be back soon-ish.....

Yup, you figured it out. This bag is posted on entirely the wrong blogspot.


And it wasn't a trick. I'm just a little unglued, is all.






Anyhoooo......
Some lovely browns and oranges, with a necktie thrown in.
Thanks to Gloria, Roo, Morris, Niverville, my shorter-than-wise shorts pockets for volunteering to be harmed in this project.

Same schtick. Vote until 8 pm, cst. Next bag comes to you on Tuesday, October 14.

Small Town Living

Right now our town is going through some painful, painful stuff.

Information Released On Niverville School Lockdowns
Written by AM1250/Mix 96 News
Thursday, 09 October 2008

RCMP have released further information on why Niverville schools were locked down Tuesday. St.Pierre RCMP was contacted by Niverville Collegiate that a student had been threatened by her ex-boyfriend. The 17 year old male had also threatened the girl's family and indicated he had already shot someone earlier in the day. Police later located the teenager at his residence. He was very distraught and threatened to kill himself while in possession of an edged weapon. Police tasered the male and he was taken into custody without further incident. At this point, RCMP have been unable to establish the alleged shooting earlier in the day. The youth was taken to St.Pierre Hospital and later transferred to Health Sciences Centre in Winnipeg for medical reasons. He is now in police custody and has been charged with uttering threats. Further charges are pending.


I love my town, and I love its people. I've been meaning to post this comment that I got a while back, and as an antibody to the sadness around us right now, I' ll post it right now. I think we can all use a little encouragement and good news.

This is in reply to “Perfect Autumn Weekend” and “Who Says Life In A Small Town Is Dull”

Living in a small town is the most awesome experience anyone, who is anyone, can have. People gather in small groups, in large groups, in whole community size groups, to do wonderful and unprecedented things! Let me explain…..Earlier this year we had bought shingles and we were going to re-shingle our roof, but when hubby had his heart attack we decided that we would wait until spring so that he would be able to help when the time came (so we got all the shingles delivered to our back shed - waaayyyy in the back yard). But of course some members of hubby’s hockey team decided that they would all love to do it (liars that they are!). So on Saturday, October 4th, my roof was inundated with a swarm, and I mean a swarm, of do-gooders!

Where can we get labour like this!!!!!!!!! All I had to contribute was food and beverages. They un-shingled and re-shingled the whole roof (along with some new vents) by 4:00 p.m.

Now that is what living in a small town is all about!!!!!!!!

So, if you share this town with us, or you live elsewhere, look around and do something useful for someone close to you.
Social issues and personal challenges exist no matter where you call home. So does the sense of isolation. But it doesn' t have to be that way.

Growing Pains

I really hate getting told.
And I hate that I hate it, because when someone points out what I need to tune up on, it's not like I didn't already know. So, I get automatically irritated that someone said it out loud when my conscience has already been yelling at me.

The other thing that happens is that a light gets thrown on one of my most basic fears.
The fear of getting found out. And isn't that why we humans naturally respond to criticism with defensiveness? Don't we want to create a buffer zone between ourself and the possibility that we are just a bundle of hypocritical good intention? That given enough stress, or disappointment, or thwarted goals, we would actually just be bitter, angry, nasty people?

One of the great challenges of being human is learning to hear criticism. Really hear it; take it in and sort it out, discard what is not true; and learn from what is. And I think that the people who actually practise that sort of humility continue to grow instead of folding down into themselves, hardened and defensive. I guess its a case of not fighting against something. Sort of like when a woman is labouring a baby and is encouraged to relax her muscles into the contraction instead of fighting against it.

I never was much good at that either.
But good did come out of it eventually.

Perfect Autumn Weekend

What a glorious Saturday I had; roaring around and stuffing the van with greenery and brownery that was found in the countryside. While cutting down these reedy bits in the ditch; I suddenly felt self-conscious. Watched. That's when I noticed the bison studying my progress.

Couldn't quite swing that door shut and hold it all in.....
Using cut pumpkins stuffed with greens and browns, centerpieces were created for the annual church Thanksgiving dinner. Photos were taken.

And deleted.

Mental note: If the five year old is going to become a film producer, he may need to learn whose photos not to delete....

In addition to all that funnery and foolery; I got to meet Cheri's new puppy- Pan. Oh, my. He's sugary sweet.

I scored some deals at the local thrift and gift- this fun-lovin' foot stool, and a gorgeous porgeous church pew.... For a Song! (or should that read: hymn?)

As if that weren't entirely enough, we then had a fan-tab-YOU-licious dinner with friends, some of whom include that rapscalian Donnnnnnnnn and his superior half, Alice. Ed and ede really outdid themselves with rack of pork, roasted root vegetables, roasted new potatoes, and salad.

I mean really, really outdid themselves. (thanks!!)

Additionally, this little shop on Highway 59 finally got a stop in. Been meaning to do that for ages. What a quaint building it is! Gorgeous pumpkins by the dozens were a fitting intro to the Christmas tree sparkling just inside the door.

If you are in the area, check out Sherilyn's shop.

Did you have a heavenly rustly weekend?

Who Says Life In a Small Town is Dull?!

Last night we didn't sleep as well as we had hoped to. I dreamed that I was driving my mother around in a broken down black car defending her from hostile hardware store personnel.

Brian didn't sleep so well either. He said there was a car driving around town for the whole entire night. Up and down, up and down, up and down, and all around.

This morning while I was out and about, I came across a sight that just may have explained those nocturnal activities.

Somebody had to be seriously committed to this mission:

Mwah, ha, ha. The entire town got stripped of its signs.

Reason #36457 That Daycare is not For the Faint of Heart

Insolent child: "Joyce, are you going to be moving soon?"
Joyce: "Nope, why?"
Insolent: "Because your stairs are all crooked; and you need a wall over there, and......."
Joyce: "Nope. I like my little house the way it is. I'm perfectly happy here, and so could you be."

(Loose translation: You miserable little so-and-so. You so don't make ME insecure, no siree. I happen to LIKE living in the core, in a crooked house, with beetles in the basement and a shifting floor. You're just lucky I let you in at all."
Hmmmph.
And pfffffffffffffffffft.

Wasn't That A Party

I've got a song running through my head:
Coulda been the whiskey;
Mighta been the gin...
Coulda been the 2-4 six pack, I dunno
But look at the mess I'm in.....

Except its so NOT that. More like:
Coulda been the aborted grocery shopping attempt last night...
(more on that later)
Mighta been the kids..
(I swear the daycare kids multiplied overnight, plus thought it was "bring a friend" day or something...)
Coulda been the two extra bags for birthdays this week, I dunno;
But look at the mess I'm in....

My back is like a fire ball, I think I'm gonna die....
Tell me, me oh me oh MY!

Oh, isn't life a party?....

Yeah, well. I signed up for this stuff, so I wonder if I'm allowed to whine. Kind of like when people say that if you don't vote, you don't have the right to complain. Well, if you are one of those people, then stop reading right about now.

Now.

