I'm gonna soak up the sun . . .

Alarm blasts.   Tired arm reaches over and slaps it off.  Okay, time to get up.  It seems my get up and go is gone this morning.  Turn the TV on real quick to check the weather.  Snowing.  Hard.  In Vancouver.  Get out of bed and open the curtain.   Clear.  Clear!  What?  Was expecting white.  Okay, so today we will walk, finally, after a week of at home sick, we will be walking.  Yay!  Now where did my motivation go?

Breakfast.  Teeth.  Hair.  Kids changed.  Stroller.  Shoes.  Mittens – it's cold.  Coats.  Hats.  Check, check, check and check.  Good to go.  And cue sunshine.  SUNSHINE!!!  It's a grey black colour out towards Vancouver, but here, this morning, for our walk, there is sunshine.  More yay!  And we're off.  Because it's Wednesday, we're dodging trash cans and recycling bins.  That's okay though, cause there's sunshine.  And it feels so warm and good after the last week of sick in my house.  We get to the lights and say our “good mornings” to Mrs. Van (short for I can't remember, but that's what she goes by).  Up the hill at a pretty good clip and cue kids complaining that they're too hot.  It's probably about two degrees, but in the sun with all our gear on, we're getting warm.  Off comes my vest layer and the kids start unzipping their coats and taking off their hats and mittens.  Get to school – on time even.  And start making our way home at a more leisurely pace.  I can actually listen for the birds chirping happily away at each other.  It's just so nice to feel that warm sunshine on a day when it was “supposed” to be raining, this is loveliness.

I thought about how incredibly we are put together.   Lungs working to bring in oxygen and put out carbon dioxide.  Heart pumping.  Brain sending signals to legs and feet.  Keep moving.  Bits of exposed skin absorbing vitamin D.  It was like my very own happy pill this morning when I needed it.  And now, here at home, showered and coffee'd, it is grey again out there.  But that's okay, I got my dose for the next day or two and I'll just keep remembering how lovely it was and be looking forward for the next sunny day.

My new toy :)

I bought a new toy.  I BOUGHT A NEW TOY!  I have buyers guilt.  It arrived in the mail yesterday and now I need to figure out how it works.  It's an e-reader.  I have been looking for a while for a good deal on one and I found it about three weeks ago.  That's how long it took from the time I ordered it for it to actually arrive.  Three weeks of second guessing myself.  Three weeks of buyers guilt.  Three weeks weeks of, “what have I done?”   It's here now and I have no idea what to do with it.  What was I thinking?

I love reading.  My love of reading led to the love of my life, my husband.  We met over books and fell in love with each other over Harry Potter.  Love can happen in libraries too!   And we both are still, when we have time, very avid readers.   He likes Stephen King and I'm more into Maeve Binchy, but we both really liked Harry.

I will still pick up books.   There is something about a new book.  The smell, the feel.   Being the first person to break the spine (there is a proper way of doing it too!).   Having this new toy does not, in any way, mean that I am going to give up the real thing.  It just means I am going to be more selective about the titles I want hard copies of.

This little toy can hold 10,000 books on it.  With an SD card – 30,000!   If I can read 30,000 books in my lifetime that would be a feat.  Right now, I'm lucky sometimes if I can finish even a magazine article.

So, my new learning curve begins.  I totally get why my dad hates new stuff (technology).  It's so much to learn and try and remember.  I can remember in high school telling the school counselor, “I don't need to take computer classes.  I hate computers.   I will never, ever work with them.  Don't make me have to take this class.”   Thanks, Mrs. Houston, for making me learn about computers.

Anyway, I need to go and read the online manual now and figure out what I'm doing.

A very long day indeed . . .

Ever have one of those inside-out up-side down kind of days.  A day that's halfway gone before you realize that you put your underwear on inside-out or backwards.  Like, did I dress in the dark this morning? Nope, don't think so.  The expression “the more hurried I go, the more behinder I get.”  Nothing seems to want to go right, including my hair and my attitude.

There is more laundry than I can shake a stick at, dishes that need doing, toilets that desperately need cleaning.  And I have a library shift tonight.  It's being a long day today.   The husband has taken two short ones out to pick the other short one from school.   It's nice out – so they will play at the park for bit too.  An hour, one blessed hour to try and regroup, refocus.  A cup of tea, ahh.

