I covet your prayers (but not in the way you think)

At Bible Study on Wednesday, Randall asked if someone wanted to close in prayer. No takers. And since my head was all muddled and my "m"s and "b"s where interchangeable at that point, I didn't volunteer either. So Randall prayed. And as soon as he got the first sentence out, I thought, "man that guy can pray". Nothing fancy. Really very simple. Just laying everything that's going on out before God.

So last night I told Marc that I "covet Randall's prayers", meaning I'm totally jealous of the way he prays. I don't know how he does it. I fall asleep when I pray. My mind is instantly distracted. I know this is a learned process, but I have a feeling that men are (or could be) better pray-ers because they don't have that "problem" of being able to multi-task and can shut their brains off to focus on just one thing easier than women.

I find that I can pray easier and definitely get more out of Bible reading when I do these things audibly, but I still find it difficult to both of these things by myself (in a group, I do infinitely better). I know the answer is not reading Foster's book on "Prayer" (which I really want to read and will read), but rather just sitting down and praying, etc. But I seem to be so bad at it and it seems so unfruitful that I get frustrated. So... any advice?

"Take me where the loons are calling" (a Connie Kaldor reference no one will get) and Motherly Guilt

Picture yourself on a sandy beach on the shore of a beautiful Northern Saskatchewan lake in the Autumn. You are sitting on a large plaid blanket, wearing your favourite wool sweater which provides the perfect amount of warmth for this time of year. You've just put down one of your favourite novels and are sipping a hot beverage of your choice. The water is calm. The sun is slowly setting and its reflection on the lake is magnificent. Everything is still. Until you hear the gentle "whoo-ing" of a loon somewhere in the reeds. The sound is beautiful. The moment is beautiful. Life is good.

Now. Picture me. Around 2:30 this afternoon. Still in the bathrobe I have ventured to remove from my body for a total of 15 hours over the past 5 days (besides sleep). I am nursing a 24 pound 6 month old boy on my couch with the blinds wide open (luckily a large birch tree covers most of the window, so that the people getting their hair cut across the street don't get a free show along with their cut) who decides that a good way to nurse is to latch on for about 3 seconds and then fidget and look all around the room for the next 10. I am surrounded by a house that I have not been able to clean for the past 5 days because of the illness which I thought had gone away yesterday, but has now moved into my throat and chest. (This is also the reason for the bathrobe, though I must say I am known to stay in my pyjamas longer than most stay at home moms. Regular hygienic activities have remained constant throughout these days, however.) I look around a see piles of books and stacks of papers -- opened mail. Receiving blankets. Infant toys. A pile of hand-me down clothes from a friend. (BTW, thanks Ang!) Some Halloween face paint. Various piles of extremely small objects that my daughter enjoys playing with -- a Dora sticker here, a pile of rocks there, a Polly Pocket shoe, two tall candle holders fashioned to be a house for said Polly Pockets. A melange of shoes at the front door. A plastic bag.

When what noise do I hear from the stillness and serenity of this moment...? Why also the sound of a loon. Only it's not a loon. It's the whining of my 2.5 year old who has prematurely awoken from her afternoon nap -- like way too soon for a good day, let alone a day where I'm feeling like this. The noise repeats itself at intervals which themselves are annoying. (Seriously, she sounded exactly like a loon.) Finally she speaks. And various forms of "Mommy!" "Maaawwmmmmeee!" "Mommay!" emerge from behind her closed door. And I nearly, almost, was on the verge of... but didn't lose it. Praise the Lord that with just a few yells of "Go to sleep!" "Be quiet!" (not even major threats), she went back to sleep.

However, that was enough to bring on my third set of tears of the day (which was followed by a fourth set, upon recounting the situation to my mother). It's all just so tiring! And you know what's the most tiring of all? Not the housework. Not the breastfeeding. Not even the diapers or the whining. It's the motherly guilt that goes along with all of it. If I'm cleaning the house, I'm feeling guilty for not paying attention to the kids. If I'm playing with the kids and teaching them new things, I'm feeling guilty for the neglected dishes I will ask Marc to do when he gets home. If I'm feeling frustrated with the kids, I feel guilty because I know that I have good, calm kids for the most part. And if I'm feeling sad and frustrated about all of this , I'm feeling guilty because I know that all of this is just mundane, "no big deal" kind of stuff. I feel guilty that there are people I know (let alone in the rest of the world) going through major life crises right now, and I'm getting overwhelmed by the fact that there are countless toys under my bed and my bedside table is one big pile of papers, hair elastics, and a lone Barbie shoe. And right now, after venting (and doing the dishes and having both kids asleep in their beds), I feel better. My mind is cleared. I know I can do this and deal with them and the house. I know this is a time to be cherished, and that the time for going out into the world and helping others will come, when my children no longer need 24-7 watching. But I need to know how to get that perspective in the middle of the call of the afternoon loon, you know?!

