I Believe.

Christmas. Easily my favourite time of year. This year, it looked to be a scary time of year as we looked at our situation and wondered how we would find a way to avoid seeing disappointed little faces on Christmas morning. So I decided to sell apples. I figured I could at least try something. It went well. I was satisfied that we could at least keep a little bit of magic alive with what I earned. I was (and am) exhausted, and under the weather, but it was totally worth it. I believe in hope and hard work. I believe they pay off.

But then there were still many things, written in childish letters, and wished for from sweet little lips, that we didn't have and could not provide. I assured myself that it would not matter, that all would be well. I have literally done all I could do this Christmas. But then a knock at the door... bags of gifts and two plain envelopes, and 2 faces with sly, no, merry grins that we did not recognize, only identifying themselves as Santa's helpers. Presents, some that were precisely those yet-unfulfilled wishes, and much more... we, humbled parents, sat and cried. And cried. There are times there are just no words. How did they know? How could they have known? Who could have done this? Was it one person or a group of people? Questions hung in the air, but were in the shadows of the gratitude we were feeling. Money donated toward Noah's tuition... they could not fully know- that's like breath to our son's lungs. I believe in angels. I believe in goodness for goodness' sake.

There have been cards, offering extra help. There have been friends, stretching themselves to relieve my stress. And not one bit of it has gone unnoticed or unappreciated. In fact, there has been amazement, momentary disbelief, there have been prayers of thanks, many tears... and strengthened faith. It's not even my birthday or anything. It's Jesus' birthday. I always tell my kids that we get to have presents at Christmas because Jesus loves us and shares His birthday, and His presents with us. Santa Claus is just Jesus' delivery guy, as far as they know. It turns out, Jesus sent out a few more beautiful "delivery guys" this year. I believe in the Christmas Spirit. I believe that Jesus Christ will always find ways to show us that He is still there, and that Christmas is still His day. I believe one day I will help to make somebody else's Christmas as profoundly full of His love as you Christmas angels, known and anonymous, have done for us.

Somewhere, A Fat Lady Sings

That's it. 22o apples ordered, and I'm calling it good. I guess it's kind of like women say about having kids, you just know when you're done. What I should have anticipated, and didn't, is that most people would want their apples in the week or so before Christmas, and as a result, I have scarcely left my kitchen for the last week, and won't for the next five days. My original goal was to sell at least 200, so having slightly exceeded that, I'm content to close up shop (five days from now), and cram a month's worth of Christmas shopping and preparations into a couple of days. But at least now I can do the cramming, which didn't seem likely or even possible about a month ago.

I am so grateful for everyone who supported me and who ordered, I've been pleasantly surprised at the response, really. I wish I was talented at something less messy and less fattening (for all of you, I doubt these apples will look appealing to me for quite some time), but nobody wants anything I could fashion from yarn or paper or I don't know, vinyl. I'm also oddly relieved that I can start filling my blog with all the randomness I've been pondering alone the last month and a half. So Merry Christmas, everyone. And, note to Barbara Streisand, "Favorite Things" is not a Christmas song.

Read While Hungry

Christmas is coming. You knew that. Some of my friends have received one of my super-delicious-made-with-love-but-more-importantly-awesome-ingredients-apples as Christmas gifts in the past. Don't you think everyone you know should receive one this year, or at least the people you like? Caramel, chocolate, roasted almonds... aaaw, yeah.

Yeah, I have officially lost my mind. As if I don't have enough to do, I am going to attempt selling apples this year. As in, taking orders and staying up all night covered in almond dust and cellophane bags. There's a reason not everyone I know gets an apple every year. They take some serious time and effort to make!

Why are you doing this, Wendy? Um, Christmas is coming. My kids might want a few things. I'm poor. That's right, I said it. P-O-O-R. I'm not crafty. I make food. That's one thing I'm fairly good at. So if you have co-workers, teachers, neighbours, etc, that you need to bless with a unique Christmas gift, or if you just need to kiss up to somebody, help a craft-impaired girl out. I realize a sales pitch on a blog is super lame, but whatever, it's my blog.