Earlier, when the husband was letting Ava choose which movie to watch tonight (that's what they do when I'm gone, movie night with daddy) he informed them I would be leaving this evening to go to work.  There were two very sad faces.  A few shed tears and the old stand-by, “mommy, why do you have to go to work?”   My heart crumples a bit.  I know they are in good hands, their dad takes very good care of them, who better than myself.  Over the next couple of hours, “mommy, can you just stay home?”  “Please don't go.”  “Stay home with us.”  I am torn.   Mostly because I am incredibly tired today and would so much like to just curl up in my bed and stay there all day.  That can't happen, so, my response to the kids, “mommy said she would work when they called, so I have to go.”  Cue sad faces.  Supper is ready to go, school lunch and clothes for tomorrow, work clothes are laid out (can't put them on until I'm ready to put my shoes on cause I'll likely end up with something or other on me that I really don't want to be taking to work with me).   I feel like I've put in a full day and there are still more hours to go.

So, I am grateful in the knowledge that I have an amazing husband who is here to look after my kids so that I can go to work.  I am grateful that I have kids who are sad that I'm going and knowing that they are going to be excited to see me come home (hopefully they'll be sleeping when I get home, but you get the idea).   I have two jobs that I really enjoy.  Well, actually, I love being a mom to my kids and I enjoy working in the library. And, I am grateful that I have a home to return to that is warm and welcoming.

Tomorrow I'll try and get dressed with lights on.

Waiting for spring . . .

It's raining, it's pouring.  What a grey, grey, day.   I am fighting the melancholy this morning.   There are no birds chirping, but my kids are chattering at each other.  Occupied with crafts, finishing breakfast, watching a recorded episode of Survivor, my son cheering gleefully for the “boys team.”

Thinking about spring.  Looking at the calendar for what's to come.   Looking forward to some of it and not so much to other things.

Looking at the bare trees and my soggy, soggy yard.  Little patches of garden and flower beds that need some serious attention.  There are bulbs under there.  They are going to come up.  They're reliable that way, and persistent too.  They hang out in the cold, dark, frozen dirt all winter long.  The days start to get longer and the dirt starts to get warmer and those hidden bulbs start pushing their energy into those beautiful green shoots that will appear when the sun starts to shine it's face on my yard.  The bare branches of the trees will start showing their green little buds.  A renewal of sorts.  Signs that life continues on.  The cycles keep going.

Kind of like our own lives.  Death and birth, growing and changing and adapting.  Moving forward, maybe in different directions, but still moving forward.  Sometimes halting or being delayed because we get stuck or stumble on something, but still trying to go forward.  Taking that next step.

I am grateful.  Grateful that spring is coming.  Grateful that all that will come with it is going to be part of my walk.   Keeping watch and waiting for those first little shoots, the crocuses and then the daffodils, tulips, peonies, and pansies. 

Spring is coming.

For the birds . . .

Got the kids all sitting up and eating breakfast this morning.   Nothing terribly unusual about that.  In the process of getting my own breakfast ready I hear Ava, “My birdies are calling me!”  Ella turns to her and says, “They are not your birdies Ava.”  And Ava's reply, “They are my friends, Ella!”  My three year old has birdy friends.   Okay, well, we can add that to her imaginary friend named Carla-Dasha.  Should I be concerned?  Am I letting her watch too many Disney movies, in which the heroine talks and sings to the birds, squirrels, mice, rats, and other critters?

She has got the most amazing imagination and the innocence that goes along with it makes for an interesting combination.

I shouldn't be surprised that she thinks the birds are her friends and that she talks to them.  I talk to birds too.   It usually comes out though as yelling or muttering under my breath.  Especially at this time of year when all the little birdies are busily building.   Because at 4:00am, the cacophony is sometimes unbearable.   It has often led to deadly thoughts.  Namely, of me with a gun, pitted against the feathered fiends who've taken up residence in the trees surrounding our backyard.   Sounds hostile, no?

It leads me to thinking about how great it is that a child can be so in tune with the natural world around that she can express so freely “the birds are my friends.”  And then I know, I could never shoot anything.   The guilt over the fact that it even crossed my mind has me cringing.

Having grown up on a farm in the mountains, we had fields and trees, creeks and streams, trails, forts , and access to the river.  And a whole lot of nature.  And I am so grateful that my grandpa, my parents, and a couple of aunts and uncles still live there.  Because that means I still get to go home.  And talk to the dogs, cats, cows, and birds.   And I get to take my kids there.   It's the best place on earth.

