgeos inside.

10.  Eating those fudgeos.

11.  Tulips.

12.  Opening a new book.

13.  Rereading an excellent book.

14.  Listening to my children sing.

15.  Working with my hands.

16.  Jimmy Fallon's impersonations of Neil Young and Bob Dylan.

17.  Any episode of "Chuck," "The Big Bang Theory," and, I confess, anything with Colin Firth in it.

18.  Kittens.

19.  Good coffee.  Large double double at Timmy's.

20.  Making someone laugh.

And these are just a few.  I may have to remind myself of this list in the future, and possibly add to it now and again.  What are some of the things that make you smile?  Try and list three.  Or tell me how many are on your list.

Photo taken from http://pixtalpeep.blogspot.com/  Great site for smiles!

Cookie Puzzles

Last night was the first night a long while that I woke up unable to sleep because of work.  In my dreams I was trying very hard to fit heart cookies of assorted sizes perfectly into a box.  They weren't shift around, and if the box tilted, they were not to disentangle themselves and break.  No matter how I tried I could not fit them in.  There was still too much space in the box.

Sometimes when my mind goes like this, nothing can stop it but to go down to the shop and solve the problem in reality.  As dreams go, it stemmed from reality:  the boxes had arrived the previous day, in the wrong size, and the cookies I had already painstakingly baked.

In church on Sunday, I was volunteering in the age 3-4 room where puzzles are big deal.  They don't like it when you put the puzzle together for them so you watch their precious little hands move pieces around and around until they fit just right.  Some give up, but some work at it, even if it takes awhile.  And I sit beside them, ready to help.

Nicely, there is a set pattern for each cardboard puzzle; a picture to follow and only one way to complete it.  Unfortunately, this makes it very disappointing when, after all of your work, a piece is missing.  At least with cookies, there are different sizes to work with - at least in my batch.

I realized while laying their looking at all the possible mathematical arrangements of cookies on my bedroom ceiling, that there are several things in life that involve putting pieces together to fit.  And I do not mean linen closets.  People tend to fill in those missing places in our puzzles, sometimes surprisingly.

In running a business, I know where I am gifted and where I am terrible.  An employee or two, may be gifted at those places in which you are lacking.  Voila! Puzzle pieces put together.

Marriage is a huge example.  Two people from different ways of life, come together, and with hard work, they make it fit.  When it's working, it feels like a well-oiled machine.  When one is down, the other is up (and can pick their partner up!)  When one is tired of the kids (and this never happens to me), the other can step in.  And when it comes to extended families, sometimes it's the grandmother who steps in take up the extra piece, or an aunt or a really great babysitter (or wow! even a housecleaner)!

But I know the biggest piece of the puzzle in everything is our Heavenly Father who is watching over us and divinely guiding us to the right people for the right needs.  He wisely designed us with unique gifts and talents, whether to help run a business, sit in Sunday School, or be a part of a family.

And since it is He who made my never-sleeping brain, I put it to you:  Who is the biggest cookie in your box?

Super Sonic Hearing

About a year ago I asked a few moms, "If you could have one super power, what would it be?" Disappointingly, they couldn't answer. What? No ideas? I knew what I'd want. Super Speed. Get everything done fast, fast, fast. And drag my kids along with me. Get dressed! Clean your rooms! Pick up that stuff! Fast, fast, fast!

 Okay, so maybe I wouldn't be such a great mom with my super speed, but think of all the things I'd get done!

Unfortunately,  I have instead received the power of super irritability. Words like "seething" or "grating" or "grinding" sum up the feeling in my head most mornings. My son's homework this week was to find words that start with "cr".  Cranky, crusty, crappy and cracked all came to mind. And then I said "butt crack" and we both burst out laughing and he spit out his spaghetti.

 My mother thinks it might be a reaction to my medication. "Maybe it's causing my clothes to shrink, too!" I said to Mr. Man. He looked at me, and then turned back to his laptop. No comment. 

I realized this week that one of the triggers of my new super irritability is super sonic hearing. I hear everything.  I hear every cupboard door opening, every crumb dropped on the floor, and I hear every time the dog wags his tail, licks his paws, or makes the tick-tick-tick of his nails on the linoleum.  And I can hear the sounds of my children at night.  When they were infants, or if they are sick, then I would be relieved to have heard their cries.  But not when it's the sound of the song Staying Alive with the wrong lyrics.