Here's how some of it went down.
I happen to like grocery shopping; even when I desperately don't. And this week is $30 off at Superstore, so I was super pumped about shaving off a portion of the cost of carbs that we shovel down our cake holes on an hourly basis. Write a list. Print off a coupon. Finish work. Sneak out fifteen minutes early when I am down to one kid napping on the couch. (I didn't leave her alone; silly. Brian was here). Remember that I was also going to a book launch at Aqua Books, and doing a bag hand-off there. Remember to grab the bag. And the bags (recyclable, fabric, environmentally superior grocery bags), and my bag, plus the other bag with the mending in it that I had to find thread for. Peal out of the driveway super optimistic because I left ahead of schedule, and that's no small thing. Drive, blissfully alone, all the way to the big old city, all the way to Superstore on St Anne's Road. Reach behind me for the bags. Oh, there were bags back there, all right, but about at that moment I remembered that my wallet was in the stroller in the driveway in Niverville where I had so desperately needed it in case there was some irresistable fabric at the thrift shop. Which there was not. And now, here I was, without.

"Take a deep breath, self." I told myself. So, my self did the thing it always does when it doesn't know what to do. It cleaned. It went senselessly through the entire van looking for hidden one thousand dollar bills, and meanwhile stuffing slurpee cups, wadded gum, spitz seeds, and granola bar wrappers into a garbage bag. It's how I cope- I clean stuff.

Then my wits came back to me.
I put on my best scammer expression and drove over to Karla-with-a-"K"'s house. She once called me "friend", so I figured it was high time I capitalized. I sulked in there all droopy and sad like and offered to sell them a rocking chair for a couple of thousand dollars. I figured that after that; a few hundred wouldn't be too much to ask. Besides, the gas light had come on in my way into the great 'peg and I knew I could always haul them out onto the street to bear evidence to my utter destitution. Besides, that would be the perfect oppurtunity to showcase the rusty bits speckling the white-ish sides of the ol' family-obile. Couldn't hurt my cause any.

I walked in on them having dinner. Something gourmet that their children dug into with straight-backed manners, and "thankya ma'ams". It was going to be a lot easier to look pathetic than I could possibly have planned. After all, they had already met our surly and ungrateful offspring, Plus,I was wearing my favuourite hand-me-down patched and shredded cargo pants that had sprouted a new split shortly after the gas light had gone on. If I had thought this through thoroughly, I would have left the bra at home. On second thought, that would have simply frightened them.

Well, I fleeced those do-gooders for $60- just enough for some gas, laundry soap, and a crispy chicken snack wrap with hot sauce from McD's. A truly guilty confession- I love those darned things! And when I make my get away from the dirty masses that call me mother and caregiver, I wrap my lips around one of those babies and all my cares just melt away.

Had a fabulous time over at Aqua Books. Holy sha-moley, if you love book stores, and cool stuff, and people, you have to check this place out. I went to my very first ever book launch. I don't think I even embarrassed myself my raising my hands and shouting "Halleluia" or anything.

After getting home earlier than I'd expected, with my bags and bags of, well, nothing.... I remembered that we'd have to eat the next day. And that there was no school. Which meant that I'd also have to listen to the masses complain about the whole lack of food situation.And that I still had two bags to make, due to a birthday party and the whole raging, raving, blood-thirsty bag groupies banging at my virtual door in the wee, wee hours of the morning.

So, I went ahead and tried to get it all done. And tuck in the girls with a couple of heart-to-hearts to boot. Then climb into bed with old gropey-gropes (real sneaky like) to get some shut-eye before the merciless alarm of five and a half bells.

Which brings me to the (revised) song about the gin and the whiskey and all that.
Because so far today, I had some very silly boys turn on the garden hose and run through it (IT'S OCTOBER!!), a certain beautiful boy eat purple crayons and ingest a pink marker (Hope his dad isn't colour-phobic); have a leaky water bottle repeatedly squirted and hucked aross the living room floor; a toddler slip upstairs into restricted zones not once, not twice, but THREE TIMES; a kid cry about not being able to ride a two-wheeler; three toddlers poop their pants; a camping game set up on the front lawn, which included a pile of gravel from the driveway (not great for the lawn mower); and a large box of styrofoam packing popcorn get blown off the front step into the front lawn. Which brings me to 2:00 pm.

Still have that birthday bag to complete.
And snack time; without groceries.
Plus I owe Karla some money.

Oh, me oh me oh my....

Intervention

Now, normally you can totally trust me with your confessions. I believe in love in action, and keeping confidences is way up there on my concept of honouring my fellow human beings. But what I've got here requires an intervention, and I'd like the advice of a few, close, personal friends who know how to keep a shameful secret along with me and help to bear this burden.

I was approached at church this morning by the associate pastor. He dropped the bomb. Someone he cares about is suffering from an addiction and the guy was humble and vulnerable enough to know when to ask for help.

I came home, holding this info tightly to myself, and decided I had better start by getting properly informed. So I looked at the only place I could possibly start: msn encarta dictionary and thesaurus.

ad·dic·tion [ ə díksh'n ] (plural ad·dic·tions)
noun
Definition:

1. drug dependence: a state of physiological or psychological dependence on a potentially harmful drug or blog address.
2. devotion: great interest in a particular thing to which a lot of time is devoted. Even if it involves a charity.

Wow. I hadn't expected it to fit the pastor's description so entirely perfectly.
I decided to investigate further, and delve into the comprehensive world of wikipedia; the online encycleopedia. After hours of research, here's what I came up with:
addiction (n)
Synonyms: habit, compulsion, dependence, need, obsession, craving, infatuation

The term "addiction" is used in many contexts to describe an obsession, compulsion, or excessive psychological dependence, such as: drug addiction, bags, alcoholism, compulsive overeating, messenger bags, problem gambling, problem bidding, computer addiction, etc.

Addiction is generally associated with increased lurking and commenting tolerance.

Common usage of the term addiction has spread to include psychological dependence. In this context, the term is used in blog addiction and comment abuse problems, but also refers to behaviours that are not generally recognised by the medical community as problems of addiction, such as philanthropy philandering
.
The term addiction is also sometimes applied to compulsions that are not substance-related, such as problem gambling and computer addiction. In these kinds of common usages, the term addiction is used to describe a recurring compulsion by an individual to engage in some specific activity, such as logging onto the darfur blog daily despite harmful consequences to the individual's health, mental state or social life.

I felt like I'd been socked in the stomach. I'd been trusted with the mind numbing news that our very own Svea, wife of the associate, flock-leading, wound-binding, boo-boo kissing pastor has a full-blown addiction. Not just any old addiction. Nope, the full monty- the dreaded bag blog addiction. Advanced stages include gazing into one's monitor whilst breast-feeding a babe through a sling; keeping a handy supply of wipes to de-drool one's keyboard; and most disconcerting of all- the illness is chronic and progressive. The later stages finds one feeding one's offpspring uncooked pinto beans to leave room in the pastor's wife budget for over-priced do-gooder bags.

Now, I'm not telling you this so you go blabbing it to every Tanya, Dianne, and Hillary. I'm only speaking of it because I trust you to keep a secret, and I know that you care for Svea's and her family's welfare as much as I do. We all have their best interests in mind.

And I think this week is Pastor's-Wife-With-Addictions Appreciation Week.
So, if you care at all about Svea, you should get her a bag or something. Or fund her for a laptop or something.

Just because we care, of course.

(Way Time to Bring that Laundry In.....)