Here's the nitty gritty:

*Apples are $7.50 each, or $6.00 each if you order three or more.

*They come in individual cellophane bags, tied with pretty ribbon, which you are free to change if you hate what I pick.

*You can choose milk or dark chocolate (I use good chocolate, no cheap waxy stuff here)

*They last a good 7-10 days in the fridge uncut.

*I need at least 3 days' notice if you need them for a certain date, especially for larger quantities, ie, more than 8.

*I can't ship them as they require refrigeration.

So there you go. Fancy Schmancy Apples. Made by me. Yum.

I Don't Get It: Baths

This is the first of what I'm sure will become a series of posts about things I just don't get.

I don't get baths.  Relaxing, soothing, blah, blah, blah.  They're not any of those things. Explain to me why, any reasonable grown person, why would you want to sit in a tub of your own funk? There you sit, marinating in a hot steaming tub of all the grime most people are aiming to clean off when they take a shower.  Well what about swimming pools, you ask?  That's why pool water is treated.  And it's not hot water.  And it is still just a little bit gross. 

 

Soaking in hot water is fine for a pinto bean, but I'm fairly certain people aren't meant to.  You come out sweaty (yes you are, you just can't tell because you're wet), more wrinkled than when you got in, and you still need a shower.  

My kids take baths because you can't make 'em stand in the shower when they can't even stand yet, and they love to play in the water.  But at my house they do not get rinsed with the water they've just been sitting in, nor is the water overly hot.  

Adults tend to take hot baths.  Hot water removes gunk.  That's why you wash dishes in it, that's why you sterilize things in it.  You would not wash your hands with that dish water after the dishes were done and call it good.  A hot bath is really the only way that something from your armpit can come in contact with the space between your toes.  Oh and that's just one example. Don't even get me started on all the places your toe jam could end up migrating in that lovely jetted tub.  Dim lights and a 2-foot layer of sweet-smelling bubbles floating on top does not change the fact that you're sitting in what is, in effect, body backwash.  

Maybe I'm missing the boat on one of life's great joys, I don't know.  You can keep your hot tubs and bathtubs.  De-funkification will be shower-centered at my house.

Tuck Me In and Go Get Me Some Water

Why do kids get all the good stuff?  They have the best blankets, all the silkiest, cushiest softest blankets there are.  What makes blanket manufacturers think that I want wool or not-soft cotton, just because I'm a grown up now?  I want a silky on one side, plush on the other side blanket in king size, thank-you very much.

Shoes with velcro, I'm just sayin', some mornings, would come in very handy for me.  And speaking of shoes, why can't I find a pair with Jude Law on them?

Not once after watching Law and Order has anyone on there told me how smart I am at the end for following the clues and solving the mystery.  But kids shows, you get kudos all the time for helping or guessing or tapping out a rhythm correctly...  I can totally do all that stuff, but no one cares.

Where's the Root Canal Fairy?  I could have used some money under my pillow that night, let me tell you.  If for nothing else than to help me pay for the darn thing.

I covet so many of my kids' toys, I don't know where to begin.  The Bilibo is probably the one for which I most want to not exceed the weight limit.  Is it a stool?  Is it a chair?  Is it a super awesome spinning ball of breath-taking fun?  I think so.  I'll never know unless someone decides to make a much bigger one. 

Sometimes I might want to colour a little bit while I wait for my food to come in a restaurant, but does anyone offer me crayons or even slightly more grown-up pastels? No.  Maybe a little toy ipod with my meal?  Nope.

I wouldn't mind, if every so often, one of my books had a pop-up, or a picture that changes when I move the page back and forth.

Their cereal has cute bright pictures all over the box, puzzles, and mazes... Adult cereal? Twigs. Ingredient lists that highlight fiber.  Brown.  Beige.  I ask you, who needs bright colours and mind awakening puzzles in the morning?  Me, having been up 3 times at night with a baby, stumbling into the kitchen with 4 kids in need of service?  Or the kids, who wake up bouncing off the walls, thrilled that the sun finally came up so they could come out of their rooms? Where's my cereal with a prize inside, maybe a scratch-off lottery card?

