tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-128626482024-03-07T12:04:00.128-06:00VanderMeanderStating the obvious...Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.comBlogger103125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12862648.post-1129006181824534072005-10-10T22:48:00.000-06:002005-10-10T22:49:41.836-06:00Outta here!<span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);">Well kids, I've had it. I'm outta here. And if you want to know where I'll be, you better just come </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);" href="http://vandermeander.com">over here</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);"> and see if I'll tell you!!</span>Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12862648.post-1128890868805808532005-10-09T14:47:00.000-06:002005-10-09T14:50:11.496-06:00Happy Thanksgiving, from the "perfect" North American family<a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/1600/thanksgiving%20family.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/400/thanksgiving%20family.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Well, Happy Thanksgiving everyone! I am anxiously awaiting learning how to cook all of the fixings for Thanksgiving dinner with my mom this afternoon, and hope everyone has a great day. Let's all take a minute to remember </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">how very much</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> we have to be thankful for. Get some perspective on all the blessings you have in your life, and try this week to make someone</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> else's life a little more blessed. Buy someone who's hungry a sandwich. Take some clothes or toys down to your local thrift shop. Send some money to Pakistan or Central America. Don't wait. Do it!</span> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/1600/thanksgiving%20kids.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/400/thanksgiving%20kids.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Me, I'm thankful for my family. For a great husband. For a beautiful daughter and a cute little boy who wore his first tie to church this morning! I'm also thankful for my extended family and family-in-law. For their example and love. And for friends to be open with and who help us become the people we want to be. I'm thankful for a house and a bed and for more than enough things to meet daily needs. For a beautiful country and beautiful world with so much diversity -- so many things to see and experience and people to learn from. But this year, I'm especially thankful that I'm being challenged more and more to love others. To do and give what I can to those in need, and especially to teach my children to look outside of themselves. And I'm thankful for God's grace to help me with this loving and giving when I fall short.</span>Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12862648.post-1128664130753044432005-10-06T23:48:00.000-06:002005-10-06T23:48:50.770-06:00Unheard of...<span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 51);">It's 11:42 pm. and there is construction going on right outside my house. And what's even more astonishing is that it's either by the City or a crown corporation (SaskTel). Something must be real important. Because, let's face it, I think those guys worked about 5 hours a day when they were repairing the bridge this summer and last, and always at the height of traffic. No way you'd catch </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 51, 51);">those</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 51);"> guys working at night (heaven forbid!) when there's no traffic! I wonder what's going on. Although, I must say, I did almost take a picture of the 5 guys and 1 girl who spent </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 51, 51);">all</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 51);"> day a few days back digging a hole where the construction is going on right now. Two guys to dig, two guys to watch, and the girl for moral support, I guess. It was so funny. Your stereotypical workmen. Although, I'm sure they were wanting to take a picture of me, in my pyjamas at 4pm. Typical housewife.</span>Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12862648.post-1128657534272147262005-10-06T21:57:00.000-06:002005-10-06T21:58:54.293-06:00"100 Posts": Let's celebrate and have some fun!<span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(51, 0, 153);">The following is a post created by taking sentence #1 from post #1, sentence #2 from post #2, and so on and so forth (Unless the post doesn't have enough sentences, then I'll just take the last sentence and continue on with sentence 9 from post 9 as before). Maybe it'll be funny, I don't know.</span></span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(51, 102, 102); font-style: italic;">Well, of all my dumb luck, Blogger was down this morning when I attempted rather naively to do my first blog post ever. Which means that <span style="font-weight: bold;">Ctrl S</span> = Trouble for Dixie. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0); font-style: italic;">However, for the past 25 minutes she's been whining and crying, and we've just let her cry. </span><span style="font-style: italic;">I chose that phrase because whenever I have philosophical discussions, I usually end up saying "well, it really is a fine balance", or "we just need to find that balance...". Two nights ago I had a bizarre dream in which I and some unknown person were both (male) priests and bridesmaids at a wedding between Danny Devito, Diane Keaton and some other unknown person from PA, at which there were no rings, but rather large chewable vitamins were exchanged and eaten(!!). </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0); font-style: italic;">Often before bed at night I will say, "Marc stop and think for a sec... think what's going on in the world right now. But then I think, if they brought it, they must like it, so maybe they're glad to keep it for themselves. They're usually close to a centimetre longer than the other hairs, but why don't we notice them before they hit that centimetre mark? But was the breast exam really necessary? </span><span style="font-style: italic;">But today I did it. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0); font-style: italic;">In it I basically looked at whether or not we can "know" an historical event better by being an eye-witness or by being removed from the event -- either in hearing an account from an eye-witness we know or even further, by studying it in history. </span><span style="font-style: italic;">I wonder how long it will be before I grow up...? Does this make sense to anyone? </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0); font-style: italic;">It's how people lived in our day. </span><span style="font-style: italic;">I don't actually know if this even helped me find the mistake, but it did prove that I was quite the conscientious little 8 year old, with way too much time on my hands. