Honey, There Are Some Things You Just Can't Get Out OF Books

When I first met my future husband, I weighed 98lbs. I had just graduated with an Honours Degree in English Literature from the University of Regina and considered continuing my studies as a graduate student.  I loved everything about academia, especially the relaxed but challenging experience of reading Chaucer and Old English in the original vernacular with only one other student in a professor's office; this teacher was delighted to find two students  interested in his life's work
.
I loved my life and didn't for see any changes. I had grown up with one sister, ballet lessons and a library filled with great fiction. I enjoyed gardening, painting and drawing, eating a vegetarian diet, reading spiritual literature and growing in my faith ; I was content.

Suddenly, my life as I knew it, changed dramatically.
I met Michael, who was just passing through Regina, Saskatchewan from Ottawa, Ontario to Prince George, British Columbia and from that very first encounter it felt like a rug was ripped from under my feet; all my plans were tossed into the prairie wind.Michael described our first encounter in much kinder terms; he said that he saw fireworks when he first laid eyes on me.

We had been married under a year when I became pregnant. I was suddenly in panic mode because I knew I was utterly unprepared; I had never even HELD a newborn! So I prepared in the only way I knew how; I read every book I could find on pregnancy, birth and baby care.

However all that studying did little to prepare me for the responsibility of mothering a fragile, completely dependent newborn.For example as I held my baby in a small bathtub for his first bath, I was very nervous. Guess what? I had a book propped open with one elbow awkwardly holding it open to the right page. The book was like my security blanket.

 My new husband, who was the second oldest of ten children and completely relaxed with babies, walked through the kitchen, shook his head in disbelief and said,

"Melanie, there are some things you just can't get out of books."

Do you Believe that Children NEED to Bond with Real Animals?

I developed the opinion  that children have a deep seated need to relate to animals while watching my own kids interact with our pets and farm animals.  Since I grew up in the city, with ballet lessons, books and a only one loving cat, I was as fascinated as my kids with the arrival of tiny balls of fluff called chicks, cute piglets and tiny kittens.We all gathered around  excitedly, not wanting to miss anything.

 Rachel was and still is my most fervent animal lover.   Before she could even walk, she  exhibited an obsession to find, crawl after, grab and squeeze any and all animals. It was a passionate love for animals, I would say. She could barely talk, so to communicate her desire to hold the hamster for example, her hands would frantically open and close and  she would utter soft little grunts  as she pleaded, with  big chocolate brown eyes, for the cage to be opened . When Rachel realized that she would finally get to hold the hamster, hers hand would literally shake with excitement and anticipation.

Needless to say either I or one of the older siblings had to supervise Rachel because she would tend to squeeze Hammy till his eyes stated to bulge out. Then the cry would arise, "Rachel's squeezing Hammy again. Come quickly!"

Once she could walk, Rachel would haul the disgruntled cat around but Rachel was happy with her eyes  shining with joy. She was in heaven, so I couldn't bear to deny her access to her beloved pets. At least the rabbits in the hutch on the covered porch were more placid than Kitty and tougher than the hamster and she was content to simply stare at the goldfish. Although, she did tend to over feed them. I'd scoop out food from the top of the water to use for the next few feedings

The Canadian scientist, David Suzuki , believes that all children need to bond with animals and if they haven't the chance to connect with real animals then they will turn their attention to stuffed or cartoon animals to try and fulfil that inborn desire. He calls it a "grotesque" substitution. I think there is a lot of truth to Suzuki's idea. Animals are part of creation and to live as we were intended to live, we need to touch the earth, plants and animals as well as other people in order to grow into well adjusted adults.

I agree with Suzuki, do you?

Nature Not Nurture. Trust Me.

This real life photo of a cat mothering orphan bunnies as well as her kitten is a great symbol for how I very often feel as I observe my offspring. Sometimes I think,
 "Are you really my kid? Where did that talent, personality or characteristic come from?"

All my children have the same parents and  have lived in the same environment and eaten the same food but each child inherited not only different physical genes but different character traits as well.This gene pool  is much larger than I ever dreamt it could be. The differences between my children are mind- boggling. Actually the truth is that every person is completely unique. My two oldest children are dramatic examples.

 My first child, Matthew, was  and still is serious and contemplative. At eleven or twelve months, he would sit and slowly place household objects in a plastic jug after observing each object careful. He would then dump them out and start all over again, all in silence.When Matthew was only four, Michael taught him how to play checkers. Both males would sit in silence, contemplating each move.

When my second child, Melissa, was born everything we thought we knew about child development was blown to bits. Where Matthew was cautious, she was daring.  She was only nine or ten months old, when I walked into the kitchen and found her sitting on the fridge! I froze in shock and yelled for her father to come witness this event.

Melissa was about fifteen or sixteen months old gleefully picking up worms as we dug up the garden. Matthew at three and a half, acting on some deep macho instinct, forced himself to pick up worms too.

Melissa had a peaceful sleep that night.

Matt? He woke up screaming with visions of worms dancing in his head.

Michael, my husband, had decided that by four, a child was ready to play checkers. Since Matthew picked the game up so quickly, he figured all kids would follow suit. After only ten minutes of playing with his daughter, he was becoming frustrated;  Melissa was standing up, hopping from foot to foot and jumping checkers backwards and forwards, skipping two, three, four squares at a time.