Well, I'm off.  Off to brush my teeth with non-sparkly toothpaste, put on my boring cotton non-footy pajamas.  Kids have no idea how good they have it.  They won't know until they aren't kids anymore.  Of course, I wouldn't want it any other way for them, I just wish it all lasted a few decades longer.  

  

Lying Liars.

It's not you.  It's me.  

I'm fine.

It looks great!

I'm just tired, that's all.

That's ok.

Nothing.

How many times a day do you lie without even batting an eye?  The lady behind you in line who just rammed her cart into your ankle for the second time in 30 seconds is fine, is she?  It's ok that your friend didn't call you once all week after swearing she would?  That's ok?  Really? 

Your kid broke an arm, you haven't slept for days, your marriage has been rocky for years, you are nearly completely broke, you are so lonely you've named the pit in your stomach so that you feel like you have company, you have red eyes today from crying last night over something no one even knows about, not from allergies, your friend's new haircut, not exactly flattering, you are haunted daily by mistakes you made decades ago, you have an ex-spouse who's still trying to run your life, you're questioning things that used to be so basic to you, you haven't eaten for days, you've been eating enough for 4 people lately...

Maybe you really are fine.

Maybe it really is nothing.

Maybe you really are just tired.

It could be you and not them.

Or maybe we all struggle sometimes, sometimes with really big things, and we should be able to say so.  Why do those seemingly small lies slide so easily off of our tongues?  Every time I say I'm fine, and I know it's not true, is that virtuous because I'm not complaining, and not worrying anyone around me, or am I just a big liar who might be denying someone an oppourtunity to help me?  

Some people I know tell me how it really is for them, but most people don't.  I'm guessing that most lie most of the time.  Why?  I get being optimistic, and being grateful, and not griping constantly, but I also get that we don't live on earth one at a time.  We aren't here alone, because we need each other.  The earth will not spin right off of its axis if you tell me the truth when I ask you how you are doing.  The world will not stop and stare if you say out loud sometimes that things are not wonderful.

I may not have answers for you, some things may be nobody's business, but for the love of Pete, can we stop lying?  I know you and your life are not perfect, you KNOW I'm not perfect, we're not fooling anyone.  Well, we might be fooling some folks some of the time.  But let me listen, or help, or pray, or support, because you probably need it.  And so do I.  That's the truth. 

Did You Know...

... you may be the truest friend I've ever had?

... you came to my door with something I wished I had earlier that same day?

... you made me laugh so hard I cried and my face muscles were actually sore the next day?

... you make me happy because you think I'm funny too?

... I couldn't have made it through one of the worst times of my life without you?

... your generosity toward me has moved me to tears more than once?

... you reminded me of who I was, that I was great, and that maybe I still am?

... I love that you wanted my advice?

... you probably saved my son's life?

... I still cannot get over that amazing gift of your talents and time, that I did absolutely nothing to deserve?

... I trusted you when I was so shaken I felt like I couldn't trust anyone?

... you were literally an angel to me, with that one tiny gesture?

... your note came in the mail on a day when I could not have needed it more?

... that you're way too far away from me and that I miss you?

... that you brought over that food right when I was wondering how we were going to be able to buy any?

... you said exactly what I needed to hear, you weren't even nice about it, but that you were right, and I wouldn't have listened if you were nice?

... I wish I had valued you the way I do now, much sooner?

... your combination of honesty and dry humour is refreshing to me?

... it's possible that no one has ever loved anyone as much as I love you?

Did you know?  Well, now you do.

Music- It's A Love/Hate Thing

Music, most music is really geared toward a certain phase of life, late teens/early twenties when the possibilities seem endless, you just want to go dancing, and you're maybe just naive enough to believe that song lyrics are true to life.  Rod Stewart, you realize as you get older, really had no business singing "If you want my body and you think I'm sexy..." but when you're 20, you're like, hey, why not?  It's kind of ironic and I can totally lip sync to it while I get ready to go out.  And Howard Jones, he was kind of a liar when he slow danced us all into believing that "No One Is To Blame".  Oh, there's someone to blame alright.

