May long weekend

This weekend I and my chosen one and my offspring will be sleeping in this house:














We will be pee-ing and possibly showering (optional, we may not have the time) in THIS bathroom:














while we are gazing upon this prairie beauty,


we will be sitting in this hot tub, on this deck:

And that's how we are kicking off fun season in 2006.
Our friends love us so much, that they had four children to perfectly coincide with our four children. They moved to this 112 year old stone house, because they knew how much we needed a quiet little country get-away. They have gin, and boursin cheese. They have a fabulous sense of humour, a dog named Daisy, a bunch (flock? gaggle? ) of chickens, plenty of cats, a goat, and some bunnies.

I won't see the kids for three whole days. They will be making up games on the hay bales, mucking about in the pastures, looking for unique rocks and maybe some Indian arrow heads.

If you need to find me, I'll be oggling REAL baseboards and doors with REAL doorknobs. I'll be splashing about in a REAL bathtub in a real bathroom that was designed before they turned closets into places you pee in. I'll be snarfing back strong coffee in a REAL country kitchen, quite possibly sitting on a REAL window seat. I'll be licking cheese and strawberries off my fingers. I'll be frolicking in the meadows in my bonnet and petticoats, gin in hand.

That's where I'll be if you need me.

Boxes

A few weeks ago (on blue box day) the pre-schoolers and I went for our daily walk. I can't resist throwing casual glances at what people throw out on a weekly basis. On this day, we were strolling down main street and passed by our local thrift shop. My well-trained eye immediately spotted primary colors in amongst the jars and cardboard destined for the recycle plant. Stuffed into a large box, was an entire collection of jumbo cardboard blocks!

I momentarily froze. Just 4 days earlier I had seen this exact set stuffed into the very same large box at a garage sale, with a piece on brown tape on it, optimistically asking for $10.00. This was too good to be true!! Now I had been rewarded for my frugality. I knew that ten dollars at a yard sale was nearly criminal, and though I'd been tempted because I knew how much fun the daycare kids would have with them, my Mennonite heritage found its assertive side and Yelled: "NO! For ten dollars, you could buy 3 jugs of sensible white MILK!!! Waste not, want not! This toy is frivolous, and a dreadfully irresponsible way of "stewarding your resources!"

Yes, I was being blessed indeed- good things come to she who waits, and I was receiving my reward as promised. I prompty tossed all toddlers out of the stroller and turned the versatile beast into a shopping cart, carefully propping up my treasure and buckling it in to ensure that all forty-one pieces would make it safely home to their promised land.

OOOh, life has its unexpected pleasures. Goodness only knows what may be resting on the curb this week.....

Stuff that Makes Joyce Grin

My boys.


















My firstborn spending hours with Morley.
My momma with one of her babies.

My creative daughter drinking off of a plant stand.
A barn swallow nest found in the hay loft.











These things make Joyce grin.

Low, low Expectations

I feel sucky and gross today. I'm so not in the mood for toddler voices asking me questions like "What are you doing?" when I'm clearly making a peanut butter sandwhich. I find myself playing the "if only" game: If only I had a vehicle, I could load the kids up and go for a field trip. We could go to Petland and look at all the animals. We could go to McDonalds and have then race around in plastic wonderland for a few hours. Or, if we're fantacizing anyway, how about I go to the city all my big self (a phrase borrowed from one of the toddlers), go to Wal-mart all my big self, and buy myself a NEW BRA!!!! Nothing could be more exciting right now. Except possibly going through the wal-mart lingerie all by myself, with a Tim Hortons coffee in hand.

But I've got to run. There are a whole bunch of intelligent toddler questions that I have to go and answer now.

Home Twice

I'm feeling homesick today. This is ironic, because I am at home and its a very happy place . I live in a terrific little town, my kids are thriving in the local school, and I've made some great friends. But this is not my only home.

Three years ago we lived in another wonderful world, complete with all the (non-materialistic) trappings of happiness. I never wanted to move. I lived in a terrific little OLD house in a crappy neighborhood. I had the prettiest little yard, and the very best next door neighbors IN THE WORLD. Yes, we found hash pipes in our front hedge, piles of mattresses and discarded furniture in the lane every single week, tiny toddler criminal minds running up and down the sidewalk stealing our kids' toys, and throwing dirt into our kiddy pool..... (okay, maybe it wasn't entirely perfect...) But, I had my neighbors, my family, my friends, and my house.

My next door neighbor lived in a gigantic old castle of a house and she and I learned to live "in community" in our community. We watched each other's children, warned one another of creeps that we saw in the area, shared amaretto over the fence when the kids had finally fallen asleep in the hundred degree house. We shared a love of scavenging, once finding two dumpsters full of bridal gowns, bridesmaid and flowergirl dresses, tierras, and pink satin shoes. The bridal shop we shared the alley with cleaned out their basement the quickest possible way, and flashlights in hand, she and I reaped the benefits. Our girls played dress-up for years from what we found in those dumpsters....

My other friends were just as much fun- laughing and crying at life, rocking one another's babies, shopping for one another, pooling resources. As I said- I had no desire to go anywhere. There was something about these friends that brought out the best in creativity, and I never left their homes without about a million ideas of what to make with my sewing machine, or a brilliant idea of how to use some broken down chair, or how to make a curtain out of a branch and a table cloth.

But life has a way of changing things up, and we did move. So did one of my favourite friends. She has moved twice, and most recently into a 110 year old stone house in the country which I am counting the days to go and see. I feel physically ill with joy for her, and for anticipation of our time together in her "new" house.

And so, I am homesick. And I wouldn't have it any other way.

Whacky, but Brilliant!

Monday morning, and the weekend seems a dim memory. Oh, but it was wonderful! There was the food, of course- cardommom flax bread with cranberry butter, exotic salad, brie and camembert cheeses, chile and lime nacho chips with artichoke dips..... oh dear, too good. (she says, staring into an empty tin of tuna that was her Monday lunch...) There were the caesars with celery, the kiwi and strawberry ciders, the dry white wine, there was the good strong coffee.

We talked and laughed and some were known to smoke colts on the deck, before the first ladies dropped off at about 1:30-- wimps. The rest of us made it until 3:30 and 4:00 before we found beds in Mary's spacious farm house. I had the insane pleasure of sleeping until 11:30 the following morning, then followed my nose back to the kitchen. The cousins were already sitting in the sun sipping coffee and munching on fresh strawberries and mangoe. Carol taught us small- potato- hick -non- world -traveller types how to PROPERLY slice and eat a mango.

I must say that there is a great deal more brilliance, power, intelligence, and confident strength in these women than I had quite taken note of before. There was no time wasted with pettiness or gossip. It was not one of those cluck- fests where a woman slinks away feeling inadequate and inferior and too flabby. No. This was empowering.

The whole thing about being the youngest now seems unfair on an entirely different level. I get to learn from my sisters and cousins who will always, always be older than me. Did they have such good role models when they were in their thirties?

Friday night, friday friday friday night

I've had a really challenging week- kid wise, so I'm pleased to note that it's Friday. Not only is it Friday, but I also have something to look forward to. Tonight directly after work, sister Kathy (in the biological sense of the word, and not the religious!) will pick me up in her shiney silver vw bug and whisk me off to Winnipeg, sans kids! Did ya hear that? I SAID NO KIDS ALLOWED!!! We will do a few errands until biological sister #2 is done work, then head off down the trans Canada highway to biological sister #4 's home in the country. We are celebrating our annual Kehler cousin reunion/ Holy-cow-I-always-thought-you-were-a-proper-relative/ sleepover event. We expect two or three other cousins to arrive.

As usual, I will be the youngest. You know by now that I'm the youngest in my ridiculously large family but what you don't know is that my mother was the youngest in her family, and had her eighth baby at the same time that her neices (my cousins) were also pro creating. That makes it interesting for me to get to know my cousins now, since they are actually in the grandparenting phase of their lives, and no matter how old I am, everyone always thinks I'm just so incredibly young! That bugged me when I was in my twenties and was sick of feeling like a stupid snotty-nosed kid, but now that I've rethought my definition of intelligence,(to account for the fact that this is really just as good as its ever gonna get.....) I just enjoy always looking and sounding young although I am in fact fairly haggard and nearly forty.

All that aside, what I look forward to is some really nummy appetizers, some nice white wine, and staying up so late that the funny jokes seem way funnier than they did by the light of day . Plus there's always the possibility of learning more dysfunctional tidbits about my dad's side of the family. Truly a brilliant but WHACKO group of individuals. I can say that because I'm one of them. Sadly, because they ran out of parts, I didn't get my share of the brilliant, but then again, some people got more than their fair share of whacko, so I should be grateful.

So, ta-ta for now! I assume all you really important people out there have huge pressures hanging over your heads, but I"M GOING OUT TONIGHT, nobody will miss me, (well, maybe the hubby and kids......), and there isn't a single important thing that I have to do. (Oh, besides influence the lives and behaviors of people in their first crucial five years of development, but who asked?)

Do I Have to be a Grown-up?

So I'm finally learning to be assertive. I am not a rug, I will not be intimidated or embarrassed. Oh, nuts- this is school children I'm talking about, not even adults, or some fancy beurocracy.

The scene: Joyce being a selfless caregiver and pumping up a bicycle tire so kids can ride bikes around the block.
School children: "Joyce- Joey says that when you bend over like that, we can see your butt crack."
Joyce (the adult): "Oh, yeah? Well, if you don't like the looks of my butt, then don't look! I'm going to be bending over on occasion, and you get to make a choice- take a good look if you think you'd like to, or if you don't like butt cracks...... DON'T LOOK!!!!!!!!!!"