The old gray mare, she ain't what she used to be

Now my husband, Marc, may have string of faults and traits that annoy me (as I do for him), but the one thing he has always been good at is making me feeling good about myself -- my appearance. The other day I asked him, if he would still love me when (as it seems to be inevitable after nursing our first two children) I look like a woman out of a National Geographic article about Africa. Then the boy (sweet as he is and with full sincerity) said, "Of course! You're beautiful! You're so sexy!" and on and on he went. Needless to say, he made me feel a lot better!

So I've come to a few realizations. And all young moms/old moms/expectant moms/women who have gone through major weight fluctuations should read this.

#1. My breasts are not saggy, I just get to see more of the top of them and less (if any) of the bottom of them, than I have before. This should be seen as a new discovery of yourself. You're discovering more about that top half, and can put the underside to rest as a tired soldier who held up his own for the first 20 years of life and now deserves a rest.

#2. I won't be kicked constantly by the next babies we have, (resulting in many small bruises on my upper thighs), because when I nurse them laying down they really won't have to lay anywhere near my body.

#3. Kathy Bates in the hottub scene in About Schmidt is what normal women look like.

#4. I am still able to fake perkiness with the help of underwire, molded cup bras. Though I once thought they made my girls look unnatural, too perky, and akin to the bosom of "Leave it to Beaver"'s mom (and thus I deemed them the "60's mom bra"), I will now bow prostrate before the person who first molded those lycra cups and married them to the c-shaped wire.

#5. It was really very sweet and made my husband feel good when my son decided that he needed to turn his head 180 degrees while still nursing, and then latch off and smile every time my husband enters the room or makes any sort of movement near him.

#6. While watching the Seinfeld episode where Jerry and Elaine are trying to figure out if the girl at the club (played by Teri Hatcher) had fake breasts or not and in the end ditches Jerry saying "They're real and they're fantastic", my husband snickered when I referred to my pair saying "They're real and they're flat-tastic".

#7. I have merely graduated early into the elite league of motherhood. And I shouldn't feel bad that this has happened so early in life (while still in my mid 20s). Rather I should revel in the fact that I will be able to see the same sagginess make its way upon my daughter(s) and probably my granddaughters, whereas those who wait until later in life, will never be able to point and laugh at so many future generations.

Now. Doesn't that make everyone feel better?

Those Quarrelling Christians

Found this quote at Simian Farmer, one of my new favourite reads:

We do not want churches because they will teach us to quarrel about God.

~Chief Joseph

My first response was, "Hey that's really funny, and really true!"

Then I thought "But hey, people always fight about everything! How many debates on politics, mercy killing, the environment, Survivor, etc. are going on right now at water coolers across the globe? Why is it okay for everyone else to quarrel, but not Christians? We are all just humans after all! Why are Christians expected to live beyond the normal standard?"

And then it hit me. Two things.

Firstly, people expect Christians to live up to higher expectations because the general Christian population these days says that they are living on a higher plane! Now, most Christians aren't, because they are constantly screwing up, but many are still claiming to have no problem ascribing to the more "noble" values & actions that Christians should have. And they're just lying. And that really bugs me. Let's be real people! Let's admit that we are in a constant struggle to do the right thing and we are constantly screwing up. Pretending that we are all high and mighty is going to do nothing but turn people away from the country club, phoney Christianity that permeates much of the Church right now. So this quote is true because (some/many) Christians pretend to have it all together when really we're just quarelling children like everybody else.

The second thing that hit me, is that it is not right to say "Why are Christians expected to live beyond the normal standard?" And the answer of course is that we (in our minds -- though many in society don't see it) know or believe that we know God and that He calls us to live a better life -- a life of love, self-sacrifice, and giving (and not one of finger wagging and posh, padded pews). I was reminded of in the Bible where it talks about teachers, etc. being judged harsher because they know more/should know better. And it's the same for those who call themselves Christians. We have an idea of what we think is right, and we need to start focusing on us living according to that and admitting we constantly fall short, rather than quarelling with our fellow Christians, and especially those outside of the churh. We judge others way more harshly than they deserve and don't bat an eye at ourselves -- when we are the ones who are going to be judged the harshest by God! It's that whole "plank in the eye" chestnut. (So I guess I better stop judging my fellow Christians in this post and work on my own issues!!)

And that's why the quotation is so funny. Because it's so frustratingly true!

(Bet you didn't think all this would come out of that little quote, eh Simon?!)

Possibly the worst day of my parenting life

So I've been sick all weekend. Not getting better, but getting worse. We went to Tapestrama on Saturday night. I force Marc to go to this ethnic fair every year, but this year I think he actually liked it and didn't complain too much about the price of the food. As I was putting on my eye makeup to go out that night, I noticed that it really hurt to put even mild pressure on my eye. So I was worried I was gettting some sort of eye infection, or ear infection, as I was feeling it in my ears too.