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0); font-style: italic;">To which granny quickly pushed me off and said "Dixie, you shouldn't kiss like that... </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><span style="font-style: italic;">I wonder if my mom remembers it that way?!</span><br /><br /><span style="font-size:85%;"><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);">Well, that takes me up to about post 16. And since a lot of my posts are failing to be more than 16 sentences long, I will stop at that. Interesting. Try it for yourself. </span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);">The first time I ever played with a laptop was hanging out with friends one Thanksgiving, I believe. We were all sitting around and watching football. I love to type, so I spent the entire evening (seriously, </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 102);">hours</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);">... the </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 102);">whole </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);">time) typing our conversations out, but ending sentences a little too soon or starting the next person's phrase at just the right time so that it our conversation become completely skewed and inappropriate. Quite a bit of fun. And apparently a good party game, as it got a lot of laughs when I'd read it back to everybody. (Actually, I think we still may have the conversation saved somewhere.) That's one you really gotta try. </span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);">And beware if I ever come over to your house with my laptop...</span></span><br /></span>Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12862648.post-1128656211254675572005-10-06T21:36:00.000-06:002005-10-06T21:36:51.266-06:00Bride & PrejudiceMarc and I had a movie night last night. Meaning, I watched a girlie movie in bed and he watched "Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" in the basement. $0.99 at Shopper's Drugmart, you can't go wrong with that. I thoroughly enjoyed myself. We don't normally watch separate movies, but neither one of us had any real interest in the other one's movie. And don't feel bad that I didn't get the big screen and the stereo sound, for there is no place I would rather watch tv than in bed. Man I love my bed. I think I spent the majority of Madeline's first 3 months of life in bed. Did everything in bed. She even ate pablum for the first time propped up on a pillow in our bed. I definitely take the love of my bed too far sometimes, but I have been emerging from my bedroom a lot more this past year, so don't worry.<br /><br />I had to do a quick baby food run to Walmart before Marc and I settled in for our "separate movies" date. And it was there that I learned the struggle of Paul's words in Romans where he says "what I want to do I do not do, but what I hate I do". I was greatly anticipating curling up in bed and watching this movie with the lights out. And snacks are pretty much mandatory to enjoying a movie. So there I was in Walmart with McDonalds but 20 steps away. However, Marc and I had just talked about how eating out was the one thing we definitely needed to cut back on, and he had told me to buy <span style="font-style: italic;">just</span> what we needed at Walmart. (Which by the way <span style="font-style: italic;">I did</span>, no scouring of the children's clothing sale racks this time.) So I was fully prepared to walk out of Walmart with no McDonalds. Until I got to the exit and someone was eating fries right by the door, and I got a whiff. All the way to the car I debated. "Now I'm <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> craving McDonalds, but it never tastes as good as you think it will. It will go straight to my hips, and will be a $5.00 withdrawal on our bank statement that is a waste... but it <span style="font-style: italic;">tastes sooo good</span>. But I <span style="font-style: italic;">need</span> something to eat during the movie and we don't really have any snacks at home..." I drove the long way out of the parking lot, so I could drive right by the other McDonalds (yes, we do have 2 McDonalds within the same parking lot complex in PA... sad, really). And I had self control. But I didn't like it. I even thought of going home, asking Marc, and then driving to Wendy's or something. But instead I got a glass of water and our last strawberry Fruit-to-go and went to watch my movie. Pathetic. I know. About 15 minutes into the movie I was so disgusted with having no snack that I made a bag of microwave popcorn, sprinkled chocolate chips on it (my piano student's suggestion -- quite good), took half to Marc, and enjoyed the other half in bed during the movie... though not as much as I would have enjoyed McDonalds. (So, do you think I should have just got the McDonalds instead of "depriving" myself to the point where I wasn't enjoying my movie? Did I over analyze the situation way more than any normal person would?)<br /><br />Anyway, so I watched <span style="font-style: italic;">Bride and Prejudice</span>. It was not bad. Not super. But not bad. I mean how can you even compare to the A & E 6 hour special? And as Marc said last night (<span style="font-style: italic;">Marc</span>, not me... though I couldn't disagree), how good can it be with no Colin Firth. And it's true. Though William Darcy in <span style="font-style: italic;">B & P</span> looks strikingly similar to my optometrist, there was not the same heart fluttering attachment that Colin Firth brings. But I must say I loved all of the Indian culture. It reminded me of why I want to be Hindu or Muslim every Saturday when I catch glimpses of their programming on Vision network. I loved all the dancing and the family interaction. The way they adapted the story was pretty good. But I couldn't stand that they broke into beyond lame songs, turning it into a musical, with the cheesy head nods, shoulder shrugs, and furrowed brows. Worth $0.99. Maybe a video store-price rental. Definitely not theatre worthy. And I'd only buy it if I saw it for $5.00 somewhere -- and just because I love Indian culture so much and not for its cinematic merit.Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12862648.post-1128457713069817792005-10-04T14:27:00.000-06:002005-10-04T14:30:50.740-06:00A Month in the Life of the Vanderkids<span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);">Today I finally had the initiative to start going through our family pictures on the computer (we are currently 4 months behind on this -- so doing the kids albums is not going to be fun!!) So here some pictures of the kids from the past month. This is the life of two little kids called Madeline and Luke.