It's Karla's fault anyway. How'd I land up with these book-learnin' folk anyway? She keeps shoving these books at me and they begin to consume me. Gobble up my hours and hours of free time. Well, and Carol. She's the one who loaned me "Water For Elephants". Took over my life, it did. Amazing piece of writing- it totally sucks the reader in, and one is found utterly spent. Helpless. Victem to its allure.

Then Karla's "The Glass Castle". Holy criminy. Started reading that book, and found myself thinking (about 30 pages in); What the heck is this author trying to pull off? Spin a yarn that is entertaining in a bizarre, but unbelievable way?" That's when I went back to the beginning of that darned book to re-read the intro and the comments.

A Memoir!

Memoir. Real. True.
Actually happened to the actual author.
Unbelievable.
Makes one think about the resiliency of the human character, and re-think the stereotypes we hold about what makes some people turn out the way they do; and others turn out, well, differently.

I also tried really hard to read "The Shack". Really wanted to love it because people who I love and respect love it and I want to be more like them.

Guess that's too lofty a goal.
Just couldn't quite get into the "conversation" that books seem to hold. You know how some books totally suck you into their "conversation" and you are irresistably drawn back to it with every spare ten seconds that you can squeeze out of your day? I really wanted to feel that way about "The Shack".

Instead, I got that in "Water for Elephants" and "The Glass Castle".
So not about the trinity at all.
hmmmmm. Definitely about human nature though, which God thought of as well.
That's got to count for something, right?

Go read.

There Are Not Enough Hours In My Day For Me To MAKE This Stuff Up

Any astute blog readers will have deduced from the previous blog post that our household runs at a standard enviable to the average pedestrian earth-resource-pillaging North American citizen. We are lovers of our earth, and as such, sneer at the very notion of wasting precious energy on an electrically powered drying machine to get our tighty whities to pounding-with-a-rock brilliant whiteness and dryness. We denouce all products that make our over and under garments static free and smelling like ocean breeze with a hint of vanilla bean.

Of course, such a commitment requires diligence, and that almighty word: dedication.
Sometimes, the laundry that spins on Monday, hangs on Wednesday, folds on Friday, and hopes to see the temperature controlled interior by Sunday. Just in time to recognize that one is five days behind laundry once again.

Most often, the laundry gets hung while children are building sand castles, jumping on the tramp, and generally causing backyard mayhem and bliss. Aiming to squeeze the last ounce of potential out of each precious moment of each day; laundry is generally hung, dried, and folded on the backyard deck turned temporary laundry room. And that never means that the stacks of clean stuff will actually make it into the house and into their respective rooms- much less drawers or closets.

And that's where the dog comes in. Really.
Lately she has been particularly annoying, clingy, irritable, and pissy. By pissy, I mean that on a walk around the neighbourhood she insists on urinating on every third blade of grass, every stop sign, hydro pole, leg of man, and truck tire. Aggravating when one is pushing a double stroller, holding a leash, and watching out for three kids on bicycles.

Which brings me to the drops of spaghetti sauce and ketchup on my kitchen, dining room, and living room floors. Which aren't.

Being a bear of very little brain, it took my friend to point out that the sweet little innocent doggie that was a puppy five minutes ago.... is in heat. It's not my fault. On the farm we had dogs, but we ignored them whenever we wanted to and never bothered to notice when they bled all over the bleedin' place. If they were lucky enough to survive the Russian Roullette of living on the highway. How was I to know that the entire friggin' animal kingdom has a menstrual cycle and only us few lucky ones get infomercials about tampax?!

Well, one must pride oneself on being teachable; at the very least. Girded with my new knowledge, I resolved to become more vigilent with the dog. She's a good dog, and can be trusted to go out in the yard without running away and causing her loved ones undue stress, so we've been priveleged to be fairly lax on her captivity. Knowing how the inside of my grey matter resembles swiss cheese on many many levels, and how easily it can become distracted by pretty colours, or smells, or a blue bike, a concerted effort was launched to steep my brain in this newfound responsibility.

I began by telling everyone I knew.
Logic suggested that by hearing a voice stressing the importance of containing the dog so as to spare her the loss of her innocence, my brain would respond by accepting this as an important truth that required follow up. Regardless of the fact that the voice would indeed be my own. My grey matter would never know that, so the approach seemed fail proof.

First victem was easy to target- a daycare mommy come to pick up her cherub. What else would she want to hear than tales about how the little doggie was bleeding on the floor and how exciting that our wee little one had approached that magical and mystical time of age. Yes, she had come of age, and one could never be too careful. Shotguns would never do for my little virgin. She would be cloistered inside her Red Tent and we would be more than priveleged to celebrate with her through this wonderful and strange new territory.

I waxed poetic about doggie periods as daycare mommy and I made our way onto the deck to dim some of the preschooler noise, and allow this committed pet owner to continue her eloquent expose in the wide expance of the great outdoors.

That's when it happened.

Like a mirage; nay, an appirition.
A white poodle, bounding out of the mists; through the field behind our house, up through the backyard and straight up onto the deck. A boy doggie, come to find our sweet virginous pet. Finding no suitable mate (since the grey matter had responded appropriately, and left young suitor inside, safe and sound); the white poodle decided to leave his urinous calling card instead.

On the laundry.
The laundry that had already made it through the Monday, Wednesday, and Friday of her life cycle.
I'm guessing that scent of ocean breeze and hint of vanilla bean is now definitely, entirely out of the question.

About the Whole Grocery Thing

Here's how it all goes down.
The white buns and nutella are gone. There's no frozen pizza or handy noodles'n'sauce packets in the cupboards. All that's left is this disgustingly nutritious stuff like meals, whole wheat and flax rivita crackers, cheese in an actual block, (as opposed to nifty strings in packaging that you can peel and twist into monsters and cool guys on skateboards), bread with seeds in it, cous cous and brown rice, and some forgotten mini wheats and shredded wheat at the rear of the cereal cupboard.

This means its time to back the gas-guzzler out of the driveway and drive a long way to save $0.50 on granola bars and hope for day-old rye bread in the discount section. Within an hour or two, the cart is heavier than Fat Albert, overflowing with all those boxes and packets and jars and jugs. Time to wheel over to that handy dandy motorized belt and take every last one of those things out of your cart for a pleasant little ride up to the money counter machine. As the boxes and cello packs are clamouring at one end for their ride at the fair, all the other stuff is already piling up at the other end, chips and eggs turning into salt and vinegar souffle as you scramble to unload the rest of the rubbish.

Cashier woman pauses wearily, and you wonder if everyone else in her day has the supernatural ability to unload a 464 lb cart at one end in time to reload it at the other. I offer a weak smile and ask her if she noticed the crumpled coupon amongst the foodstuffs?

Time to sprint over to the end of the conveyer belt and try to get all that ridiculous stuff back into the shopping cart. Surely this batch of granola bars and cheesestrings will last beyond Friday noon?! Cashier lady keeps beeping stuff across her scanner and I begin flinging onion soup packets and red peppers into my environmentally friendly re-usable bags. So E-friendly. I've just purchased enough packaging for a less priveleged person to build a five bedroom home out of.

Right around the time that the cashier merrily chimes out; "That'll be 5,604,987,354.00!"; I start to feel overwhelmingly weary and consider just leaving all those transfats and refined sugars right there at the cart and walking home. But then I'll have to face the children. And the dog. And the cat.