I felt really empowered there for a while....

And God Is Perfect

There are some relatively simple concepts in life that become more clear to me with age and life experience. For example: commandment #7 of Exodus. "You shall not misuse the name of the Lord your God, for the Lord will not hold anyone guiltless who misuses his name."

I run a home daycare. Every day starts early, and with both feet on the floor. As a generalization, I love looking after people's needs and making their days meaningful and fun. I'm not perfect though, and there are certain things that irritate me to no end. My pet peeve? The misuse and over use of my name! From 6:00 or 7:00 am I hear "JO-WIIIICE, JO-WIIICE, JO-WIIIIIIIIIIIIICE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" (Now, imagine that in the sound of tickle-me-Elmo).

I'm sure I'm over generalizing here, but I look after only 4 or 5 preschoolers at a time. God has humanity in its entirity to deal with.

I can really see the point of this commandment now.

MILK

Here is an official disclaimer to any of you who may be considering adding to your family. In my house, it takes roughly 28 hours to drain 4 litres of milk. If you wonder why I shop for carpets on trash day and clothe myself in cast-offs, just try to imagine how thirsty and hungry my lineage would appear if I were to spend that milk money on anything other than milk!

When I was a kid, and the youngest of eight hungry farm children, we were sent across the road with two empty ice cream buckets that we filled ourselves out of the giant silver milk holder thingy in the neighbor's dairy barn. It was called the milk room- a clean concrete room with one door directly from the farm yard and the other leading into the barn. It had a faint smell of cow in it, but in a really friendly, clean sort of way. Then we would leave a dollar or some other unreasonably small amount of money in the milk room and carefully carry those heavy pails home to the fridge. After a few hours in the fridge the thick cream would rise to the surface and mom would skim it off with an old ladle to be put into coffee and baked into cream cookies.

The milk we drink now has probably been over processed, with mysterious things added and subtracted. Anyhow, it's the best I can do since I have a church across the road from me now, and I highly doubt they'd want me coming in there swinging empty pails around, scrounging for affordable milk in their prayer room.......

Friends

Friends: we need them all.

Some of us need more than our fair share. There is the friend who laughs heartily to ALL of my jokes, even the ones that aren't funny, just because she decided ahead of time that I am funny. There is the friend who never has a harsh word, always looks and focuses on the good and positive. (If I ran off and joined the circus, she'd say: How nice, that you'll be able to learn how to walk the tightrope!) Then there is my creative friend, who always sees the potential in an old piece of fabric or a discarded chair, and whose children actually believe that I can sew the shoes that the models are wearing on the pattern cover. There is my running friend who joins me on my laps around town, sometimes we are laughing about life, sometimes just bitching, and occasionally bawling, because its all been just TOO MUCH. There are bold friends who are unafraid to say aloud what pitfalls they observe in me and how I may be deceiving myself. In earlier years there were my "moms of babies" friends, who would all hang around together, exhausted beyond belief and babble incoherently about feedings, rashes, and much coveted naps. Then there are my really smart friends, who haven't yet figured out that I can't really keep up with them intellectually, but I'm going to fake it and ride the wave for just as long as I can because I can learn stuff from them. There are annual camping friends, summer camp friends, family friends, and friends of friends. And I would be amiss to not mention you, my invisible friends. On a rough day, its incredibly gratifying to find a live-giving comment or e-mail when I sneak a minute to check my computer.

We are relational beings. That doesn't mean that maintaining friendships is necessarily easy and always fun and uplifting. Sometimes it really stinks. But I wouldn't even be half a person if I didn't have all of you, my friends.

"Lady Lust- true confessions of an average woman"

This morning my friend Josie (with a big old grin on her gorgeous face) slipped me a photocopied note entitled: "Body Acceptance in 6 easy steps". A few hours later, my friend Jacquie e-mailed me some "facts on figures" which include these: There are 3 billion women who don't look like super models and only eight who do. If Barbie was a real woman, she'd have to walk on all fours due to her proportions! The average woman weighs 144 lbs, and wears between a size 12-14. Models weigh 23% less than the average woman. One out of every 4 college-aged women has an eating disorder.

I appreciate these friendly reminders that we are worth more than the sum of our parts. I believe this wholeheartedly and with my intellect, but there are quite a few loose wires between my heart and my brain.

I suffer from "lady lust". It's a fairly new diagnosis and may not yet have been published in the DSM, but I HAVE THE CONDITION and therefore know it to exist. The symptoms include "checking out" other women and wanting to OWN certain features that they own. This leads into obsessive thinking about how I could manipulate my own inferior parts to be more like those of the other woman. Usually at this point, I come to for a minute and tell myself to shut up and get over it. I remind myself of all the helpful tips that Jacquie sent me, about how many fascinating and brilliant women I know are round in all the wrong places, about how the body is so temporary, so terribly shallow, and how I would so not like to be obsessing about it. Then there is this evil little corner of my psyche that says, "right, now where was I?- Oh, yeah!! I was scheming about how I could lose ten pounds, run four times this week, but effectively hide this evil plan from the people in my life who know me well enough to know that dieting is from the devil!"

I'm real happy to know about all those airbrushed supermodels with eating disorders whose lives are a hungry mess. I get that the beauty of a woman lies not in the clothes she wears, or the figure she carries, but has something to do with her heart and her character, blah, blah, blah. And I want to be a really sweet gal who blesses everyone on her floral pathway through life.

I just want to be that in a skinny body.
Lady lust.

dirty laundry

I am not a happy camper. I'm tired of transmissions that feel so comfortable in our presence that they heave a contented sigh of relief and DIE.

This time it's the washing machine. I don't have a washboard and a bubbling brook behind the house. I don't have the longsuffering and good attitude to pass this test. I don't have a large cache of money that I don't know what to do with. I don't have a lifestyle that allows me to give up habitual clothes washing.s

I just have a big grumpy feeling.

MMwahahahahah-- I've been tagged!

Okay, I love attention and I've been tagged by Bobita over at "this Sister's Journey". (and no, I don't get how to do that neat blue thingy where you just click it and land up at her site, does it help that I feel a little inadequate about that?!)

So the tag is about revealing six weird facts/things/habits/neuroses about myself. Now, Bobita bless her soul has totally underestimated me. I spent most of the night tossing about how to narrow it down to six. Should it the six most bizarre? Would I regret that? What if people who sort of know me, but don't really get me, or like me all that much use that information against me?

Should it be six things that are sort of amusing but not downright freakish enough for people to phone the authorities? Or, how about six things that actually make me look really way , way deeper and more brilliant that people had ever guessed?

Needless to say, I'm now tired, and afraid that if I don't just cough up a half dozen of something, anything at all- then Bobita will really regret having stuck her neck out for me like that. Let's start with the obvious:

1. I tend to be somewhat neurotic, but in a weird don't-sweat-the-small-stuff way. I have been known to think about things for great lengths of time, overanalyze them to dead-horse-flogging proportions and only sometimes come to really concise conclusions.

2.I have a series of recurring dreams. One is about the many rooms in my house that I forgot that I had, and what fun I will now have rearranging furniture, and shopping for vintage items to fill the said rooms. Then I realise that some of the rooms are actually haunted, or else filled with flood water. I then evaluate (see #1) whether the fun of playing in these new rooms will be worth the potential risks involved.
The other recurring dream is that: I have never actually married my groom of 14 years and I realize that it's really time to make a decision and that if I decide not to marry him, I will really miss the old chap.

3. I have some issues in the realm of the obsessive compulsive. For example, when our first three descendents were little (all at the same time) and I would drive somewhere with them in the dark, I was always worried that I had left one of them behind, or on the roof of the car, or beside the car, or that they had slipped out of the narrow crack between the back door and the highway. To cope with these fears, I would have to put my hand out behind my seat to feel for legs. But, I had to feel for six legs, all in a row. Then I would worry that maybe I had counted someone's leg twice, so I'd have to do it again, and also try to reach far enough back while driving to count three heads, but not hit the ditch at 110 km/hour.
There are ever so many more examples of OCD that I could report, but I don't want to air all my laundry in one day....

4. My husband says that I eat like a chipmunk- holding my bread with all 10 fingers and nibbling away and looking like at any moment I could scamper away to hide up in a tree.

5. (Am I at #5 already? I think I'll re-read numbers 1 through 4 obsessively and ruminate on whether I should change them entirely, and what possible repurcussions these true confessions may have in my life.....)
Ok, here's number 5: I have never needed to wear anti-perspirant. I think its because I'm the last born of eight children and they just plain ran out of parts by the time I came along. There wasn't a whole lot of muscle tone for baby #8, not a lot of quick thinking brain cells, neither were there sweat glands, or adequate cartiledge (I have a small, squishy nose which my brother says is from chasing parked cars when I was little, but I cling to my theory of inadequate genetics).

6. I'm a bit of a wanna-be do it yourselfer. I have been known to cut my own hair, and my kids hair (twice in a full blown adult temper tantrum when my daughters had big fits about having their hair brushed). I pierced my own ears, (but I will spring for a professional when I turn forty and pierce my nose). I carpeted two rooms upstairs using a steak knife and two discarded carpets. One carpet was from a friend who could afford to replace his with hardwood, and one was a carpet that I furtively stole out of someone's driveway on garbage day......
I have tried to hang my own shelving, but only succeeded in knocking a huge hole into the drywall. I would rather move furniture by myself (even up and down stairs) than ask for help and have to listen to you whine about how the house looks fine just the way it is. I don't go for a pedicure, but to the local hardware store to buy those nice sharp razor blades, then I shave off my own callouses, thank you very much.