 Finally I intervened and said, "Honey, I don't think Melissa is going to play checkers like Matthew; you're just going to have to let go and go with the flow." Although he managed to survive that first checker game with his daughter, Michael didn't play checkers with Melissa for another few years.

Melissa? She was happy doing her own thing and glad to leave that particular boring activity to the males in the family.

Every child is an unique. I originally believed that everything could be explained in my dog-eared book on child development. My children soon shattered that myth. Of course, general guide lines hold true but ultimately it is up to the parents to intuitively and tentatively discover which approach clicks with each little person.

Make-up and Little Girls

One visit  from Grandma Jean and Grandpa Ron  occurred when Melissa and Mara were about four and five years old.   My two little girls were fascinated as they watched  Grandma apply a touch of make-up each morning because they had never seen anything like it. I wasn't  interested  in make-up in those days and frankly  there wasn't time anyway; I was lucky if I managed to brush my teeth and throw some real clothes on by noon.

Finally, after a few mornings of watching the longing on her  granddaughters' faces, my mom asked, "Would you like me to give the two of you a make-over?"  Melissa and Mara were almost too thrilled to sit still as Grandma applied a light coat of lipstick, mascara, blush and eyeshadow. My mom was delighted with the results; the little girls looked like they could have posed  for a photo shoot. She called me over to enjoy the results and  of course, I was pleased as well . My daughters were delighted with the whole idea of wearing make-up  and glowed with the admiration we showered on them.

"Well", my mom asked with pride, "Would you like to see what you look like now?"

"No thanks, Grandma.", answered Melissa, "We know what we look like."

 Off they skipped to play outside.

My mom and I looked at each other and laughed.

Children are delightful because they are not self-conscious and they really don't worry too much about their appearance. Little people are too busy exploring the world and having fun just being themselves.

Thomas Merton once wrote that frogs and trees are holy because they simply are who they are suppose to be, without masks or false personas. I think the same can be said of little children. No wonder Christ said, "Unless you become like a little child, you cannot enter the  kingdom of God."

To the general public observing a temper tantrum.

To the general public viewing a temper tantrum: When I see a toddler throwing a temper tantrum, my first thought is, "That poor kid, not that poor mother."  

To mothers of little children: Do you want "well behaved" kids? Never let them get hungry and never let them get tired.

Trust me, ignoring bedtime, naps or snacks and meals either to shop, talk on the phone or visit a friend simply is NOT worth the aggravation of dealing with upset little people, afterwards.

The Joy Of Potty Training

The best way to train little boys to aim for the toilet bowl is to sprinkle confetti or cheerios in the water and tell them to sink the boats

Ompf

WE really only get enough ompf for today, none for worrying about yesterday or tomorrow- just for today.

So, the smart choice to make every morning is to live in the present. 

Black Socks

 

 The only thing that will kill you as a mother of  a large family is pairing socks.

 Solution?

Buy LOTS of black socks in every size,throw them in a basket

and hope for the best.

re-write My Adorable Daughter Shouted at Me, " *+#$#&*+#!!! "

Experience taught me that the easiest and most effective way to influence my children was to ignore negative behaviour and to praise good behaviour  Often if I didn't react to swear words for example, my children soon forgot about them because our family didn't  usually swear. ( shut up was banned but does mother saying, "Shit" count?)

We had few other kid who lived near because we lived in the sparsely populated greenbelt  which surrounds Ottawa, Canada even before we moved out to our seven acres. However there were three older boys who lived downs the road. Our hockey net attracted the boys at first; they would come over and play road hockey right in front of our house with our older children . Actually everybody was eleven and under back then. David, my fourth, was only five but he was the designated goaly, sporting adult sized pads which almost completely immobilised him. David was thrilled to be included in the road hockey game, even if it meant enduring hockey pucks that relentlessly slammed into his pads.

The hockey scrimmage was the highlight of the day. After dinner, I'd help everyone bundle up against the cold because even our youngest children  refused to be left out of the excitement. They could only waddle outside; scarves wound around their faces and foreheads and just their twinkly eyes were exposed. 

The older boys apparently did not curb their language out there. I discovered this one evening  while tucking three year old Emily in bed.  She had just had a bath, her hair was curling softly around her face and she was in a soft blue sleeper with her thumb in her mouth but she was mad. Rachel, her little sister was still up because she had had a long nap that day.

As I started closing the door, Emily took out her thumb and yelled, "Close the fucking door you stupid bitch!!!!"

My mouth dropped open and I slowly closed the door without saying a word. I went down the hall in a bit of a daze and slowly said to Michael, "Do you want to know what Emily just said to me?...".

I didn't mention anything to Emily and  she never repeated those three swear words again.

An Easy Tip For Success When Dealing With Toddlers

In our large family, my children discovered how to interact with each other, without my  constant intervention. In fact all my children have wonderful people skills  today because they lived in a house with ten other very different personalities who all shared one full bathroom. Just imagine the tact it required to squeeze any sink and mirror time  in the bathroom if you  happened to have five or six older sisters! Some  interpersonal techniques were learned through the old trial and error method.  I did not tolerate fighting or yelling among my children , so each child had to figure out which approach gained co-operation from another sibling. I was proud of their negotiating skills.

For example,  one evening when Matthew was seven and his brother David was two,  Matthew sat on the floor and reached over the edge of the tub to  play with his little brother who was in bubbly, warm water. 

My son turned to me and asked, "Want to know how to get a two year old to do what you want him to do?"