And by the way, the background picture, taken from the logging road about three miles up the mountain from the farm's driveway.   I am so blessed.

You can make a difference . . .

Have you ever felt like you wanted to wave a magic wand and cure cancer?   Or had unlimited funds to pour into research to help find the cure?   In what seems like epidemic proportions, people in my life are getting cancer.  I don't know anyone who has not been affected by it directly or indirectly in some way.

So give me second to get up on my soapbox.

Alright, there is a project happening.  I was randomly selected by virtue of my postal code.  A letter in the mail asking would I please volunteer to be part of a study group for cancer research.  Let me think.  WELL YES!!!

So what's required.  A bit of my time to answer questions in health survey.  I can do that.  Some of my blood.  I can do that too.   Pee in a cup.  Well, having had three kids, I've gotten pretty adept at that, so okay, done.

What do I get.  The knowledge that I can help in way that is so incredibly simple and yet it could mean huge breakthroughs.  You know, lots of individuals making up whole.  As one, not so effective.  As thousands, well, let's get'er done.

British Columbia is making huge strides in cancer research and I can be an itty-bitty part of that.  So here is my war cry, “YOU CAN HELP TOO!”

If you are between the ages of 35 and 69 you can volunteer to participate.  It is sponsored by the BC Cancer Agency and funded in part by the BC Cancer Foundation.  And the Canadian Cancer Society has a nod in there too.

You can go to the website, it is http://www.bcgenerationsproject.ca for more information.  If you are not in the 35-69 age range, but know someone who is, please share this with them.  Share it with everyone.

Together we can make a difference!  I know, a total cliché, but hey, it works.

 

http://www.bcgenerationsproject.ca

Mommy's little helper . . .

My beautiful, bodacious, baby girl.  She is handful, my three year old.  When I try and scold her, she puts her hands over her ears.   When she is “pesting” her older siblings, she does it quick and then runs.  She has this incredibly expressive face that looks at me when I'm upset with her and just grins.  Little stinker.  It's hard to be serious and angry when she looks up at me with these dark brown, sorrow filled eyes, and says, “I love you mommy.”  Ya little stinker.  Ya got me twisted around your little finger, haven't ya?

I'll be folding laundry (trying anyway) and she'll come up and wrap herself around me in the same manner of those itty-bitty monkeys you see in the really cute pictures.  I can't move, it's arms and legs completely attached and not letting go.   And then she laughs.  What a glorious sound.   Pure, unadulterated joy.

I'll be trying to do dishes and she gets her counter stool.   “Mommy, can I be your special helper?”   “You want to help?” I ask.  “Yep, your special helper.”  Ohhh-kay.  And then, more water on her and the floor than in the sink.

I have to hire armed guards to keep her out of my coffee.   If I leave it unattended, for even a brief second, it's gone.  How can a three year enjoy coffee so much?

With Ella in grade one she is scheduled once a month to be the “special helper.”   It's a big deal.  We talk it up at home and it's exciting because she gets to share bits and parts of her life with her classmates.  Ava has picked up on the term and now every time she wants to help with something, it's “I can be your special helper.”

So, I have been blessed with a sassy, saucy, stinking cute, special helper.  She is teaching me to be more patient.  To be more gracious.  To pray harder than I've ever prayed before.  To absorb every single “special helper” moment and hold onto it.  Because someday, she will be a teenager.

An abundance of babies . . .

Young women in my life are having, or have recently had, babies.  Newness in tiny little fingers and toes.  Perfect little forehead, precious little nose.   The intoxicating smell of new baby, the excitement of the ones to come.  Life continues.

My three are beyond the newness, but the shine certainly HAS NOT worn off.  There are new things to discover every day.  Like my three year old discovering how to use scissors.  That went really well.  My four year old learning to print his name, with the letters in the right order facing the right direction.  My six year old losing teeth and being so giddy about the new gap in her mouth.  It's all so very exciting.

