Can't Sew. Drooling......well.... Google-ing.

Having recently PURCHASED A PINK SEWING MACHINE!! ... I think I may be ready to call it a life. This proud new owner has been Wasting ... Investing an impressive amount of time on the internet, and have yet to find that anyone else in the human world has a pink sewing machine by the name of "American Home". Never mind a PINK sewing machine that is also DELUXE, and has PRECISION!

Here's how it all went down. Our humble town has become somewhat of a suburb of late. We've got all these swanky new uptown developments with cul de sacs and fancy bay names and goose dropping lakes behind walk-out basements. Keeping up with the Joneses, so to speak, our humble little thrift shop started to feel a bit cramped and inferior. So it did what any good money scrimping Mennonite organization would do. It bought the old chicken murdering spot and covered the blood splatters and wet feathers with new carpet and lead paint. Then the volunteers and cast-off distributers hoarded stuff for a few months and carefully arranged it tidily in the killing-field-turned-mission-field thrift shop.

Much to my dismay, I couldn't make it to the grand opening on March 11. I did a great deal of deep breathing (and even considered deep knee bends but thought better of it), to ward off the stress- imagining all those less deserving people scooping up all the good stuff. As soon as possible, I did make my way downtown to check out the new digs. There, way up on a self above the fortrel fabric scraps was the most beautiful piece of machinery in the whole world. I almost had to walk away. The visual stimulation was too much, and I was already clutching the mother load of old carded buttons. "Self", I said. "This is a machine. This machine is much bigger than a button, or a bedspread that you could at least justify by turning into a Darfur bag or a summer tent, or a parasail or something. One does not simply wander into a store one day and pick up a sewing machine. It is not done. It is not sensible. It is not necessary".

And so I listened. I took my buttons home, played with them, lined them up, put them in a pretty coloured dish and feasted my eyes on them.

And then I thought about the pink sewing machine.

The following week, I went back into the store. I wandered around, chatted with the townspeople, kissed the babies, and pretended to be casual about the machine high up on the shelf. "Probably really heavy", I told myself. "You already have two sewing machines, you know. You've got your bernina- undeniably the least stupid thing you've ever invested in. You've also got your old black singer that came in the great old treddle cupboard. Now you're just being ridiculous. Go home, make some borscht or something".

So, once again I listened. All the way to the following Saturday- when some mysterious gravitational force propelled me back down main street, entirely against my will. I pretended to look at the dishes, the bedspreads, the toys, all the while knowing that I was being controlled by a force much greater than my own. A force so powerful, that I soon found myself not only standing beside the pink beauty once again, but reaching upwards to lay hands upon it. "Wouldn't hurt to look at it. I'll see that it's much too heavy to be sensible, that the price is inflated, and that the bobbin winder is hopelessly broken. Then I'll go home and do something sensible like sew nappies for the poor or something. On the two machines that I already have".

I got it down from the high shelf. I laid it on the floor. I chewed my cuticles. My heart began to sing and pound and I felt I could have danced all night. (but then I reoriented to time and place.... BAD idea.) There was a piece of fabric underneath the presser foot that indicated perfect tension. There was a lovely metal banner splashed across its bosom boasting "American Home". There was no price tag, so I thought it best to approach the manager. Surely she would see that I was interested in the thing and she would automatically inflate the price, being mindful of those far, far away mission places that needed my money more than I do.

She didn't.
She whispered "twenty-five dollars" into my hungry little ear.

I remembered that I had four children to feed, Easter lillies to buy, and soccer, basketball, flute, and youth retreat fees to pony up. I remembered whining about those very things only a few short lifetimes earlier. They rang emptily in my head at I gazed at that little vixen.
I simply had to have it. Sure, I had a white one, and a black one, but a PINK one? Never even seen such a thing. I remembered that $35.00 I had won in December for the local paper's writing contest. I remembered saying that I would use that money for something monumental, since I would always think of it as the first money I made piecing words together.