I smiled in anticipation and nodded.

"Watch this", Matthew commanded.

He asked David, "David, do you want the orange ball or the blue boat?"

David chose the blue boat.

Hardly taking a breath,  Matthew asked his little brother the very same question but this time he changed the word order of his request, "Dave, do you want the blue boat or the orange ball?"

David dropped the boat and reached for the ball.

Matthew turned around with a proud little smile on his face, looked at me and said, "Two year olds always choose the last thing that you say!"

Joyful Support From Other Women

Most people have never heard of Agnes Sanford (1897-1982) but she has been and, in fact still is, a dear friend of mine. She was an interesting woman who was born to missionaries in China, married an American Anglican ( Episcopalian) and became mother to three children. Agnes suffered post-partum depression and  and was diagnosed as suicidal when one of her children came close to dying.  A tiny flame of hope was lit within her heart after her son was healed physically and she slowly began the process of her own emotional healing. "The Healing Light", Agnes' first book describes her early spiritual journey and reveals a warm, loving, wise and gentle pioneer who  was down to earth and most importantly to me, she was an avid gardener. I absolutely adore her.

Just like Agnes, I let my kids play with almost anything because I had a lot of kids and limited funds. I taught them all how to improvise and make due with whatever was at hand, much to my husband's chagrin. Similarly, Agnes' husband once threw up his hand up in frustration, as he struggled to walk around cushions and sheet forts in his living room, and complained that she let the kids play with everything except her wedding ring and the Bible! Once again I really like my co- conspirator, Agnes.

One night, while struggling to centre myself in The Lord's Presence, a crazy, impulsive thought popped into my mind. Without analysing or questioning theological implications, I asked the Agnes to pray for me. Immediately I experienced a warm, emotional embrace of love and sheer joy as I heard interiorly, "My dear, you have my undivided attention. No one asks me to pray for them because I was a Protestant, you know!" I laughed and laughed, in fact I am grinning like a fool right now.

I don't want to argue theology, I just want to encourage other women with the thought that there are  tens, hundreds, why maybe thousands of sisters, most of whom we will never meet, who pray for us. As Saint Paul said  there is a cloud of witnesses,  both living and dead, cheering us on as we journey towards the Lord. The Holy Spirit is  my companion but in His Body, He has gifted me with many other faithful companions and Agnes is one of my special friends.

My Childern infused New Life and Fun Into Easter

Once children burst into your life and you see events through their eyes, every celebration is infused with excitment and fun. I recreated activities from my childhood and discovered new ones with my kids.

For me Easter means colouring eggs. If I never had children, I never would have started dying eggs again, which would have been a shame. I can usually be found running around cleaning, putting loads of laundry in,and cooking but sometimes I don't just set up an activity, I actually sit down and enjoy the craft with  my kids. At first we just used the store bought kits. Slowly, as the kids grew older we experimented with crayon designs, stickers and fancier dying techniques.

One Easter, one of our children learned the art of creating Ukrainian Easter eggs and begged to teach the rest of us. Michael bought the supplies, set the kids up and played Handle's Messiah. As the music swirled around us, the kids were silent, completely absorbed in their craft. Every year since, all my kids sit around the kitchen table, dying eggs for hours.  Even though I am still running around cleaning, putting in loads of laundry,cooking, tripping over the dog and helping kids, there still is a special Easter atmoshere that fills the house.

He nearly Lost His Eye

It was Sunday evening.

All the kids had simply flopped down on the chesterfield, chairs, pillows and rug after supper. This was "Walt Disney Night" if you were young or "Sports Night" if you were a teenage boy. The problem was that we had only one T.V. for eleven people. Half asleep,lounging on the couch, with a grin on his face,  my oldest son, Matthew,  had just switched the channel back to basketball yet again. In utter frustration, three year old Lucy, who was standing up, indiscriminately flung a charcoal pencil down towards the floor. Anthony was laying on the rug nearby.

 

Then it  happened.

One of those gory warnings  mothers tend to shout at their rowdy offspring became a reality. You all keep these common sayings hidden in the back of your brain. They probably originated in the 1950's. Modern mums, try not to resort to these dire prediction but they do slip out now and again:

"Come down this instant; you are going to fall and break your neck!"

"Careful with that knife; you don't want to cut your finger off."

"Don't come crying to me if you fall and break your leg."

"Watch out for cars or I'll have to scrape you off the road and put you in a box."

"You will be the death of me yet."

"That water is boiling hot; you'll be sorry if it spills all over you."

"Pay attention to what you are doing or you'll poke out your eye."

 That last warning about the eyes?
Suddenly the dramatic over statement  became a reality a as Lucy's flying pencil pierced Anthony's eye.
At first I thought that Anthony had a piece of the chocolate pencil laying underneath his iris; in my ignorance, I tried to flush it out. Thank the Lord that Anthony resisted my attempts because we later found out that if I had been successful, Anthony would definitely have lost his eye to infection.What I was actually seeing was not a piece of brown artist's pencil, I was actually seeing the iris  muscle leaking out from the puncture wound.

Later, just before surgery, a resident asked my husband to sign a waver which stated that, as Anthony's parent, he was fully aware that Anthony could lose his eye during the operation. My young son didn't even sigh during the interview but after the doctor left, he stared sobbing, petrified that he would lose his eye. Michael calmed him down and after he prayed over him, draining fear, trauma and pain, Anthony fell asleep until the surgery.  That was our second moment of grace that day. Anthony's indignat father informed the  head eye specialist that a certain resident needed instructions on bedside manners.