</span><br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/1600/at%20forestry%20farm%20saskatoon.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/320/at%20forestry%20farm%20saskatoon.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);"><br /><br /><br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);">After a fun afternoon at the Forestry Farm zoo in Saskatoon last month.</span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);"><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/1600/luke%20in%20high%20chair.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/320/luke%20in%20high%20chair.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);"><br /><br /><br /></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />The big, fat, happy goof in his high chair. It's struck me how odd it would be if we</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);"> <span style="font-style: italic;">all</span> ate the way babies do. Try tonight, and see if people look at you funny. Have your legs</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);"> sticking out 90 degrees from your body, and keep your arms always in motion floating in front of you somewhere about shoulder level.<br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/1600/mad%20trip%20to%20dentist.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/320/mad%20trip%20to%20dentist.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);"><br /><br /></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);"><br /><br />Madeline with some of the "spoils" from her first trip to the dentist: a "bib" with dinos</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);">aurs on it and 2 plastic dinosaurs. Not pictured are her bag to hold all of her treats, which also included a bracelet and a big bird sticker. (Thanks, <a href="http://linealanoie.com/">Linea</a>!)<br /></span><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/1600/mad%20chalk%20drawing.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/320/mad%20chalk%20drawing.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);"><br /><br />Drawing pictures with chalk on our driveway one evening.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/1600/luke%20with%20moms%20toque.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/320/luke%20with%20moms%20toque.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);"><br /><br /></span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);"><br /></span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);"><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);"><br /><br /><br /><br />Luke wearing the Gap toque I found for myself at Value Village.<br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/1600/mad%20visit%20to%20school.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/320/mad%20visit%20to%20school.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);"><br />Madeline sitting in on a grade 6 class at Princess Margaret School. Did I mention the girl is obsessed with school? </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 51, 0);">Every</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);"> school we drive past she says "Mommy, that's </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 51, 0);">my</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><span style="color: rgb(0, 51, 0);"> school! Someday I can go to it." "Someday I will go to school like my cousins." And on and on... So she was very excited to get ready with her piggy pencil case and go to the class. Though, she didn't last long in the desk and spent most of her time drawing on the chalk board.</span><br /><br /></span><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/1600/kids%20in%20tub.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/320/kids%20in%20tub.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Bathtime for the Vanderkids.<br /><br /><a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/1600/luke%20in%20yard.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/320/luke%20in%20yard.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br />Luke in the front yard after church last Sunday. Can't get much cuter than that!!Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12862648.post-1128456240751380142005-10-04T14:03:00.000-06:002005-10-04T14:04:00.796-06:00Feeding Time<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102); font-weight: bold;">This is Madeline feeding Luke last week:</span><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/1600/mad%20feeding%20luke.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/320/mad%20feeding%20luke.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102); font-weight: bold;">This is what happens when a 2.5 year old feeds a 6 month old:</span><br /> <br /> <a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/1600/mad%20feeding%20luke%202.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/320/mad%20feeding%20luke%202.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /><br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102); font-weight: bold;">And this is how happy his sister makes him, mush-faced and all:</span><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/1600/mad%20done%20feeding%20luke.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/320/mad%20done%20feeding%20luke.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a>Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12862648.post-1128370325164014142005-10-03T14:09:00.000-06:002005-10-03T14:12:41.146-06:00Oprah<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Marc made some comment last night about Oprah -- how she's become increasingly annoying and seems to be very full of herself. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">My reply was, "Well, if you had 600 people screaming and wetting themselves when you walked into work everyday, plus millions of people watching from home, don't you think you'd be full of yourself too?!"</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">He understood.</span>Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12862648.post-1128229900435018682005-10-01T23:10:00.000-06:002005-10-01T23:11:40.623-06:00An Observation on Society... or else Marc and I are just very, very lazy<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">People are becoming perpetually more lazy. Let's think about how people communicated within cities before they had phones. Can you imagine? They actually had to </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">walk</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> to someone's house and talk. I get mad when I can't find the cordless phone and have to spend 5 minutes standing in the hallway talking instead! And a lot of the time I'm too lazy to roll over in bed to reach the phone, and I'll get Madeline to get it for me.