Happy Valentine's Day

It started out innocently enough.
Little did he know that he was rapidly becoming an irresistable chic magnet.

Family Traditions

(Thank you God, for my family)

"Oh, the comfort, the inexpressible comfort of feeling safe with a person; having neither to weigh thoughts nor measure words, but to pour them all out, just as they are, chaff and grain together, knowing that a faithful hand will take and sift them, keep what is worth keeping, and then, with a breath of kindness, blow the rest away.” ~George Eliot

*thank you Brandy



Its a tradition that began long before any of us had children of our own. Every autumn, the family and all its counterparts make the trip to Riding Mountain National Park to celebrate Thanksgiving.

We always hike the marsh, and at the end of the weaving plank walkway is a gazebo where we have probably posed for a drillion or more family photos. Then there is the treasure hunt, another hike along the lake that is cleverly disguised as a candy hunt so that the children beg for it every year. Uncle Mel's trail mix has become another favourite legend. It was initiated the year he arrived with a rough tote filled with nuts, raisins, chocolate, and candy. Which works out well for my preferred weekend parenting style. Book in one hand, a magazine in the other, and the dimples of my cellulite holding coffee, dark chocolate truffles, four dozen vintage buttons, some scraps of unbleached cotton, and a gin and tonic. Whenever the children approach something relating to hunger I just glance up and scream at them... GO EAT THE FRIGGIN TRAIL MIX!! DO I LOOK LIKE A CARING, ENGAGED MOTHER RIGHT NOW?!



And then of course, it goes without saying that there are hours and hours of family bonding.

No Screen Sundays

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

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

*

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

*

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

*

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

*

BUT THE NOISE!!!

oh the noise.

*

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

*

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

*

So, I did the mature thing.

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

*

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

Summer

"Hi. I'm Sam. Remember?"

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

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

And we even had fun!

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

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

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

oh, Those Darn Kids

Far be it from me to offer any advice on parenting because then you'd probably start watching my kids for all their weaknesses and flaws and then you might be tempted to come around and criticize me and I don't want that. (Did I sound defensive? I'm sorry; I meant to sound threatening....)

There's a funny thing that happens when you make your kids do jobs. A few months ago I had a rant about how insane I was going, how tired I was of wiping and washing and picking up after everyone, how annoying I found it to see people so relaxed in my presence. I insisted that I no longer do any supper clean-up and that I would not even involve myself in delegating duties. This was to be a war fought by the army of dad and the legions of offspring. The first few days or weeks, I had to physically remove myself from the room or the house because of the significant resistance that was met with this non-negotiable proposal.

Its still ugly a lot of the time. But there's a new dynamic emerging. There's a weird bonding that happens when these wild ones have to band together to complete a task. (and their dad is a task master. He won't accept a sloppy job. He won't do a "mommy" and do it for them.) Amidst the screaming, sometimes crying, sometimes racing around the table, there is the presence of an almost hysterical giggle. Annoying, but invaluable. Often, the craziness that envelopes dish-washing time (and I make them use the sink and not the dishwasher. I think its a good life skill.) spills over into after-dish-washing time. I'll hear them rumble down into the basement for a life-in-the-eighties costume game. Or we'll get a fashion shoot of bubble beards. Or Micah will give himself vacuum hickeys after getting the floors clean.

Its like after hating each other through the process of figuring out how to work together, they lose some of their selfishness and actually begin to like one another.

Besides, I usually forget to bath them. At least this way I know that their kinda clean. -ish.

My Kid is Gonna Be Thirteen!

She's a nice kid.

~

She and her friends are fun to hang out with.

~

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

~

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

She's pretty.

~

She's not a klutz like her mother.

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She is creative.

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She has confidence.

~

~

~

Clearly, there is a loving God.

The Difference Between Girls and Boys

Girls: Borrow elements from every board game ever invented, a few dishes from the kitchen centre, little people (but at least one or two from each and every set) , a few plastic alligators, the family's only nail clippers, tape and a ball of string, a fistful of wooden blocks from the top shelf, and small containers of cheerios.

Set up elaborate play areas and compose complex story lines.

Boys: One stick or other phallic symbol.

Feet for running.

Mommy Dearest

Sometimes the best you can hope for on a friday night is to get half way through a hazelnut chocolate bar without sharing with anyone.

I may be somewhat of a late bloomer, but I never seem to fully wrap my head around the fact that I cannot keep everyone happy. I admit, it doesn't help to have a chronic, self-inflicted case of thats-just-not-good-enough-itis to exacerbate the situation.

People told me that this was going to be hard. Those self-righteous, soother-grabbing, sadistic, clucking old biddies who chided me to enjoy them while they were little, for it was only going to get harder when they grew taller. Gloating, heartless, and inhuman old things.

I don't remember being warned about all the decisions that go along with this. I don't remember being told that I'd second-guess every single faltering decision that I did make. And what about this fantasy that mommy can make everything all better? Did we get any practise at that between the he-he and the hoo-hoo breathing at prenatal classes? I don't remember the lesson on "Every Wednesday, Someone Will Begin To Vomit Violently". Was I sick that day? And what about all this lip service I hear about equality? Who forgot to tell the children? When their daddy goes to bed, NO ONE EVER CALLS HIM. Mommy, on the other hand, is required to tuck, and re-tuck up to forty-two separate and complete times per nocturnal cycle. Times four.

I hear the other half of that chocolate bar calling out to be tucked in. And the wine is feeling lonely....