Modern medicine astonished both of us.
The tear was sewn, three holes were drilled into his eyeball and eye fluid was pumped back in to restore the exact curvature to his eye!  In post-op, while two other little fellows struggle and fought the staff by trying to rip out tubes, Anthony was so calm and pleasant that the surgical team gave him a bear for being the best patient ever. The team even remembered  the guilty little Lucy with an  adorable bear sporting fairy wings and a tutu.

For rest of the five days in the hospital, Anthony felt like a prince.
He had sole possesion of a remote, play station and t.v.That simply never happened in our large family where every kid  watched the clock as their time to play approached. In addition he was delighted to receive visiting siblings and their friends who all came bearing gifts and candy.

 Anthony's badge of distinction ,to this day, is a pie shaped area in his iris that is more green than brown and 20/20 vision.

My Husband's GRANDMA Drank the Last and Best Bottle Of Our Home Made Wine??

Michael and I like to experiment when we cook, bake bread or make pickles. Sometimes of our creative endevours are successful such as our exotic herbs and vegetables, crotcheted blankets,  jewelry and home tied flies for fishing My son cut down a huge black walnut tree, a friend brought over a portable saw mill and cut it into rough boards which my husband planed and sanded and used to build a gorgeous countertop. Making things from stuff at home rather than buying the factory generated versions is less expensive and usually tastes, looks or functions better.

Of course,every creative endeavour was not always successful and some were  total disasters.  For example my soap making project filled the entire house with a horrible stench as I rendered the lard. The odour permeated  our clothes, skin and hair, drapes, furniture... Thank God it wasn't freezing outside because everything and I mean everything had to be aired or washed. Looking back,  I  have decided that our pioneers must have done this stage of soap making outside -over a fire.

One of our better ideas was to make wine the old fashioned way. We had returned home with  a five gallon pail full of choke cherries. We were not quite sure what to do with them because jelly takes so much white sugar. Then inspiration hit- we would make wine.

We refrained from squishing the choke cherries with our feet but we did put them in a clean, white pillow case and which we tied to a broomstick. We filled a huge plastic container with juice to ferment. The first bottles  of wine were okay but we saved a few to let them age and each time one of these bottles was uncorked, the better the wine became.

Then one evening, nineteen years later, the phone rang. Michael answered.

" Michael, is that you?", his grandmother yelled.

" Hi, Nan.", Michael answered, a little puzzled. This was his devout, church going, grandmother. The one who constantly interceded for her wayward grandchildren, great-grandchildren and even great,great-grandchildren

" I just want to thank-you for giving me that bottle of homemade choke cherry wine.", Nan slurred slightly, "It's been hiding in the back of my pantry for almost twenty years and I have to tell you, it is the best wine I have ever tasted!"

Michael thanked his grandmother then turned to me and explained what had happened. "I don't think Nan is going to leave us any, my husband guessed."

Michael was right. Nan drank the whole bottle; we didn't taste a drop and she still raves about how good it was.

The Trials and Errors That Plagued Me While I Was Pretending to be a Children's Hair Stylist

Do you remember this humourous, family kitchen scene, perhaps from the forty's or fifty's, where a child sits on a stool with a huge sheet tied around their neck, a pained expression on their face and a bowl on their head as Mother stands poised behind them, scissors in hand? This family drama came to life in the early 1990's.

Our whole family had gone out to visit a another large family for dinner. (Who else but another large family ever  had enough courage to invite us, even if the meal was potluck?) My two oldest daughters were invited to sleep over for one night.

Mara phoned home in great excitement the next morning; my friend was cutting hair and would I allow her to give Mara a shorter haircut?  "...PLEEEASE?" Of course I agreed because it was free and hair grows. I felt confident that my friend wouldn't offer to cut my child's hair if she didn't know what she was doing. What a mistake!  I think Mara , even though she was only about  six or seven, became concerned as the bowl was placed on her head. Her older sister, was horrified by the entire procedure; Melissa stood on the sidelines in shocked silence as the scene unfolded. When the two of them got home,  I smiled weakly at Mara but I was relieved that my friend  had  at least employed a very large bowl with deep sides as her hair pattern. Mara's hair was still long enough to redeem.

Most people with a lot of kids are forced to cut their hair at home. Michael  was a wonderful barber to the boys. However I often panicked as I played hairdresser to the girls but I almost always manage to fix my blunders, thank God. The trick was to keep my daughters' hair long. Even then, I trimmed it with great fear and trembling because I am crippled by an odd genetic deficiency;  I find it difficult to cut straight. The consequences of my deficiency meant that I  was forced to constantly juggled back and forth, from side to side, cutting a  little bit more hair each time. My brilliant strategy was to only trim a bit of hair at first, so by the the time I was finished "fixing", the hair was just the right length.

Of course there was the time I cut a couple of my girl's hair short, pixie style. Overall the hair style was cute but definitely not professional looking.  A couple of younger daughters cut their own bangs and achieved a 'back to basics'  look. Emily's creation was the worst because she cut  her own bangs at three years old ,with child safety scissors, an inch from her scalp in some spots and two or three inches in other spots. The only option available to me that time was to cut Emily's bangs all the same length and  then to persuade her to wear stretchy, soft cloth headbands that practically covered  her hairline.