Surely this was providence.

Surely, this machine could not belong in any home other than this one. Not only is it precise, and deluxe, and pink.... it operates like a dream. I kid you not.

There are a few quirks. The foot pedal is not a foot pedal at all, but a knee pedal. In its original form, it came in a sewing case or cupboard and the pedal was mounted to the side for the right knee to operate. Because the cupboard is no longer in existance, but my determination is in season, and abundant... I spent some time learning how to hold the fabric with my left hand, and operate the pedal and the reverse button simultaneously with my right hand.

Might have to look into the feasability of grafting a third arm onto self.

Old Dog: New Trick

For an indecisive girl; I can make some pretty good decisions.

When I first embarked on operating a home daycare, I opened the door to any age and stage of child. I had a small group of kids who came here in the morning on their way to school, and I had another small group of children who came to spend their days with me. The mornings were very busy, and typically loud. The television would be on, the frying pans and milk would be out, and large children would be outside bottoming out the trampoline and wrecking my little tykes wagon. (yes, that's bitterness that you sense). Then summer would come along, and I'd have this disparent bunch of kids ranging from diaper-poopers to wagon-bashers. I did my best to grow an extra two brains, seven more arms, and rig up some sort of program that made the older kids think this was a stellar place to play, and make the younger kids make happy sounds instead of whiney, needy sounds.

Mostly, all eight of my heads would hurt, and I felt chronically incapable at following the bouncing babes.

I don't like to say "no". And I don't like to give the message of rejection.
But. I like liking my job.

So, I began to fine tune. First I received no more school age children. Then I encouraged the ones I had to find other arrangements. Then I just started chasing them down the street screaming unkind things like: dummy, yella-bellied snakeskin, sissy... and your mom. And I'd throw moldy baloney sandwhiches at them. Okay, I never did those last two things because I figured I wouldn't get great references that way, and that's what it's all about.

Slow and steady, those spots got filled with little people. My favourite. Kids who play puppy, think a walk is comparable to a week in Cuba, kids who are so secure in themself that they see no issue in pooping their pants, or puking on my $25.00 couch. I thought it was mostly all adorable, and much prefer it to wagon-crushing fifth graders. They think it's hilarious when I answer their "What's for lunch?" question with the politically incorrect retort; "Lips and bums!"

This morning at 7:00 am as I melted into the couch sandwhiched between a cabbage-patch faced little toddler, and a slobbering, furry little puppy, I revelled in the loveliness of it. I didn't miss the plate spinning mania of the years before. I didn't miss the couch lined up with big kids making fun of Sesame Street. In fact, the tv stayed off, and the house was so peaceful that I had to go wake up the daughter not once, but three times.

The puzzles and the blocks would be exciting enough entertainment today. As would animal crackers and fruit and veggie juice served in mini happy face mugs. No one would be bursting in the back door at 4:00 expecting a craft and a snack that rivalled what they'd had in their lunchbag hours back. My jokes would be funny enough, my videos wonderfully lacking in suspense.

No matter if I'm a late bloomer, it's mighily rewarding to get a little assertive, make some changes, and learn to say "no" when it's the correct answer.

What You See; What I See.....

What you see: A confused, disordered adult who spills her guts online endlessly.
What I see: An average human being picking up the puzzle pieces, day after day, and slowly but surely seeing a picture get put together. Not so different from you, your neighbor, and your paper boy.

You see a little boy who doesn't know his bum from applesauce. You see a little boy who is wearing bottoms on his noggin.

I'm seeing a whole lot of creativity, life, joy, and kids growing up happy and together.

What you see: An adorable puppy dog. Bringing play and love to the family. Endearing us all with her wide-eyed wonder and soft little puppy fur, and wiggy waggy tail.

What I see: A bum and a ureter. Just seconds from depositing puddles and poops here, there, and everywhere. Then running and hiding in the cupboard when I bellow in my most sincere sinister badgirl voice....... SHADOW!!!!!!!!!!