</span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">It's major effort to go a drop a letter in the mail box which is maybe 50 feet from our house. Actually, I think the only time I've ever done it is was when I was driving somewhere and hopped out of the car and dropped it in. The rest of the time I give my letters to Marc to put in the office mail. How did people survive when snail mail was their only form of written communication -- and even before the days of Purolator and FedEx?!</span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Ya, we're just lazy now. We don't want to move. And you want proof? (Besides that now people play tag while sitting on their butts in front of a computer?) Instead of going to get a phone book, I'll scroll through 60+ names on our phone to find the number from the call that person made to us last month. Or if I have the phone with me near the computer I'll look it up on Canada 411 instead of getting up.</span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">However, we don't have Canada 411 bookmarked (and get ready, because here's where the </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ultimate</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> laziness comes), so I'll will Google it (only having to type in </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;"><span style="font-style: italic;">"ca" </span></span></span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">before </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Canada 411</span> pops up) and then I'll click on it. (Though now I realize that it would pop up on address bar too!! -- which would save me a step.)<br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">There is something seriously wrong with people these days (or maybe it's just me) when people like me will go to their own website (because it's bookmarked) and from there click on a link to another person's website because it's too much effort to move your hand 1 inch to type in the URL of that website.</span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Our grandparents are rolling over in their graves. The travelling encyclopedia salesmen probably only came around once every two years (and not like they could afford a set anyway) and the library was probably in the next town. And we get mad when we have a slow connection on our </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">high speed </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">internet which will lead us to Wikipedia and Google giving us information on everything we'd ever want to know. Or, heaven forbid, Blogger be down for an hour of scheduled maintenance!!</span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">And then there's Marc, who will stand in our bedroom and watch tv a foot away from it and change the channels with the remote. (Now he says it's because the tv will swivel if he presses the buttons on it, but I've never really bought that.) Honestly, how spoiled and lazy are we when we're bitter that we can't scroll through 50 channels during the 30 second commercial break of our favourite show because we're too lazy to get off our chair and get the remote from across the room?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">And then there were the two months that we didn't watch tv with our stereo sound because we couldn't find the remote for it, and it was a hastle to go to the stereo to turn it on, and then there was the possibility of having to get up to change the volume if one channel was louder than the other...</span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Why do we grumble about waiting in line at the automated teller where after a minute's wait we'll do a month's worth of banking and bill paying in 5 minutes? Actually I guess that's why we do internet banking, in the comfort of our own home, so we don't have to worry about going somewhere, at certain hours, parking, walking to the bank, standing in line, talking to the teller, showing her our bills, getting out cash, getting our bank receipt (remember the days of the bankbook?!). What a horrible ordeal that would be to live out every month?!</span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">What </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">would</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> our grandparents think when we choose to wait 15 minutes in the McDonald's drive thru instead of going in and getting our food in 3 minutes, and when 1.5 minutes is too long to wait to heat up a pizza pop?</span>Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12862648.post-1128227367190665142005-10-01T22:28:00.000-06:002005-10-01T22:29:27.203-06:00More tag<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">I got </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" href="http://lauralea.ca/">tagged</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">. Here's the assignment.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" class="font"><br />1. Go into your archive.<br />2. Find your 23rd post.<br />3. Find the fifth sentence (or closest to).<br />4. Post the text of the sentence in your blog along with these instructions.<br />5. Tag five other people to do the same. </span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">So, here's the 5th line from my 23rd post entitled "Website gains acclaim" on June 3, 2005 (which was actually about when Lauralea first put me on her blogroll).</span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0); font-weight: bold;">"It's a proud day for VanderMeander."</span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">I'm going to tag:</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">1. </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" href="http://vandersluys.ca">Marc</a><br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">2. </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" href="http://simianfarmer.blogs.com/">Simon</a><br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">3. </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" href="http://lovemom.blogspot.com/">Ang</a><br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">4. </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" href="http://theykherd.blogspot.com/">Peggy</a><br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">5. </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" href="http://grrrlmeetsworld.com/">Becky</a>Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12862648.post-1128096099402330792005-09-30T09:58:00.000-06:002005-09-30T10:01:39.416-06:00I covet your prayers (but not in the way you think)<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">At Bible Study on Wednesday, </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" href="http://randallfriesen.com">Randall</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> 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, "</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">man</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> that guy can pray". Nothing fancy. Really very simple. Just laying everything that's going on out before God.