As you get into the more sensible settled 30's, music you sang your little heart out to only 5 or 10 years earlier can suddenly come back to bite you in the proverbial behind.  It bites to realize that even though you're a girl, you can't just have fun.  Thanks, Cyndi Lauper.  It's just not nice for someone to look back and see that "In Your Eyes" by Peter Gabriel misled you for years- there's no  heat in your eyes, except maybe what's brought on by allergies or insomnia.  I just heard "If  You Could See Me Now" by Celine Dion and thought what a pretty song, until I really listened to the lyrics, and thought how awful a song it could be for someone who had actually dumped the love of their  life and realized it too late.  It would be enough to make you want to drive your car into a tree.

Not that sad songs don't have their place, they can make you feel like someone understands how cruddy you feel, and I suppose that helps somehow.  But oh, it can just stink when songs you had been almost self-righteously singing along to for years, directed at whatever jerk had most recently crossed your path, take on a whole new meaning when you're looking backward and see the number of people that sang along and probably thought of you.  ("Who Will You Run To?" by Heart or maybe "Thorn In My Side" by the Eurythmics?)

 Or there is the music you've listened to for years, sang along with, enjoyed, and then with more years and experience under your belt, you are horrified at the lyrics' meanings and implications... yes, I mean you, Alison Moyet, you and your "Love Resurrection".  No more blasting you in the car, especially with the kids around.

I enjoy not knowing the real lyrics to songs, sometimes it's best to make up your own because the real ones are just dumb, dirty or depressing.  But I have the unfortunate gift of lyric recall.  I can hear a song a couple of times and know the words before I even realize I do.  There are songs I wish I could forget... there are Milli Vanilli and Backstreet Boys songs I never wanted in my head in the first place that I can still sing start to finish.  Back when "Ice, Ice Baby" was on the radio all the time, I was caught more than once rapping/singing it as I assembled Christmas gift baskets at my job at the time.  Humiliating.

What I want are some songs that speak truth.  Songs that speak to where I am in my life right now.  Where are the dance tunes that bemoan being knee-deep in diapers and spit up?  The songs that talk about my love affair with my favourite pair of jeans that still almost look cute on me post- baby?  Songs that give me hope for a blissful rainy day full of chick flicks and maybe even a nap.  What about one titled "Baby Go Bankrupt With Me"?  I need concrete, real stuff nowadays.

I love Colbie Caillat and Josh Groban for almost making me believe in "Magic" and that maybe I really am a "Machine", even if their catchy tunes are making my head a bit foggy and out of touch with reality, temporarily.  I love my lesser known favourites that are like my little secret like Mike Oldfield, October Project, John McVey, Loreena McKennitt and others.  I love love the songs that have gotten me through rough times- that liar Howard Jones did a lot of that for me in the 80's and 90's.  And Natalie Grant's "Held" was one of the only things that gave me some peace for myself and in thinking about my amazing sister following the death of my sweet brother-in-law nearly four years ago.  Of course I had to pull the car off the road every time it came on, cry, and then try to drive again, but that music said everything I was feeling and hoping better than I ever could have myself.

Over all I know music is a good thing, and I do love it.  I'm not discouraging listening to it.  But if  you suspect it is giving you angst, sadness, false hope, unrealistic expectations, fewer brain cells, ugly thoughts or a need to dance at really inappropriate times or places, you really should just turn it off.  

I've got to leave it at that... I think I'm Bleeding Love.

Eh For Dummies

I've found that there is a lot of confusion in the United States about the proper use of the Canadian word "eh". Sometimes I find it funny when people attempt to use it, and other times I want to yell, "Please STOOOOOOOP!! I'm begging you, use it the right way, or don't use it at all."  So I give to you now, "EH: A Tutorial".

Contrary to popular belief, "eh" is not just thrown on at the end of any and every sentence.  Nor is it used in the way the Fonz  made it famous (Henry Winkler, incidentally, is a very nice guy). 

Eh can be used to assess the continued interest or agreement of the person being addressed, as in, "The guy just flew by me, eh, and I didn't even see him!" to which the listener might respond with a nod or a "yeah?".