Not worth it.
Wheeling the wide-load out to the caravan, I am glad again for the oppurtunity for my longsuffering to blossom. The *^%$ hatchback door doesn't work, even though we've spend all of our children's imaginary post-secondary education fund on parts and labour, and new and used hatchback parts. I'm a huge fan of suffering, so I cheerfully tuck five four litre jugs of milk in between bucket seats, along the back bench seat, and all over all sections of the grassy and gravelly and snacky floor. .......not to mention the juice, the buns, the strawberries and the chocolate chips. I'm completely sure the bread won't get misshapen in any of this.

Still so much to look forward to. The sun has long since set, and there's still the drive home on the scenic, deer-infested highway. I'll enter my tidy kingdom, arms stretched down around my ankles from the fifteen bags straddling my forearms. How lovely that the children were allowed to stay up to welcome me home and offer constructive advice on what I should really buy next time I go grocery shopping.

I'm tired and the fridge is already full of rotting stuff that no one wanted to eat last week.
I open the door, begin flinging, and then take a running speed at the fridge door; willing it to remain closed until morning when I hope to get an infusion of enthusiasm. I feel a stab of guilt at all the people who'd be so grateful for those squash, garlic bulbs, and wrinkled purplish carrot nubs.

I shove some boxes of school snack rubbish up into the cupboards and grumble inwardly for the millionth time that my children don't like muffins or loaf or dried out oatmeal cookies from last January.

I remind Brian that tomorrow is garbage and recycling day, and could he please remember to haul last weeks packaging out in the clear bags for recycling, and the dark bags of rotting leftovers to the curb to peacefuly decompose in a landfill, all encased in plastic.

We need the room.
I've just been to the grocery store.

*Please Note* I'm much too fragile to deal with your criticisms about how your children eat home made unsweeted yoghurt made from the milk of your backyard goat. I know all about homemade granola bars that my peope tell me tastes like dry cardboard with wax on top. I've already heard about children who eat anything they are lovingly offered with a grateful smile, a bow, and a curtsy. I know about links to the uber organised house fraus with their frugal self-righteousness and their Ancient Language reading homeschooled cherubs. I know about the hundred mile diet; the people who give away their cars; and the other people who make climbing structures for inner city kids out of recycled Safeway bags.
See how fragile I am?

Besides, you'd never believe what I found on the internet. Makes me look like a total tree hugging, organic gardening, denim jumper wearing super-mama. Just check out This . I'm sorry, but that is easily the grossest thing ever.

On The South Side of Town; Its Still Sunday

Do your children torture you in the van by changing the radio station to their teeney bopper pop crap-o-rama as they do me? I tolerate it because its not a battle worthy of fighting, and because I like knowing what the kids are interested in listening to. How else can I be a moderately cool and informed mother?! Since I wrote that post a day or so ago, a song from the girls' radio nonsense has been parading relentlessly through my brain. I'm not nearly cool enough to know who the artist is, but its one of those pathetic love/broken heart whiney songs.

"You cut right into me and I keep bleeding; I keep, keep bleeding love.".
Weird lyric, I thought.

But yesterday I decided to take a bit of an inventory on why I felt quiet and sad-ish.
*my own hugely personal loss that I feel too vulnerable to say aloud.
*disclosure of suicidal thoughts by someone I dearly love.
*smallest family member off to school, now two weeks into seizure medication.
*brutal, unrelenting migraines stalking a friend.
*a friend's miscarried baby.
*the devastation of a 30+ year marriage.
*the devastation of addiction and its effects on entire families and social groups.
*two year anniversary of my brother Ken's death from cancer, and all the other deaths that have followed in its wake.
*the stuff I read online about Iraq, Afghanistan, and refugee camps in Chad and Darfur.

What I don't want from this post is a bunch of obligatory sympathy. We all have harsh garbage. All of us. And it cuts.

What I wish is that we would all consistently "bleed love"as we die from a thousand tiny cuts. I suspect it is love that makes these things hurt, because without love they would just be statistics, or unfortunate events that happen "to other people". I wish I would bleed love; much as I love the concept and love to talk about it, I would like to post a disclaimer that I am utterly incapable of living up to my own ideal. Often deep in thought or churning things over in my own brain, people and their sadnesses pass me by as I obsess about my own and try to get my thoughts in some sort of order, or find some sort of mental equilibrium.

The irony of believing in love as the ultimate salve is the (self-righteous) anger that arises when people react in less than loving ways to crisis or pain or to things they simply don't have tidy answers for. Not very loving. To want to blast people for not being loving..... Hmmmmm.

Like I said, there are ideals, and then there is reality.
Sunday morning in church just kind of opened the dam for me. Broken people speaking with unbelievable courage and authenticity. Jesus functioning in brokenness. That mother and father were bleeding love. And it clearly hurt.

There are victems in this world. Then there are victems without the victem mentality. Their blood is still flowing fresh and red from the wounds, but it does come out looking remarkably like redemptive love.

What else could it be?
Remarkable.

Bleeding

There are times when I crave the catharsis that can come of writing. Times when I wish the things I need to explore would be easily understood. Times when I wish straightforward answers and direction would flow from that place. But some things realy are just too raw, and too private, especially when the circles intersect with others' lives and I can't take the liberties of broaching realities that are not mine alone.

But I'll dabble, nonetheless.
Yesterday in church we had the most amazing presentation from two people in our community who recently lost their son to suicide. They have taken something absolutely undeniably evil and are using what's left of it for good by advocating for people with mental health issues, increasing awareness, bringing down stereotypes, engaging in fundraisers, and bringing useful resourses to those who are struggling with mental health issues and may not know where to turn with any of it.

It was powerful. Honest. Courageous.
It certainly resonated, as the tears rolling down my cheeks and down into my lap would attest to. I was so proud of these people for their courage. So proud of the who's who of my church who opened up our building and our hearts to what they had to offer. It wasn't all about confessing ones' sins and claiming healing at the cross. It was more comprehensive than that. Jesus heals. He did some of that when he walked the earth, and from what I hear, He does it still. But he didn't and doesn't heal everyone who ever asks. I can't say why. But I can say that pretending that faith is enough (I mean in the sense of saying "I'm healed, even though I still feel like killing myself, but I'm sure that I'm really not thinking that because I must be healed-- shockingly DENIAL-like...) ... is just plain crazy, in my opinion. I've seen way too many people suffer with their illnesses because of their unwillingness to involve the scientific, medical community. I have myself been told to "flush the pills, since you know the truth of Jesus' healing promises". Fortunately for me, I've walked this road long enough to know what to tune out for the sake of my own health.

Imagine our world if we would all go back to the commandment that wrapped them all up-- "Love one another; bear each others' burdens and so fulfill the law of Christ"; and "Love the Lord with your heart and soul and mind and love your neighbor as yourself". Maybe spend way less time figuring out who is "right" and who is "wrong" and just hear one another out?