There were pangs of loss when my youngest turned three.  My heart wasn't quite ready for the exit from babyhood.  No longer a baby, but still my baby.  I think to myself sometimes, and sometimes verbalize to others, I would love to have another baby.  And then I shake my head and think, do I really want to start all over again?  Sleepless nights, standing upright against the wall in the wee hours.  That's about the only negative I can think of, but it's kind of a big one.  I DO NOT function well on little sleep.  My family can attest to that.  I turn into “crazy, scary, mommy.”  Not pleasant for anyone.

Having passed through it, without too much scarring (I hope), I can see that, for me, it is so much better on this side.   I have more energy to focus on each of my kids individually.   I can spend time with them doing fun things and teaching them and enjoying them.  And I do enjoy them.  Sure there are days where I wonder if I put them up for sale on e-bay would anyone buy them.  But, all in all, they are pretty great kids.  And they teach me things too, things I wouldn't have learned without them.  Like how to catch vomit with my bare hands.  This comes in handy when I'm nowhere close to a sink, toilet, or linoleum.

So to the new mommies in my life, just let me smell their sweet little heads.  That's it.  Just a whiff.  Just to take the edge off.  And maybe, if you can part with your precious little bundle, a wee little hold and snuggle.

Whatever I do . . .

So it came to me at 5:49am, “And the King shall answer and say unto them, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me.”  Matthew 25:40 - King James Bible translation.

As I was pulling sheets off of my bed, struggling to stay vertical after a night of Ava sleeping only 20 minutes of every hour, thinking about how incredibly tired I was, the verse struck me.  I cannot complain.  I am doing my best to do His work.  It was never my intention to use this as a preaching platform and it is still not, but this is who I am and what I believe and so I will share it with you.  I needed a reminder that I have to treat my kids like the amazing gifts that they are.  Given into my care by He whom I believe is creator of all things.  These perfect little creations that are throwing up all over me and my bed and the floor were made by Him and I need to respect that and treat them as the treasures that they are.

Coming to that realization had me saying a prayer of thanks that the illness will pass.  And then I found myself thinking about how grateful I am that I have children who are relatively healthy.  Which led me to thinking about all of the parents out there who are struggling and dealing with terminal illnesses or special needs children.  They are caring for their children daily in ways that I have only seen from a distance.

My parents fostered a boy who had cerebral palsy.  I watched them carefully carry him, spoon feed him, change his diapers, do physical therapy with him on a daily basis for, if I remember correctly, about a year.  My parents still had three other kids to look after, but they took him in and cared for him and loved him.  He was our brother for that year.   I still think of him as my little brother even though he is in the care of another family now and has been with them for twenty some years.  Having witnessed the extensive amount of care he required I can't even begin to try and equate it to what I do and what my kids require of me.

I would think that a parent of a child who has extra care requirements would go through a reevaluation process of some sort.  Taking care of basic needs and changing any, maybe all, expectations that they may have had for that child.  Family friends had a daughter with cystic fibrosis.  Every day they would pound on her chest and back and mix her enzymes.  In the backs of their minds thinking that the lifespan for CF kids was 24 years old. She is in her thirties now.

I know that the illness afflicting my children right now will pass, and so I express my gratitude to the Lord for their health.

And hope someday to hear the words “well done, good and faithful servant.”

Sick kids and rainy days . . .

I can remember so many times being so sick and my mom just kept taking care of me.  Tea, crackers, calamine lotion, tissues, chicken soup, another blanket.  She always took such good care of me.  And when I think of the number of times she had to wash my quilt, because I'd puked on it, I am amazed at the level of her patience and her continued care of me.

It's what we do, us moms.  We take care of little ones.  We wipe up vomit off the floor because short one didn't quite make it to the toilet or bucket.  We scrub unders in the sink cause whatever nasty bug has taken hold of our child has caused incontinence (the joys).  It's gross, but we do it.  We do it because we love our children and we don't want to see them suffering.  It's hard on their little bodies.  They are always so energetic and busy that the lethargy is kind of startling.   These unmoving little people whose energy stores are completely sapped.

As adults, we suck it up and carry on because there is still laundry, and meals, and cleaning, and chauffeuring to be done.  But, for me, it breaks my heart when my kids are sick.  All I can do to try and make them comfortable.  And try and not be in the line of fire when the projectiles start firing, cause being woken up at 12:30am to retching and a wet feeling all over my shoulder and chest is really unpleasant.  And the smell, oh the smell.  Full body shudder.