We stayed up WAY too late on Saturday night and Madeline "helped" out by waking up scared, and as a result I didn't fall asleep until after 5am -- not what you need when you're sick. So Sunday was a total write-off. Luckily the kids were good. Luke slept in his crib and Madeline watched TV downstairs when Marc went to church, so I could sleep (and sleep I did) while he was out. I had several naps yesterday, but was stilling feeling pretty crappy. The "Martha Behind Bars" movie did cheer me up. Nothing like seeing one of your heroes getting a body cavity search on primetime television!

But Monday morning came and I was not doing well. Not at all. I was exhausted, stuffed up, groggy, fevered, lightheaded, and certainly in no condition to look after two kids all day. Luckily for me, my husband works for my father, so Marc got to take a day of "parental leave", and he stayed home to take care of his family. This went well until noon when Marc got the initiative to haul the concrete from the deck we've been in the process of tearing up for 3 months (!!) to the dump. He finally got a vehicle to move it, so I was glad to see him working on it.

Until... Madeline would not go to sleep, at all, and decided that today would be the perfect day to whine, cry and blubber for 3 hours about not wanting to sleep, and upon whining about not wanting to sleep and resultantly getting her TV watching taken away for the rest of the day, whined and blubbered and cried about wanting to watch a show. After insisting that "daddy would say yes" to the TV, even though daddy was the one who took it away in the first place, she actually spent 45 minutes crying & whining at the front window while Marc was loading concrete in the driveway (I did manage to get a short nap in during this crying spell -- cruel mother that I am), Luke also decided that he'd only sleep for 40 minutes instead of his usual 2+ hours in the afternoon, and instead spent much of the afternoon kicking me while nursing, arching his back and making his screechy "I'm uncomfortable" noises. And though it doesn't sound like much, you have to recognize that I'm sick and tired (in all of the areas those terms can apply) and had to handle 2 unbelievably whiney and irritating children by myself for 5+ hours on a day that my husband was supposed to not only be looking after the kids but me too. Plus, you guys have never heard Madeline whine. She is one persistent little girl. Marc is a very patient guy, and even he's been getting fed up quicker with her this weekend.

So too many tears were shed and too much yelling occurred between the women of the house today. Hopefully when Marc gets back from his 3rd load to the dump shortly, I can get that rest that I've been looking for since noon. At least he's bringing home supper (and even Booster Juice!), so things should start looking up soon... I hope...

A new life

Tonight I had a "ladies night out" because Daddy was kind enough to watch and feed the kids on short notice. Of course "ladies night out" involves shopping at a Children's Used Clothing Sale for toys and clothes for our children and then going out for appetizers and talking about our children and children-to-be. While we were out we found out about a friend who just had her first baby yesterday morning.

I remember after Luke was born, a lady from church brought over some food and held Luke and asked how things were going and if he was healthy. Thinking it was a somewhat odd question, I told her we were a bit concerned because he was mildly jaundiced. And the lady said, "oh that's nothing! He's healthy. Praise the Lord!" (or something to that effect). It had never really occurred to me that my baby could be anything other than healthy and that I would ever really have a major ailment to worry about.

Well, this little (though once again over 9 lbs!) boy that was born yesterday is having some major issues right now. When his mom went into the hospital (after being sent home the night before) his heart rate was 60 (most babies at birth have heart rates around 130 or so). Shortly after that they lost his heart rate completely and he was taken out by a very quick emergency c-section. No heart rate at birth and it took 10 minutes, but they revived him. He was sent to Saskatoon and things seemed to be looking up, he was looking at his dad and responding to him, and then this morning he started having a few seizures.

Now, maybe it's because I've just held my own 9lb newborn only months ago, but when I think about a little new baby having seizures, it just makes me cry. You can say the word "seizure" and be flippant about it, but when you think of a little body going through that (never mind, the fear of what is causing them), it's heartbreaking.

As soon as I told Marc about this he said we needed to pray, and we did. Later, as I was doing the dishes, I started thinking about this little guy. How God made him. How God loved him. But more than that, how God could save him. You know, He's powerful enough. It wouldn't be much to fix this baby's heart, heal up a few brain cells. No big deal. Then it hit me why people get so mad at God. Because it's true. God could absolutely heal this baby. (I don't really want to get into a debate about free will and determinism here, though...) And maybe He will, and maybe He won't.

But then my thoughts went on to the idea that maybe God does not necessarily want this baby to have life (or a long life, at least). I started to think about the miscarriage that we had last year. Even though it happened very early on, it was still a hard thing to go through -- horrible, really... horribly sad. Actually the thing that made me the most sad (though it was really the happiest thing out of it all) was the hope that there was a little baby up in heaven who'd be waiting to meet its mom and dad someday. (It still makes me cry.) And I know it's a completely ludcrious thought, but sometimes I think that all of the miscarriages and stillbirths that happen are God's way of "stocking up" heaven with beautiful little babies. I know it doesn't make sense, but still there is that hope that these tragic events do not ultimately end tragically.