Someone I love a great deal struggles with mental issues that I too am familiar with. I wish it were as clear cut a diagnosis and treatment as diabetes or a broken arm- even a seizure disorder. Then I could write about it without wondering whether you the reader will misunderstand or bury us in your judgements. I could write without feeling protective. I could involve my Doctor and not worry about his apparent lack of compassion, or wonder about his personal opinions on the matter. I could assume that the approach would be holistic- we would involve the Great Physician without assuming that pharmaceuticals would be a failure. I could speak of my love for the suffering with the same ease which I can assume when discussing Sam's seizure disorder, my sister's migraines, or my brother's cancer.

Yesterday at church, the Stotts spoke of a day when we could wear t-shirts that say "I Survived Suicide" much as we now wear shirts that speak of surviving cancer. I'd like to imagine a world where such honesty would be embraced; where no shame would accompany it.

But for today I won't even risk an unedited blog post. We've got a long ways to go, and a lot of misconceptions to tear down. God give me the courage to be a small part of that.

Another Evening Well Tasted

Ahhhhh, tapas night.
Check it out in all its colourful wonder, right here at The Groaning Board.
(We might have been groaning, but we were certainly not bored.)

It started out like any other ordinary day. I'd awoken early and attempted progress on a week's worth of tasks before heading back up the stairs to wake the kids up in time for school. I had tucked them in a short nine hours earlier; whole, well, and full of adolescent potential.

Imagine my surprise when I went to rouse my beautiful daughter and discovered that overnight she had turned from level headed teen-ager to beast?!

But what is this I see?
WHEW!
As sweet as it would be to have a feline for a firstborn, I was relieved to find the original model buried under that big blanket!

Crazy cat. She owns the place.

Nap time? Same darn thing.
And she wasn't that easy to kick, kiss, or slobber out of her cozy little nest either.
Kitty daycare. Naps from 7:30 am to 4:00 pm. Now there's a clever idea.

Assertive

msn encarta dictionary:
as·ser·tive [ ə súrtiv ]
adjective
Definition:
1. acting confidently: confident in stating a position or claim
Modern education encourages the assertive student.
2. strong and pronounced: forcefully strong and noticeable

Wikipedia, the free Encyclopidia:
Assertiveness is a trait taught by many personal development experts and psychotherapists and the subject of many popular self-help books. It is linked to self-esteem and considered an important communication skill.

As a communication style and strategy, assertiveness is distinguished from aggression and passivity. How people deal with personal boundaries; their own and those of other people, helps to distinguish between these three concepts. Passive communicators do not defend their own personal boundaries and thus allow aggressive people to harm or otherwise unduly influence them. They are also typically not likely to risk trying to influence anyone else. Aggressive people do not respect the personal boundaries of others and thus are liable to harm others while trying to influence them. A person communicates assertively by not being afraid to speak his or her mind or trying to influence others, but doing so in a way that respects the personal boundaries of others. They are also willing to defend themselves against aggressive incursions.

Assertiveness.
How do you rank?
I was raised Mennonite. Assertiveness; easily confused with, or connected to aggression; was not encouraged. We were about passivity. We were about believing that people of influence were right, to be trusted, and not to be overtly questioned. That made things tidy and uncomplicated for our teachers, administraters, preachers, doctors, and politicians.

That was then; and this is now.

But the cloak of assertion wears clumsily on me. Guilt follows closely on its' heels as I evaluate and re-evaluate on whether it was indeed assertion, or its dreaded cousin; aggression. The desire to please people and keep the peace, even at the cost of my real beliefs and convictions wars in my body.

I tend to think that this awkwardness comes from attempting to learn assertion as a new skill. A new language. If I had grown up learning the language of appropriate assertiveness, would I be less hyper-sensitive to the affects it has on people around me; whether perceived or real? Have I so defined myself in keeping others happy that I suffer guilt for advocating for myself or my children? Is it the ol' Menno-Martyr syndrome rearing its covered head?

Sticking my virtual neck out here. Anyone brave enough to leave a comment about your own experiences and mistakes along the way of learning to be a little more forward; a little less of a doormat?

And Thus Concludes Pre-School

Because that whole "Simple Living" Thing had already been taken

Yes, I give tutorials. This is (I believe) called plumbing.
If you go into your laundry room and look behind those large white boxes that swirl water and soap, then suck all the water and soap out, and dispose of it somewhere near your drinking water source, and the other large-ish square thingie that dries the water out of all your delicates... You will likely find this type of plumbing in your home as well.
See? Here you see how closely those tubey things are located to the washer thingie.
I've never paid that much attention to these things myself. I put my stuff in one box, turn a dial, wait for a while, then hurl it in the other box, and generally the clothes come out clean and dry enough to deposit back into messy bedrooms for 11 hours or so until I throw them back into those same boxes for a repeat performance.

Recently, it has come to my attention that things are never as simple as they appear. (Could someone please send Martha this briefing?) For example, if the first box doesn't seem to perform its spin cycle properly, and the clothes come out dripping with water and soap, a service call may be in order. Now these guys don't exactly hang out on the corner with a cardboard sign that says "Will work for food" or anything affordable like that. So, for $62.48, service guy came to our house, grunted appreciatively, banged some tools around, and graciously informed us that the drainage hose had a kink in it. A Sixty-two Dollar kink. That I could have un-kink-ified myself for $0.00.

I think its time to start paying attention.

These hoses are high-tech, deadly, expensive, rebellious little suckers.
In fact, just yesterday the hose slipped out of the other hose (are you keeping up with the technical jargon?). Now when this type of hose slippage occurs, you may just lose the connection between the hose that carries the water from the washing machine to the hose that carries that waste water out, out, out away from your house to some mysterious location likely close to our drinking water well.

So, while I was blissfully reading, my appliances and hoses were conspiring against me in the bathroom and dumping an entire washing machine worth of water on the floor. Now, sometimes when things spill, I tell myself that its probably for the better since the floor likely was overdue for a good mopping anyway.

Not fifty million litres. Nobody's floor is that dirty.
Or their vents.

So, if you are tired of simple living, try living like me for a while. Don't pay any attention to hoses or connections or technical details about how things work. Instead of planning to do housework on Saturdays like your mother taught you; or teaching your lazygoodfornothing children how to do the housework for you; simply wait for tubes and hoses to spring loose and geyser-ize your home for you. Think of it as recycling. Why let all that perfectly good soapy water go to waste? In fact, you may want to test your houseplants for durability against Tide, and set them near the laundry area as well. Water your geraniums, do your wash, and mop the floor. All in one foul swoop.

Simple living? That's just Sooooooooooooooooo last March.

Of Broken China; Broken Dreams

With my super-duper sleuthing skills, I have recently discovered that school starts in just a few hours. Which naturally reminds the uber-observant among us that summer break is pretty much gone; along with any good intentions that may have gone along with it.

Sloshing past my yard sale find bistro table this severely thunder-stormy afternoon, I was reminded that yet another summer has passed by without that broken china mosaic having been created by yours truely. In 2006, it was going to be a stepping stone. And in 2007; a birdbath. In 2008, I purchased a bistro table at a yard sale for $5.00 that I thought would make a perfect canvas for this budding collage artist. I envisioned this fun, colourful collection of salvaged broken china bits creating a new picture and serving as a funky table top. Resting atop that virtual visual feast, I saw margueritas, hot coffees, zucchini loaf.......Now, I see that as it's snowing in Calgary and pouring in Winnipeg. Is another calendar year going to go by without my mosaic getting done?