It's not always so gross.  And I know that the gross is not going to last.  A few days at best.  I stocked up on soft foods (tofu), popsicles, and fluids (my fridge looks like it could be on a pediatrics ward).   Bought some more Advil and Tylenol for their pain.  Now we wait it out.   Hope for the fevers to break and something, anything, to stay down for more than 15 minutes.

Boredom settles in quickly.  We watch TV.  Play with play dough.  Learn new card games on the floor.  Read books.  Puzzles.   Just taking it really easy.

And watching the rain come down. . .

And running around the house with a can of Lysol. I will vanquish you little viruses.

Is there a song in your heart?

I really enjoy music. I love to sing. I may not be America's next idol, but that's okay. If there is a song in there that needs to get out, it will.

I make songs up for my kids all the time. Using tunes from other songs I'll make up silly words. They think I'm pretty silly. I think they're probably right. It's just so much fun sometimes to belt em out. I think I sound better in the shower. There is something about the acoustics in a shower stall, songs just sound better.

My family, love them to pieces, will start singing a song.  They'll sing just the first few words, to see what will happen.  If I'm around, I usually will pick it up and carry it on.  Then they'll laugh, yeah, ha ha, you got me again.  I wonder how I can have so much brain space for songs. 

Being that it's so close to Valentine's it got me thinking about love songs. The funny, the sappy, the emotional. There are some songs that make me cry, laugh, sing really, really loud, or break out in crazy dance with my kids.

Toby Keith's “I wanna talk about me,” hilarious. The Beatles “All you Need is Love,” singing it loud. Faith Hill's “Breathe,” well, can't really go there. ;) Sonny and Cher's “I got You Babe,” from our wedding. We have each other, singing on our way. Maybe me more than he. Music, songs, beats, can lift us up, make us think, bring us together, on some universal level it gets all of us.

So, in Forrest Gump manner, life is like a jukebox, you never know what's going to play next. If there is a song in your heart, sing it loud. Feel like dancing like a crazy person, go for it (maybe do it privately so you don't get arrested).

I figure, I've got my babe, he's got me, we might not always be dancing toe to toe, but at least we're holding hands listening to, and being in, the music that is our life together.

Happy Valentine's Day or Can you feel the love?

It's what you make it. Sometimes in the making it, there is some work required. In the busy day to day it can be easy to stop, or pause, in the process of working on it.

For me, it has been illness sweeping it's way in and out, and around, and up and down the hallways of our house. But recognizing, that in the ministering to my children and husband, the love is still there.

So the other day, I said to my other, “kiss me like you mean it.” He looked at me quizzically. “Really, kiss me like you mean it!” I need to know right now that you can still make my toes curl. Yep, you can. Three seconds into a great kiss, short one comes walking into the foyer, where we were completely distracted by each other, and yells, “EEEEEWWWWWW!” Thanks for that. We pick her up, laughing, and make an Ava sandwich. Feeling the love.

There is an expression, idea, that circulated some time ago. The 10 second kiss. Maybe you've heard of it, maybe not. The idea being that you need to kiss your significant other for at least 10 uninterrupted seconds every day. Good idea right? I like it and it certainly makes us reconnect with each other every day. And that can't be a bad thing. So my new, and probably unattainable, goal (but a girl can try) will be to have my toes curled at least once a day until, by death, we are parted. Not maudlin, it was part of my wedding vows. And with it being Valentine's Day it makes me think about the vows I made. Love, honour, cherish. They are not big words, in fact, they're fairly simple words. And yet, there is a whole lot of complexity to them, depending on where and how they are applied.

All in all, I am blessed. I am loved, cherished, honoured. I may not get jewelry, or flowers, or chocolates, but I have his heart and he has mine and our kids and wonderful families keep them overflowing.

Feeling the love . . .

What's amazing to you?

I was watching a movie with my kids the other day. Mr. Incredible. You've probably heard of it, maybe even watched it (once or twice or twelve times). There's a part in the movie where Mr. Incredible comes home from work and is frustrated and angry and throws his car around in the driveway. When he notices a little boy on his tricycle he asks, rather angrily, “what are you waiting for?” And the little boy responds in his squeaky little voice, “something amazing I guess.”

Something amazing I guess. When I think about what amazing might be, I think of my grandparents, my parents, my husband's mom, my kids, the fact that I actually have kids, my sisters, my brothers, my aunts and uncles, my cousins, my friends. That's a great list of people. Each going along in their daily lives and being amazing in the simplicity of it all.