Eh can also be used at the end of a declarative sentence to turn it into a question, as in "Nice day, eh?" or "That was the worst game ever, eh?" or "You're a real snob, eh?", or "So you left last week, eh?".  So here it means things like "right?", or "don't you think?", "aren't you?", "isn't it?".

Eh is used to emphasize agreement, like, "I know, eh?"

Eh is used as an exclamation, as in "What a game, eh?!"

Eh is used a bit like "y'know" or "right" or "see", as an unconscious pause mid-sentence.

So that is pretty much all you need to know in order to use "eh" with some level of confidence and accuracy around picky Canadians like myself.  Sorry, but we get a little territorial about things that are strictly Canadian.  I can supply you with a list if you're interested. 

Oh Canada! Great country, eh?  :)

Somebody Stole My Liahona

Why is there no rewind button on life? I cannot even begin to list the number of times I've wished I could go back and say or do something differently. I'm not an overflowing bucket of regret, but sometimes I think we should be allowed a do-over here or there.

There are so many roads you could wind up on, and just based on the seemingly tiniest of decisions, the entire course of life is altered for good. Ever seen the movie Sliding Doors? I love it and hate it because it illustrates that idea so well. I'm not one that buys into "the one" or the "meant to be" stuff. Of course there are exceptions where God has other plans, but we're not beholden to some predetermined destiny thing.  Over all I think there are many different lives we could lead and be happy. Maybe to different degrees, but happy. Different people you could end up with. Different challenges you could face. Different experiences that change you for better or worse. All because of  choices we make.

Of course, there are some of those choices that lead to regret. And others that may have been bad choices, but ultimately got you where you needed to be, some that were initially good, but didn't take you where you'd hoped in the end, and then choices that led you somewhere better than you imagined.

I guess what bothers me, is that so often we aren't making informed decisions. Sometimes we're permitted to go with our best guess. Sometimes our best guess is, well, crappy. It's then that we should get to go back, revisit and rethink, and take some other road that takes us somewhere better. Something akin to stopping and asking a local for directions. We're not commanded in all things, which I'm grateful for, but does that mean that some decision made in haste or under stress or without all the facts or with rose-coloured glasses on should be allowed to skew the entire path of our lives?

That is why I'm grateful for the idea of gratitude. No matter where we are or how we got there, if there is something, anything that we're grateful for, we will be okay. Then that path is a good one. It may be better or worse than we thought, it may have different scenery than we'd hoped for, but I suppose as long as it's heading in the right general direction, we're doing alright.

Now, where the heck am I? Didn't I already pass that tree?

My Boy

I know people mean well. But my son is not autistic.

He has autism. There are plenty of parents who refer to their own child as autistic, and so you are free to do that too. But there are many more parents who shudder every time you say that about their child. I'm one of those parents.

I have this little boy. My little boy. He is funny, a great singer, has perfect rhythm, a smile that covers his whole face, he's got amazing recall of song lyrics, he loves wind chimes and swimming and lights, and saying prayers that are only about what he is grateful for, he does this dance we call the elbow dance that is hilarious, he adores the rain and snow, he's the only person I know that looks good in every single colour. And he has autism.

What if your child has cancer? After you leave a room, do people lean over to their neighbours and explain, "He's cancerous.", to which the response is a collective "Ooooh.", as though the child's entire being has just been explained? My boy is a lot of things, but HE is not a condition or disease. That is not who he is. That is not all he is.

You may think I'm nit picky or too PC, but I'm his Mom. I carried him for 9 months, gave birth to him, have loved him every moment since, and always will. I also had a mourning period where I lost the little boy I thought I'd had. I have worked, researching and trying to find anything to help him. I have celebrated every little bit of progress he has made. I have cried knowing there will be people who will never see him the way they should. I have taken the brunt of most of his "bad days". His bad days are not like your typical kids' bad days. We're talking sometimes hours of screaming, throwing things, hitting himself or others, my own nose has been bloodied more than once...

I'm not trying to get sympathy. I have a child who I know is perfect in all the ways that matter. I'm trying to tell you that I (and other parents of special needs kids) have earned the right to decide how you will refer to my child. At least in front of me. Listen to how parents describe or refer to their child and then follow their lead.