Most of my girlfriends know my seven-year-old son sings himself to sleep.  There have been several women's nights at our house when we pause, look at the ceiling, and listen to his rendition of some rock song made over by Veggie Tales.  Unfortunately, this continues again in the early morning when he wakes up, but wants to go back to sleep.  At 5:30 in the morning.

So with my super sonic hearing triggering my super irritability, perhaps you can imagine how my morning could start.

But instead, Mr. Man bought me a humidifier.  The soft purring of that humidifier, while softening my palate and moistening the air of our room, blocks out the sound of a certain someone singing at five thirty in the morning, thereby saving his life from my jumped up super nerves, [er, powers].  AND I DON'T EVEN HEAR THE DOG!

So tonight as I tuck my sing-songy boy into bed and skip down the steps to my couch, the dog runs for it to his basement crate, and the cat sails away through her cat door.  It is quiet time for mommy.  I hear the soundtrack of the Scooby-Doo movie being sung from upstairs, but I curl up on the couch, reach for my book, and sigh.  With a quick twist of a button, all I can hear are the turning of novel pages, the sipping of tea and the gentle whirring of my humidifier.

NOW DON'T ANYBODY CALL!

Pizza Hut and the Peanut Allergy

When I was in teacher's college at Queen's U. there were several of us that did our practicum at the same school (my high school, actually).  Although we spent many weeks together I did not really get to know the others that well.  But we still celebrated our teaching accomplishments together, and went out to dinner one night after "work".

Pizza Hut was the only thing available in town (other than MacD's), and we couldn't have afforded much else anyway.  I'd eaten there before, so I did not worry about my peanut allergy and, therefore, did not tell the others about it.

At the pizza bar they always put out dessert pizzas.  I went over by myself to check it out, knowing that I probably wouldn't have any on account of the "traces of peanuts/nuts" that almost all restaurants claim.  Yet everything seemed harmless so I went for it.  There was a young employee beside me, refilling topping containers and I mentioned to him about my allergy.

"I have an allergy to peanuts.  Do you think I can eat any of this?"

"NO!" he exclaimed, "You shouldn't eat ANYTHING!" He then took me by the wrist and shook the chocolate chips out of my hand.  And then took my dessert plate away from me.

I sheepishly walked back empty handed to where my fellow students were sitting, silent, and staring at me.  "Did you KNOW that guy?" one of them asked.

"No." I said.  I was too embarrassed to explain.  They looked at each other and went back to eating.  I wonder if they thought I was in trouble.

Secretly I was pleased that someone knew how serious a food allergy can be, and had the gumption to do something about it. I certainly have more confidence now then I did then in sharing my situation.  If that young man had not been there, perhaps nothing would've happened, but it could've.  And I didn't have a plan.

A few of my allergic clients will order a birthday cake from me, take it to the restaurant, and have the staff bring it out to their child during dessert time.  I know of a mom who would bake a small nut-free cake in the similar colours of the dessert, and would secretly pretend it was part of it.  The allergic child would probably never know the difference.

It is moments like these that we allergy sufferers cherish.  We typically do not have the confidence to speak up for ourselves, or use our epi-pens.  Who wants to wreck the party with a drive to the hospital?  But when we do choose you to hold our secret, please take it seriously.  We love our rescuers - even if it takes a little wrist handling!

Merry Christmas!

As I was rushing around today in a panic, finishing cake orders, preparing our own food, and listing all of things I haven't done, I look over at a plant sitting beside the washer. It is my grandma's Christmas Cactus and it is in full bloom. It made me take a breath, and wonder what grandma would be like on a day like today. She'd probably be frantic, too, actually!

Take care this weekend everyone! Safe travels and all that! And if it doesn't turn out the way you planned - don't tell anybody!

Don't You Bully Me!!

Last night, during a wonderful Christmas dinner for the women in our church, I told of an altercation with Little Miss at school. Even after an anti-bullying rally, and several lessons dealing with bullies, she was "roughed up" by another child her age.

As I spoke, there were women at our table that were outraged, and suggested many ways that I should handle the situation. Those of us, however, who knew Little Miss, were not too worried.

At the age of five, she is already the type to take control of every situation, and is absolutely fearless. I often picture her directing students and teachers out of the building during a fire or bomb scare, and making friends with the fire chief at the same time.

There was a time this summer that she 'told off' an older boy for picking on her brother:

"You want me to do that to you?" she yelled across the beach, as the boy constantly splashed my son. "Oh, no," I thought, "What is she going to do now?" Luckily his mom came and dragged him away.