My mother in law brought six kids from China on her own and raised them by herself. Amazing.

My grandparents spent 63 years together, 75% of their lives, devoted to each other and to God and to their children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren. Amazing.

My husband who puts up with my mood swings :) amazing?

Friends who can lift me up with a hug and a laugh. Amazing.

I could go on, sharing stories of these amazing people in my life, but it would take way more time than I (or you) have. I am just grateful that I get to see amazing everyday!

Back in the day . . .that really wasn't so long ago

I worked yesterday. Let me clarify. I went away from my home, to a library, and got paid monetarily. I work every day at home. Being a mom, taking care of a husband, and a house is a major full-time job. It does not have me getting paid in a monetary fashion though. So I tend to get a little bit excited when I get the opportunity to actually leave the house to go to a job that I really like.

A story from my practicum days. Back in 1996, seems like half a lifetime ago, ha ha ha. I was working in a busy library in an area where there were occasionally sketchy folks that we got to deal with.

On the particular day that I will never forget, ever, in my entire life, I was training on the information desk. It was around lunchtime because I was alone, my coworker was on her break. We are trained to keep watch, see if anyone may need assistance with a computer or finding something. Observe customers, make sure no one is stealing anything, that sort of thing. Always watching.

The automatic doors open, a breeze blows through. I turn to see who might be coming in. The expression 'never judge a book by it's cover' has completely fled. Gone. There is a man walking across the foyer towards the desk I am at. He has rather straggly salt and pepper hair that is hanging in greasy strings down his face and neck. Pockmarked face. Tattoos up one arm and down the other, visible because he's wearing a leather vest over his wife beater t-shirt that has stains on it and I really don't want to know the what or the how of why they're there.

He proceed to sit, TO SIT, on my desk. My face is now level with a skull tattoo. I can sort of begin to tell you what I was thinking, but all real rational thought was gone. I try to ask him if I can assist him and it comes out as a squeak. I try again.  Great, got my voice back. Okay, “how can I help you?” I ask. And he says, get this, “You got any books about serial killers?” You think I jest. I almost fell off my chair when the fight or flight instinct took over. “Ummm, oh, yes, serial killers, uh huh, we do. Let me show you where they are. Were you looking for something on someone in particular? Jeffrey Dahmer? Clifford Olsen? Need I go on?”  Can I get my fingers to type what he's looking for?  I want to run and hide.  I take him to the shelf and leave, quickly.  Have at er, I think to myself and get me outta here.

Back in the day . . . once upon a time I was a newbie.

My Clean Fridge or Where did I put . . .?

I cleaned my fridge. No, I really, really, really, cleaned my fridge.

I remember helping my mom do this when I was a kid. Not a quick task.

We start with the emptying of the entire contents of the fridge and scatter them on every available surface of the kitchen. Fill kitchen sink with warm soapy water. Don't get distracted emptying fridge while water is running as this can lead to unnecessary mopping (nuff said).

Take all shelves and drawers out of the fridge and (try to) wash in the warm soapy water. This is almost equal to trying to bathe an elephant in a standard bathtub – doesn't quite fit. This can also lead to unnecessary mopping.

At this point, I am soaking wet. From the sink, from sweat, or a combination of both. Time to scrub the inside of the fridge. What is that and how did those get there are questions running through my mind as I go into “elbow grease” mode. I know that it was my husband who put too much congee (boiled rice soup) in a too small container. Not the most pleasant of stuck on foods to try and remove.

And how is it that gravity is not applicable to sauces/syrups? It literally crawls out of the jars it is in and takes over those door shelves. You know the ones.

Part of the reason for my fridge clean was an excerpt I saw on Dr.Oz. It was about making your house/kitchen/fridge work for you. And how, by reorganizing things in different ways, you can help yourself be healthier and maybe even thinner. We'll see how it works.  I could certainly do with thinner.

As much as I dislike this chore, it is so nice to open the door and see sparkly clean. I should do it more often and then, perhaps, it would not be quite so bad.  A job well done. I cleaned my fridge. Now to make lunch for my kids. Ummm . . . where'd I put that jar of mayo?

My Magic Mittens

I have a pair of mittens. Not just any mittens. They are kind of magical. Weird and crazy – you're thinking.