But for right now, that kind of philosophizing and speculation does not make a set of new parents feel any better. So, before you close my site tonight, would you say a prayer for baby Nicholas and his mom and dad? For life. For hope. For peace in all circumstances.

What translation are YOU reading?

Madeline's latest obsession is David and Goliath. She's had a David & Goliath story book on her headboard for a month or two now and for about that long she's been able to tell us the story herself, saying "Israelites", "Philistines" and all. Sometimes I've thought that the story was a bit too graphic with the allusion to Goliath having his head chopped off, etc. But she seems to get more scared at the new Winnie the Pooh movie than any Bible story she's heard.

My mom lent her a David and Goliath 'Bugtime Adventures' dvd -- which tells the story and parallels it with some insects living in the dirt on the battlefied with their own set of problems. She's been watching that the past few days and it has inspired her to act out the David and Goliath with her and I taking turns as either David and Goliath. (The second time she did this I was in the shower and she came in, pullled back the curtain and asked me to be David. Luckily when she asked me to be Goliath I could use the falling down dead from the stone as an excuse to put my head back and under the water to rinse my conditioner.)

She'll use anything from a rope to a cloth belt to Luke's soother clip as her sling with stones and will whip it around and release at the appropriate time. My favourite thing is the funny, shy look she gets on her face when she thinks of something for her character to say, and the little cricked mouth she gets before she coyly says it. Such phrases include Goliath saying "Coward!! You'll never kill me!" and David saying "I'm going to shut you and all the Philistines!!"

So, I knew she knew the story and we've had fun acting out the story (several times a day). This morning she wanted to play it again, and I had Luke on my lap so I decided that he could be my character. I stood him up on my lap and held out his arms as he proclaimed "I am Goliath!!! Grrrr! Who are you little boy?" We went back and forth switching characters, and we were all having fun... until the second time she played Goliath.

Luke had his sling all ready and had just proclaimed that even though he was just a little shepherd boy, God was with him and that Goliath and the Philistines would never win. He had just begun the swinging of the sling, when Goliath began to approach at a rapid pace "air sword" in hand. David swung faster and had just released the stone when Goliath began thrusting his sword into David's chest repeatedly proclaiming "It's time for you to die!!"

Oh well... David won the next time.

Phrases I've taught my two year old in the last two days:

"I ain't no foo'!"

"You wanna piece of me?!"

"Well, so's yo' mama!"

"Pull my finger."

What is it with women?

Seriously. What is it with women? I just spent the past hour and a half (while watching the last Canadian Idol show only because I feel like I have to because I've watched since the Top 10 shows started, and certainly not because there are any talented singers left) looking up "birth stories" on the internet. It started at Dooce -- which just PROVES my insanity, because I've already read her birth story -- but before I had really started reading her website, so I thought I would see it in a new light (I thought it was too crude the first time I read it -- for a little baby's birth, after all) because now I know more about her. Then I went to another birth story that was linked through Dooce. Then I was at a loss and wanting more birth stories... must read about transition... crowning... episiotomies... (cue the drooling, glazed-eye Homer Simpson... and I suppose it would be appropriate for him to say "boobies" here, even).

So I Googled "labour stories". I got a bunch of sites about labour (as in work) disputes. Not quite what I was looking for. No dilating cervixes on those sites. So I figured "birth stories" would work. Jackpot! And here's where the absurdity of all women who have birthed children begins. I spent a good 45 minutes at a site that not only has birth stories written out, but has corresponding pictures! Thank goodness they had the "decency" (literally) to categorize the stories into "very modest", "modest", and "very graphic". I started with the very modest, but I couldn't be satiated and delved into the "modest". I had to squint a few times and scroll a bit quicker, because as much as I love childbirth and hearing people's stories, there's only so much I want to see (especially since I'm planning on doing it one or two more times!).

I began to think about the strange connection that all women who have given birth share -- why before I got married all I cared about on TLC daytime was "A Wedding Story", but upon being married for more than 6 months, I couldn't care less about that and was obsessed with "A Baby Story" from then until I'm done having kids and TLC finally starts to mimic Fox and ABC's "nanny" type shows and begins "A Toddler's Story", and consequently leading to "A First Day of Kindergarten Story", "My Daughter's First Period Story", and so on and so forth (feel free to make up your own). What makes us care about how bad (though "never as bad as I did, and I didn't even need pain medication!") other woman had it, how long their labour lasted, how long they had to push for, how many stitches they had, whether or not their babies latched on right away, and on it goes?

But, still more than that, after looking at these birth stories (usually only the home birth ones), I began to ask myself, why do women feel the need to give birth completely naked? Do bare "buhzies" really make the baby come out that much easier? Even with Madeline, after 18 hours of labour, I still had the presence of mind to throw on a tank top before getting into the bathtub to try and relax! I just don't get it. I imagine it's some kind of "I am woman hear me roar"-empowerment thing, that makes you feel more "in tune" with womanhood -- as if women throughout the centuries stopped to take their tops off before getting on the birthing stool or squatting in the forest to birth their children. The last picture of one of the births was a women with her husband, her new baby and her toddler son, and both of the children were nursing. Now I'm not going to judge. But really...