So it seems, promptly after being bullied, my little toughy stormed into the hallway, grabbed three different teachers, including the vice-principal and demanded retribution. The teachers reassured her that justice would be served, everything documented, and, of course, that she did the right thing. By the time she told me what happened, she'd already got everyone on the job. I almost felt sorry for the other student. Almost.

I did pop in to the office this morning just to make sure I had all of the facts straight. After speaking with the vice-principal, I knew he was a kindred spirit, and recognized that small fear in his eye. I wonder if he was afraid of what I was going to say. What does a parent look like who has such a child?

I think he needs to meet Mr. Man.

Family Photo Time!!

Ah, family photo time.

I couldn't help but think of Claire Dunphy, on the show, 'Modern Family' as I tried to contain myself and my need to be a control freak.

I wanted something fun and unique, veering away from the traditional Christmas portrait. I imagined dressing as spies, adorned in sleek, black masks, with guns at the ready (okay, maybe just finger or water pistols), but Mr. Man just laughed.

"Where are you going to find water guns at this time of year?" he asked.

******

So we dressed in black and white, and blue jeans - even matching socks, and went to the mall. We bought an appropriate black sweater at the last minute for our son who didn't quite match. Fuzzy black stuff spread across his pristine white shirt and I made an inward sigh.

Little Miss's red curls were going frizzy. I stepped into a kid's jewelry store and spent way too much on a hairbrush and hairband.

"Would you like an added accessory for a reduced price?"

"Sure, sure."

"How about a family discount card for future purchases?"

"Sure, sure." I said absently, as Little Miss starts crying in the corner, not getting her way on the accessory.

So now she was frizzy, red and blotchy. Another inward sigh.

As Mr. (who is the only one calm, and pristine by this point) smooths over everyone, we go into the photo store. The photographer was also red, blotchy and a little frizzy. Apparently we wore an inappropriate colour, and varied too much in height. And at this, there was no appropriate background, no customer relations, and no fun poses.

Inward sigh, and a little vein poking out of my neck.

The most interesting pose we got was all of us wearing Santa hats (which took a little persuading of our little ones, and a slight fear of head lice).

From the start, I went in with a photo budget, and since most of it went with the sweater, hairbrush and accessories, I spent $22.95 on the boring, unhappy family photos.

We bought the kids a last minute muffin at a local coffee shop as a thank you for getting through it, and quickly took them home to bed, letting them sleep in their clothes, thereby getting sweater fluff on the bed sheets.

I should've known it would turn out like this first thing this morning, when we were awakened by the Christmas tree falling over.

My Magic Bag

As many of you are aware, I am nervous about heading out because of my peanut allergy. I don’t dare say anything to Mr. Man as he in his own world of worry: leg room, muggings, directions… so he has enough on his plate. I cannot tell my mother – she’ll just get it all mixed up and think I DID have a reaction, and upset everyone. So instead, I will tell you!

At times I get really excited. I booked us broadway tickets, and mapped out all of things I (and Mr. Man) want to see. It’s true, he did say I could take him anywhere…but I’ll include a few things I think he will like!

But I have this shadow that follows me. It sits on the edge of my thoughts, waiting. We have no control over what is planned for us, do we? It could all be taken away at any moment. A car ride, a fall at the park, a dark stranger. I need to stay safe for the kids. The kids need to stay safe. Mr. needs to stay safe. So I have this constant fight with myself to have a relaxing time, to put the shadow to rest and trust that everything will be all right. Mr. says that's why we believe in a loving God. I do not have to be prepared for the worst all the time.

Funnily enough, I got my results from my sleep deprived EEG last week. I am (or my brain is) “essentially normal.” Whatever that means. Aren’t we all “essentially normal”? Is anyone normal?

Based on today's and last day's blogposts, I guess the EEG doesn’t measure the levels of being a nutter. I am, with all of my worrying and stressing, "essentially," a nutter.

So here I am packing for my trip to NYC. In my magic bag I have three epi-pens, one new pair of pants, new groovy running shoes and insoles for walking, one camera, batteries and SD cards, US cash for taxis, various maps, updated VISA card, passports, other ID, sunglasses and hair elastics.

Also inside my magic bag is a small pocket filled with neurosis that I will pull out, shake, and replace whenever needed. Drama tends to follow me, but I think my magic bag can handle it.

So here I go, clutching my bag full of adventure on one hand, and leading my big, handsome Mr. Man on the other. What fun!

