In the Mind of Little Miss

Some kids say the cutest things. Little Miss, however, says things like, "I know how doctors cut people's arms and legs off...with a SAW!!"

Looking Through a Windshield

Did I ever tell you about the time I was hit by a car? Even my husband doesn't believe me. I was about 18 years-old and visiting a family in northern Ontario. They were a pastor and his family who I'd grown close to; a sporty guy with a wild sense of humour and his sweet wife who cooked, cleaned and looked after anyone who crossed their doorstep.

One night the pastor and I went walking. I think we were headed to the YMCA. When I think back to that night, it was raining and I was wearing my brown leather jacket. I can remember crossing the street at the intersection, and from around the corner came this car.

The car hit me in the legs and knocked me so hard I rolled up onto the windshield. I could see the look of shock on the lady's face as this blond teenager flew up into her view. My friend reached out and grabbed my arm before I flew over the rest of the car, and brought me back down to the street.

The driver got out and asked if I was okay. I could tell she felt bad, worried, and frightened. I felt all right, probably from shock, and told her it was okay. We kept walking. It was really weird. In hindsight, I probably should've gone to the hospital, but we went for a swim instead.

Ironically, the only part of my body that hurt was the arm my friend had pulled to rescue me. Many sessions of physiotherapy ensued.

And the next day, every time someone came to the house, my friend shouted, "YOU WOULDN'T BELIEVE WHAT HAPPENED TO HER LAST NIGHT! I SAVED HER LIFE!!"

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This summer I ran into my friends again while delivering a wedding cake. We laughed about old times, including this story. Funnily enough, his version involves a lot more of him shouting, running, and lifting me, and the car (and driver) was much bigger.

My version of the story, I think, is closer to the truth and, ultimately, is used as a scare tactic to make my kids hold my hand as we cross the road.

The Death of Cable

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Why is she taking her clothes off?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

How It All Got Started...

I was recently reminded of why I married Mr. Man. And why I call him Mr. Man.

We had started dating for a few weeks when my sister, living a few hours away, had a fire in her apartment. I immediately decided to head out and help her in any way I could, and (the not quite) Mr. jumped in and offered to drive.

Up until then, I had not had the opportunity to open up about myself, perhaps to be a bit mysterious, perhaps because of trust issues, but all of sudden, on the verge of rescuing my little sister, I felt bold enough to talk about myself.

And talk. And talk. And talk some more.

So by the time we had finished our three hour trip, I felt very satisfied with myself in all I had shared with my new boyfriend. But much to my dismay, and disbelief, he turned and looked at me and apologized, "I'm so sorry, I didn't hear anything you said. You see I've been so nervous driving that I had to concentrate on the road." As he gets out of the car, the back of his t-shirt is completely soaked with sweat. Oh, dear. Apparently, this was the first time he had driven on a major highway since a near fatal accident a few years back. Oh, Mr. Man!

So then, we find my sister. Her roommate had left a candle burning in the apartment and while she was out shopping, the apartment caught fire. There was my little sis, reeking with smoke, in shock, and clutching this brand new purse like it was the only thing she had in the world.

First we got her fed, and then went to a local store to get her some things. A watch, I recall, was one of the items. The cashier was wrinkling up her nose as she rang through the items and casually asked if we smelled smoke. "It's me!! My house burnt down!!" my sister retorted, and even though I was laughing, thankful for the comic relief, the cashier was so embarrassed she had someone come and replace her.

When we got back to the apartment, "smokey" remembered her things were, in fact, stacked in the garage, but she couldn't get the door open. She and I reefed on that door latch, wiggling, pulling, pushing, and so fed up that we could cry, when Mr, with the now-dry t-shirt magically lifts the garage door open.

"Smokey" and I stood there with our mouths open, and I'm pretty sure she whispered "my hero."

He gave us a crooked smile, and said, "you just had to push on the top a bit."

But that was it. He was in. He was it.

My Mr. Man.

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So despite all of the crappy days we've had, the broken shovels, the broken strollers, the broken vans, the broken furnace, the broken cars, the broken toys and jewelry, the crappy dog, and the cat that got hit by a car, Mr. and I have this story to remind us how it all got started. Happy Thanksgiving... kind of.

Planes, Trains, and...Peanuts

I was talking with another mom, (we'll call her Betty), recently about riding in airplanes with her six-year-old son who has a nut allergy.

There are such things called "buffer-zones" now, in which the airline stewardesses ask people not to eat or buy nuts during a flight in which there is an allergic child. Betty said they went on three flights this summer. On the first flight the stewardess asked the first few rows around them to stay nut-free. On a second flight the attendant asked only the left side of the plane to refrain from eating nuts. And on the third flight Betty's family was refused any such treatment. Confused? So was she. "And," she said, "they obviously don't clean very well in between flights as there was a peanut right under his chair." Yikes.