</span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">So last night I told Marc that I "covet Randall's prayers", meaning I'm </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">totally jealous</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">will</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> 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?</span>Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12862648.post-1128030167043650982005-09-29T15:42:00.000-06:002005-09-29T15:47:10.920-06:00"Take me where the loons are calling" (a Connie Kaldor reference no one will get) and Motherly GuiltPicture 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.<br /><br />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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">way</span> 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<span style="font-style: italic;"> exactly</span> like a loon.) Finally she speaks. And various forms of "Mommy!" "Maaawwmmmmeee!" "Momm<span style="font-style: italic;">ay</span>!" emerge from behind her closed door. And I nearly, almost, was on the verge of... but <span style="font-weight: bold;">didn't</span> 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.<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">all of this</span> , 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?!Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.com8tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12862648.post-1127940514477134092005-09-28T14:47:00.000-06:002005-09-28T17:15:23.766-06:00The old gray mare, she ain't what she used to be<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Now my husband, </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" href="http://vandersluys.ca/">Marc</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">, 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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">full</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> 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!</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">#1. My breasts are not </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">saggy</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">, I just get to see more of the </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">top</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> 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.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">#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.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">#3. Kathy Bates in the hottub scene in </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">About Schmidt</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> is what normal women look like.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">#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.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">#5. It was really </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">very sweet</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> and made my husband feel good when my son decided that he </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">needed</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> to turn his head 180 degrees while still nursing, and </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">then</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> latch off and smile </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">every time</span> my husband enters the room or makes any sort of movement near him.<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">#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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">fantastic</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">", my husband snickered when I referred to my pair saying "They're real and they're </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">flat-tastic</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">".</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">#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.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Now. Doesn't that make everyone feel better?</span>Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.com10tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12862648.post-1127931580500153012005-09-28T12:17:00.000-06:002005-09-28T13:27:26.563-06:00Those Quarrelling Christians<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Found this </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" href="http://simianfarmer.blogs.com/simian_farmer/2005/09/no_quarrelling.html">quote</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> at </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" href="http://simianfarmer.blogs.com/">Simian Farmer</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">, one of my new favourite reads:</span><br /><br /><div style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" class="entry-content"> <div class="entry-body"> <blockquote><p style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);">We do not want churches because they will teach us to quarrel about God.</p> <p><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 102);">~Chief Joseph</span><br /></p></blockquote> </div> </div> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">My first response was, "Hey that's <span style="font-style: italic;">really</span> funny, and <span style="font-style: italic;">really </span>true!"<br /><br />Then I thought "But hey, people always fight about everything! How many debates on politics, mercy killing, the environment, </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Survivor, </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">etc. are going on <span style="font-style: italic;">right now</span> at water coolers across the globe? Why is it okay for everyone else to quarrel, but not Christians? We are <span style="font-style: italic;">all</span> just humans after all! Why are Christians expected to live beyond the normal standard?"<br /><br />And then it hit me. Two things.<br /><br />Firstly, people expect Christians to live up to higher expectations because the general Christian population these days <span style="font-style: italic;">says</span> that they <span style="font-style: italic;">are</span> living on a higher plane! Now, most Christians <span style="font-style: italic;">aren't</span>, because they are constantly screwing up, but many are still claiming to have <span style="font-style: italic;">no problem</span> 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.