Bubble Girl

One of the scariest things about having a food allergy is travelling. When I woke up with amnesia a few years ago, one of the things my mom would do was put on a movie to ease the tension. I had short term and long term memory loss, so watching a movie that had nothing to do with my real life took our minds off everything for an hour or two. One of them was called, "Bubble Boy". It was the stupidest movie ever, but I loved it. And it is how I feel a lot.

In the movie, a teenage boy is allergic to everything and so his parents keep him in a plastic bubble to protect him from having a reaction. Eventually you find out his mother kept him in there longer than necessary, BUT it was so amazing to me that a writer could understand that people like me are actually out here, living in an invisible bubble.

The bubble, for those of you who do not understand, surrounds us and stretches out to only those places where we feel safe from harm. For example: my bubble extends its curve to MacDonald's and Denny's and, presently, Montana's (not in the past), but does not even brush against Asian food places, church potlucks, or Dairy Queen. If I go into any of these places, the bubble will break and I may have an allergic reaction. So I feel I miss out on a lot, and it makes me nervous to try new things and new places.

So this returns me to my opening sentence. Travelling is hard. How much food can I pack in my backpack that will sustain me if I am in a place that only sells Asian food (i.e. I am never going to China)? If I have three epi-pens, we can speak the language, and have enough fare for a taxi, how much time does that give us to hail a taxi, and get through traffic to the hospital? And what if the hospital is full? What if they won't treat me because I'm Canadian? And what if they tell my mother? She'll NEVER let me go out again. Back in the bubble.

And what if they won't let me bring my home-baked, peanut-free, soy-free food with me over the border? What if? What if?

Then, three times in one month I have a freak allergic reaction to something right here, within my safe places. The first, sitting in a family member's chair: I broke out in itchy hives. The second, using the wrong chocolate coating: again I broke out in hives, and had swollen eyes. And the third, at a friend's house my eye started itching and swelling. Only one of those times did we know what had caused the reaction.

So, if I am reacting to unknown things within my small world anyway, why not risk it in the big world? I know the Big Guy's got my back. And those three epi-pens I ordered will come in handy. AND I'm married to the best insurance broker in the world so he's got my back, too.

And, maybe I'll just have to bake the border patrol one of my delish red velvet cakes so they let me take all of other baked goods across with me :)

Destructo-Boy

There once was a young man who was ready to leave home. His father lovingly patted him on the back and handed him an envelope containing all the money he and his wife had put away for him over the years.

"We are so proud of you, son, and we want to give you everything we can to help you start out your adult life. But now that you are an adult, the first thing to do is pay back your debts as soon as possible."

And with that, he took the envelope, opened it and pulled out bill after bill, reciting, "This is for the dent in the car...the scrapes on the bathroom wall, the broken window...your mother's broken necklace...." He listed item after item until his son had paid him back for all the things he'd either broken or lost.

When finished, he lovingly patted his son on the back, handed him the envelope and walked away.

The bewildered boy who had been through such a change in emotions in such a short time, glanced down at the envelope to find one twenty dollar bill left for his future.

My son's alter ego is Destructo-Boy. I may have mentioned this before. It appeared when he was four-years-old and has taken over his brain. My sweet, tender-hearted little one has purposely pulled things apart, scissored up lawn chairs, exploded tubes of bathroom products, scratched walls, furniture, etc...having absolutely no reason to do so.

I like to think he has a scientific brain, with an overwhelming desire to see "what if?" "What if I stick my fork in the table and pull?" "What if I draw with permanent marker under the livingroom rug?" "What if I paint my sister's face with nail polish?"

Sometimes things happen by accident; I'll give him that. Once, as a punishment, I had him hand wash the dishes (one chore I despise). Unfortunately, the drying rack tipped over and three of my rarely-been-used wedding plates smashed on the floor. He burst into tears, and there was nothing I could do but sigh, hug him and send him on his way. It was, simply, an accident.

In fact, yesterday, with his brand new go-cart, he drove into the side of the house. Luckily, he only broke a large flower pot (one I really liked, mind you) but he was devastated and wailed uncontrollably. Again, I could only sigh, reassure him and send him on his way. Again, it was, simply, an accident.

Unconsciously, though, I was listing all the things he'd broken on purpose, including the couch cushion I had just found a few minutes before, redecorated in marker.

If he'd had any kind of inheritance, I thought, it would surely be halfway spent by now, only at age seven.