However the funniest  hair cutting story involved seventeen year old Rachel and her thirteen year old sister, Lucy. Lucy desperately needed her bangs trimmed but she refused to let me near her with a pair of scissors in my hand. She was actually very astute, I must admit. Rachel, on the other hand, was  confident that she understood the theory behind professionally trimmed bangs. She announced that she would be pleased to help Lucy out. Rachel feathered Lucy's bangs well. Her one mistake however was to pull  firmly on Lucy's wet hair while she cut. Lucy's hair is very curly. When Rachel let go and the hair dried, Lucy's bangs sprang up and looked like they were about an inch long.

 Lucy burst into tears and Rachel burst out laughing. In fact, Rachel laughed so hard that she hit her head on the counter. Everyone came racing in and of course and started to laugh. Finally, holding back giggles, older siblings rounded up headbands, their own special pins, clips and combs and managed to console Lucy.

 Just this weekend, four years later, Lucy's sisters were remembering the Bang's Catastrophe while  laughing hysterically. Only this time Lucy joined in.

Children Teach Adults How to Simply Be

Little people love to peer closely at tiny objects. Perhaps it is because they are closer to the ground but they stop at every flower and bug, especially a bug on a flower. All their attention is riveted as they look, touch, smell, even lick each wonderful new discovery. At first it was difficult to slow down during our walks and let the toddlers  set the pace but what wonderful instruction in relaxing and becoming fully present to the moment.

At first I was only capable of enjoying whatever captured my children's notice but now I realize that they were experiencing so much more than I  initially thought. In their silent, non-verbal attention to nature, they were in deep communion with God Himself as He is present in His creation. Adults struggle for years to merely glimpse the intimacy that little children have naturally with God. They do not need to strive or work for this state of contemplation because they are without guile, prior opinions or expectations; they are open and look with trust, ready to absorb the love, joy and peace that envelopes them.

 "Unless you become like little children, you cannot enter the kingdom of God."

A Mother of Nine, I Was An Enigma to My Obstetrician

After moving to the Ottawa  Valley with our first child, I became the patient  of a very feminist Doctor who was childless, although she did have tropical fish and a  parrot.
I was an enigma to her as she was to me. The waiting room was filled with well off, professional women needing gynaecological care and women in their late thirties or early forties pregnant with their first child. Then, I would walk through the door, at first pregnant with a toddler on my hip and by my last visit with three or four other children clustered around me.

Enshrined on this doctor's desk and encased in glass were birth control devices that glared at me every time I sat across from her.

After one visit, my obstetrician said, in a teasing tone, "Would you quit bringing your beautiful children to my office. Someone always wants a reversal (from tubal ligation) after you leave."

A similar comment about our kids came from a priest who said, "You and Michael are nice looking but you make absolutely beautiful babies!"

Pregnant with my fourth child, I came for a scheduled appointment even though labour had begun. I preferred to see her right away rather than wait for her at the hospital because I wanted to go home after visiting her office and put everything in order and arrange childcare.

Apparently babies are born faster, after a few pregnacies. I was not expecting my doctor's reaction, "This baby is coming soon. You don't have time to travel all the way home. Use the phone in the office, get a hold of your husband and get someone to meet him with the kids in the hospital parking lot and you go straight to admitting ahead of him."

I walked into the waiting room, called my brother-in-law and explained the situation, laughing at my self as I apologised to him. A contraction hit, I breathed through the pain and then gathered all the kids together and left her office for the hospital.

An hour later she bustled into the delivery room and announced, "Well you sure impressed my entire waiting room! Everyone thinks you are super woman."

Two hours later, standing with assistance and enduring long contractions that were turning my baby completely around,  I was anything but super woman. I wailed , "I thought you said this delivery was going to be fast!"

It didn't help that seven or eight student nurses, obstetrical residents and medical students stood in a half circle around me, watching a woman give birth without drugs or an epidural, to her fourth child. (I was not trying to be super mom, natural  birth was better for delivery because I could work with my body and therefore prevented tearing and stitches. I could sit cross-legged on the bed right after and feel wonderful and much lighter.)

The last baby this doctor delivered of mine was my fifth. ( I could not face her next time I was pregnant.) It was quite the production. All through my pregnancy I had asked God, "Please, not on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day."

He had his own ideas, of course.  On Christmas Eve we gave the kids baths in the afternoon, a tortiere was baking in the oven almost  ready for an early dinner and I had just laid out dresses, white tights, ribbons for the girls  and outfits for the boys to wear to church when the contractions started coming hard and fast. In fact I barely could get my boots on.  Michael drove very quickly to the hospital. When I stepped into admitting, the lights were dim, Christmas lights were shining on the tree and strung along the walls and two relaxed nurses were leaning against the counter.

 "So ", one of the nurses calmly asked, "Is this your first?"
" No", I gasped, "My fifth."
"Your Fifth?", her head jerked up and her eyes popped open. "Sandra, get the elevator right now and then grab a wheelchair. I'll phone obstetrics so they can get ready for her!!!"
Michael followed the parade carrying David who refused to stay with our baffled neighbour; Dad assumed he had time to take him back home.
 The obstetrical  nurse told him, You aren't going anywhere if you want to see this baby's birth. Give him to the desk clerk and tell her to give him crackers."  By the way, David thoroughly enjoyed his adoring fans out at the nurses' station. My dress was literally yanked over my head, my tights whipped off, the doctor ran in to the delivery room and Emily was born 45 minutes later.