Before I tell you my mitten story I have to tell you about his amazing person who is a very dear friend of mine. She is in an epic battle right now. (and just so you all know, I asked her permission before I posted this) You might know someone who is also in an epic battle of their own. Some of you know my friend, she might also be your friend.

She is the reason for my magic mittens. They are pink. They have a pink ribbon embroidered on the back side of them. They're warm, even when they are soaking wet. Something about the magic properties of fleece and polyester combined.

I found out in October from my friend that she was going to be starting her epic battle and my heart broke. I had a lot of questions and mostly just felt like this really sucked for her and her family. And then I saw the mittens. I knew that as much as I wanted to help her through, there really wasn't very much I could do. Sure I can cook meals and move some laundry around and bring her flowers, but I can't make her better. Which is really what I want to do for her.

Back to the mittens. For every pair that gets purchased there is a shift. In research, in care, in help. For all the women out there waging their epic battles.

I wear mine pretty much every day. They remind me of my friend and how amazing she is. They remind me of how grateful and blessed I am to have her in my life and how lucky I am to be allowed in hers. They keep my hands warm and they are, in a small way, miraculously helping.

I dropped one the other day. Well, not so much dropped. It fell out of my pocket while I was helping my short legged son into the stroller on the uphill end of our walk to school. It wouldn't have been so bad, but for the fact that I ended up stepping on it in the mud puddle it landed in. Wet, muddy mess. I wanted to cry. I know, over a mitten, you're probably thinking. Why was I reacting like this? It was just a mitten. And yet, it wasn't just a mitten. This was my reminder of my friend. It was so disappointing and my heart was saddened. I wrung it out the best I could and put it back on. It was cold and icky and mud. In about two minutes though, it had warmed up. Yes, it was still wet, but it was warm! My hand was warm through the ick. Go figure, magic mittens!

I got home and put them in the wash. They're kind of two different colours now. One is it's lovely shade of pink the other kind of not, but it has way more significance now. A life analogy maybe. We go along, get roughed up a bit, knocked around, fall in the mud. Get up, dust ourselves off, carry on. We're not the same as we used to be. Hopefully we've changed in some positive way by our experiences.

So to my battle scarred friend, you are a superhero. I am amazed by you and my mittens are too!

From January 31, 2012

Ever remember getting fuzzy candies? You know, the ones that someone special dug around in the bottom of their pocket or purse for. Sometimes they were wrapped in tissue to keep them secure from rolling around in said pocket or purse.

My grandma used to keep them in a ziploc baggie in her purse. And if I was lucky enough to get to sit beside her in church, she'd share them with me. That was a big deal in my little kid mind. At the tea following her memorial service there were scotch mints on the table. I'm not sure who was responsible for getting them there, but thanks goes out for the memories evoked.

I took a handful. Actually, one of my cousins dumped half the bowl into my purse pocket. And now, a month later, my kids have found them. They are a bit fuzzy and dusty, but the kids still want to eat them. I dusted one off and put it in my mouth. And then the tears came. Special memories of an incredible woman. Am trying not to be melancholy, but I sure do miss her.

It's surprising sometimes how powerful emotions can come from such a simple thing as a candy.

From January 20, 2012

Moments of Loveliness with my Son
Drove Ella to school this morning. We were a bit late, roads were slippery, only a couple of uncontrolled slides.
I can remember as a kid having a runny nose and being handed either a wet, soggy, tissue or dry crusty one. What ensued was a great attempt to find a little piece of unsoiled real estate on that tissue. One dry little corner. One sandpaper free edge. I vowed to always have clean tissues. And mostly I do, and in the car there is a whole box - out of my reach.
I hear Ryan, "mommy, I need a tissue," then an inhale and blow sans tissue. I look in the rear view mirror. That was a mistake. Can I hear an ewwwwwwwwww? Parallel trails running down his face and where are the tissues? Right, yes, in the BACK OF THE CAR! Scrambling, trying not to slide off the road, trying desperately to not look in the mirror, reaching, finding, yes, a tissue! USED! Argh! I try to untwist it and hand it to my son apologetically. It does the trick. Go figure. Someday, maybe, he'll remember. Or not.
Have a fabulous, hopefully ick free, day!