And what about my fused plastic bag plans?!

So, it got me thinking. Anybody else have some bitter nearing-the-end-of-summer regrets? Any projects you promised yourself all harsh winter long, that this would be the summer you got your crafting goals met?

Lay your head on my shoulder. Tell me your sad, sad tale of supplies and good intentions gathering dust while we fear they may soon be gathering snow. Maybe with a support group of sorts, we could propel one another into goals accomplished.

Whaddya say?
You never know..... There might be some zucchini bread and coffee in it for you!

Reflections on the Eve of the Weekend

Well, it only took four days to get the lawn mowed. Which means some parts landed up getting mowed twice. I'm going with a translation of "twice as nice".

The week's bags are all in the mail,with the exception of mystery bidder, and I have a bit of an idea of what next week's bags will look like.

Which brings me to the much anticipated wind-down of the work week. And not without drama. After my zero tolerence policy on five year olds peeing their pants, I do have a quieter snack-time while the unmentioned law-breaker languishes in lengthy time-out. We may or may not all remember the armchair that got escorted to the local dump after that long, warm pee that took place in that comfortable, convenient location not so very long ago. Ah, pee. And puke. Which reminds me that I must take the furniture-saving-ratty-quilts off the couch and launder them since the dog decided to have a small yak there in the wee hours of the morning. Maybe she was just too comfortable to propel herself to the yak-a-torium in time, and knew her loving alpha human would understand.

Aaaaaaaah, Friday. Tapas to look forward to. Sparkling champagne. Crackling outdoor fire. Brian's cooking. No alarm set at 5:30 the following morning- instead, the anticipation of days at the lake, watching Brian and the boys jump into cold, wet water without inhibition.

And, I'm in the middle of two good books as well. "Two Cups of Tea"'; by Greg Mortenson and David Oliver Relin; and a re-run: "Loving Each Other" by Leo Buscaglia.

Plus, school starts on Wednesday, which means I get the house and routine with my toddlers back soon enough. That's a lot to be grateful for.

Mr Sam

It doesn't really unravel me that Sam has a seizure disorder. Of course it is unsettling when I hear myself say; "Sam has a seizure disorder", but the disorder itself is not, in my opinion, the worst diagnosis a kid could get. He only seizures in his sleep, which means I don't have to worry about him riding his bike, walking to school, playing with his friends, etc. I don't have to worry about his friends witnessing a seizure and then becoming afraid, or thinking that my kid is a freak. I don't love the fact that I will have to include this information on all his school, camp, and lesson forms, and that I can't control whether other people will regard him with fear. I can't control whether his camp counseller will tell his compadries "I got the weird kid with the seizures." I can't be sure the seizures will be contained only to night. I can't decide whether this will last a year, a month, or a lifetime.

This is Sam last spring when we first discovered something cooking with his tender little brain; and then below at his most recent appointment with neurology. He has grown up a lot in a year, and he has now had five night time seizures that we are aware of. It's like the first big mark that that living in this world is going to leave on him.

When I think of the genetics in my family line, I figure he came out okay. In my dad's family, all the heads were in question. Dad and his sister suffered brutal migraines. His brother seizured. His other sister suffered a lifetime of mental illness. So, out of the available options, I figure it could have been worse.

We all have to go through life with these heads attached to our bodies. Sometimes it feels like a problem. I've often wished I could compartmentalize my brain and put a few sections into a box in the garage for a while. Just to take a break.

Every time you have a kid, you invite another "stranger" into your life forever. You fling open the doors of your life, your house, your heart, and your washing machine. You naively shout: "COME IN!" and you mean it with every cell in your body. You don't know that child any more than you can count the petals on a rose that has yet to open. But your heart has already grown legs and feet in the shape of that child, and you see it marching around outside of your body. That's forever.

I see it on my mother when her heart still breaks over her children. She is eighty-two. She can't keep the world from hurting her adult children any more than I can manipulate whether people will regard Sam with suspicion or not.

Mr Sam.
Looks like he's ready to take it on.

Two of my Favourite Prayers

One of the reasons that I love to go to church is that I absolutely love singing prayers to God as a whole building full of people. All that sound coursing around and through me, filling up the spaces and comforting the sad places within me. It is so broken and so hopeful.

I love the honest surrender of this song:
I love how it is not about me. It speaks to something bigger and more powerful and respectfully reminds me that I don't exactly want my own way. I want guidance. I want to be part of something bigger than me.

Beautiful Lord, Wonderful Saviour
I know for sure, all of my days are held in your hands, crafted into your perfect plan
You gently call me into your presence guiding me by Your Holy Spirit
Teach me dear Lord to live all of my life through Your eyes
I'm captured by Your holy calling
Set me apart, I know you're drawing me to yourself
Lead me Lord I pray

Take me, Mould me, use me, fill me
I give my life to the Potter's hand
Call me, guide me, lead me, walk beside me
I give my life to the Potter's hand

you gently call me into your presence, guiding me by your holy spirit
teach me dear lord to live through your eyes
I'm captured by your holy calling
set me apart, I know your drawing me to yourself
lead me lord i pray...

Take me, mould me, use me, fill me....

Here's one that my sister and I used to sing at the piano. We didn't have much access to "wordly" songs; even the secular Christian stuff. So when that stuff started coming out in the 80's, it was pretty exciting for us. Up to that point it had been most hymns (which I also love) and some great choruses when we got to camp for one glorious week of summer. My sis must have gotten the piano music for this Steve Green tune because I remember singing it with her at the piano and thinking; "If this is all I ever say to God, it would be enough."

Make my life a prayer to you
I wanna do what you want me to
No empty words and no white lies
No token prayers no compromise
I wanna shine the light you gave
Thru your son you sent to save us
From ourselves and our despair
It comforts me to know youre really there

Chorus
Well I wanna thank you now
For being patient with me
Oh its so hard to see
When my eyes are on me
I guess Ill have to trust
And just believe what you say

I wanna die and let you give
Your life to me so I might live
And share the hope you gave me
The love that set me free
I wanna tell the world out there
You're not some fable or fairy tale
That I've made up inside my head
You're God the son and you've risen from the dead

Chorus
I wanna die and let you give
Your life to me so I might live
And share the hope you gave me
The love that set me free

Anyway, they might seem corny as you read them on some random blog post, but sometimes the weirdest things can crank your engine. These "prayers" always comfort me, and sort of set things a little straighter in my meandering head.

What about you? Do you have any songs that you go to to bring your head a little closer to your heart?

...About That Book...

I was laying in bed this morning, trying to get back to sleep after letting the cat out. It was early, and Sunday, and sleeping seemed like a good thing to do. Except that my darned brain started thinking about what my daughter and I had talked about the night before. She was telling me how when she feels ashamed of something, and prays to God about it; the bad feeling doesn't go away until she comes to me and tells me whatever it is that is weighing her down. Which got me explaining/speculating that God actually tells us to go to one another with our burdens. That her gut was telling her right, and that instead of God being an emotion-eraser or lucky rabbit foot, his wisdom suggests that people are meant to confide in other people. It's his idea in the first place.

Which got me thinking about prayer.