<br /><br />The second thing that hit me, is that it is <span style="font-style: italic;">not right</span> to say "</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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) <span style="font-style: italic;">know</span> 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 <span style="font-style: italic;">we</span> 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!!)<br /><br />And that's why the quotation is so funny. Because it's so frustratingly true!<br /><br />(Bet you didn't think all this would come out of that little quote, eh Simon?!)<br /></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"></span>Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12862648.post-1127780468960475012005-09-26T18:18:00.000-06:002005-09-26T18:21:09.100-06:00Possibly the worst day of my parenting life<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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. </span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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!</span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">finally</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> got a vehicle to move it, so I was glad to see him working on it.</span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Until... Madeline would </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">not</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> go to sleep, at all, and decided that today would be the perfect day to whine, cry and blubber for </span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">3 hours</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> 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.</span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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...</span>Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.com7tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12862648.post-1127542847292244242005-09-24T00:18:00.000-06:002005-09-24T00:25:01.853-06:00A new life<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> children</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> and then going out for appetizers and talking </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">about our children</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> and children-to-be. While we were out we found out about a friend who just had her first baby yesterday morning.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">other than</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> healthy and that I would ever really have a major ailment to worry about.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Well, this little (though once again over 9 lbs!) boy that was born yesterday is having some </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">major</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> 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. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">think</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> of a little body going through that (never mind, the fear of what is causing them), it's heartbreaking.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">But then my thoughts went on to the idea that maybe God does not </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">necessarily</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> 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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">most</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> sad (though it was really the </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">happiest </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">ultimately</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> end tragically.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">all </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">circumstances.</span>Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12862648.post-1127407260580300052005-09-22T10:39:00.000-06:002005-09-22T10:41:00.673-06:00What translation are YOU reading?<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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.</span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">act out</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> 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.) </span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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!!"</span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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. </span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">just</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> released the stone when Goliath began thrusting his sword into David's chest <span style="font-style: italic;">repeatedly</span> proclaiming "</span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">It's time for you to die</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">!!" <br /><br />Oh well... David won the next time.<br /></span>Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12862648.post-1127364881469137332005-09-21T22:53:00.000-06:002005-09-21T22:54:41.473-06:00Phrases I've taught my two year old in the last two days:"I ain't <span style="font-style: italic;">no</span> foo'!"<br /><br />"You wanna piece of me?!"<br /><br />"Well, so's yo' mama!"<br /><br />"Pull my finger."Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12862648.post-1126677878705158412005-09-14T12:48:00.000-06:002005-09-14T00:56:28.080-06:00What is it with women?<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">have</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> 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 </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" href="http://www.dooce.com/archives/daily/03_16_2004.html">Dooce</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> -- </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">birth</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">, 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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">more birth stories... must read about transition... crowning... episiotomies... </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">(cue the drooling, glazed-eye Homer Simpson... and I suppose it would be appropriate for him to say "boobies" here, even). </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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 </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" href="http://www.birthdiaries.com/diary/">birth stories</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> 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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">love </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">childbirth and hearing people's stories, there's only so much I want to </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">see</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> (especially since I'm planning on doing it one or two more times!). </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">obsessed</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> 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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">I</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> 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?