From January 2 and 3 2012

 "The Toilet Seat Saga"
Once upon a time there was a broken toilet seat. Mommy of the house set about to replace said broken toilet set. Process was not going well. May have had similar results to that of sink plug/lever replacement that ended up in a trip to the Dr's office for a tetanus shot and accidentally ending up getting a pneumonia vaccination too. She had to call her dad. He brought a handsaw - it broke. Said broken toilet seat had been attached to the porcelain for so long it had become part of the porcelain.
The dad managed to remove the broken toilet seat and replace it with the new one. Great job dad!
Some days later, new toilet seat was getting wobbly. Mommy got under and behind the porcelain to tighten the bolts. Way to go mommy!
Some more days later, the seat got wobbly again. Mommy fixed it, again! And again, and again, and again, and again, and again. Needless to say, this toilet has got to be the cleanest toilet on the block, cause for the number of times I had to get underneath the thing.
Tonight, we get home, late. Mommy's little children are running around getting ready for bed and the whole FREAKING THING BROKE RIGHT OFF THE BOWL. The hinges snapped and poor child looked at mommy with fear. Fear about whether to use cold porcelain or go upstairs in the dark alone. Decisions, decisions.
Mommy pulled out her bag of "RECEIPTS OF THE YEAR" and found the Wal-mart receipt. So, in the morning mommy and two short people will be furthering the adventures of "Toilet Seat."
Quick fix - a couple of towels lining the rim with some duct tape to hold it in place. And no, I will not be taking a picture :) 

 

"The Toilet Seat Saga : Episode II"
Cost of repairing toilet seat is going up. Because with no lid on the toilet, all mommy's accessories (brushes, hair dryer, hair products) have easy access to the swimming hole.
Shortly after mommy removed the broken seat, oldest child tried to get her hair brush to continue with her bedtime routine. Hair dryer went swimming. Daddy to the rescue, but alas, it was too late.
Am off to a really great start.
Made it to Wal-mart with broken seat and receipt in hand. Friendly customer service clerk had a good chuckle. She was trying so hard not to laugh at the image of skinny, little Ella going sailing of the side of the toilet, it was all she could do to hold the snort in. She gave me the credit and I got a new (cheaper) one. Yay! It's installed, looks great, feels great, kids are happy, mommy is relieved :) pun intended.

From November (22, 2011)

Was awakened abruptly out of a Buckley's Nighttime (drug) induced sleep to a an absolutely tremendous commotion outside at 2:36am. Laid in bed shaking the haze away to realize that the storm had hold of our outside gate and was slamming it incessantly against the house. 2:39am decided that there would be no sleep for me if I did not get the gate closed. So there I am outside, in my nightgown, no shoes, trying to close a gate that is swollen from the rain and just does not want to fit where it is supposed to. Freezing rain shards are pelting my bare skin and I'm trying desperately to push the gate closed in a demure, always be a lady kind of way. Not working. Resorted to drop kicking the gate into place and latching it. Got to thinking that had there been a camera watching in that moment I would likely be locked away in a straight jacket. Crazy white lady taken into custody for assault and battery on garden gate. Got back to sleep around four. Hope I made you laugh and have a great day to all.

My arms are full. It's been a long day, so a short rest on the couch seems like such a good idea. I lay down, Jim is reading. Ryan comes over and says "mommy, I want to snuggle on you." He climbs up. I put my face in his hair. He smells like dirt, sunshine and little boy sweat. It's almost narcotic. I want to bottle it.

My arms are full. My Ella. Sweet girl who I don't see all day. We miss each other. She curls in my lap and tells me her day. I lay her in her bed and just look at her and take her in. I still see her sweet, precious, baby face. It's her eyes.

My arms are full. I am cleaning the kitchen. Dirty cutlery, dishes. I got to feed my family. Jim comes up behind me and I turn. He says, "thank you." I say "for what?" His reply, "everything." Wow!

My arms are full. Ava, who is going to be three tomorrow, has fallen asleep in my arms. Her hands are curled up under her chin. She has this soft sweet smell, it is deceptive because 30 minutes ago she was having a complete meltdown. She wanted to q-tip her own ears. I held her while she screamed at me. Her hair is stuck in little strands around her face. I wipe it away from her closed, dreaming eyelids, and lay her in her bed.

My heart is full. Of gratefulness. There is roof over our heads, clothes for my family, food to nourish. We are (mostly) healthy. I am blessed with a pretty great husband and three amazing kids.

My heart is overflowing!