What you see: The ridiculous plan of packing up two daughters, their two friends, and their auntie and driving to Grand Forks loaded up with American dollars, a couple of granola bars, and a determined plan to shop ourselves into a dither for as long as humanly possible, then drive back home. All in the same day. In March, when the roads are unpredictable and usually snowy and icey. Two days after two accidents.

What I see: One heck of a great memory.

A daughter who is alive and very much 13.

My other daughter- eleven, and great at giggling.

Enough dollar store candy to make Halloween look like a cake walk.

New clothes so exciting that they will probably make my girls satisfied and excited until at least next Tuesday.

*

It's all in how you look at it.

Holiday Newsletter

With the approaching onslaught of another Christmas season, she realized that she had never been happier.

Her eldest daughter applied herself diligently to facebook and was acqiring the necessary skills of well-applied mascara. Her mother's nearly retired dream of entering her into pagaents seemed once again within reach.

Second born had recently been observed staring longingly at Avril Lavigne's album cover, twirling her hair wistfully, and reaching for a darker shade of eye liner.

The boy had been so easy to care for. He'd spent hours in his bedroom, entertaining himself and saving his allowance for a couple of more challenging video games. His wrists showed promising ripples of strength from the dedication and commitment to acquiring new levels.

The little one, indulge-ed wonder child never ceased to charm all with his crescendoing whine and demands to all possessions of all persons entering his territory. He showed tremedous potential for politics and was sure to appeal to a wide population with his spiderman slippers in one hand and the pink tutu in the other.

And Mr Perfect Family member had never looked better in workboots; slicing and dicing in the kitchen, never ceasing to entice more and more members into his Moosewood pyramid scheme cult.

Nope, things could hardly look better, she mused, studying herself in the mirror. She'd grown into forty with so much grace, and no signs whatsoever of impending crisis.

Their mortgage was practically untouched, so engaged had they been in the various celebrations of life, and learning to love their neighbors. And the echoeing spaces of their now baby-free home was soon to be filled with the piddling and whining of a perfect little puppy. The cat couldn't be more excited.

No, it could not be denied.
They were practically perfect in every way.

We Are soooooooooo NOT a bed AND breakfast

Last Saturday night, a window or two got opened to accomodate the many thick, heat containing sweaters. And as they say, when a door closes, a window opens, and the next thing you know, you're overrun with cats. Well, maybe that's not exactly what they say, but it is just what happened. I thought it was our neighbor's cat- hearing the hilarity and wanting to get her a piece of the action. But when Jane the cat lady came home, she set me straight on the cat facts. Well, that cat figured she owned the place and just kept coming around. The girls brought food out for her, which she appreciated, but she would still jump up onto the windowsill and do the paw version of the happy dance on the window staring plaintively, frantically, into our dining room.
~


A gal like me has got only so much strength.
~

That poor puss was freezing and I couldn't stand it. So, I found room in the inn, and managed to contain her to the bathroom for the first 24 hours or so. She already knew she owned the place, so within 48 hours, she had taken over the beds, the heat-spewing vents, the food dish, the basement, and well..... the house.
~

She said we could stay.
If we wanted.
~

Then she discovered the best reality game EVER.



~

Pinch me. Or not- Its the Weekend.

The smell of portabello mushrooms with red pesto and feta cheese steaming on the barbeque and wine waiting in my favourite cobalt blue goblet is the sweetest way to kiss good-bye to my last two daycare babes on the cusp of a glorious weekend. Excellent company, impassioned conversation, and the promise of hours with my textiles yet to come send me to bed early with a smile clung to the corners of my lips.