No person is any one adjective. My boy certainly isn't. He HAS autism. And little feet. And a sudden appetite for animal crackers. And the best cowlicks that give him the coolest hair. And an infectious laugh...

Have you seen my boy? Have you seen the angels around him? They see Noah. Really see Noah. A perfect being that's here to teach us a thing or two about what we lack, what we need to learn. That's who he is.

Because It Makes Me Laugh. Hard.

My name is Wendy, and I'm An Addict

     A few friends and some family are aware of my addiction.  Some have helped feed it in the past.  I've gotten other people addicted.  I'm not proud of it, but there it is.  Every winter, as Easter very slowly approaches, out come the Cadbury Mini Eggs, the dark purple packaging easy to spot from aisles away.  Every year, I might as well hook up an I.V.  I don't have a problem with over eating in general, in fact, several friends are mildly freaked out by how healthfully we try to eat at our house, but the problem with mini eggs is they come out once a year, for maybe a month or two, and then they disappear.  This creates a sort of desperation in  addicts like myself, because you know they will sell out weeks before Easter, and if you miss the boat, that's it for a year.  Plus it's Cadbury chocolate, which is pretty much the only chocolate in North America worth eating (my apologies to Hershey's fans, but I cannot stomach the stuff).

 

     This year is different.  I just had a baby, and I'm still pretty much house bound.  Knowing the mini eggs are out there, and not having easy access to them is enough to bring on anxiety, shaking, and a little bit of panic.  And then today, my friend Sharon dropped by, mini eggs in hand, and suddenly the world seemed a little brighter.  I've gotten maybe 4 hours of sleep in the last 48, so I'm thinking a little sugar and caffeine is not an entirely bad idea.  I may actually survive the next 48 hours now.  This same friend was informed the other day that some lady had come in to Albertsons, and bought out all the mini eggs they had.  I had to stop for a minute and make sure it wasn't me.  But alas, I had no mini eggs.  Some other poor soul out there is as addicted as I am.

     I may miss out this year- no stocking up for Easter, no stashing for the dark days ahead when they disappear again.  It may throw off my whole year, I can't say for sure.  As for the rest of you mobile, rested folk, grab a bag of Cadbury Mini Eggs and think of me.  And of course, I'll be accepting any left overs.

MARLEY ASHLYN!

I'm new to the whole posting pictures thing, so sorry these are not in chronological order.  If not for my awesome friend Mindy, there would still be no pictures here, so out of order is better than nothing, right?

Marley's first full bath- Tuesday Feb. 17th

Above is just from yesterday, on our way to see Suzanne, our midwife for the 2 week check-up.  She has already gained 5 oz from her birth weight!

Daddy cutting the cord, only about 10 minutes after she was born.

Miss Cheeks on her first day of life.

Sleeping Beauty.  She is a really calm baby so far.

Oh Baby!

This will be short and sweet for now- pictures to come...

We had our baby!!!  Feb. 5 at 4:28 am,  we welcomed a beautiful baby girl, which shocked us.  I had to have my midwife double check and reassure us that it really was a girl!  She's 9 lbs, 3 oz and 21 inches long.  Not the easiest birth  since she decided to turn posterior sometime between my water breaking and pushing.  Can I just say, "Ouch"?  Thank heaven for water birth, a supportive and loving husband and an awesome midwife.  So she's here, she's healthy, and we couldn't be happier!  We named her Marley.  No middle name yet.  :)

Why Two is Not Terrible

This is one of my conversations with Duncan from this past week (keeping in mind that all his r's and l's still sound like w's):

D: Mommy, Duncan need change my diaper!
W: Let's change you then.
D: I need cream for my bum.
W: Ok then, go and get it.
D: (looking all serious and concerned as he walks back to me, cream in hand) It has a crack!!
W: What has a crack?
D: My bum!!
W: It's ok, everbody's bums have cracks, there's nothing to be alarmed about!
D: (very skeptical) Noah's bum have a crack?

And then he had to ask about pretty much everyone else he knows. Two is my favourite age. I'll take a few screaming fits to have conversations like these any time.