There were only two "very graphic" births, I did not venture into one of them (I've birthed enough Vanderheads to not want to see what major damage in the undercarriage looks like). But the other one was about a little baby born at 23 weeks who weighed only 1lb 2oz, and who died two days later. I didn't look at all of the pictures -- seeing the baby just begin to pale with approaching death was enough for me. But one picture really got to me. The moment that the mother got to kiss her little baby, just before they took the baby to the incubator where her short life would be lived out.

And then I got it. As much as the birth obsession is about the pain and the length of the pain and the medicinal relief of the pain, more than that, it's about the miracle that birth and new life is. How precious it is. How precarious it is. How fragile these new lives are. How the line between taking a baby home and taking a baby to a funeral home is so fine -- a cord too tight, a heart beat too slow, a bit of bleeding... And it's when we look at these other stories that we are reminded of this -- that it's all a miracle. It's all given and it can all be taken away in a moment.

So look at this picture of the mom and the baby that she only heard give two faint little cries. See the look on her face and the love in heart because she knows that this moment is fleeting. But really... it's all fleeting. Our lives are collections of fleeting moments, fleeting acquintances, fleeting feelings -- everything is fleeting. For as much pain as there is in that woman's face, there is so much love, so much cherishing, so much meaning, so much fulfillment. And there is so much in that tiny moment, because she knows that it's the only moment she has. I wish I could bottle up the feelings of that woman in that moment and carry it with me all the time so I would recognize and love all the good that surrounds me everyday. But I'm resigned to try my best to cherish the lives that I have around me that aren't so fleeting and to be glad for the moments of love that I've had in those moments and with those people that were fleeting. Look at it once more.

Happy Half-Birthday To You!

Right now 6 months ago I pushed this little guy (well, if 9lb 9oz at birth can be considered little) into the world as we know it:

If you didn't know Marc or I then, or our blogs, you can read the account here. Great birth story! And right from the start he was a great kid. Slept through the night at 2 weeks(!!). Never cried unless he had gas. Smiles at everybody. Laughs everytime he sees even a glimpse of his big sister. The only indication that he's awake in his crib is the jingling of his little blue bear. Loves his pablum. Takes a bottle when we need him to. Has peed during a diaper change maybe 8 times in his life. Loves to cuddle and hug. Has the most squooshable cheeks. And the best smelling stinky toes on the planet. And can make you feel better with just one look of his piercing blue eyes. Luke Timothy Vandersluys today you are half way to being a year old and you've already brought us 50 years of happiness!

Have a "Funeral Moment"

At the end of my second year of university my grandparents came down to stay with me in Regina, because the aunt and uncle I lived with at the time were going away on holidays for a few weeks. These are the grandparents that I had spent much of my pre-school years with and whom mean a lot to me... I mean a lot. I don't know if it's just the perception children have about grandparents and other "older" people, but I always worried about when my grandparents were going to die. They just seemed "old". And, yet, looking back at certain memories (like their 45th "ruby" anniversary where we had a picnic in our backyard and they wore "ruby"-coloured matching bunny hugs) they were really just a bit older than my parents are now -- and my parents don't seem old at all. So, even though my grandparents were not very old, in my youthful opinion they were always on the verge of death. I was convinced that they wouldn't see me get married -- but granny winked at me when I reached the altar, and grandpa actually lead us in the exchanging of our rings. Well, after that I was sure they wouldn't make it to see my children -- but Madeline does indeed know and love her "bestamore" (the Norwegian name that I called my great granny) and Luke has stolen the heart of both of them. Anyways, all of that to say that growing up I was always afraid of what my life would be like and how much I would miss my mom's parents when they were gone.

All of that came to a head on one of the nights that granny and grandpa were staying with me in Regina. Grandpa had been to a Sunday evening church service and had just come into the bedroom where granny and I were laying in bed watching tv together. Grandpa took his sport coat off and came and sat down on the bed and we chatted for a bit. I looked at their faces and was just so happy to be in that moment, to have them there all snugly and close. And then I started crying. I don't think they knew what was going on. So, I told them. I told them how much I loved them. How much they meant to me. How much I didn't want them to die. And how much -- how indescribably much -- I was going to miss them when they died. I just got it all out. They were not quite as shaken up over it all as I was, and they reassured me that they were not going to die (well... anytime soon anyways), and that they loved me very much. Then we all hugged, had a bit more of a cry, and grandpa probably lead us in a little "huddle prayer", like he always does. And that was that. We knew how we felt about each other. We knew the inevitability of death and we knew that, though it would some day separate us, we had loved while it lasted (and that someday we'd be together again).