</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">both</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> of the children were nursing. Now I'm not going to judge. But really...</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">There were only two "very graphic" births, I did not venture into one of them (I've birthed enough Vanderheads to not want to </span><span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">see</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> 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. </span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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 </span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">all a miracle. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">It's all given<font><font> and it can all be taken away in a moment.</span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> </span></span></span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><br /><br />So look at this </span></span></span><font><font><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" href="http://www.birthdiaries.com/diary/66vbirth/66vbirth14.jpg">picture</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> 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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">knows</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> that this moment is fleeting. But really... it's <span style="font-style: italic;">all</span> 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 <span style="font-style: italic;">so much love</span>, so much cherishing, so much meaning, so much fulfillment. And there is <span style="font-style: italic; font-weight: bold;">so much</span><span style="font-weight: bold;"> </span>in that tiny moment, because she knows that it's the<span style="font-style: italic;"> only moment</span> she has. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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 </span><span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">love</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> that I've had </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">in those</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> moments and <span style="font-style: italic;">with those</span> people that </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">were</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> fleeting. Look at </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" href="http://www.birthdiaries.com/diary/66vbirth/66vbirth14.jpg">it</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> once more.</span></span><br /></span>Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.com5tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12862648.post-1126490025462330242005-09-11T19:51:00.000-06:002005-09-20T21:46:03.100-06:00Happy Half-Birthday To You!<span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">Right now</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"> 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: </span><br /><a style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/1600/luke%206mth.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/400/luke%206mth.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">If you didn't know Marc or I then, or our blogs, you can read the account </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);" href="http://vandersluys.ca/default.cfm?EK=95476003-B0D0-78C0-1F4412EAE9428C0F">here</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);">. 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!</span>Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.com4tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12862648.post-1126411017958620992005-09-10T21:56:00.000-06:002005-09-10T22:12:26.993-06:00Have a "Funeral Moment"<span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">a lot</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> to me... I mean </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">a lot</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">. 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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">my</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> 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.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">not</span> 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).<br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">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.</span><br /><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">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 <span style="font-style: italic;">count</span> -- that will bring the <span style="font-style: italic;">big hurt</span> of separation, because it's made of the <span style="font-style: italic;">big love</span>. After all, if that's not what life's all about, I don't know what it's for.</span>Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12862648.post-1126365628519337382005-09-10T09:40:00.000-06:002005-09-10T09:43:49.273-06:00The Womanly Art of Misplacing Womanly Products<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);font-size:100%;" ><strong style="font-family:georgia;"><span style="font-weight: normal;">Let's take a moment to bring to mind inappropriate feminine hygiene moments:</span><br /><br /> <span style="font-weight: normal;">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?" (<a href="http://theykherd.blogspot.com/">Link</a> - thanks for the laugh Peggy!)<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">maxi</span> than they are today.)<br /><br />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 <span style="font-style: italic;">daddy's boss</span>) was over for supper.<br /><br />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).<br /><br />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).