Okay, that's it. I will also tag six other people, but there's really no point in terms of the greater good of bloggerdom if I do it without that blue letter tricky deal. I'll have to wait until Brian comes home from work and does it for me.

If there was a number 7 it would be that I don't get electronics, and don't even want to, and if Brian ever dies, I will spray paint a sign to put at the front of the house: "For sale: many, many remote controls. Each one controls something, and if you know what it controls, you may take it too".

I love you all and on my next blog (tonight, if Brian isn't too grumpy from teaching german to miserable junior high students) he will help me do my six tag victems properly.

When I was a Kid

Our Manitoba farm was a spacious, functional place with large vegetable gardens, huge, green lawns, and a few trees and bushes that were distantly related to the fruit family. They were the hardy varieties that could possibly dare to come back to Manitoba every Spring : fruit trees that bore dry, gritty chokecherries (they were more pit than cherry, but we had lots of fun comparing dry, brown tongues after stuffing our faces with them). There was rhubarb of course, sweet, juicey raspberries, and "ole bassem" bushes (which I think are a type of current), and my favourite: the gooseberry bushes.

On hot summer afternoons after our chores of bean picking, garden hoeing, tree watering, pea shelling, lawn mowing, window washing,and pet tending (just to mention a few), we would skip across the scorching black garden soil in our bare feet to engage in some gooseberry games. There was the "keep a straight face while you eat 20 unbelievably sour green berries" game. And the "how many gooseberries can you fit in your mouth at a time" game. And then there was the fun of eating gooseberries just because you could- no one would tell you not to, and nobody would tell you "that's enough".

I always had a weird conflicted feeling about eating gooseberries. I felt like I was selfishly wrenching them off their homey branches (an abduction of sorts) then mutilating them with my teeth before sending them down to their acidy death. I told my older brother about my guilt one day (he was four years my senior) and I've never forgotten his response. He felt that the gooseberries were thrilled to be chosen- that it was honorable to be given a warm home in a human's stomach and be rescued from the drudgery of hanging off a bush in a hot, windy garden.

This complicated my angst over the berries. If Ken was right, then I should do my utmost to find homes for all the berries on the tree before the worms or the cold winds of the inevitable winter got to them first. But if he was wrong and I was right, then we ought to leave the berries in their family groups and allow them to live out their lives in peace.

If I find the fool who said that childhood is carefree, I'll pin him down and stuff him with gooseberries until he BEGS for mercy.

A Few Rhetorical Questions

1. If the girls have roughly fifty thousand pairs of socks (which I know, because I purchased them, and fifty thousand times $2.98 adds up) ... then how come there are 25,000 odd socks at the bottoms of their closets, and no matter how you sort them, none of them match?

2. Although I spend 13 and a half hours a day folding, washing, drying, putting away, organizing, straightening, watering, maintaining, sweeping, spraying, dusting, discarding, recycling, feeding, wiping, grooming, bathing, baking, scrubbing, and vacuuming, -- this house looks totally unconquered and cluttered?

3. If I have arranged my priorities and my life in such a way that I can be at home almost all the time, and always be home to send my children off to school in the morning, and greet them when they come home in the afternoon-- why then do I feel like I am teaching them almost nothing, that I have not enough time or energy to keep up with the : home reading, math problems, chocolate sales, times tables, dance costumes, birthday gifts, story reading, spiritual teaching, teaching responsibility and self- motivation with doing their chores, teaching empathy and unselfishness, tuning into all their emotional needs, maintaining a close and constantly evolving relationship with four separate entities, making time to spend with each of them individually, feeding them well balanced meals without turning the family mealtime into a time of conflict, while not allowing them to subsist on nutella and marshmallows.

4. If I managed all right in school, and did pretty well in university, why do I write with such run-on sentences?

Warning: this post may make no sense to you!

I've just had some sort of epiphany.

People tend to get locked into an idea of what "wellness" or "togetherness" looks like and kind of wait for their lives to have real significance until those particular personal wrinkles get ironed out. I was reading Paul's words in The Message a day or two ago where he refers to some type of "flaw" or personal hardship that he deals with on a daily basis and would really like to be rid of. He asks God three times to take it away, but it was evidently not "in the cards". Pauls response? Instead of spending all his energy continuously, stubbornly seeking resolution to this one issue, he did what he could, then got on with the business of living his life with significance.

What a relief.

I may have daily wrestling matches with the "monkeys in my closet" (ugly, strong things that they are!). I may have to repeat some basic truths to myself on a nearly minute by minute basis. I may at times actually begin to swing from trees and attempt to groom my neighbors fur and obsessively munch on bananas.

But I will not be defined by this. I will not sell out and move to the zoo.

A Sedative, please

In a bold, brief moment of "nurturing" myself and feeling determined to not buy into the north American version of beauty, I stuffed all of my 12-pounds-ago pants into a garbage bag and drove them to the thrift shop.

Then I spent roughly 19 hours eating birthday cake and ice cream, and great salty hands full of munchy mix. Nummy, all those salty trans fats rubbing shoulders with over processed, sugary cake mix covered in buttery frosting.

Yes, indeedy, its April. That great month when spring sweeps across the Manitoba prairies, giving me a case of the de-clutter-itis and the burst of energy to rearrange furniture, take down forgotten bits of Christmas garland, and chuck out bags of clothes that do nothing but make me feel like a big fat failure.

It's also that insane month where our two middle children have birthdays, a mere four days apart. Never being one to take the easy way out, I've planned two birthday parties back to back. Jane's went from Friday after school until Saturday morning. We played so many games and relays and crafts that we barely had time for the movie of Narnia before I shooed them into bed at midnight.

Four hours until Micah's friends show up expecting a wild celebration of their own. I've got on the same clothes that I chose on Thursday. My hair is shoved into a bandanna just so I can avoid a time-consuming and wet shower. I hate being wet. I'd rather be dirty.

A sad wanna-be cake waits on the kitchen counter. I have two games planned and I've done nothing to gather the supplies necessary to make them a success. The house is a cesspool of sticky cups and poutine splashes.

I'd really like to write more, but I've got to go and eat the rest of Jane's birthday cake now, one tiny sliver at a time. If I'm feeling particularily nurturing, I may wash it down with a beer or two before its time to put my plastic grin back on and turn this place back into party central. After that, I might celebrate by going out and buying myself a pair of those really roomy sweat pants, or maybe just a moo- moo. (or is it mu mu?)

Yup, I'm gonna be so freekin' good to myself that I'll soon become unrecognizable.

sex ed: 101

Sammy is as sharp as he is cute. At an oppurtune time, (mommy naked and dripping, being a firm believer in the "open door" policy) he noticed that something just might be missing.

Him: "Where's yours penis, mommy?"
Me: "Mommy is a girl- I have these girl parts, and you have boy parts."
Him: "Oh! You have big buttons, mommy!"

Very perceptive. Buttons sounds downright flattering when I consider the variety of other nouns and adjectives he may have chosen. I'm just grateful that he didn't mention that my buttons were very nearly dragging along the bathroom floor.

Good Eats

Ever drive by a small town and see one of those cheesey signs all bashed up and faded with a big red arrow that says "GOOD EATS HERE"?

While I was sleeping, I swear someone hung one of those up just outside my front door. Spring break is over, so this morning various hungry children showed up on my doorstep. I got them fed and out the door and was just sitting down to indulge in some blog reading when my friend Josie popped in the back door-

"Hi- I can't stay, I'm just out on a walk and I popped in to say hello. Oh, and I haven't had breakfast!"

We enjoyed some yogurt and granola together, and then went out to join her on the rest of her sunny walk. We had to come home in short order because the boys were starving- time for lunch already? Just got back to the computer hoping to sneak in a minute of reading before slapping together some peanut butter delight, and Cheri bursts through the back door on her way to Gisele's for a massage-

"I've got twenty minutes for you- and I really hope you've got LUNCH on the table- I'm hungry!"

(Now was that fair? She's already going to a massage, now she's looking for a free lunch?!)

I really got off my keester for her and whipped up a fine slice of toast with margarine, and some swiss cheese. (that'll teach her!) I just got the toast crumbs off the counter and wished her a lovely afternoon (DUH- she's going for a massage, like it could be "not good...") when the back door opened once more and my sister stopped by. Did she bring me flowers or a tray of donuts or a cheque, or ANYTHING? NO, her exact words were:

"Oh, good! You're home! I walked here on my lunch break- I hope you have some really good bread!"

I'm starting to understand my mother better all the time. She used to tell us when we were kids that every time we looked at her we got hungry. Do I look like a giant ham? Should I take this personally? Do people only love me for my cookies?

I've got to run to the store now to replenish the fridge, or I may just be all alone and friendless tomorrow.

Issues?

Time for a reflective break from the purge session of my binge and purge ritual.

Every day all my life I binge on collections that I redeem from thrift shops and garage sales whenever I have the chance to hunt them down- a lustre ware plate, an old linen baby romper, an old book or two, some patchwork pillows, a game or colouring book for the day care kids, a book about drawing, some interesting old garments that I just know would look fabulous in a quilt or pillow top, some old silverware, or a well travelled suitcase to store things in. Oh! and there's so many more useful and previously loved items out there that I just may discover on my weekly tours around the prairie towns.