I told Marc about this shortly after, and I don't think he really "got it" -- at least in regards to grandparents. He was never close with any of his grandparents, either because of death or proximity. And I was never really close with my dad's parents (grandpa died when I was just 5 and grandma when I was 11) -- though I do have certain clear memories of my grandpa and I did have some great times with Grandma Dynna in Weldon. In some ways it's nice that I don't have the same "pangs" about their death as I will when my mom's parents die. It's nice not to hurt, you know? But at the same time, you have the deep hurt because you've had a closer relationship and a deeper love... and that is always worth it.

So, today think of someone that you love and have a "funeral moment" with them. Tell them the things you'll want to say but won't be able to tell them when they're gone. Tell them how much you love them and how much they mean to you. Get it all out. Every time I think about my grandparents dying, I think of that moment at my aunt and uncle's house, and I have peace, because I know that we all knew (and still know) how much our relationship meant. And even more than just the funeral moment, make relationships that count -- that will bring the big hurt of separation, because it's made of the big love. After all, if that's not what life's all about, I don't know what it's for.

The Womanly Art of Misplacing Womanly Products

Let's take a moment to bring to mind inappropriate feminine hygiene moments:

IFHM #1: "Okay so I have to tell this story but I will try to protect the names of the people involved. My friend's son started Kindy the other day. Unfortunately the back pack he was using that day had been used on a family field trip and a feminine product was left behind in the pack. Snack time arrived and the little guy dug out what he thought was aprt of his snack. He unwrapped it and began swing it around by the string and yelling at his teacher. "What is this? Hoe do I get it open? How do I eat it?" His teacher upon reporting this grand event to Mom said it was her best first day yet in her 20 or whatever years of teaching. I have it on good authority she also shared this with another fellow teacher to which was also added. "If he's got the tampon, where is the cheese string?" (Link - thanks for the laugh Peggy!)

IFHM #2: One of my (male) English teachers that I had in high school told us about the time, when he was a child, his mother asked him to put the napkins on the dinner table because their company would be there soon. (I think we can all guess where this is going.) He looked all over and finally remembered where his mommy kept napkins. And when his mother and the company came to the table she saw a maxi-pad laid out "just so" next to each plate. (Keeping in mind that this was probably 30 years ago, when maxi-pads were a lot more maxi than they are today.)

IFHM #3: Then there's pastor's daughter who decided that the best time to come out dancing with tampons dangling like earrings from both of her ears was when the rather serious superintendent for her daddy's denomination (aka daddy's boss) was over for supper.

IFHM #4: And finally there's Dixie -- whose entire life is one big inappropriate feminine hygiene moment (not that there's anything wrong with still not liking to buy these things when you're 26 years old).

Hope these spark some good IFHMs of your own or those you know. Write them as comments and we can all have a good laugh (at your or other people's expense).

Dixie Danza

Ran across this on the Celebrity Baby Blog tonight:

GrandDanza

Tony Danza, 54, became a grandfather for the first time on August 27th when son Marc, 34, and wife Julie, also 34, welcomed baby Nicholas David into the world by c-section at 5:13 am. Of the birth of his first grandchild, Tony says, "There's a certain feeling of accomplishment that there's another generation...but the most exciting thing is watching your son be a dad."

Though I've been happily married for five years, I think this finally puts closure to the fact that I couldn't have, shouldn't have, and, looking back, really did not want to marry Tony Danza, though if you had asked me that when I was 13 years old, I would have told you the exact opposite. Even Roberto Alomar (who I also thought I should marry) would have been a little more feasible -- as Roberto is only 11 years older than me, rather than the 28 years that Danza is. (Though, in my defense, he did look quite young for his age on "Who's the Boss?") Now I guess I just need to make sure that Marc does not want to still marry Alyssa Milano.

Really big sausage

Here's one just for Marc: the world's largest sausage at Mundare, Ab.
I foresee a stop at that town on our next trip out west.

Via

"I WANT TO CHANGE THE WORLD!"

I got out in the garden a bit this morning -- picked the last of the beans and started digging up the bean plants. (You see, by about late July I'm usually so frustrated with the weeds and ugliness of my garden that I'm ready for fall so I can dig up all the annuals, move some perennials and have an idealized picture in my head of how much better my garden will look next year. Though, next year it never quite lives up to the picture, and I'm ready to start digging in July again!)

Yesterday, I found sidewalk chalk at Superstore for $0.94 for a big box of 40 (Crayola no less!). Madeline had drawn pictures and had got us to draw some pictures for her on the driveway last night while we were working in the front yard. She came into our bedroom just before 8am this morning announcing that she was ready "to go outside and draw more pictures". I held her off a bit so I could sleep in a bit, feed Luke, and get all of us fed and dressed. We were outside before 10am. I drew her a hopscotch game and she was quite content playing and drawing and jumping there for quite a while, until...