Which got me thinking about the book I just finished: Take This Bread by Sara Miles; who was raised atheist and stumbled upon Christianity unexpectedly. There is something enviable about such a fresh approach to discovering God--unencumbered by a lifetime of churchy-ism.

I appreciated how she described writing ligury to God, aided by David's Psalms; thereby baptizing herself constantly in ancient wisdom and questions, fears and reassurances. I loved how she didn't see God as a puppet or personal employee. There was a lot more that I loved, but my memory stinks and this post isn't actually about Sara Miles and her book. It's about raising kids.

So, as I was laying in bed this morning trying to fall back asleep, I thought about prayer so far in my little family. I haven't exactly been the praying warrior mom in the sense of teaching my children how to go to God with their stuff. That's because I refused to feed them stuff that didn't make a lick of sense to me, and I refused to teach them stuff that would make God look like the Great Santa of the Skies. So, it's been pretty basic. At mealtimes I thank God for food, and occasionally in a loud voice thank him for children who've decided never to fight and argue again. At bedtime, I sometimes pray; "God bless you and keep you, and may the Lord lift up his countenance upon you and give you his peace". I can't pray it every day, although I would love to because it is my favourite benediction. But my kids think I am weird when I pray that one too often, so I'll just pray the basics, that we are grateful that God is good; that we are grateful that He loves us, and that we want to live our lives in love for others.

Which got me thinking about growing up in my family of origin. How at every meal we would take turns praying "Come Lord Jesus, Be our guest, and let this food to us be blessed, Amen". (weird. Isn't God omnipresent?) But the kicker is that at bedtime, just before drifting off to a restful, peaceful sleep, we would recite the following prayer:

Now I lay me down to sleep;
I pray thee Lord my soul to keep.
If I should die before I wake,
I pray thee Lord, my soul to take.

HUH?!
Doesn't exactly instill confidence and peace now, does it? Let's just break this thing down further. Now I lay me down to sleep; I pray thee Lord my soul to keep. Okay, so what happens if you fall asleep without saying those ritualistic words? Will he forget? Does he need sticky notes, or a blackberry, or does he like to torture his children with the necessity of asking and asking and asking and asking?

If I should die before I wake.... Okay. Am I laying down with the bubonic plague or something? A fever of 404? Is a bad guy about to come into the house and kill me in my bed? Is that access door to the attic that happens to be in my bedroom closet finally going to burst open and release teethy beings hellbent on my destruction?

I Pray thee Lord my soul to keep. Because I'm pretty sure you've already forgotten what I prayed two sentences ago. And it's my soul, and I'd really like you to keep track of it. Don't give it away or anything.... Just in case I die in my sleep.

Yes, we prayed that nightly, as part of a comforting night time ritual. Mom would read us a bible story about God-endorsed genocide , pray that God wouldn't misplace our souls, and then exit the blackened room, (past the attic door,) with the low german wish of "Schlope Schein" (sleep well). And I'm telling you that she was a loving, well-intentioned, God-fearing woman and a mother who cared deeply for her children.

I think we even did "schlope schein". And like I said in my other chapter, aside from being crazy, or migrainy, or cancerous, or addicted, or brilliant; we all turned out just fine. Parenting isn't perfect. Good intentions are only just that. We are all, every last one of us, dysfunctional in one way or another. I think we should just lower our expectations and hope that our children won't make it on "America's Most Wanted", or "Extreme Make-Over", or "What Not To Wear", or "Sewing With Nancy" or "Hour of Power".

And then send them to boarding school and blame all their problems on someone else.

On Taking a Year off to Write a Book

..... not.

But I have been thinking that if I took a year off to write a book on parenting, then I could justify putting all my children into full-time care (boarding school?! juvey hall?) and then I could blame someone else for the way that they turn out.

Parenting. They never gave us any information in those prenatal classes that we could actually use. No manual slid out with the placenta. And books? I've long since quit reading those. They just make me feel more guilty and more inadequate. In other words, I've been going with denial? Reckless optimism, riddled with guilty hopes that other people in their spheres of influence will fill in the cracks and crevices of my distractions, melancholies, absentmindedness It doesn't make any sense, but it's what I've got to work with for now.

How does an utterly flawed human being parent impressionable children? What's a mother to do- stuck with a head that tortures her endlessly with dips of melancholy and navel gazing, sadness and introspection? Not to mention the large dashes of fear and desire for control, masked by a perfectionism that goes disguised as a inability to make any decisions for fear of it being wrong, or impossible to implement or God forbid-- that it should cause friction, conflict, or disagreement. So, in an effort to keep the place happy and respectful, the tongue gets bitten and bitten until it begins to bleed in rants and exaggerations; and I hear myself bellowing: "Go ahead and kill each other!!! What do I care? You seem to want to fight and disrespect each other, and you've got your own consequences to live with. Just don't bleed on my good couch!!"

It's a wonder any of us turn out at all. My mother was brutally depressed throughout her menopausal time of life- directly after I was born the youngest of eight children. Her depression/menopause lasted for ten years. Ten years! Can we even fathom what it must have been like for her to have that household to operate, those children to feed, those gardens to tend, and all while her head felt like a foggy, grey, sad hole?

Yet, aside from being either crazy, or brilliant, or migrainey, or disordered, or addicted.... Her children turned out surprisingly well. Good citizens. Excellent employees/employers. Pleasant. Interesting. Ethical. Wise.

It's almost impossible not to see one's children as exensions of oneself. So when they are rude, or lazy, or unmotivated, or demanding, my heart twists. I feel panicked- I've not taught them well, because I've likely not taught them at all. I'm a stinky teacher. I'm an idealist with such high ideals that I can't even start because it is too overwhelming. Sometimes I write lists and goals, and even stick to them for a long while. That's how I got my children to clean up after dinner every night. My one crowning achievement as a mother. Wa-hoo.

But boy, oh boy, have we got a long way to go to turn out some decent citizens.
Maybe I'll hire a nanny so that I can sit alone somewhere and think about how to do that. But that would require living really tight on a budget, and that's another thing that I really, really suck at.

What about you? what is it that makes your head drop to your chest involuntarily and cause you to stare obsessively at your navel while your brain tries desperately to problem-solve? Because I happen to know that you are not perfect either, and it would really make me feel better to think about someone else's inadequasies for a little while. Indulge me.

Happy-ometer

Some weekends last for roughly five-and-a-half seconds, and one is left with the feeling that Monday has followed rudely on the heels of Friday's punching out . Other weekends are delicious- much what I imagine it feels like to be a five year old child before the grind of kindergarten and alarm clocks has quite worn down the anticipation of days filled with marble drop, little pet shop and toast-with-nutella.

Blissfully for me, this weekend is not of the 5.5 second quality. I kicked off early Friday, packing up two preschoolers in the van for some McDonald playland fun. We balanced pleasure with business; delivering some bags and meeting some supporters in the city, before heading home for a romp through the sprinkler in the backyard. After work, we converted the daycare into a delectable tapas setting, enjoying time, food, and wine with some friends throughout the evening. The weather was perfect for a backyard bonfire, and Brian was thoughtful enough to buy me a crackling red wine called Castelvetro that my winnebago touting hippy friend Lory recently introduced to me. It was the ideal complement to the best appetizer in the world, which Brian also cooked up. Deep-fried zucchini with bernaisse. Holy cow. I'd happily coagulate my arteries to those tunes for some time to come. So, just for practise, I hammered back about 44 pounds of zucchini with my castelvetro and threw back my head with some genuine belly laughs with friends. That's not something to take for granted.