I think of it as cheap entertainment, my hobby, and affordable interior decorating, all rolled up as one. I also like to think of how I single handedly keep the economy of the reduce/reuse/recycle industry viable. Those are the things I say to myself when my craving to feed my habit begs for justification. I like to think about bringing these discarded items out of their place of "unwanted-ness" and giving them a new life, wishing they could speak to me about their previous lives.

Then I get restless. My house is full of things and I feel a purge coming on. The 25 cent rubber boots that I found don't fit anyone in the family. The game was so not a hit. All the good pictures in the colouring book are now coloured. It's time to move all the furniture around, and roam around from room to room ruthlessly chucking things into garbage bags to bring back to the thrift shop. I usually don't shop and donate to the same place, its a weird ritualistic hang up that I have. So, some second hand shop owners probably think that I buy obsessively, while the owner in the next town may wonder how this one woman could be so very selfless and giving on such a regular basis. They don't know that it's all part of my complicated syndrome.

They say that the first step in seeking resolution for a problem is to admit that you have one. Maybe this week if I find a really neat old journal with some empty pages in it, I could start journalling about my bingeing and purging. Then maybe I'll decide whether or not I have a problem.

But right now, I've got some neat old stuff that I need to find places for.

The Times, They are a'Changin' !

I got a lop-sided grin on my face this evening as I read Christy's blog which refers to her daughter's inevitable transformation from girl to woman, and the angst it can bring out in us mothers.

I felt a little like an older, wiser woman since I've already had a year or so of digesting the whole concept of my bras sharing the same washing machine as my daughter's.

Still, it amazes me how times can change in a generation or two. When I was a young girl, my mother never gave me "the talk". I relied on a booklet my worldly friend brought to school, and to the helpful tidbits that my big sisters offered me. What a contrast to the kids who frequent my kitchen table.

Just today, over fried egg sandwhiches and fruit salad, my daughter came running down the stairs and clunked this book on the table while I shared my lunch with her auntie, a couple of my kids, (including brothers), and a neighbor girl. She laughed outrageously in grade six style and threw the book open to the diagram of the man and the woman complete with all the mysterious parts. My sister and I reacted in an understated way (none of what was on the picture was shocking to us!!) and I commented to all the kids around my table- "Yup, there they are-- all the bits and parts that make up different sorts of human bodies. Yup, that's part of the story of where babies come from." No one stopped chewing their sandwhiches, or turned any of the various shades of purple that I would have seen in my day and age if that dirty little word "pregnant" had slipped from someone's lips. We may as well have been discussing what movie to rent at the local Co-op as Jane's little friend wiped some mayonnaise off her lip and offered-

"We have a book at home- know what it shows how to do? It shows how to use a tampon!"

Melancholy Muses

It's spring break which means Brian is not working. I 'm not working real hard myself, as I have only a few daycare kids over the break. This means that really, I have time to be creative and delve into some projects around the house. But, I have a low grade case of melancholy, and can't seem to connect to any great inner power source and even consider the possibility of conquering my domestic world.

I could try the role of super mom and take the kids on some neat spring break outings, but the boys have the flu and I wouldn't dare take them more than two feet away from a toilet or bucket. Sammy got it so bad that he was unable to hold anything down, or even remain conscious for any length of time. The constant eruptions have taken their toll on his little body. Four days of fasting took with them the last little bit of his baby look- he's looking taller someow, and decidedly thinner. Last night, Micah erupted.

That puts a dent in the one exciting plan that we did have for our time off. We had planned to take a trip to visit some of our favorite people from our old home and spend some time playing on their farm property. The kids play on hay bales, surrounded by goats, chickens, dogs, cats, cows, and friends. The adults drink coffee in the ancient farm house, inspire one anothers creativity and spirituality,take walks through the meadow and look for newly born calves and wild roses, and balance the whole event with a lot of laughs and good eats.

I love Rose too much to bring her this very wet and untidy illness.

Then there was the energy draining experience of psycho mom and her child, and me finding the strength and confidence to deny her entry into my life. A second oppurtunity of assertiveness followed in short order when a guest we invited for dinner showed up bleary eyed and staggering. Knowing that I had to confront him didn't make it any more pleasant or enjoyable to do so.

This melancholy births itself in little and bigger ways. I can't be bothered to grind coffee beans in the morning, I'd rather just make some java with superstore yellow brand ground coffee. It takes less effort, and less enthusiasm. I seem befuddled by the dust and stuff that I usually stay on top of. Noisey toys seem especially grating. Kids hanging over my shoulder with endless requests overwhelm me. When I get dressed in the morning I torture myself with the "twelve pounds ago" stack of pants. As if by putting them on I will respond to my own criticism and suddenly melt away.

I know that my life is extraordinarily good. I know that feelings do not always reflect reality. And I'm glad that on good days, I not only know that as fact, but I've got the laugh and the energy to go with it.

Maybe tomorrow.

Semantics, Part two

"Yeah, hello- well do you still have that daycare opening? Okay, well what should we bring? And if you go into the city to do shopping, I'm not comfortable with my son going with you so I'll get someone else to watch him that day".

me: "Oh. Well, is it the drive that you're concerned about, or the outing?"

Her: "Well, how would you handle three kids in a store? If one of them ran away, would you leave the other two alone?"

me: speechless. (Is this the time to tell her that I actually have eight children, but have lost four at Superstore over the years?)
me: "I need to know if you are all right with your son going into my vehicle because I can really not guarentee that he won't. I do have four children, and there are times when we do go places, without advance notice."

her: "Oh. Well, do you have carseats that are up to code?"

me: speechless. (Is this a timely moment to mention that we use stacks of yellow pages and phone books so that the kids can see out the windows better?)
me: "So, how about field trips then?"

her: "Well, I guess we'll see when the time comes."

Further translation:
You actually look like a moron who can not be trusted. However I am in a situation where I am left with no choice since I have a VERY important job that I must go to because of the mortgage and all. I've checked the yellow pages for "anal retentive daycares inc." and came up empty. I then reduced my expectations, and began looking for moderately safe daycares. They are all full. So, I've further reduced my expectations to include anyone with a pulse but most of them didn't want me. So now I'd like to pay you a pittance, and nothing on stat days, and for that price, I would like to control your life. However, one false move and I'm calling you in to the authorities faster than you can say "play dough shapes".

The sigh is turning into something of a daycare-induced-rage.

All it takes is Careful Planning

Did the genius who came up with the "nature/nurture" arguement ever take the time to procreate more than once? Anyone who has spent more than 30 seconds with any number of children knows that parenting only has so much to do with the finished (or "in progress") result. We've all met those parents who gave birth to one child who slept through the night at 48 hours old, without a soother or a bottle, learned to say please and thank you by two weeks, then was fully potty trained with nary an accident by the six week mark.

There is a terrible temptation to self- righteously assume that this is because of some superior parenting style. Clearly the pregnant mommy listened to all the right music, read all the sensible parenting books, and ate all her folic acid and brightly coloured veggies. The daddy never stressed out the mommy, always brought home a fat paycheque, did fully half of the housework, maybe more, rubbed mommy's belly and sang to little fetus nightly. At the time of labour, not a pharmaceutical was in sight. Mommy focused on some spot on the wall, breathed deeply while her husband tirelessly rubbed the small of her back. Mommy pushed once or twice, then produced a cherubic, perfectly "gerber-shaped" little offspring.

Well, you get the picture. The crazy thing about kids though is that they come in their own packaging. With my first pregnancy, I exercised, ate lots of veggies and all the right vitamins, and read all about what to expect. By my fourth time around, I took a head start on pharmaceuticals from day one of conception, always forgot my prenatal vitamins, ate when and what I wanted to and yes, took sips of Brian's wine. (DO NOT SEND ME HATE MAIL, or I will instantly go post-natal crazy, stalk you and probably have to kill you.)

So, if it were possible to custom make babies, I'd recommend that you all follow my fourth child formula. Through my carefully planned, deliberate pregnancy, I managed to produce a child who was extraordinarily easy going, nursed like an old pro, slept at night, lay on the floor content as can be, and never once projectile vomited. He potty trained himself, never did the anal retentive "I'm never going to poop again" experiment, liked eating vegetables, never tried to take a bite out of the cat.

Maybe I should write a book.

It's all in the Semantics

"Hello, yeah, well I think we'll probably be sending (our son) to your daycare but I just want to let you know that we haven't made up our minds yet. I'm just waiting to hear back from another daycare to see if they have an opening."

Translation: "You SUCK but you may be our only option. If a half decent spot comes along, we'll grab it, but its looking pretty slim, so we'll probably have to resort to you."


--SIGH---

the thing about people

"What goes around comes around"; and "you reap what you sow" are two of the sayings that have been rolling around in my head for the past few days. They are cousins or sisters of "let love be your greatest aim", and "Love your neighbor as you love yourself".

Anyone who stays at home with their children knows the isolation and loneliness that can stalk a woman and make her question her worth on this planet. We badly need one another. People are created in a highly relational format, and tend to seek out interaction with one another in whatever forms are available to them. I find it interesting that while millions of people could be spending their computer time researching any topic known to mankind, we instead pleasure in using it as our water cooler, photo copier, or coffee room as an oppurtunity to connect to another soul out there who is craving personal interaction.

The same goes for many other typical interactions. That's why I don't watch church on television. There is absolutely no chance of getting the flesh and blood contact with people that for me, is an integral part of worship. This past Sunday, for example, I managed to participate in a few songs and about three sentences of the message before Sam got so loud that I took him out to try ONCE AGAIN to leave him in kids' church. Now, at first lick, it sounds like I didn't get to go to church on Sunday. But that's why I don't watch church on television.