I loved the large ,vacant four bed  ward room I was assigned because the it was peaceful and relaxed. Christmas morning ,Michael trouped in with all the kids dressed in their holiday outfits and huge grins on their faces. He had pulled off Christmas set-up (that's a whole other story) but he sheepishly handed me the hairbrush, elastics and ribbons admitting, "Well it was difficult but they were all thrilled with everything this morning. I just couldn't handle the girl's hair." He pulled off their hats and their hair was still a tangled disaster. I laughed and laughed, the kids started giggling and then we started to introduce them to our family's  present.

good morning

Firecrackers in Mailboxes and Cowpies

We all expect playful pranks from boys in their early teens because they delight in stretching the boundaries. Firecrackers offer many exciting possibilities to a creative thirteen year old.
M son, David, along with a neighbour wondered what would happen if they lit a couple of  fire crackers  and threw them into the family's country style mailbox.  The result was even funnier than they imagined as the metal door flew up and slammed shut again with a loud clang. David and Riley doubled over with hoots of laughter.

Unfortunately for the boys, who should drive by at that exact moment?

The principal  from the local public high school. The boys  noticed a car had stopped. The boys  hopped on their bikes  in a frenzy,  rode down the long, curved, lane way to Riley's house and lunged through the front door. However, that did not curtail this conscientious educator; he backed up his station waggon, followed the boys right up to the house and rang the door bell. Riley's mum was mortified and the boys were embarrassed  by his stern lecture.

David sheepishly recounted his adventure at the dinner table that night and we just shook our heads.

A

A

That incident was never repeated because David had been humiliated but firecrackers in the hands of one father led to sheer mayhem at our house a few years later.
 

We were barbecuing with a few other families . In the late afternoon, when the kids were getting restless and hungry, Pierre gathered the kids together, like he often did but this time he led them into the barnyard.

What did this fun loving father do to amuse the throng of children who surrounded him?
Why he lit  firecrackers that were positioned in the middle of manure plops! We all heard the squeals and roars of approval from the kids. Before we knew what was happening, Pierre was paying the kids who dared to stand the closest to the smelly, disgusting explosions.We all shook our heads this  time but smiled in spite of ourselves, wondering who was more mischievous, Pierre or the kids?

That was before we saw the kids close up. They were splattered with manure. Actually the  foul smelling gunk that covered them wasn't even manure yet, it was fresh.  The other mother's and I were desperate to bathe our kids before dinner but we simply rinsed out their hair, gave quick sponge baths and I scrambled to find clothes to fit everyone Rhonda, Pierre's wife,  fumed the loudest about stained clothing and Pierre looking sheepish, helped clean up his four small children.

 I must admit that no one has forgotten "The Day Cow Pies Exploded ".  My grown children still laugh in remembrance and I just mentally file that incident in the same category as "One Mud Bath a Year" and "One Spring Soaking a Year"(stories to follow).  I suppose that day is another example of the freedom, joy and muck that a farm makes available to all playful kids, both short and very tall.

Kids First: Love, Don't Spoil Them

One afternoon an acquaintance stopped by for a cup of tea with two pre-school children in tow. At first she was very nervous and jumping up at every disturbance she heard as the kids played. In an attempt to soothe her nerves I explained,

"Relax and let them have fun; anything that could be broken probably is and anything that is not, probably should be." 

Her mouth dropped open but then she laughed and stopped straining her ears for the smallest sound of trouble.

I am foolish but also proud to say that our house was a very, very fine house with a dog at the door, a cat or two curled up on the best chairs, gold fish swimming circles on my too small counter, sometimes a hamster,  guinea pig or rabbit in a cage on the kitchen floor, paintings and crafts displayed anywhere and everywhere and  of course way  too many plants.

Our living room was a living room with all sorts of activity centres and corners. Prized Lego structures were covered with a tablecloth for meals. After dinner, the older kids and their dad would sip tea or water and talk as they worked on the puzzle.

We lived in a house built for kids because their mental and emotional well being came first. It was so much easier to live this way. I was a fast learner as I quickly realized that tearing down a block city that would host hours of absorbing play the next morning was absolutely self-defeating. I once read, that for a child, the hour put into a block structure is similar to a business man working weeks on a project. Just as a grown man would be devastated to see weeks of work dismissed, so too is a child devastated to have his blocks swept back into the bin, right after he has finished stacking them.

Often we tend to barrel along with our self-important agendas or we strive to keep our house looking too tidy and guest presentable. I often had attacks of guilt, though,  like the afternoon when a six year old walked into our family room that was strewn with Lego,

"Why is your house sooo messy", she wondered.

Or the time a good friend , in an attempt to make me feel better said,

"Your house is very clean, Melanie, it just looks lived in, that's all.

I was not mollified at the time.

 One of my sister-in-laws intimidated me with her immaculate house. I mean the baby undershirts were folded neatly in four and stacked perfectly in the drawer! Do you know how small those undershirts are? I was lucky to get them out of the clean laundry basket and stuffed into the drawer before I needed to use them again.She did only have two kids... but still!!! Then she came over one day to help me attack a project and she leaned on a counter in the kitchen and said,

"Honestly Melanie, I don't know how you ever get out of the kitchen and laundry room!"