So here I am, on a bus to the states with 51 other people, in seat 13. A few people in front of me; a lot behind. Mr. Man was seat 14, the aisle seat, stretching out his legs. We are excited, a little tired from the early start, and quite comfortable. The tour guide is going over her list of the beginning of the itinerary, and nobody is really listening. But just then, she mentions the duty-free shop. "It's great for snacks like chocolate, liquor, and bags of nuts."

Most people would go for the liquor, I figured, but the bus suddenly seemed smaller with the idea of nuts floating around. Sure enough, when the bus stopped, all of the above were bought and brought onto the bus.

Mr. and I, we bought hand antiseptic.

As the elderly and naive shovelled handfuls of mixed nuts into their mouths, waved at their friends, and touched all the seats as they moved up the aisle, I leaned closer and closer to my precious window seat, soaked myself in antiseptic until I stunk, and waited to get off. I figured, "let them get it out of their system, eat them all and I'll wash my hands with this stuff every time I move." Honestly, I don't think that "stuff" even works, but I held onto it like life raft.

I was asked later why I didn't tell them I was allergic, but actually we had. It was on our application for the trip, but there is nothing that could be done. For children, there are "buffer zones" and peanut-free snack rules, but adults are adults. We are old enough to take care of ourselves. People don't think an adult would have an allergy, it's just in the kids. Besides, the bags were opened; the harm had been done. I would just sit still and wait. There would no shaking of hands on this trip.

Eventually, they closed up the bags, and I subtly walked off the bus with both my arms straight up in the air.

We had a fabulous trip; safe; eventful; lots of fun! Three days later we get back on the bus with the same 50 people, and cross the border into Canada.

Two hours from home I hear the rustling of bags, smell the nutty aroma and start to cry.

As an aside: One fellow passenger who we got to know pointed out that eventually all of these allergic children will grow up and enter the work force. It will be interesting to see if their adult life will be safer than mine or just the same. Once you're an adult, are you on your own, like me, or will there be "buffer zones" then, too?

Seafood Linguini

Many of you have asked when I am going to blog about my NYC trip, and really, I barely got back and was swamped with work. But even while the mixer is on, and there is icing on my glasses, I smile as I reflect on some of the the things that happened while in New York. I will tell you one story now:

Mr. Man and I stuck to some pretty tame restaurants, as I knew we would, initially because of my allergies, but later on we realized how much money we would save by sticking to simpler, faster foods. SUBWAY became our friend. Hot grilled chicken sub with lettuce, tomato, cucumbers, red onion and green peppers, and a dollop of honey garlic sauce fed me for two days. Mr. was strictly ham, cheese, and pickles. Seriously, no imagination.

One time, we found ourselves on 5th avenue, surrounded by fancy, expensive shops and where do we go in for food?

Good ol' Wendy's. Yep, their fries in NYC are just as good as in Belleville, Ontario.

Living. It. Up.

So, on our last day in the city, our tour bus took us to South St. Seaport and pointed us to this Italian Restaurant by the marina. Grilled chicken just didn't cut it anymore, so we raced over to get an outdoor table. The ambience was nice, you could smell the waterfront, and the restaurant itself was so comforting, I decided this would be where we have a real meal. Mr. ordered a ravioli, and I ordered the seafood linguini.

So there I was, smiling away, dipping my bread into the oil, and the waiter brings out our plates. My mouth dropped open. There was this towering plate of pasta complete with a lobster tail, and a circle of oysters, placed in front of me. And as I looked closer, among the expected shrimp and sliced calamari were tiny octopus tentacles. Or squid tentacles. It really didn't matter. This numb feeling appeared in the pit of my stomach, and as I looked around at the other customers "oohing" and "aahing" at my plate, I thought, "What have I done? Now I have to eat this!"

Our tour guide had warned us that some restaurants may have servings that are too large to finish, so I decided to use that get free card right away. I tackled the lobster tail, thankful for good friends who'd taken us out to a seafood buffet previously, so I didn't look like an amateur. The shrimp and calamari were no problem, but I seriously had to turn my senses off in order to eat the pasta around those tentacles. I no longer smelled the lovely waterfront, or saw the ambience around me. I smelled fish, saw octopus legs and thought about all of the people who caught food poisoning from eating oysters.

In the end, I scooped some of the oysters in with the pasta, stirred it around, and placed the empty shells on the discard plate, along with my lobster shell, as though I had tasted them all along.

So, I ate, I survived, I paid three times the price I thought I was, and I came away with a good story. Go big, or go home, right?