The two or three sentences that I did get to hear were about being church to one another, using the areas where we have been gifted in ways that aid and bring healing to the people around us. It is within this community that I find church. People unafraid to love their neighbour, speak the truth, get their hands dirty, smudge their mascara, and to know the pain of loving "too much".

Which is why I've been thinking about the saying, "You reap what you sow". I have always thought about that in negative terms- like I had better behave or I'd get it good. Lately I've thought of it in the context of people loving each other and how wonderful and functional it can be. In moments of clarity, regular imperfect people speak truth and goodness into the people around them. I said regular and imperfect people because nobody is brilliant and giving all the time. The time comes where the loving giver comes to church discouraged, disullusioned and just plain on empty. That's when "what goes around, comes around", and the sower is on the receiving hand of affirmation, encouragement, and understanding.

I don't believe in going through my life looking for injustices. I know that it exists, and I recognize that life is not fair. But if we're all in it together and we'll reap what we sow, isn't it wise to love our neighbour like we love ourselves?

Policies

I think its starting to come together for me. I've been wishing that I was just a little bit "type A" so that when people come to interview me as a prospective daycare provider for their children, I could have a tidy handbook to hand them. Or, at the very least, a print-out.

One of the main problems with this good intention is that I think in "dribbles and blurbs, and occasional splashes of colour", so having to come up with something resembling intelligence and competency can be a bit of a challenge.

This morning, after another family came to observe whether or not I was a freak, or could possibly be trusted with their child, a few "policies" came to me.

1. I try to stay out of the liquor cabinet until after lunch.
2. Healthy snacks are a priority. I regularily set out giant bowls of fortified cereals such as fruit loops,pebbley bam bams, and cocoa crunchy trans fat balls.
3. We watch tv whenever possible. I especially like Jerry Springer, as it reinforces powerful interpersonal relationship strategies.
4. I encourage the children to play alone in the basement, so that they can learn survival skills by lighting fires with the help of the hot water tank's pilot light.
5. Running with scissors promotes dexterity.
6. I don't put much stock in all that "book learnin' ". We save a lot of time by just going straight to the movies.

I really think that things are going to begin to come together for me now.

Things that make you say: "Hmmmmmm....."

I previously mentioned that coming home has been quite a shock. I honestly wonder how I deal with this level of noise and activity day in and day out. Its like I got out on a day pass, remembered who I am, then got tossed back in with the lions. I caught myself envying the cat today until I noticed she was laying in the sun, and licking her own rear end.

Is it a coincidence that I came home on Sunday, then broke out into inexplicably itchy hives on Monday? I got the same thing last year about this time, and remember wondering if it was an allergy to the hamsters, but we've since purchased and killed dozens of them, and the hives have not been consistent with their life spans.

I think its time I faced the facts. Its not the hamsters, or the cats. I am allergic to this notion that people have of me. Millions of people in my circle of influence think that I can meet all of their needs. When they are hungry, I will feed them. Sad? I will cheer them. Lonely? Hug them. And on and on it goes.

The shock of going from 48 hours with fully functioning, relatively intelligent, and self- sufficient adult women to this other pool of people (Who will go unnamed to protect their privacy and their pride) is JUST TOO MUCH. Its enough to make me break into oozing hives and slowly scratch myself to death.

Either that, or I'll have to sprout some fur and learn to lick my own bum. It's an option that allows me to stay in my home, laying on a comfortable old quilt in the sun, responsible for no one and never faking enthusiasm.....

Contrasts

Going away to recharge is really fantastic, but can anyone relate when I say that coming back is just crazy culture shock? It makes a person wonder if its useful to get away to gain perspective, or to just slog along machine-like and never know the joy of having a complete thought, a meal sitting down, or an entire conversation (at times spanning several hours) without falling asleep, or having to give someone a time-out or a snack.

As much as I anticipated the weekend, and dreamed of how good it would be, I will now hold onto the thoughts of it- the many things we laughed about, the things we learned about each other , the snowy walks, bad movies, and the totally unbelievable food that we enjoyed.

Among my favorites was the roasted vegetables and cous cous, spinach salad, fruit salads, black olive spread on flatbread, and hummous. My contribution to the entire weekend menu consisted of 5 grapefruits, a box of crackers, and a ring of camembert. That's the combined result of being last-born, and not having the early start to the weekend that I had planned on.

After food and company like that, its no wonder that potatoe stamping art and chocolate chip cookies just seem unreasonably harsh today.

Just 365 days till my next sister retreat.......

I'm Back!

Favorite weekend quote: (thanks, Laura)

No Joyce- those aren't JOWLS. Those are facial muscles that you've developed from talking so much!

When it Rains.......

When it rains (in Manitoba, in March) it STORMS.

On the departure day of the long awaited "sister weekend", the Weather Network warns of a Colorado low descending on us with possible severe winter weather, some rain, and possible heavy snow. As I tap at the computer keyboard, chewing the inside of my lip to shreds, I see occasional gusts of wind carrying humungous, wet blobs of snow past my window. This is typical spring weather on the prairies, but what's not typical is that I was really hoping and planning on getting away this weekend.

I had jumped through a few hoops to take off at 2:00 this afternoon, and have the pleasure of picking up Laura at the airport. She sent an e-mail yesterday, suggesting that we hold up a sign for her because we may have trouble recognizing each other. (We are 5 carbon copies of one another, with slight variations). Laura mentioned that she got her hair coloured, had been going to the gym, and had whipped up a wild shirt on her sewing machine that she was calling her "Manitoba Party Shirt". Carol had mentioned that she may fly in wearing her full-length pink flannel pig costume which was completely unrestrictive, would stand out in a crowd, and then she could start eating right away without the fear of popping out of anything.

Anyhow, about the hoop jumping. My dear, generous friend agreed to come to the house this afternoon and finish off my day of zoo keeping so that I could go find the pig and bermuda lady at the airport. Unfortunately, there is a wicked flu bug that came in on the hocks of the Colorado low. Substitute nanny is unable to get out of her own bed, never mind run THIS side show.

Appearing completely desparate, I then called everyone in town who has even a faint pulse to beg them to come and baby-sit. Apparently everyone has call display. (or real jobs).

So, this captain will go down with her ship. I was going to take advantage of the trip to the city to pick up some fun food for the cabin, but by the time I work my way through the entire inside of my lips, then chew my cuticles until my fingers are bloody stumps, I may just not be hungry.

However, if I manage to navigate through the freezing rain and wet snow once Brian gets home and the last day care child finds his mother, I just may be ready for a tall, cold drink beside a crackling fire in a cozy cabin by the lake.

I wonder how many SUV's I've thrown out?

How's this for a schoolyard scrap? Two kids and their parents and a school teacher fighting over a discarded Tim Hortons coffee cup? How will this affect playground politics? When said teacher is on outdoor duty, will he also fight kids for his turn on the swings and climbing structure?

If the kids are smart, they'll sue the teacher for drinking an addictive property on school property. If the teacher is smart, he'll take his toys and go home, and maybe return to grade school himself. If the parents are thinking, they'll take the oppurtunity to teach their kids about what's truly valuable in this life.

And I'm not referring to the SUV.

I mean, I really stink

Like I said: I stink at selling anything, ever. I forgot to list one more of the basics in my prior post: I will insist on wearing modest flannel pajamas every night so that when I sleep in and you have to stand on my deck in the freezing cold, ringing the doorbell that only works one in five times and I come stumbling out with hedgehog hair, at least you and your frightened child will not have to endure looking at an old woman in lingerie, as well.

Yup, that's what happened on day two. Do you think they will refer me to all their friends?

Annual Sister Weekend

It was with tremendous joy and anticipation that I received this card in the mail just yesterday.
About eight years ago, my four sisters and I began a winter tradition of heading off to a remote cabin somewhere and spending weekend together, sans kids, husbands, jobs, and responsibilities. From year to year it has been necessary to make certain adjustments. Twice in 8 years, I have brought along a nursing babe, and once we needed to forgoe the cabin entirely to attend our auntie's funeral, and stay near our mother, who had just lost her dearest friend. Sometimes not every sister was present, as Carol spent several years working internationally. This year, I eagerly anticipate connecting with all my sisters, in a great little cabin on the lake.

Our highlights include: Lots of treks through the snow, hunting through some abandoned cabins,"chic" food (hummous, fruit, grainy breads, chocolate, stirfries, NO STEAKS, lots of wine, and maybe a flask or two of sour puss. ) We like to hit the liquor commision together on our way so that we can find something unusual and bizarre to try together. Then Laura usually loads up on several thousand magazines to stack on the coffee table, and Kathy comes armed with a few billion candles to burn. Mary and Carol are sure to come with a new project, Carol's is usually a tree-hugging concept like rug hookiing using recycled felted wool strips in burlap. Mary will obsessively crochet something, thrilled at each little design that appears under her nimble fingers. Now, lest you think we wander into the woods to have a dull time, I would be amiss to leave out the important features of this event.

Over the years we have been known to laugh until we peed (okay, not all of us, but I have to maintain some sense of dignity and privacy here), we have laughed until we cried, we have cried for each others hurts and struggles, we have shared deep, somewhat dark thoughts by the light of Kathy's candles, we've seen each other go through relational, financial, personal, and health challenges. We've had to watch Laura complete quilting projects while nearly simultaneously writhing on the floor to windsor pilates. We've witnessed the liberation of a yellow chair,a red suitcase, and a snow-covered coffee table from a lifeless existence in rubble, and see them go on to live full and productive lives. We've patiently endured Kathy's pedicure treatments, and selflessly munched through Mary's loaves of nutty bread just to give the poor gals a sense of belonging.

