When Closets Attack or Hurry, Get Mommy the Phone I might Need to Call 911

It started off as any ordinary Saturday.  Maybe a bit later than usual, as the kids slept in.  I got everybody set up with their breakfast and was getting started on the laundry that had been calling my name all week long.  I decided that I should probably get my stuff put away so I'd have an extra empty basket.  I got upstairs and started sorting out what needed to be hung up, what was going onto the shelf, and what needed to go into drawers.

As I started to hang up a couple of skirts there was a colossal noise.  I yelled.  The shelf crashed.  There I was, pinned against the opposite wall, buried in not so folded anymore clothes, and pinned by a 9'9” particle board shelf 16” in depth.  We all know how freaking heavy particle board is right?  It had twisted when it ripped off the wall and had wedged sideways into the end walls of the closet.  It seemed the more I tried to get out the more stuck I got.

The kids came running, the cat came running.  Next up was, “oh my goodness, mommy are you okay?”  “What happened?”   “Holey Moley!”  This all happened around 10:30-10:45 or so.  I still didn't know how I was going to get out.  My hips were pinned and my arms weren't quite long enough to reach around the shelf and get it unattached from the clothes rod, partly because I couldn't bend with the way my hips were trapped.  How is it I get myself into these kinds of predicaments?

I managed to kind of pull myself sideways over the shelf and clothing and get out of the closet.  As I stood there surveying the damaged walls and piles of clothing and shelf and broken plastic brackets, I felt like I was watching an episode of hoarders.  You know, the ones where you can't go anywhere in the house with out stepping on something or other.  My sorted, colour coded, seasonally organized closet was in an absolute shambles.

I am fairly certain I have never seen a spa menu with particle board exfoliation as an option – I wouldn't recommend it if they did.  My right arm was skinned and bruised.  The tops of my thighs were skinned and bruised.  I'm thinking I'll have various bruises showing up over the next few days that I will be attributing to my closet massacre.

Took me almost two hours to wrestle my way through the mess.  I used storage boxes to put my semi-folded clothes into and laid the stuff with hangers over a side table in the bedroom.  Got my tape measure out and made some diagrams with measurements.  Around 2:00pm we had a field trip to Home Depot.  You can do it, we can help.  Yeah, right!  Got great directions for where to go in the store for what I needed.  Explained to service reps what had happened and what I needed and away I went, with “all” my kids in tow.  I have three and I get, “are they all yours?”  Uh, yeah, my amazing circus that comes to town everyday.

Got home at about 3:00pm and started pretty much right away trying to get my closet back to rights.  By 5:00pm I was starting to hang things up again.  I was feeling pretty good about myself when it came crashing down.  AGAIN!  Noooooooooo!  This cannot be happening. bI had all the right tools and anchors and screws and level and tape measure and seriously.  SERIOUSLY!  How is it that I can possibly trap myself in my closet twice in one day?  More bruises, this time blood, and give it an hour and I managed to blister the back of my hand with boiling water making supper.  So NOT my best day ever!

Went on ahead and had myself one those ugly cries.  You know, tears and snot and great racking sobs.  Defeat sucks.  Then I gave myself a good ole pep talk, suck it up, put on your big girl panties, deal with it, and hollered for my husband.  Bless his soul, he comes up and takes a look and says, “hmm, well, it didn't hold.”  Yep, those were my first word too!  No, are you okay?  He just stands there looking at the walls, pretty much destroyed.  Screws and anchors ripping out of walls is kind of like the opposite of a demolition hammer.  It really is a mess.  He helps me get the shelf and the clothes rod out and I have decided that at this point I am done.  I will try again.  Tomorrow or the next day or the next.

Maybe I should be on those Rona commercials.  The ones where it isn't done right.  The big guy in the plaid shirt screwing up all his home renos.  I will not let this closet get the best of me.  I will prevail.  By all that is (I don't know – fill in the blank), I will fix this.  Or end up in the emergency ward trying.

I am trying to find something to be grateful for right now, but having a hard time.  I am grateful that I have clothes.  I will be really grateful when I have somewhere to put them.

We be jammin' . . .

We made jam today.  Yesterday we picked berries and today, after several hours we have more than enough to fill the freezer and to share.  There would have been several more batches, but I ran out of sugar and jars.  Restocked tonight before I came home from work and am ready to get going again tomorrow morning.  Seven pounds of raspberries and six pounds of strawberries go a long way.