Tears welled up in my eyes and I sputtered,

"That is the kindest, nicest thing you could ever say to me."

 I trust that our house was built for kids not just adults.

I trust that our house was one where little people felt loved, safe and respected, no matter what their age or personality.

Penny down thwoat

David was six months old, laying on his back in this crib, while  two year old Mara sat at the other end, playing with a few pennies in a tiny change purse. I was washing the bedroom floor when suddenly David started coughing and then screamed as loudly as he could. I dropped the mop and ran over to scoop up a red faced,crying baby.

"What happened?", I asked Mara.

She kept repeating, over and over,

" Penny down thwoat, penny down thwoat."

"There is a penny down his throat?", I questioned.

Mara nodded but by this time David had stopped crying.

I peered at the three pennies in her purse and then

I drilled myself silently,

"Had I given her three or four coins?"

I couldn't remember.

It seemed impossible that this now calm baby could have a penny stuck in his throat.
Did he swallow the coin and would it get stuck in his digestive system?
 When he nursed later, he kept stopping and whimpering.
 Was his throat simply scratched?
My husband insisted that there was a penny stuck in his throat but to me that seemed physically impossible.

After five days, David was still distressed  when  he swallowed, so I sheepishly made an appointment with my doctor. He looked at the calm baby sitting contently on my lap and sighed,
"I seriously doubt there is anything in his throat but since a lab has just opened on this floor, I'll send you over. Mind you, this is just to reassure you."
Twenty minutes later, I stood in  middle of the waiting room and wailed loudly,
 "There is a penny stuck in my baby's throat!"

Of course I was hustled into an examination room, where an astonished doctor called in  his college to witness this incredible event. The doctor exclaimed,
"Do you realize that I would have sent this baby home if the lab hadn't moved into our building?"

Off to Emergency to endure a day long vigil in a hospital room waiting for surgery. Poor David experienced blood tests and an intravenous needle which was protruding out of his arm and attached to a pole on wheels. I  paced the room and the hall for hours while squirming David, sporting a pink and white striped nightgown, desperately  needed to nurse. David had an avid appetite. After his first bite of solids, he lunged foreward in the highchair while gripping the sides with both hands and snapped down on the spoon. I was so startled that I called Michael into the kitchen. That same baby could not eat for twelve hours!

 Surgery went well. The team presented us with a penny trophy placed in a see through container. My guilt was assuaged because a two year old had the same procedure done right after David.,only this little fellow had used a pencil to push the coin down.We discovered that both pennies were lodged sideways, allowing liquid and soft solids to squeeze past the obstruction.

The doctors and nurses were amused and nicknamed both patients The Penny Boys.

But I Was Using My Mum Antenna!

Rachel was two years old when some sort of bug attacked her digestive system with a vengeance. My doctor ordered the BRAT  Diet (bananas, rice, applesauce, toast) to remedy the lingering diarrhoea problem.

Poor Rachel! It seemed like she was stuck eating the 'brat diet'  forever. She looked so pitiful at meal times as she eyed her siblings plates and the turned back dejectedly to look at her bowl of rice.

Emily, Rachel's partner in work and play, understood her little sister's frustration with this imposed spartan diet; so she decided to do something about it. Quick witted as always, Emily chose to implement her plan when I was safely out of the kitchen.

My Daughter initiated "Mission Impossible" while I was in a darkened bedroom, nursing  our baby to sleep. With the bedroom door open , my  "kid radar" was turned on, alert to any sounds that my children might make. I heard disturbing noises. Up I got, slowly and carefully, not wanting to wake up Katie. I changed her position so  that I could rock her and I made my way to the door and tiptoed to the kitchen . 
My eyes widened in despair as I took in the scene and I whispered as loudly as I could,
"NO!"

What did I observe?
The bread box was open, the peanut butter jar lid was off and wiry and three year old Emily was squatting like a tiny elf up on top of the counter, spreading a thick layer of the stuff on wholewheat, stone ground bread. Rachel stood below on the floor,  both arms out stretched with her tiny hands opening and closing frantically. She was starving and could hardly wait to get hold of real food.  The sound of my voice startled both of them. Emily glanced up briefly and finished  her assignment  even quicker; Rachel glanced over her shoulder and then stuffed the sandwich into her mouth, hardly chewing at all before she swallowed and lunged for another big bite.

And me?
I was stuck because I did not want a cranky baby on my hands and she was not quite ready to lay down.
 Thus, with great strategy and timing, Emily and Rachel  pulled off "Mission Impossible".

I phoned my doctor's wonderful nurse, after this disaster bewailing my misfortune and this major set back in my own plan of attack on intestinal bugs. Olga  laughed,
" You, my dear, don't seem to stand a chance."

my daughter's art

remembering easter art

my fridge door


Once children burst into your life and you see events through their eyes, every celebration is infused with excitment and fun. I recreated activities from my childhood and discovered new ones with my kids.

For me Easter means colouring eggs. If I never had children, I never would have started dying eggs again, which would have been a shame. I can usually be found running around cleaning, putting loads of laundry in,and cooking but sometimes I don't just set up an activity, I actually sit down and enjoy the craft with  my kids. At first we just used the store bought kits. Slowly, as the kids grew older we experimented with crayon designs, stickers and fancier dying techniques.