And although I think I know these people, I recognize that every year I get to see a little deeper into their personal realities. This is a tremendous honour and blessing.

Just for Something Different

Because I don't spend enough of my time with preschoolers, I volunteered this morning at a MOPS program at a nearby church. (Moms of preschoolers). I used my clever methods of deception and distraction to keep the little monsters from running out of the room, screaming for their mommies. Promises such as: "Don't worry- your mommy will be right back, right after we make this little boat craft". Not a lie at all. Except that after the craft is a game of fishing for paper fishies, a billion or two action songs, a snack, plus a few games of London Bridges, (one little girl was singing: "All them bridges falling down; my old lady"). When the program ran 15 minutes overtime, (putting us at the two and a half hour mark), I nearly burst into tears and ran down the hall calling for MY MOMMY!

I stink at selling anything, ever.

I'm waiting for a woman to come to the house this morning to see whether she should trust me with her son before and after school, as she is returning to work.

Should the house have an honest, lived-in, "don't sweat the small stuff" look? What's the acceptable amount of crumbs crunching beneath ones feet before it goes from "comfy" to "condemned"? If the house looks immaculate, I don't think a kid would want to hang out here. Bare minimum, I should probably have a shower and get out of the flannels, maybe try to make my hair lie down and behave. Its grown just to that hedge-hoggy stage now. Speaking of lying down and behaving- how do I give the kids a crash course in making eye contact with strangers, saying "hello", and looking like they've turned out relatively human-like under my care?

What I need is a walk-in closet that I could just shove several hundred toys and some miscellaneous furiture into. I have the master bedroom, which is currently doubling as "sanctuary" and "storage". It's easy for Oprah to go on about the proper use of bedrooms, but come on, how many actual walk-in closets are in her mansions? And whenever she wants to minimize, all she has to do is have on of those "My favorite things" shows, and give a couple of million of things away.

And then there's the whole issue of me not looking like an idiot. Once when I was asked about my policy on sick kids my reply was that short of kids sweating or puking blood, I was pretty easy going. Now, that sounded intelligent. I'm usually worried that people will ask about "policies" at all and I'll just start staring blankly and say- "Duh.... I dunno- whaddya mean?"

Maybe I should just come up with some basics:
Do not send your child with knives, hives, or bags of candy. (unless he is willing to share)
Please pay me on time, otherwise I'm likely to say something like: "Yeah, I know sometimes it gets rough, just pay me half, or don't pay me at all. I'm just doing this for fun anyway" After that I'll probably have to tattoo "stupid" on my forehead. Or maybe "Stoopid".
It is required that your child have an unnatural craving for chocolate milk, and nutella spread. So far, nearly every child who has crossed my threshold has met this criteria.

Of course, if I were actually good at marketing, would I really be working for pennies a day? I guess I'll go with the "comfortable, homey, relatively safe, and always loved" theme.

God bless us, every one.

Daycare Etiquette: Take Two

Brian's first day without a call to sub.
Brian teaches the preschoolers how to do belly raspberries, and finds a "fart button" on the computer.
I think I need a refresher course.

Mom

My mother's attitude towards life has been a testament to me. Mom was in her forties when I came along, number 8 in a long line of healthy boys and girls. Her last hurrah, you could say. As a young child, I was aware of my parents being older than some of my friends parents, and wondered how long I would have a mom and dad, or whether they would ever have the privelege of grandparenting the children I hoped I would some day bring into the world.

Somewhere in the 1970's, mom decided that it would be a good idea to get some exercise , so after dinner every night she left me and my sister with the dishes and she walked a brisk two miles down our country road. This was no passing whim. Four seasons came and went many times, and mom would be out there, clearing her mind and moving her legs. In time, especially after mom and dad sold the farm and moved into town, dad began to join her on this daily walk.

My mom and dad are 83 and 79 now, and still going strong. They have spent many hours over the years contributing to their community with their volunteerism. Dad has been known to get up in the middle of the night to drive an "elderly" gentleman to the hospital for medical attention. Mom puts her nimble fingers to work every day sewing denim blankets out of discarded jeans from the local thrift shop; she bakes all her own bread, makes real noodles and perogies out of farm eggs and cottage cheese with no preservatives. They still live in their own home, with a spacious yard and garden that they tend with no hired help when the sun warms the earth in spring. They have a large crab apple tree at the edge of their property which they harvest together, dad climbing his step ladder placed onto the back of his trusty half ton truck to glean the apples that are out of reach. Then mom spends hours turning them into crab apple juice which we get to enjoy at Christmas, mixed into punch.

Every couple of weeks, dad uses his truck to pick up a load of day old bread from the grocery store and then delivers it to a downtown mission in the city. In recent years, dad has begun to move a little more slowly, but I don't think it crossed his mind that he might be getting on in years and so should stop giving of himself. Instead, they worked out a system of team work where mom was designated to climb onto the back of the truck and load the bread that dad passed up to her.

On their most recent bread loading excursion, as mom was coming down off the back of the truck, her feet slid on the ice and she was suddenly lying face up underneath dad's truck. Did this yogurt munching, walking machine rush off to the hospital? Nope. All those years of selfless , sensible living had made her bones and sense of resolve strong. Those underpriveleged people in the city needed their bread, so mom had to remain focussed, and not dwell on herself too much.

My mom is a testament to me. While some of my friends' much younger parents gave in to aches and pains and stopped giving so much of themselves, mom kept on giving and walking and serving. Not to seek glory for herself, not to make into some fitness magazine about the benefits of regular exercise. Mom just has a great no-nonsense attitude about her place in this life, and its certainly not all about herself.

My children have had the privelege of healthy grandparents for almost twelve years nowand I have had the honor of watching my parents make good, simple choices that will leave a legacy for generations to come.

Gender Confused Feline

Mindy and Flo-ey joined our family in August of 2005. We had spent a few days with friends on the farm and Arianna and this little tabby kitten were inseparable, so I played my guilt card with Brian and then came home with not only the tabby, but this little grey number as well. She reminded me of the cat I grew up with who lived to about a billion cat years and gave us countless numbers of spring time litters.

Now, I'm not dumb enough to think that free farm kitties are really free. Priceless: maybe ,but certainly not free. I know that by the tender age of six months or so, they hit puberty and do their utmost to hit the streets and get busy. So, I've been tucking away little bits of money for the inevitable trip to the veterinarian where these little girls are going to be subjected to female genital mutilation, er , I mean I'll be a responsible pet owner and get my kitties fixed so as not contribute to cat over population.

True to cat nature, a few weeks ago, the girls started acting in bizarre and desparate ways. The meowing became unbearably loud and whiney, they rolled around on the floor like furry contortionists with little shame, and they begged to go out, completely disregarding curfew. The appointments with the vet were made, and it was just a matter of waiting out the two weeks for our turn in the O.R. and the hope of our beloved pets behaving in less embarrassing ways.

Now, I appreciate any nudges from nature to open a discussion about the natural occurences between genders amongst any creature group. I had taken advantage of the "in heat" behaviors of the teeny-bopper kitties to explain to my own girls some more about the birds and the bees. However, Nothing could have prepared me for their next area of exploration. Flo began to aggressively mount Mindy and bite the scruff of her neck in typical cat mating fashion. Thus began "chapter two" of the birds and the bees.

"Mom!! WHAT are they doing?!"
"Mom, do brother and sister cats have sex with each other?"
"Mom, aren't Floey and Mindy both girl cats?"

And my own question: Do even cats have issues of sexual orientation? and, what qualifies me to
navigate this complex world of gender confused felines? I saved enough for a tubal ligation, but CAT THERAPY??!

Livin' it up in the city

I pride myself on humble, simple living- I don't shop in malls much, I've never been called a trend setter, and I certainly can't walk in anything classier than a good hiking shoe. Occasionally though, I wonder what I'm missing and so I try to be just a tiny bit sophisticated. I had an excuse to go into the city today, as Brian had ordered some books from Chapters and was dying to get his hands on a new piece by Donald Miller. Now, I've heard about Starbucks coffee from some pretty classy people, and had recently heard a rave review on Christy's blog about a particular confectionary known as the "Marble Mocha Macchiato". With a sudden surge of worldly sophistication, I resolutely joined the throng that weaved toward the counter, and with bold confidence I announced; "I'll have one of those marble mocha thinga-ma-doozies, please". I was really looking forward to the marble chocolate stirstick that Christy had promised me, but soon realized that this culinary delight must be unique to Saskatchewan. Here in Manitoba, the coffee was efficiently stirred before I ever got my hands on it, and never once did I observe an edible stir stick. This was the first blow to my newfound identity as a woman of the world. The second blow struck nearer my heart- or my left hip to be more precise, since that is where my underweight wallet rested within my shoulder bag. Did that cute young thing behind the counter just ask for $4.95? For a cup of coffee?! Had I fallen through a giant pot hole and was actually somewhere in Europe at some outdoor cafe? I considered asking if that came with an espresso machine and a crate of chocolate stir sticks, but thought that would blow my cover for sure. Better to pretend that I go to the mall all the time, I can pronounce the names of really fancy hot drinks (I just choose not to), and that in the right light, I could look amazing in a little black dress and stillettos.

A budding new blogger?

The entry reads as follows: Pigs are very stinky. They always have a stinky tail and they have a long snout. When they have a litter that means when they have more than one baby sometimes it gets stuck and then if the pig doesn't die the next day we would have to kill it before it spreads germs all over. and that is my say, thank you for your time.
Their feet are black they also eat grain and boy do their feet and farts--oh do they ever stink.