It wasn't one of my brightest moves – suggesting we trek out the U-pick at Dreideger Farms, but we did it.  Perhaps not so smart today suggesting we start the jam making process.  It's been between 29 and 31 degrees these last few days.  I was sticky, sweaty, hot mess by the time we were done.  I told the young fellow at the weigh in station that it felt like my sweat was sweating.

I remember making jam with my mom.  Crush, stir, wait, stir, pour, seal, wait.  Sometimes, if it was a cool enough day, she'd make fresh bread and we always had fresh butter.  When it was all said and done we'd get to have a good size slice of fresh bread slathered with butter and jam.  Oh, sweet summer bliss.  When I tell my kids the stories they can hardly believe it.  There are always lots of questions and comments.  They enjoy it when I talk about things I did as a kid and that once upon a time their bamma made jam.

Making jam is like creating a little miracle in jar.  You get everything ready and then you say little prayer that it'll set.  I have had batches not set – still tastes as good, just really, really, really runny.   Part of my prayer is also just thanks and gratefulness that I have the means to make jam in the first place.  And now that my kids are bit older I have this wonderful opportunity to create these great memories with them.  They get to be part of the crush, stir, eat, stir, pour, seal, and wait.  The waiting is hard for them so I gave them each a spoonful of un-jarred product.  The looks on their faces was priceless.  When they realized that we had created something, and that they had helped, it was as though a light had turned on in their eyes.

Back to the miracle in a jar – you start with a few simple ingredients.  Berries, sugar, pectin, lemon juice.  On their own, enjoyable and or useful.  Put together – amazing.  Sweet, sticky, mouth watering goodness.  Sunshine in jar – a mini miracle.  When it sets, it's berry perfection.  And then, depending on how much you manage to make, you get to enjoy it over and over and over again.  One little jar at a time.  Reliving the special memories you made.  Good times and happy memories.

As I was setting jars aside to fill I noticed something that brought happy tears.  Last summer my grandpa gave me a bag of jars.  They were my grandma's.   In doing something that brought such great memories and stories, this was like an extra little hug from heaven.  My heart ached a little and then it smiled.  I was holding a jar that grandma used before she forgot.  She always had a huge stock of jams, jellies, and canning that we would get to choose from whenever we visited, which was often.  More wonderful memories.

Regardless of the heat, I am so grateful that I got to make yummy jam and even better memories with my kids.   I am thankful that we can do things like this together and that maybe someday they will make jam with their kids and remember making jam with me.

Celebrating - eight years . . .

July 17, 2004.  My anniversary.  Our anniversary.  Jim's and mine.  Eight years.  Doesn't seem like that many, and yet it kind of seems like it's been forever and still not long enough.  So how did we end up together?  What made me choose him?

Back in 1997 we met for the first time.  I made him a library card.  I was 21 and he was 35.  I really thought he was super cute and friendly.  He spoke really well of his family and had been talking about flying with his niece to Fort Lauderdale.  He talked about taking care of his mom.  I was crushing pretty good on him.  However, in the back of my mind, I kept thinking, “never going to happen.  He's to old for me and my family will not likely approve.”  So I put what I thought were foolish feelings aside and we developed a friendship of sorts.

It went along with us meeting up for an occasional cup of coffee or lunch together.  Visiting, laughing, enjoying each others company and then going our separate ways.  I would recommend books for him to read and it gave us more to talk about.

In 2002 I transferred to another location.  I had a couple of weeks left in Walnut Grove and was hopeful he'd come in.  By my last week I'd given up hope of seeing him.  We hadn't exchanged numbers (I could have easily gotten his, but didn't want to go all stalker-ish) so I had no way or reason to contact him.  I figured, if he'd wanted me to call he'd have given me his number.  It's a girl thing.

Little did I know, my supervisor had seen him and told him that I was leaving.  He came in on my last day, late in the afternoon.  Nothing like leaving something down to the wire (that should have been a sign of things to come).  When I saw him, it was as though my heart was about to leap form my chest.  He came, he came, he came.  Ba-bump, ba-bump, ba-bump, went my heart.  His words, “I don't think I can keep coming here and not ever see you again.”  S-A-Y W-H-A-T???  Okay, ummm, yeah!  There was a fair bit of thought gathering going on.  He wanted to stay in touch with me.  Then it was, “maybe we can go on date sometime or something?”  Or something!  Yipeee!  And then, “Oh crap.  I have to tell my dad.”

I shouldn't have worried.  My dad, my mom, my grandparents, they all loved him.  By December 2002 we had each met the families.  And he was telling me he loved me.  Well, whaddya know.  I loved him right back.  Still do.

