I am a Great Driver

I am a great driver! Confident, self-assured, sensible...

Er, well... perhaps I have a tiny bit of a heavy foot.  I blame our steep driveway which gives me a kick start before I hit the road.  But in the same week I was labelled "a rocket" and "a hurricane" by family members who happened to be along for the ride.

I never go too far over the speed limit: just enough... because I am a great driver.

Once, as I pulled off the highway I noticed a policeman with his motorcycle standing at the stop light, waving me down.  Did I feel nervous? Guilty?

No.  I assumed something had happened, perhaps an escaped convict, and he needed my assistance. It couldn't possibly be me. I am a great driver.

Mr. Man calls me something else.

When I was 16 all you had to do was pass this written "exam" to be able to drive with your parents. It just so happened a girlfriend sat nearby, blinking codes to me as the instructor looked the other way.  I raced out with my 365 and entered the world of driving.  I was on hyper-drive, blond, and fearless.

Years later, my best friend said she had been terrified every time I drove her somewhere.  When asked why she didn't tell me, she answered, "But you were cool. So cool."

Mom and Dad signed me up for driver's ed; the cheap version through the highschool. The instructor was someone doing community service and we ate him alive.  All we wanted was to get behind the wheel.  When I finally got my hands-on lessons, the instructor realized I could go forwards, but not backwards.  A sort of backwards driving dyslexia.

Nor could I park.

In fact, throughout my driver's test I failed every parking test: parking on a hill, parallel parking, parking between yellow lines.  I even parked wrong when we got back to the ministry's parking lot.

But I passed.  He said, "As long as you keep driving, you're fine.  Just don't stop."

In other words, I am a great driver.

But he must not have tested me on driving backwards since I have reversed into quite a few things over the years.  My in-laws love to point out that I have backed into my sister-in-law's car (making quite a dent), my sister's car (who ignored the dent), my sister-in-law's again, and then my sister's again. (And no, not all on the same day).

The other day my son came in the house and exclaimed that someone had shoved mud into the back of our car.  I ran out and sure enough the tail pipe, the trailer hitch, and major parts of the back bumper were filled with dirt and grass, and some had fallen on the driveway.

I searched around the yard and in the car for other damage, but even the change drawer was untouched.  It was a random act of violence and I had stupidly left the gates open the night before.

Sigh.  "Don't tell your dad," I said, "he'll just blow it out of proportion." There was nothing I couldn't tidy up and no damage had been done.

But I forgot.

That night, there was a huge, red Mr. Man freaking out in the backyard about vandals, etc.  The kids ran and hid, and every neighbourhood teenager felt a shiver up their backs.

Then suddenly, all was quite.

He came in the house and approached me where I was working and trying to ignore the commotion.

"Did you back into something?" he calmly asked,

Bing! A light went off in my head. "Um, yeah," remembering a certain embankment I hit the night before, "I guess I did."

And he turned on his heels, left the room, mumbling words like, "crazy", "insensible", "constant", and I went back to what I was doing, truthfully unsurprised by my actions.  Twenty years of driving, and I am still that 16-year-old, on hyper-drive, blond (highlights) and fearless.

And so I keep on driving forward....

Little Miss and the Head Cold: The Queen of Determination

At seven-years-old, I am continually stumped at Little Miss's determination.  Her terrible two's turned into three's, four's...and now seven's. And nothing deters her, not even a cold:

Every time Little Miss gets a head cold it always goes up into her ears.  I tell her to stop sniffing up her nose, that it will go into her brain, but she knows I am making it up.  

(I tend to do that. I told her once at the EEG department, the technician was going to take her brains out and put in a little hamster on a wheel.  And after asking me the millionth time about my childhood, I told her I was an orphan who got locked in a closet for years.  Mom didn't appreciate it - but Little Miss called my bluff every time and just rolled her eyes at me.)

Anyway, colds do go into her ears and create a great deal of pressure, making her hard of hearing.

On this particular day she was still having trouble hearing after two weeks of the sniffles, but she was in a good mood.  I figured her ears were plugged, and on the verge of an infection if we did't deal with it.  So I pulled out the decongestion medicine, but like any kid, she hated it. Unlike those other kids, she's got hot red hair and a fiery will to match.  Often, I just give up.

But she seriously couldn't hear, no matter how many times she tried to fake it.

Mr. Man and I were sitting on the couch with Little Miss in between us.  There was nothing noisy going on, he was checking his facebook (what an addict - seriously!), I was reading a book for geniuses (ahem), and our son is eating pancakes in the kitchen.  Mr. Man has yet again impressed us with his pancake mastery.

At one point our son steps into the living room and asks, "is anyone going to eat the last pancake?"

As Mr. and I both shake our heads no, Little Miss shouts, "pardon?" looking carefully at her brother's face (reading lips...hmm).

"Does anyone want the last pancake?" he asks again.

She smiles, the epitome of goodness, and pleasantly says, "Oh, yes, there's room!" She pats the couch beside her, tosses the pillows aside, and makes room for him on the couch immediately.

I hid my grin and looked at Mr.  I couldn't bare to tell her she'd heard wrong - she was being so kind -  so much so that I moved over for him, despite knowing he didn't even want to sit down.