Rag Dolls

Arianna's rag doll sits beside "monkey" who is quite possibly the most beloved childhood stuffy of all time. Raggy is wearing a remake of a dress that Arianna wore when she was flower girl for her auntie at the age of three.
(Okay, edit: This was her self named "berry picking dress" that she liked to wear when we went to auntie Mary's farm. She loved to pick raspberries and nan king cherries in her garden.




This is Jane's rag doll. She is wearing a dress fashioned out of what was Jane's very most favorite dress when she was three years old. Her hair is made out of tea dyed strips of chenille that I found at the thrift shop.

Camp Arnes part two

Thursday morning at 8:15, grandma and grandpa Hildebrand arrived. There were 6 kids eating breakfast at the time, lunches were getting packed, and Arianna and I had our sleeping bags waiting at the back door. We were to be at the school for 8:30 and did our best to meet that deadline, but between getting the school kids out of the door on time, and lying creatively to my three year old (Mommy is going out to get some milk, and I will come back), we got there by 8:45. The meeting for teachers and parent helpers was already under way. I was grateful to see that all the information had been printed in a booklet- at least I can read! The whole "switching of hats" felt a little awkward. Every where I go, my mouth, hands, and feet are in perpetual motion, reigning in pre-schoolers,; maintaining order. Now I was just one single adult.

After the meeting concluded, we ventured out into the hall where about 50 excited grade sixers bounced about. The adults formed nervous alliances as we all headed out into the cold towards the big yellow school buses. I was prepared. In my shoulder bag were reading materials (optimistic?), juice boxes, granola bars, water bottles, advil, kids tylenol, and a package of Rolos. I was invincible. If the bus were to break down somewhere north of Winnipeg, I was sure I could survive for a time in my MEC fleece pants, my $2.00 Arctic parka, with my coffee and chocolate firmly gripped in my woolen mittens.

It took about two hours of bouncing along the highway to arrive at our destination. The kids were excited without being dangerously ridiculous. Having been gifted with the ability to fall asleep even on a rock with wolves circling, I managed to doze through a lot of the trip up. The sleepy feeling ended abruptly when we rolled into Camp Arnes and ventured out into sub-human temperatures. We got a tour of the facility while we waited for our luggage to arrive. Everyone was grateful that lunch was first on the agenda, since we knew for sure they wouldn't be cruel enough to ask us to do that outdoors.

The rest of the afternoon was spent mostly outdoors and we enjoyed activities like fire building and bannock, cross country skiing through the bush (beautiful), survival skills (DUH! just get in out of the cold!!), and an oppurtunity to visit the camp's collection of animals. This event was practically tropical, since the snakes, iguana, mice, hamsters, bunnies, ferret, and tarantula were all warm and cozy under their heat lamps. Between activities we were treated with really delicious meals in the spacious dining hall. Not the typical mess hall fare, but lots of fresh salads, real mashed potatoes, and gravy without lumps.

When the sun went down, the false hope that the bright sun had given us also vanished from sight. Even the horses refused to come out of their warm stalls so the scheduled hay ride was replaced by indoor games. The adults huddled on camp couches hoping to get their circulation back while the younger crowd enthusiastically worked on their teamwork skills under the camp staff's guidance. Next on the schedule was a trip to the indoor pool. Even if I felt fabulous in a swimsuit, I couldn't even imagine paring down to two tiny pieces of lycra. I stayed in my full fleece get up and sat poolside watching the staff and parents warming in the hot tub and the kids screaming and having belly flop contests in the pool.

After a snack, it was off to bed. The girls were lucky to have been given the rooms in the lodge, instead of the outdoor cabins. Our rooms were toasty warm and the kids were fabulous. We decided to tell progressive stories in the dark. I knew that if I got every girl onto their bunk and the lights were out there was no way that they would be able to fight with their tired bodies for long. Especially not after playing outdoors for a whole day. By midnight everyone was fast asleep.

At breakfast the next morning, we learned a few more things. The boys had not fared so well in the sleep department. Between getting housed in freezing cold cabins, bunking with snorers, sleep-walkers, and farters, it was obvious who would win the bed head contest of the morning. Furthermore, the camp directer had the nerve to annouce that the temperature had dropped a further six degrees overnight. A few cell phone calls home led us to discover that the schools in our division had been cancelled due to the extreme cold winter temperatures. The irony did not escape me.

After modifying the morning's activities to ensure that we would deliver everyone's children back to the school complete with fingers and toes, our Camp Arnes trip was coming to an end. By this point, I had grown accustomed to having coffee with my fellow volunteers and staff, feeling like an adult with enough arms and legs to navigate my responsibilites, and enjoyed watching my daughter with her peers (God give me strength, adolescence is coming upon us at full bore....). Time to board the bus again and head home to change hats once again.

What a privelege to be in grade six again for just 24 hours. To remember the joys, and the pressures, to recognize anew that everyone's reality is valid and complete with its own set of challenges, relationships, and rewards. To remember again that when our kids come home to us at the end of their day, they need to be coming home to their sanctuary; a place where they never have to question their value or sense of belonging. To know that no matter how many hours they spend in the classroom that at the end of the day, we parents still get to be their teachers, complete with all the hugs and kisses and affirmations in the world.

Lucky we, lucky them.

Indescribable

Sometimes in life , we are allowed the rare privelege of experiencing most of our mental planets lining up simultaneously and for a time to bask in the bright light of Truth. Went to church this morning and experienced a service that seemed orchestrated entirely for me. I'm not sure what that couple of hundred other people were doing there, but from the first song to the last prayer, I felt the soothing comfort of being loved, valued, and well. I don't mean to describe an emotional experience because that could be achieved just as easily by discovering an antique at the thrift shop, or by watching a really awesome movie and feeling that sense of connectness and goodness that we can all relate to. No, this was different.

The old has passed away- behold all things have become new. Or, as the Message puts it:
"anyone united with the Messiah gets a fresh start, is created new. The old life is gone; a new life burgeons! Look at it!"

If indeed I am new, then why would I identify myself by my weaknesses or perceived failures? If I could really achieve being the person I want to be, then I would not need God for any reason. I could shout up at Him:
" Hey! Am I okay yet? Am I trying hard enough for you yet?"

I like the way Chris Tomlin puts it in his lyrics "Indescribable"
"Indescribable, uncontainable,
You placed the stars in the sky and You know them by name.
You are amazing God
Incomparable, unchangeable
You see the depths of my heart and You love me the same
You are amazing God."

Paul says it well in 2 Corinthians:
"Dear, dear Corinthians, I can't tell you how much I long for you to enter this wide-open, spacious life. We didn't fence you in. The smallness you feel comes from within you. Your lives aren't small, but you're living them in a small way. Open up your lives. Live openly and expansively!"

He who began a good work in (me) will be faithful to complete it in (me). As I fully grasp the truth of having been given an extreme makeover by the maker Himself, I look forward to recognizing my new face and refusing to mask it in failure and inadequacy.

Camp Arnes, part one

Back from camp. There's so much to say but I'll start with my favorite.

Back in 1987 I worked at Camp Arnes as a camp counseller. One of the programs they ran at the time was called "Outpost" where a counseller or two were taken out into the bush for 5 days with a number of hardy campers to experience camping in a more authentic style. We brought in enough food to cook for ourselves for the duration, and everything was cooked over an open fire which we ourselves constructed using tinder, kindling , and fuel which was scrounged from the surrounding woods. In '87 there was some extreme summer weather, with temps rising above 35 degrees. It was so hot that we were unable to use the lake to cool off in since the algae really loved the hot, hot weather. You guessed it- these were the circumstances within which me and a couple of miserable kids tried to survive 5 days in the bush. Imagine the idea of having to COOK over a fire in weather like that!

Fast forward to February,2006 and two bus fulls of grade 6 kids travel up to Camp Arnes. Our winter this year has been unusually balmy- warm enough for daily walks even with pre-schoolers. About 3 minutes before the scheduled trip to Arnes, we were hit with a cold front which caused the temperatures to plummet to below record temps. When we arrived at camp, it was minus 32, and minus 44 when you calculate in the windchill. It was SO COLD!!! As we received the tour, some kids had to be taken indoors because they were unabashedly crying from the pain of freezing feet and faces. We all emptied our duffel bags and donned every scarf, undie, sock, sweater, and pair of pants that we could. Then it was off to outdoor activities.

On the agenda? Building a fire in the bush, using birch bark, tinder, kindling, and fuel found in the surrounding woods. This time, the idea of slipping off my double pair of mitts to snap the tinder into burning size filled me with dread. Wrapping bannock dough around sticks with bare hands made me whimper like a wee baby. One of the boys in our group removed his boots and two pair of wool socks beside the fire to warm up his toes before they succombed to frostbite. I selflessly sacrificed one of my four scarfs to a girl whose cheeks were turning from deep ruby to spotty white.

All this in the very same woods where I nearly grew chaffed, sweaty, black-flied boils when I built fires to cook Camp Arnes food some 19 years ago.

Only on the Canadian prairies.

A Cry for Justice and Truth

Who is the idiot that coined the title of "terrible two"? Did he become so overwhelmed and frustrated that the child was given into care before he reached the ridiculous age of three?
If I track this genious down, I will lie flailing face down on the floor, drooling and screaming until I get my way and get this misperception cleared up. The terrible twos are merely a warm-up exercise for what's on the cirriculum for stage "three" of child rearing.

God be with us all.