I loved how he took care of his mom.  I loved that he had great relationships with his siblings.  His friends were great people.  His nieces and nephews adored him.  I watched him develop relationships with my family and my heart smiled.  He was willing to come to with me to worship services any and every Sunday that he didn't have to work.  He promised me he would continue to do this with me and with any kids we might be blessed with.  That was the clincher.  I knew I could easily spend the rest of my life with this man.

We exchanged our vows on July 17, 2004 in front our closest family and friends.  I would do it all over again.  My grandpa officiated and I will never forget how special that memory is to me.  I will also never forget how crazy hot it was.  About 42 degrees.  Whose dumb idea was it anyway to get married on the hottest day of the year in the Fraser Canyon?  His poor mom (she looked beautiful) was wearing polyester.   My dear friend Lisa was 12 weeks pregnant and my sister was three weeks postpartum.  Our friends and families were all half-cooked by the time it was all said and done, but I have to say, next to the births of my children, BEST DAY EVER!   And yeah, the wedding, it's just a day.  The marriage, we're working on our lifetime.  And it just keeps getting better.

I am so grateful that he chose me.  Grateful that I was given the opportunity to choose him.  Grateful that we get to share this journey together.  Walking together, side by side, holding hands, forever (and no, forever, is not long enough).

I am standing in the ocean . . .

So there I was.  Standing in the ocean.  Looking out and all I could see was ocean and sky.  I could feel the water rushing around my legs and I could hear the pounding waves.  I inhaled and sighed.  Salt water smell – there is nothing like it.  The sun was shining and warm breezes were blowing across the beach.  I felt quite insignificant.  A speck on the horizon.  If you squint really, really hard you might see me from the beach wall (I was having trouble seeing where I had parked the umbrella).

Yep, a dot.  A grain of sand.  Then my thoughts led me down another path.  In order for there to be a beach there needs to be a whole lot of sand.  Each grain is important.  Individually, a grain.  Side by side by side by side, and on – a beach.  A place of bliss and contemplation.  Joy.  Excitement.  Adventure.  Discovery.

I stood in the water in awe of this gift we have been given.  Caretakers of earth and each other.  Each one of us alone, perhaps not so significant.  Together, a force to be reckoned with.  That I can stand in an ocean and look at the horizon and know that in God's eyes, in my husband's eyes, in my children's eyes, I am important and significant.  In the whole scheme of things, a grain.  In my family, the glue.  This isn't me trying to make myself more important than I think I am.  However, I do know, in my family, I am the glue.  I am the packer of the suitcases and shoes and jackets.  I am the orderer of the meals in restaurants.  I am the kisser of the boo-boos.  I am the lunch maker and laundry washer.   I think my family could manage without me, but there would be a lot of adjusting that would have to be done to get things working the way they do now.

Sometimes, as women, as moms, we discredit ourselves and our worth.  How sad that when asked what we do, we respond with, I'm just a stay at home mom?   Or I do this and that and I'm a mom.  I am trying, just for myself, to respond – I am a mom!  I am doing the most important job right now.  I am growing my kids well.  They will be the next generation of the beach.  My little grains of sand that are worth more than all the gold in the world.  Each with their own gifts that they will take with them and share with others. 

I am standing in the ocean and I am grateful.  Grateful that my feet carried me.  Grateful that I am part of something so vitally important.  Grateful to be blessed so fully.  I am standing in the ocean.

Island holiday in brief . . .

Holidays are great, holidays are fun.  Holidays are for everyone.  Maybe not the faint of heart.  My general theory of packing is to make sure I have enough because I really don't want to have to do laundry while we are holiday-ing.  The last thing I want to be doing is looking for and sitting in a laundromat.  It never fails that I end up packing way too much.  Jim is pretty simple.  It grosses me out, but I guess it's a guy thing.

We spent a day walking around the harbour in Victoria and took one of the harbour taxis across and back to the popular fish and chips shop.  A full day at the Royal BC Museum.  Part of day three traveling to Parksville and then hanging out with the critters at Little Qualicum Cheeseworks Farm.  Two days (full days at seven plus hours) on Rathtrevor beach.  And one day hiking around Little Qualicum Falls and exploring Coombs Market (the place with the goats on the roof).

That was the simplified version of our holiday.  I found myself watching my kids and thinking about all the times we visited the island with my family.  And about my honeymoon.  We spent time in Tofino, Ucluelet, Parksville, and Victoria almost eight years ago.  Watching my kids in their excitement makes the sleepless nights and early mornings so worth it.  Seeing their joy when they come across a shell or a sand dollar.  Watching deer walk across the motel parking lot.  All the different coloured moths and butterflies. S macking a beach ball around the pool.  Each of them flying their kites, tyring to see whose was higher.