Mr. Man interjected, "Did you not hear what he said?" looking down at her beside him.

"Yes!" she perked up, "he asked if there was room for him on the couch."  Big smile.

Really? I thought. That did not even sound like "last pancake"!

When he told her what had really been said, he and I burst into a fit of giggles. We just couldn't help it.

Little Miss quickly covered her face in embarrassment.  But instead of becoming furious, she suddenly looked up.  I assumed she realized her game was up and she would have to admit she couldn't hear.  

(Ultimately meaning I was right - just saying).

But, of course, instead of admitting anything, with a determined twinkle in her eye she exclaimed,

"I am still not taking the medicine!"

Sigh.  The bottle stayed in the cupboard, a waste of $13.99.

Ah, even when proved wrong there is no bending of her determination.  Let's hope she will always stand up for the good guy. Whatever side of a cause she'll be on, it will be the winning side.

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.

Excerpts from Christmas 2013

Santa has been and gone, we have a huge stack of wrapping paper, one child is down and out sleeping through lunch and the other is already bored.

Ah, Christmas.  The season of ups and downs, expectations and disappointments, and yet, the warm glow of an electric fireplace and hot cider brings everyone to a calm medium.  The hope of a ridiculously expensive doll and a remote control truck lingers in the air as we watch A Muppet Family Christmas on the macbook pro.

On the night of our church service, when presented with a new dress, Little Miss exclaimed, "Oh, I love you, Mom! I love Christmas! I love church! This is my favourite day!"  Hugging and hugging and more hugging.  She loved this day.

Of course, later, when told no to something unreasonable, she officially "hate[d] this day!"

*****

Christmas Eve night we gathered up the stockings and a plate of cookies for Santa. "Are you sure he will like these cookies?" my son asked.  They were gluten-free after all (and really did taste awful).

"Of course he will!" boasted Mr. Man. I suggested Santa may be gluten-free himself. After dunking them in chocolate and sprinkles, the kids were satisfied with their presentation.

Poor Santa. They still tasted awful.

*****

Early the next morning at 6:30am there was a loud thump on the roof.  I thought it was the dog making noise, Mr. thought it was ice cracking, but the kids were certain it was Santa.

They ran downstairs to discover he had indeed been there, despite the wailing and begging for forgiveness that came from my son a few days before.  He had been certain he would just get coal in his stocking.

"It is God you need forgiveness from," I told the weeping boy,"and your sister. God is bigger than Santa," I said to him.

He cried out, "but I am SO BAD, and I can't help it.  I am always hurting her." And he promptly covered his head with his bed blankets and prayed like I've never heard him pray before.

Two things happened after that.

1. His sister stood her ground upon his next threat.  Her roundhouse caught him in the neck before he had a chance to pummel her, sending him crying to his mommy.  
2. His prayers were answered.  There was indeed no coal.  He received the remote control truck he'd asked for.

I won't mention the tears that came after he drove it down the stairs.  Sigh.

*****

Christmas 2012 had come with a cold so bad, my mother-in-law sent me to bed and I slept through most of the day and the next.  Looking back I realize that was the most stress-free Christmas I have ever had.  So this year I worked hard to stay calm, and on my feet.  Luckily, as I told Mr. Man, "in my family I am the only anal-retentive one.  The rest of them couldn't care less."  So I did not run around spending my hours cleaning the house or cooking turkey.  The kids helped cook and bake, and when two whole eggs dropped on the floor, I managed to keep cool.  Everyone pitched in and brought food - to my surprise - and everything was gluten-free except my Christmas Quiche and mom's Mince Meat Tarts.  Some things are just too good to change. It would be so wrong.

Later, during the flurry of shredded wrapping paper, squeals of delight at the gifts of LEGO, Christmas socks and a case of beer, we all stopped in shock as someone or something thumped down our stairs (not the remote control truck this time).

"I'm okay," said a tiny, three-year-old voice that promptly burst into tears.  You can't have a family gathering without some drama. With magical hugs and soothing words, she was fine, and the flurry of shredded wrapping paper continued with squeals of delight at the gifts of Old Navy sweaters, car seat covers and a bottle of wine.

More tarts, nibblies and coffee, and we were exhausted.

All in all a perfect day.  Everyone got along, we handled the bumps, bruises and tears with patience and love, and no one missed out on anything.  Despite the short time we've known of Little Miss's food intolerances, my family, who love food, had embraced the challenge and came well equipped to keep our seven-year-old happy, fully fed, and pumped up with as much sugar as the rest of them.  It touched my heart.  And my sweet tooth :)

Now that the tree is down and the house seems so empty, I still hold on to that day.  Arguments will come and certainly discontent and self-absorption is just around the corner, but for a few hours, with the gifts of food, thoughtful presents and a huggy family, we know we are capable of pulling it together.  I hope to have many more days like this.

*****

At the end of the day my son went back to driving his remote control truck, and Little Miss sat and stared at her ridiculously expensive, well commercialized doll she'd been asking for all month, and said,

"What am I to DO with it?"

Sigh.

Oh, yes.  The joys of Christmas.

Erin