<br /></span></strong></span>Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.com3tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12862648.post-1126322185650187142005-09-09T21:15:00.000-06:002005-09-10T09:21:32.386-06:00Dixie Danza<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Ran across this on the </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" href="http://www.celebrity-babies.com/">Celebrity Baby Blog</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> tonight:</span><br /><br /><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/1600/tony.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/200/tony.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><h3 style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"><span style="font-size:85%;">GrandDanza</span></h3> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);font-size:85%;" ><strong style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Tony Danza</strong><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">, 54, became a grandfather for the first time on August 27th when son Marc, 34, and wife Julie, also 34, welcomed baby </span><strong style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">Nicholas David</strong><span style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);"> into the world by c-section at 5:13 am. Of the birth of his first grandchild, Tony says, </span><em style="color: rgb(0, 0, 0);">"There's a certain feeling of accomplishment that there's another generation...but the most exciting thing is watching your son be a dad."</em><br /></span><br /><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Though I've been happily married for five years, I think this finally puts closure to the fact that I </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">couldn't have</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">, </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">shouldn't have,</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> and, looking back, really </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">did not want to</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> 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 "</span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" href="http://www.wtbr.com/">Who's the Boss?</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">") Now I guess I just need to make sure that </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" href="http://vandersluys.ca/">Marc</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> does not want to still marry Alyssa Milano.</span>Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12862648.post-1126320816238579612005-09-09T20:52:00.000-06:002005-09-09T20:53:36.243-06:00Really big sausage<a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/1600/41553861_b6724e8ce6.jpg"><img style="margin: 0pt 10px 10px 0pt; float: left; cursor: pointer;" src="http://photos1.blogger.com/blogger/1315/1109/320/41553861_b6724e8ce6.jpg" alt="" border="0" /></a><br /><br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Here's one just for Marc: the world's largest sausage at Mundare, Ab.</span><br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">I foresee a stop at that town on our next trip out west.</span><br /> <br /> <a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" href="http://toque.co.uk/blog/">Via</a>Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-12862648.post-1126307628994806872005-09-09T17:13:00.000-06:002005-09-09T17:13:49.006-06:00"I WANT TO CHANGE THE WORLD!"<span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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!) <br /><br />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. </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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...</span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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 </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" href="http://vandermeander.blogspot.com/2005/08/you-didnt-know-i-was-this-neurotic.html">OCD tendencies</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">, 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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">is </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">getting better. But what can I say, when you take after </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" href="http://vandersluys.ca/">your father </a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">that much, what can we really expect of her?!</span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"><span style="font-style: italic;">Meanwhile, back in the yard</span>...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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">two</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> 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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">needs</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> to be fixed... but it </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">wants</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> 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!)</span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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 </span><a style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);" href="http://www.theocentric.com/theoarchives/000060.html">"hugs and learning"</a><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">), 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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">change</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> the fact that the chalk was broken, but that we could </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">change</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> 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. </span><br /> <br /> <span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">Well, it didn't work. She still went on and on about the world </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">"needing </span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">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 </span><span style="font-style: italic; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);">needed</span><span style="color: rgb(0, 102, 0);"> to go inside. Oh well, at least no more screaming about chalk and changing the world...<br /><br /><span style="font-weight: bold;">UPDATE: </span>Madeline woke up from her nap while I was proof-reading this entry. I went in to change her diaper and I (who now <span style="font-style: italic;">officially</span> hates Eric Clapton) started singing "If I could cha-a-ange the world". (You know because I was <span style="font-style: italic;">changing</span> 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.<br /> </span>Dixie Vandersluyshttp://www.blogger.com/profile/12900764102215012012noreply@blogger.com2