The heaven's opened, the wrath of God was poured down, and... one of her pieces of chalk broke. Now we've always known that Madeline is quite a particular little girl: Little People dolls must be facing a certain way, a while back she wouldn't eat burgers that we'd cut in half, even when she was just over one year old I remember VERY carefully opening a Nutrigrain bar for her in church, pleading with the Lord to help me not to break it as I was taking it out and for Madeline to hold it in the middle, not at the bottom, so that it wouldn't snap in half with the first bite and subsequently unleashing her fury. She just doesn't like things broken. I don't know how many bananas she has refused to eat because they broke in half. Now before you think we're some push-over parents who give in to our daughter's OCD tendencies, believe me when I say there has been much yelling and many tears over the broken articles and she has been forced to eat these things, and she is getting better. But what can I say, when you take after your father that much, what can we really expect of her?!

Meanwhile, back in the yard...Madeline comes to me very distressed and demanding that I fix the chalk. I explain to her that it can't be fixed. And try to make her feel better by saying, "now you have two pieces of chalk!!" Ya, that doesn't work. I was trying my best to ignore her and hope she'd get over it herself, but I seem to recall a lot of "but I really want you to fix it... but it needs to be fixed... but it wants to be fixed... can you fix it?" And then came the waterworks and the pent-up aggression. She started getting significantly more mad and I got significantly more irritated. Finally I said, "Madeline the chalk is broken. We can't fix it. That's just the way the world works." (You know, the usual lines that all two year olds understand!)

Then my daughter, who never ceases to amaze me, proceeded to say off and on for the next 10 minutes. "BUT I WANT TO CHANGE THE WORLD!!" And I thought (and here comes the "hugs and learning"), what an idealistic little girl she is. (Of course, her mother did have great plans as a teenager to fix all of the world's problem's by "simply" converting Satan...) I was trying to think of the best way to explain the chalk thing to her, and give her a good life lesson at the same time. I told her that we couldn't change the fact that the chalk was broken, but that we could change how it made us feel. We could be happy about it, by saying that now we have two pieces of chalk. We could think about how the boys and girls in the hurricane didn't have any chalk right now, and how they'd be so happy to get a piece of chalk to draw with, even if it was broken.

Well, it didn't work. She still went on and on about the world "needing to be changed", that she wanted to change it. (And good for her!! ... really.) But this still didn't solve her crankiness over the broken chalk. So I resorted to the old, "if you don't stop about the chalk, I'll put it away". Still cranky. I asked her if she'd like me to draw her some new squares with the broken chalk. That seemed to appease her. Then a few minutes later she was yelling because she couldn't get the last piece of chalk in the box (because, of course, the broken piece was now taking up two spaces). Shortly after that, the mosquitos were "too bad" and she needed to go inside. Oh well, at least no more screaming about chalk and changing the world...

UPDATE: Madeline woke up from her nap while I was proof-reading this entry. I went in to change her diaper and I (who now officially hates Eric Clapton) started singing "If I could cha-a-ange the world". (You know because I was changing Madeline. That's the reason why Madeline at 18 months old knew the words to Bob Marley's song "Get up, Stand up" -- because I would sing the first few lines as I would "stand her up" on her change table after changing her. Anyway...) And then I realized my mistake. She started saying in her usual post-nap whiney voice, "I need to change the world by fixing my crayon". Then there was some mild crying and a bit of kicking when I tried to put her pants on. Luckily the threat of taking her "Pontoffel Pock and His Magic Piano" (Dr. Seuss) video away was enough to get her in full hysterics. So ya, just a typical day at the Vandersluys home... a bit of crying... too much idealism... and rhyming cartoons to make us feel better.

Just a little Wednesday afternoon blackmail...

Ran across a 4 year old email from my mom just now.
Love you, Marc! (Sorry, but I had to.)
























I suppose some explanation is due...

This picture was taken of Marc in the outfit that he wore for a video we did for my grandparent's 60th wedding anniversary. They got a letter and certificate from the Queen, so Marc dressed up in that, with a wig, glasses and make-up, and pretended that my dad's law office was his (well, really her) office and gave a big greeting to them with an English accent. With some funny bits thrown in (as if that outfit isn't funny enough in itself). S/he went through her daily schedule at the end of it which included something like: tea, sign stuff, more tea, wave, sign more stuff, serious talk with Charles, just a smidgen more tea, etc. Marc was a great sport. And this picture proves it, as it was taken way after the anniversary back at our apartment in Regina. My mom never did get a still picture of him as the Queen, so she took it then. As you can see, the Queen without make-up is not very becoming!

Oh ya, and when we went to the Salvation Army to buy his get-up, Marc was quite convinced that he could fit into a size 8 dress. He wouldn't try them on at first and said, "let's just get that size 8, I'm sure it will fit." In the end I got him to try them on, and I think we came home with a size 20 at least!!