Saturday morning dawned with no dreaded alarm or glommy eyes begging for more rest. No sweet smelling babies to crawl across my favourite drafting table- the wide expanse of floor covered in colours, swirls, checks, and strips of delicious piecing potential. There is an hour or two of cutting and sewing before Jane lures me away to our favorite haunt- the local thrift shop whose windows boast promise of half price. We come away grinning- a perfect pair of skates for a dollar. Two large housecoats perfect for repurposing; one in swirls of old fashioned colour and the other a soft pink chennille. A bag of fabric scraps apparently hoarded since the 1970's, complete with vintage patterns of ladies underwear, bridal wear for dolls, and fashion clothes for those 21 inch fashion barbies we never had back in the day. No ugly sweaters or cougar accessories, but who can survive too much stimulation before noonday?

Time for a toasted tomatoe before loading the girls up for a day in the city. We begin at Value Village where new heights of joy are found in a pale purple chennille bedspread, a heavy green spread perfect for carpet bags, two vintage curtain panels, an old broach, and a packet of placemats perfect for Christmassy table runners. Then off to the real world- the mall for Arianna's skinny jeans, a soft sweatshirt for Jane, and even a little something new for mama.

We've spent much of the day, enjoyed each others company, and taken a break from the regular monotony of sibling rivalry, dishes, tidying, and homework. As though that were not already too much to hope for, peaceful ride home is followed by the surprise of an unsolicited meal of pork tenderloin, baby potatoes, and stuffed tomato whipped up by the sweet love of my life.

Sometimes life can have a storybook quality. Moments or hours that are too much to wish for, but are true and real. And now, off to church- where the music will fill me, beginning in my heart, radiating down my limbs, and ending in that happy lump in my throat.

Overheard at Thanksgiving

The children have some highly favoured friends from life in that other city who have come to spend Thanksgiving Day with them. They sat down to a lovingly prepared lunch of tuna and tomatoe slices and toast. Eldest daughter offered to pray.

"Dear Lord;
SHUT
UP!

Micah! I'm trying to pray over here!
.... Thank you for this food and these friends...."

No Screen Sundays

(just don't scroll down and notice that I'm writing this on Sunday. That would make me a hypocrite.)

Every fall and spring and new year, and possibly days in between, I get the undeniable urge to write down some goals and good intentions. Some directions to move into. Some intentional plans to pull into focus the rumbling, fumbling grey matter above.

*

At the end of August, I forced my sometimes pliable husband to sit with me and agree on some good intentions for our family life in the new school year. As much as I love screens, and couldn't possibly convince anyone that I'm above all that technology, pretty colours, lights, and sounds..... THEY DRIVE ME UTTERLY INSANE. I like to blame it on the fact that I grew up without any screens whatsoever. We never, ever had a television, and since humanity had just recently left the dank caves, home computers were unheard of. (unimaginable). I like to pretend that this has caused the inability in me to know what balance is. That I was raised on such purity that my "inner child" craves the silence (hah! eight kids!) and creativity of our farm house years.

*

So, I foolishly came up with the notion of "no screen Sundays". Not because my parents had taught me that cards and homework on the sabbath were sins, (they didn't.) not because I think it irreverent to humour hollywood on the Lord's day... well, I wish I were that holy but I'm not. I just thought that I wasn't really willing to make it Saturday since that's the day after Friday and some saturday mornings, there's nothing better than a bunch of brain dead kids in front of the tv and me not being side-show-daycare-lady for a change. So I picked Sunday. I also reasoned that we'd be more likely to remember undone homework due on Monday if the tv was off. And that out of sheer boredom and desparation, everyone would come to church with me instead of watching Bing and Bong in their underwear.

*

And its had the desired effect. Children get their homework done. (or sit and cry about their homework, but its a start, right?) Children haul out tape and crap out of the recycling bin and make tvs and computers for their play mobil people. (at least they're seeing some action...) Wildly stimulating and educational comic books get read. Block towers are built and conquered. The hamster's cage is cleaned. Flute practise gets done. Friends come by, dress up breaks into hysteria. Children actually ask to go visit grandma and grandpa.

*

BUT THE NOISE!!!

oh the noise.