Getting Ready

In two days, I am accompanying my daughter's grade six class on an overnight field trip to Camp Arnes. I've cleared my schedule and made arrangements with Brian's folks for our other three kids to be cared for in my absence. There's nothing like the impending visit of the parents-in-law to get a girl motivated around the house. Not that this is any reflection of my mother and father in law, who couldn't be nicer to a marry-in like myself. Still, the idea of me taking off for two days and leaving them in the house to look after the little one and get the bigger ones off to school kind of puts me in a bit of a cold sweat. So far I have managed to clean the top of the fridge (I'm so sure they'll be checking!), get the girls to clean their bedrooms (truly disgusting spaces), and last night even spent several hours in the boys room, trying to bring it back to bedroom-ish standards.

The fridge is still cultivating things, the laundry is sky-high, and I'll need to wash some sheets if I want to have overnight guests and not scare them off. This is where it gets complicated. Yesterday the washing machine went on strike, it looks like there must be a belt problem or something. (do washers have belts?) All I know is that it sounded like it might just bust through the back wall and into the yard at any moment, and I dare not tempt fate and use it today.

It's a good thing that my parents-in-law are coming. When Grandpa needs a break from nintendo he can go and fix my washing machine so that when grandma gets done cleaning the fridge, she can get some laundry done.

There's only so much a gal can do!

Home Sweet Home

I love my home. I especially like it when I've had the privelege of getting away from it, then come back with a renewed spirit and feel like I'm seeing it through new eyes. Over the weekend we accepted the invitation to a house warming party- new friends for us. I was much looking forward to this party for more than one reason. First, I don't get out that much, and when I do, its generally with 50 to 1150 small children and therefore doesn't quality as "getting out". Secondly, the hostess is quite a classy woman, and being a hand-me-down yoga pant and comfy sweater type of gal, I don't often attract this type of person as a friend. Thirdly, the party was in the city, so we planned on travelling in with good friends with whom there are no taboo subjects and many, many things to laugh about.

I was not to be disappointed. The street address was so brand new that we had trouble finding the house. There was light streaming out of its numerous, generous windows. We were greeted at the door by an impeccably dressed host and hostess who made us feel like VIP's, threw their arms around us, (like we were the prodigal son ourselves), and whisked out coats and shoes out of sight into a closet in an entirely different room. When the next guests arrived, they too would get the sense that they were the first and only most important people in their lives.

The house was perfect. The interior design was not accidental. The table was spread with the finest appetizers laid out in unchipped china and crystal. The kitchen, even without the spread of wine and sparkling cider, was breathtaking. The fridge was stainless steel, with one of those cool drawers at the bottom which is actually the freezer. Justice cannot be done to the rest of the kitchen, since I am of the unsophisticated mind that when a kitchen smells good, its magazine material. I can just tell you that as Brian began to drool uncontrollably I knew we must be in a place of greatness. We were ushered upstairs for the "penny tour", past the luxurious family room, spacious home office, into the master bedroom. It was one of these rooms that has space for not only a king sized bed, but an inviting loveseat under the window, and a gorgeous wardrobe closet. The bed was too pretty to be used for drooly nocturnal snoring. Each of the 47 pillows was carefully positioned, colour coordinated with its neighboring textures.

Time for the party to begin. We lounged on white leather in the living room, sitting like ladies sipping our wine. There was a diverse variety of people filling the place. I was glad I had kicked up my standard a notch and not shown up in old yoga pants or the skirt and shredded nylons I changed out of at the last minute. (Jane keeps steeling my nylons, punching holes in them, then returning them to my drawer). I needn't have worried. These people were genuine, no matter what was draped on their exterior. This wasn't one of those parties where you nervously seek out the people you know , then stick to them like flies on pie. There was a constant rotation of people mingling and interacting, real conversation, real depth, real belly laughs.

We stayed out much later than usual, choosing not to dwell on the fact that we had yet to drive the sitter home, and that our kids were no respecters of time and would rise early and loud the following morning. We talked and laughed deep into the night, then all throughout the drive home.

I slept in as best I could the following morning, then stumbled out of bed towards the coffee machine. Getting out of bed, I found myself very nearly in our doorless closet, taking care not to bash my knees into the dressers crammed into our "cozy" space. My feet slid across the two toned linoleum floor. No- wait a second. Its not two toned. Its two different pieces of flooring duct taped and stapled together, with cracks so deep you can see the plywood underneath. I tripped over some toys and steadied myself on the bannister leading up to the upstairs bedrooms. There is some cheap plastic christmas garland wrapped on it, barely hiding the one coat of priming I coated it with about two years ago. I had thought at the time that if I primed it, I would surely finish painting the house. No such luck, I'd merely gotten used it. The living room's hand-me-down furniture was littered with cereal bowls and juice cups, the table too sticky to be used to eat off of. Besides, it was literally covered in craft supplies as Jane and her friend busily made greeting cards together. In the kitchen I noticed again that we never did get baseboards put in, and there is a scarey collection of honey nut cheerios and toast crumbs in their place.

I started piling dishes into the dishwasher and kicking toys into a corner of the room, meanwhile mumbling under my breath; "Look at this place! The clutter! Gross!!" Simultaneously, a grinning kid skipped through the room and exclaimed:

"SURE IS COMFY, THOUGH!!"

Loaded Quote of the Day

"Those boys have sure got themselves in a wet situation."

Somewhere between posting the question of the day, and promising a little five year old (Today is her birthday!) that we would make cupcakes together, these two "faster than the speed of light" boys managed to get themselves in a very wet situation. They took it upon themselves to take their miniature construction worker figures for a big, deep, satisfying swim in the bathroom sink. They failed to heed my bellow of "I'm sure that's enough water!!" and insisted on giving construction guys the platinum package for water sports. Within the fifteen seconds it took for me to find a cake mix, the boys themselves were very nearly swimming on the bathroom floor. Perhaps they thought that a swimming pool for plastic people was a great start, but a waterfall would add a lovely dimension and really bring out the happy customer in them.

Hence the summation by a suddenly older and wiser birthday girl: "those boys have sure got themselves in a wet situation"!

Loaded question of the day

I've heard of rich people fitting through the eye of a needle, but how does a hamster get out of a cage when the door is closed and the walls are secure?

Professional Development Day

It sounds like such a good idea, professional development day . And , If you're a teacher, it just might be. If you are a child care provider, the only things that are developing are grey hairs, a hoarse voice, and a strong craving for gin.

It's two oclock in the afternoon. There are more cookie crumbs under the booster seat than there are in the cookie jar. We've made crepe paper flowers, pencil toppers, and ham and cheese pizza. There have been board games, pretend games, trips to the skating rink. There have been two milk spills, one poo in the pants incident ,one charge of assault (okay, a scratch on the arm), three time outs , and countless phone calls.

En route to the 40 millionth phone call I hear:
"Joyce, my milk spilt".
"Joyce , can I have another cookie?"
"la la la la la la la la la la la la la " (3 year olds- if somebody has something to say, then SO DO WE!)
"Joyce- Help me tie my skates".
"Mom- can I have money for McDonald's tonight?"

Gosh, I think- this phone call better be important, it better be a friend doing a sanity check, or Readers Digest telling me that I won the sweepstakes or something. (or how about an extra pair of arms and a couple of spare heads?)

"Hello, Mrs Hildebrand? Meez Heeldebernd? Hooww are you today? Today we have VERY Special offer........"

AAAAAARRRRGGGHHH!!!!!!!!!
I'm gonna need something a little more helpful than a pd day.

Thank goodness I noticed.

I'm so glad that I always carefully check labels when preparing my children's lunches for school. Noticed an important word of advice on the jar of peanut butter just this morning:

"CAUTION-ALLERGY WARNING-
Contains peanuts".

Lists

I've always been a list person. There are the grocery lists, homework lists, bills to pay lists, things to create lists. When I was younger, my lists reflected my preoccupations of the time. In elementary school I remember writing a list of all the friends that I had and all the people that I hoped would become friends. When the barn cat had kittens , I would list potential baby names to choose from. I have a list that I wrote when I was in my early twenties that outlines all the attributes I wanted to find in a man someday. In university I would memorize content by making lists and achronyms. For making tough decisions, listing pros and cons has often been helpful. These days most of the lists involve fairly mundane chores that need to be attended to: Pay for dance uniform, bake some cookies, rearrange my schedule to fit in chaperoning a grade six field trip.

As I was tidying up 50 million toys again this morning, I realized that I was compiling a mental list. It may have been entitled: "How to not be a screw-up mother" and went something like this:

Give the kids multi-vitamins every day, then maybe you could get some quiet time, since they wouldn't be home sick so often.

Start doing Micah's home reading with some consistency instead of trying to cram 6 books in on Sunday night when he's yawning and scratching.

Teach Arianna how to be a student, how to study effectively so she starts doing well on some more tests, (and see above, re vitamins so that she is actually getting to school to learn something).

Pay closer attention to Jane: she's a lovely and grateful middle child who could easily slip through the cracks, out of my sheer gratitude that she is not demanding much from me.

Wash Sam's hands and face more often so he doesn't look like a snot-encrusted neglected child in need of some parenting.

Be sweeter with my husband, who is a real find. (see above, re list from my 20's).

Then my eye wanders to the kids in my care, and another mental list is conceived. How will I fare on my list of 2006? If each day continues to give me only 24 hours, which lists should I invest the most in? My tidy rows and columns will have to function as hopes and goals, and be an encourgement as I strive to put tidy check marks behind each line. Real life and real time will not submit to my bookkeeping.

(Clean up the toys, check.)
(write a post on my blog, check.)