If you want to know what to do about Katrina, ask a child

Last night before bed I was telling Madeline about the hurricane in the States. I told her about how there was a big storm, with lots of wind and waves and rain, and that a bunch of boys and girls didn't have houses or toys anymore because there was water everywhere. I asked her, "Do you think we should help those boys and girls? Should we get them some new toys?" And she said, "Yes. They could have my toy house because it doesn't have any water in it." She was talking about her Fisher Price Little People house which is her absolute favourite toy that she got on her first birthday and has played with almost everyday since. She also said that we should "go to Superstore tomorrow and buy them some new toys. That would be good."

Then Marc came in and she told him about what had happened to the kids. He told her that those kids didn't have any clothes or food either. He asked if we should send some money so they could get some clothes and food. She said "Yes. And we should go and build their house for them, too." Marc said that he didn't think that we could do that, but we could send money for them to buy hammers and wood, etc.

And he's right. We can't go. I don't think a nursing mother and her two year old child would do much good in Louisiana right now. But it made me stop and think of the sentiment behind what she was saying. You think, "oh she's just a kid, she doesn't know about it." But, really, she's a kid... so she knows everything about it. Her mind isn't racing with her "to do" lists for the next month. She isn't thinking about how helping these victims would inconvenience her. She isn't thinking about how if she gave them money, she wouldn't have money for her things. It is the simpleness of a child's mind that says "You need a house without water? Take mine. It doesn't have water in it." "You need to build a new house? I have two hands. I will help you build it."

I told her that we could pray that Jesus would help the kids not be afraid. I told her she could tell Jesus what she'd like to say to the kids and He would tell them for her. She started talking about how they didn't need to be afraid of the water because Jesus is always with them. That's standard Madeline-when-she's-afraid speak. But then she started talking about being afraid of monsters. I thought she was being side tracked in her little 2 year old brain. But now I think she was just relating the fears of those kids to fears that she has (like monsters and the dark). She was putting herself in their shoes. And I think we need to do that too. The hurricane survivors don't just want our money, they want our empathy. But at the same time, they don't just want us sitting here feeling sorry for them, they want us to take action to help them (and probably the best way is through money). My little two year old taught me that. Ask your kids. What do they say we should do for these people? And what would happen if we all (and our leaders!!) started doing the things they said?

The difference between him and me

Two minutes after I made the milkshakes:














(That's his on the left & mine on the right.)

Not for the faint-hearted (aka Sh!t Happens 2)

Yesterday, as I was having a nice soak in our newly renovated bathroom with pina colada bubble bath I was reminded of the following:

When I was pregnant with Luke I liked to have bubble baths a lot. Now, we have dimmers on almost all of the lights in our house, and I love to have the lights very, very dim when I have baths; occasionally I'll read by candlelight (nothing better than Pride and Prejudice by candlelight surrounded by pineapple/coconut flavoured bubbles). I also like to have baths with Madeline sometimes.

(I just remembered that this will have to be two stories in one, because this part is important. About 6 months into my pregnancy with Luke, I think my back had enough of carrying a 35 pound two year old around and what I thought was my hip (but turned out to be a butt muscle) would give out so that I couldn't walk. I went to my doctor and he sent me for physio. The second time I went, which is the day I speak of here, he worked the muscle so much that I could no longer walk or put any pressure on my left leg... I mean none... I was on crutches. But only for 24 hours. I, of course, was miraculously healed as I sat in my doctor's waiting room waiting for him to check me over. (Seriously, I came in on crutches because I couldn't walk, and when the nurse said to come into the office I could suddenly walk. She said that the next time something is wrong with me I should just come and sit in the office for a bit, and that should cure me.) )

Anyway, so the day before my miraculous healing, I decided that a bath might relax this ass of a butt muscle of mine. Madeline needed a bath that night too, so she hopped in with me (although I certainly didn't hop in myself). We sang some songs, she poured water on my knees and back, and we played with her bath toys, all in a nice dimly lit bathroom (Marc used to laugh at me when we were first married because when he'd go to the bathroom after I'd have a bath, there'd be a pile of rubber duckies and wind-up bath toys by the drain that I had played with while in the bath). It was very relaxing.

At one point Marc came in and talked with us for a bit, and on his way out he said, "what's all that stuff in the water?" I said, "oh, that's just all the gunk from inside her squeezie toys", and we continued playing. We had a nice long bath together, and 45 minutes later Marc comes in to dry off Madeline and help me get out of the tub, and he turned the lights back up. And when he did that, we discovered that "stuff" in the water was not gunk from in her squeeze toys, but, that's right you guessed it: gunk from inside my daughter. Madeline and I had been stewing in her feces for over 45 minutes. It was gross. It was disgusting. But worst of all, was that since I could hardly get into the tub in the first place, I couldn't get out of the tub to wash it out and then back in to shower myself off, so I had to stand there while Marc drained all of the poo and wiped off the tub and watch it all wash over my feet and legs.

Oh well... it makes for a good story.