At one point on the beach, Ava and Ella had dug a small lagoon.  Ava laid down in it quite proudly.  When she got up, she said to me, “mommy, where is the sand?”  My response was, “where isn't the sand?”

I think the funniest thing was when we arrived back on the mainland.  We were about 15 minutes out from the ferry terminals.  I turned around to check the kids.  All three were asleep - heads lolling, drool running, and itty-bitty snores emanating from the back seats.  I guess they were about as tired as I am feeling.

I am feeling so grateful for our time away and so grateful to also be home again.  I'm always glad for the opportunity to get away and just be together with my family without having to do all of the everyday household tasks.  However, it's nice to be sleeping in my own bed and knowing that I will be waking up in the morning at home.  It's almost like my body is sighing with bliss right now.

Sneak attacks and cattitude . . .

Our cat Clement has attitude.  A major dose of “cattitude.”  More on that in bit.

I need to write about my son.  How incredible he is.  Incredibly wild could be an apt description, however, I choose to use the words “all boy.”  This is good thing.  If he was only partly boy, I'm not sure what that would look like.  He is dirty – all the time.  He smells like dirt and sweat and sunshine and rain, depending on the weather that particular day.  He has a really difficult time focusing on any one task.  Think of the movie UP.  The dog is talking away quite animatedly when all of a sudden he just barks out, “SQUIRREL!” and runs off.  That is my Ryan.  I tease him and and call him “squirrel boy.”  When I do, he knows he needs to listen to me.

Because he is a boy and is also very physical – thinks arms legs, hands and feet constantly in action – I will wrestle with him.  I know, not really a girly thing to be doing, but I know he needs that outlet sometimes and I can handle whatever he dishes out, whereas his sisters cannot.  So I'll say to him, “hey, you need some love?”  He perks up because he knows we can get carried away and just tackle each other for a bit and there won't be any punishment for his actions.  I do encourage him to be careful , cause sometimes, yes, it really does hurt.

The other night we were wrestling and pillow fighting.  Ryan figured a running start with the pillow might give him an advantage when it came time to follow through on contact.  He went running into the family room and ran from one end of the house to the other.  Clement was observing the activities and was just staying out of the way.  After a couple of passes through the house Clement launched at Ryan from the back as Ryan went by.  It was pretty funny.  Here's this barely two pound cat, launching a sneak attack from behind on a kid who outweighs him by more than 60 pounds.  I was gutting myself laughing.  Ryan came running a second time through and Clem launched at his front, attached himself to Ryan and proceeded to attack Ryan's groin area.  Being the ever concerned mother, I doubled over laughing hysterically.  Here's this kid running across the room with this cat attached to the front of his pants.  I almost wet myself I was laughing so hard.

It got me thinking about my little brother Levi.  He slept upstairs with us as kids and when he'd wake up during the night, like us, he'd have to make the trek downstairs to mom and dad's room.  Soggy diaper, wooden stairs, dark of night.  Pitter, patter, sit down, step, step, slide, bump.  We had a not very nice Siamese cat at the time.  I never witnessed the attacks, but squealing occasionally woke us up.  There Levi would be, sitting on the steps, scooting down on his bum.  The cat lying in wait.  Listening for each step, slide and bump.  There were thirteen steps.  Then he'd have to walk along the wall and across an open area between the dining room and the utility room to get to mom and dad's door.  The attack usually happened at the end of the wall.

Cattitude.  My word for a cat with attitude.  Clement holds a grudge.  If you torment him, he doesn't forget.  He just waits for an opportune time to seek out his revenge.  You can be sitting quite peacefully on the couch and all of sudden there are pains shooting from your foot radiating outward and up.  This sneak attack usually has some yelling and possibly a flying cat.  Other times, it can end up being a head attack.  At night, if the door is left open, any limb that is not covered by a blanket is fair game (I am concerned that we may not have given him an appropriate name – Cujo might have been better suited to his demeanour).  Ryan has done his fair share of tormenting Clement and I knew it was only going to be a matter of time.  As I was watching our crazy cat launch itself at my son, it reminded me of his uncle enduring similar attacks in the late night hours.  I'm waiting for the night it happens to Ryan, I really believe it will.  Our house will be awoken by squeals of fear and perhaps also pain.

I am grateful for antics that lead to great belly laughs.  I am grateful for the times I can physically engage with my son.  Bonding on a whole different level.  And I'm grateful for our crazy cat.  He's so entertaining.