Saturday morning I woke up in time for my dear friend Rosa's 8:20 phone call. We had a lovely long chat with few interruptions from the subjects of our recklessly optimistic venture of procreation. By the time those short-but-loud urchins started making a bunch of noise, I'd already managed a few loads of laundry and some backhoeing in the sewing room.

Arianna was away at camp again this week, and was I ever ready to see her when she frolicked home early this afternoon! She was a willing participant in an impromtu fashion show employing a box of vintage clothing that a supporter had sent for the Darfur project. She flew in and out of the bathroom, entertaining us with the best fashion, preserved from the early 60's. Gotta love those white fortrel hot pants!

There was just time for a load of laundry and a quick packing turn around before it was time to get the girls back to winnipeg for cousin camp with their uber auntie. But first a detour to meet up with thousand dollar JWB. (worthy of a post all its own). Nothing like a selfless philanthropist to make a gal have hope for humanity.

After the girls got dropped off and I was blissfully alone, I decided to share myself all atwitter, a-quiver and ferkelmpt with my friend Karla-with-a-"k". Shamelessly, I plopped myself on her couch and spread out the wealth of the Darfur donations for us to salivate over before heading to the bank and sending the funds off to the world food programme. We stared agog at the dough and discussed the goodness to be found in people; the love of Jesus who fed the hungry and cared for the widows, the children, the ugly and the scabby. We wondered aloud at the people who so selflessly support the project.

If that wasn't enough to just wrap up the weekend and start Monday early..... I also got to go shopping all by myself. I managed to buy Brian seven new shirts and myself two pairs of shorts for a mere $59.80. Really and truly.

And guess what? It's only Saturday night.
Maybe even "bath and treat" night......But I'll never tell.

Sam

About a year ago, we first witnessed our little Sammy have a few nocturnal seizures. I recognized them immediately, since I'd spent some years working on the ward of the Rehab Center for Children, and some more years as a respite caregiver for Family Services. Although that helped me know what to do and what not to do; the dynamic was still sharply contrasted to caring for a patient versus caring for my own flesh and blood.

We then spent some time in waiting rooms at the Health Science Centre waiting to confer with the pediatric neurologist, or the lab technician, or the physician at children's emerg. Sam quickly went from curious and trusting to sad and wary and very, very opposed to bloodwork. We hated watching this, and felt so evil for willfully carrying him into yet another situation that involved yet another "poke". It made me feel crazy thinking about all the parents with kids who are truly sick with cancer or any number of horrendously nasty conditions that should go away and leave children alone.

We decided against treating Sam with a preventative medication until we could observe just how much of a problem this condition would be for him. I hated to think of unnecessarily medicating a little boy and taking other chances with side-effects. And for a year, we did just fine. We observed no more seizures.

Until this morning.
Yuck. what a helpless feeling to watch your little one writhe and tremor; even while utterly unaware and unconscious. It doesn't matter that I know the factual side of these involuntary muscle motions being caused by increased electrical activity in his brain. It doesn't matter that I know I can't do anything to stop it, but only do my best to keep him safe. Well, of course it does matter, but it doesn't stop my heart from hurting.

Some days by 7:25 am, you just want to call it a day and go back to sleep.
Now, Sam is going to be fine. We've already got a great pediatric neurologist, a great nurse right here in town to do his bloodwork, and a pharmacist around the corner if the word comes down for us to start him on some meds. And it's abundantly clear that things could always be worse.

So, anybody out there who might be reading this post, and lives with a sick kid or spouse or parent all the time-- Hats off to you. I think we all forget how taxing it must be.

People. PEOPLE!! What Scurvey Luck!

A line from "Bedknobs and Broomsticks" that occasionally replays itself in my rattley brain. Not because I grew up watching the movie. Nope. I had the lp and I played that record on our giant brown stero thingie while I lay on the deep green shag carpet and imagined the story in my own little head. We never had a television so we had to make do with what we had.

So those words come to me at times when I wonder why on earth I love people so. Frustrating, demanding, impossible people. Especially when I myself am simply human.

It's tempting for me to go on a rant about exactly what bugs me and give you all sorts of reasons why I am unable and disinterested in engaging with people or trying to love them in any way. But I think that instead I will go on about a couple of people who have been highly encouraging to me of late. Firstly; Sara Miles. I am reading her book entitled "Take this Bread" and it's just an inspiring, raw, real book. I'd have to thank a new "darfur project" friend Karla for recommending this book to me.

I'll quote a piece from its back cover:
"Take This Bread is rich with real-life Dickensian characters- church ladies, millionaires, schizophrenics, bishops, and thieves- all blown into Mile's life by the relentless force of her newfound calling. Here, in this achingly beautiful, passionate book, is the living communion of Christ."

I laugh out loud as Sara describes the people who "blow into her life" and seemingly get in the way of her feeding people through the love of Jesus. Isn't that the way it is? You start out with an idea; people begin to pour into it; and the once fairly simply way of living out of a passion for Jesus gets all messy, untidy, complicated with the scurvey luck of loving people. Sometimes I find myself whining sardonically; "It would be so easy to be a Christian if all these annoying people would just go away and leave me alone!!"

The second piece of encouragement will be less simple to share. It was like a gift this morning when I attended church for the very first time this summer. I really wanted to go, and my morning was insane because of not feeling well; trying to do laundry really fast to get Arianna ready during a 18 hour stop-over at home between camping and camp; and the kids peppering me with questions and requests for where I should take them and how I should entertain them on this sunny, hot, summer day. I went in with a "scurvey people" attitude and a touch of guilty condemnation because I am the "decorating committee" at church and the stage has been sadly needing a tune-up for at least four weeks now which I've simply not gotten to. (but sincerely want to do).

The message was to die for. So were the songs. Once I figure out the web page, I think I'll put a link here in case anyone else wants to hear a message that makes sense. I'll try to put out a few words, and I know they will not do justice. The first word is REST. A word given to me years ago and one that has brought tremendous relief. This ties into another excellent point made which disciphered between "Christianity" and "churchianity". Who hasn't felt that pain?! And OH! Did Christianity sound restful, peaceful, and non-performance based.

Just what I needed to hear.
Like I said. My few chicken scratches here won't do justice and maybe this exercise is simply to help me get my eyes off the people who are really trying my patience right now, and to remind me to just rest. Be aware. Don't engage in the struggle for control. Don't believe the lies that faster is better or louder is righter. Let the passive-aggressives of the world suffer their own consequences without me getting sucked into their vortexes. Recognize that I cannot please everyone. And with a project growing ever larger, more people seem to think that I can somehow do it all, and quite in the way they see fit. Must have been exhausting to be Jesus. People thought he should be all sorts of things in all sorts of contexts to all sorts of people. But he only answered to his Father. If God through Jesus, couldn't please everyone.... Why the heck would we ever even think about it?! Seems to me that Mother Teresa annoyed people as well. I guess living as a human being amongst human beings is just messy and annoying.

And for now, I wouldn't have it any other way.