*

I nearly succombed today. I nearly suggested that after they clean up the twelve thousand blocks, the fabric scraps, the milk jug lids, the shoes in the porch, the baskets of laundry and miscellaneous, the playhouse people, the markers, the waffle crumbs, and the bionicle pieces, that we should reward ourselves with an episode of America's Funniest Home Videos. Oh, how close did I come.

*

But thirteen odd years of trial and error parenting whispered in my ear..... You know where that will get you. Every sunday from now until eternity the children will use that as a bargaining chip. You know that you suck at saying no. You know that they will see your weakness and rub you with it.

*

So, I did the mature thing.

I made them all go to bed early, after doing all the housework.

*

Then I came down to use the computer in some peace and quiet.

Summer

"Hi. I'm Sam. Remember?"

I guess its true what those blue-haired ladies in Safeway used to say.... "They grow up so fast..." At the time I wanted to shove my screaming, mangey crew at blue-grandma and say; "Oh, yeah?! Well how about you take them for an hour so I can shop? Or a week, if it goes as fast as you say, you romantic old biddy." But I'd twist my features into an imitation of a grateful smile and pat them on the arm instead. (Dementia. Odd what memories it melts away...)

Well, its been thirteen short years of parenting now, and we just realized yesterday that we've done a week of activities with practically no tension. No meltdowns. No peeing of the pants. No packing the stroller. None of it.

And we even had fun!

The summer list of good intentions has a few tick marks on it now. Zoo? check. Folk Fest? check. Beach? check. Fishing? check. Picking strawberries and raspberries? check. Tinkertown? check.

Maybe I'm growing over-confident here, but with this successful unfolding of events so far this summer, it seems a good weekend to take the girls and their friends on a camping trip to Birds Hill. With temperatures in the mid-thirties. In a tent. With precious few shade trees.

Where's that blue-haired lady when you need her?

My Kid is Gonna Be Thirteen!

She's a nice kid.

~

She and her friends are fun to hang out with.

~

There are some neural connections being made that don't always involve someone's wallet or someone's self-interests.

~

She learned to take responsibility for her own academic career this year.

She's pretty.

~

She's not a klutz like her mother.

~

She is creative.

~

She has confidence.

~

~

~

Clearly, there is a loving God.

Why Sensible People Don't Throw Costume Parties

Canada Day holiday and I'm not "working" today. I mean to say that I'm not going to get paid to work today.

*

Some time to venture into my "work space" and contemplate doing something about the endless clutter squatting there.

*

This is what my sewing room looks like for about 14 seconds after I've spent half a day cleaning it up.

*

All the vintage fabrics and trims I've collected over the past 15 years or so are properly stored away in old suitcases or cleverly stacked on my big old wooden work table.

*

Then I have a space to work in, so I open up the suitcases and begin to rummage through them.

*

Then I plan a party and have to go about de-cluttering the living room, dining room, bathroom, and kitchen.

*

I deposit large piles of strange things under my wooden work table.

*

The things I simply don't have time to identify, I shove into a grocery bag and huck under that same table.

*

If I were sensible and i didn't collect stuff to begin with, I wouldn't have to figure out how to keep it all tidy.

*

If I were sensible, I wouldn't plan fun, fun parties where we laugh our guts out and play

dres

s-up. I couldn't plan them, because I wouldn't have collected all the props for that particular theme.

*

If I were sensible, I'd likely live in a conservative bungalow, a nice tidy one without old fabric spilling out of bags and boxes.

*

I'm awfully glad I'm not sensible.

Clean Sweep

I have the most beautiful daughter in all of daughter-dom.

But my daughter is a pig.

P.I.G.

Being spring and all, it seemed appropriate to evict all things PIG-like. But I found I'd grown attached to that daughter of mine, and I didn't quite have the heart to drive her out.

So... since we never get a four or five hour long reality show with our cable package, we decided to do our own.

After two large garbage bags filled for the thrift shop, and two large garbage bags for the garbage truck, we found a lovely bedroom.

All that hard work paid off.

Now all we need to polish up are her manners.....