One Easter, one of our children learned the art of creating Ukrainian Easter eggs and begged to teach the rest of us. Michael bought the supplies, set the kids up and played Handle's Messiah. As the music swirled around us, the kids were silent, completely absorbed in their craft. Every year since, all my kids sit around the kitchen table, dying eggs for hours.  Even though I am still running around cleaning, putting in loads of laundry,cooking, tripping over the dog and helping kids, there still is a special Easter atmoshere that fills the house.

Loving Babies

We are a family of people who are crazy about babies. Should anyone walk into our presence with a baby in their arms, we all immediately surround them, adoring smiles on all of our faces.

When the kids were little, I literally had to watch the clock to make sure everyone would get a chance to hold either our baby or a visiting one. I think the children bonded to each other because even a toddler was given the privilege of holding their newborn sibling. With excitement twinkling in their eyes, barely containing their joy long enough to sit still while I propped up one of their little arms with a pillow,  one of their little arms with a pillow,  they would look extremely proud and pleased as they too held the baby. Bedtime became something to look forward to for about the baby. Bedtime became something to look forward to for about three months after the birth of our newest addititon;  I would wrap the newborn tightly in a warm blanket and let each child cuddle up to a living and breathing 'teddy baby'. This quiet time, to be alone with their sibling allowed warm, nurturing, love to flow between both children and it eliminated jealousy; the focus was no longer just on the baby but attention focused on an older child and the baby.

As I nursed, I gave the older children my mental and emotional attention by listening, talking, reading books to them, helping with homework and even playing with play dough with one hand. I think the Holy Spirit was surrounding us. I can honestly say that no one resented all the time each newborn demanded because we were all part of caring for the baby. Little ones were proud to run for diapers, clothes or blankets and older kids would choose rocking or pushing a colicky baby in the buggy over washing dishes any day.

 I discovered that from the birth of my third child on, community developed where we shared and helped each other. It is lovely to have a toddler giggling as he picks up each toy tossed from the highchair, or a relaxed nine year old watch the four year old ,who is happy and out of trouble as she plays  in the tub for an hour. Seven year old 's proudly read the same book over and over to a three year old, freeing me to run the house. All in all, from a panic attack as I held my first born till now, God completely upended my plans for my life but He knew exactly what I needed to become free and full of joy. 

Make-up and Little Girls

One visit  from Grandma Jean and Grandpa Ron  occurred when Melissa and Mara were about four and five years old.   My two little girls were fascinated as they watched  Grandma apply a touch of make-up each morning because they had never seen anything like it. I wasn't  interested  in make-up in those days and frankly  there wasn't time anyway; I was lucky if I managed to brush my teeth and throw some real clothes on by noon.

Finally, after a few mornings of watching the longing on her  granddaughters' faces, my mom asked, "Would you like me to give the two of you a make-over?"  Melissa and Mara were almost too thrilled to sit still as Grandma applied a light coat of lipstick, mascara, blush and eyeshadow. My mom was delighted with the results; the little girls looked like they could have posed  for a photo shoot. She called me over to enjoy the results and  of course, I was pleased as well . My daughters were delighted with the whole idea of wearing make-up  and glowed with the admiration we showered on them.

"Well", my mom asked with pride, "Would you like to see what you look like now?"

"No thanks, Grandma.", answered Melissa, "We know what we look like."

 Off they skipped to play outside.

My mom and I looked at each other and laughed.

Children are delightful because they are not self-conscious and they really don't worry too much about their appearance. Little people are too busy exploring the world and having fun just being themselves.

Thomas Merton once wrote that frogs and trees are holy because they simply are who they are suppose to be, without masks or false personas. I think the same can be said of little children. No wonder Christ said, "Unless you become like a little child, you cannot enter the  kingdom of God."

I Am An Emotion Vacuum Cleaner. Are You?

I am wired to be an emotion vacuum cleaner that sucks up all my children's pain. My children are all

compassionate vacuum cleaners as well, who attract other people's negative emotions. They are all aware that they were conditioned not only from observing Michael and I  in action but also because they have inherited this trait from both of us.

This problem, The Vacuum Cleaner Syndrome, is a difficult disease to cure. 

 As my daughter and  fellow vacuum cleaner, Katie, asked during a family discussion,

" How can one vacuum cleaner  help another vacuum cleaner?" 

Four of us around the circle smiled and laughed at the image.

Then I blurted out, "Why, show the other vacuum  cleaner how to reverse the hose and blow out the dirt, rather than suck it in and collect it."

That comment released  waves of uncontrollable laughter that actually did blast clean air through all of us.

Compassion and empathy are vital but my tendency is to try to fix my husband and kids by hoarding their pain within my own heart.

 Does my tendency to absorb my children's emotions help them?

NO.

Do my seemingly selfless reactions weigh me down?

YES.

Is anyone fixed or set free as I sacrifice my own peace and happiness to try to help my family?

NO. 

Does this Vacuum Cleaner Syndrome destroy everyone's peace and joy?

YES.

The good news is that  a silly image that pictures mum as a vacuum cleaner does reverse this self- defeating, addictive pattern because it makes it easier for everyone to understand how ludicrous I have been .  The laughter that follows releases the tension used to keep emotional pain locked up inside. 

Jesus is the only vacuum cleaner who  has  the ability to literally sucked in everyone's emotional pain, sin etc. and then blow in joy, peace and new life back in to every person who allows Him do His job.

The great exchange; surrender dirt and receive the bright, clean breathe of God and then laugh at how long it took you to let it happen.