Why are You a Princess?

I’m a princess, my dear, because shein sells cheap dresses with wide fluffy skirts, and that must make me appear somewhat magical to you.

I’m a princess because it’s Christmas and I have just about everything I want and need.

I’m  a princess because I’m unreasonably happy tonight with my not so perfect life. 

I’m a princess because I have so many people who love me. 

I’m a princess because even though I haven’t deserved it or planned it, good things keep happening  to me.

I’m a princess because, unlike you, I can have a safe home and a safe loving family to go home to.

I’m a princess because I found out that Christmas miracles are real.

I don’t know what made the wee red head think I was a princess. My dress, my voice, my aura, something else entirely. It was probably mostly the dress. It was the sweetest compliment a 4 year old could give, and made me fall in love with him even more. Later, after he was sound asleep under his paw patrol blanket curled up with a gentle giant of an accidentally therapeutic kitty, I went home feeling like maybe I really was a princess, just not in the way he thought. 

Adrenaline Detox

October.

October has truly been an adrenaline detox, at least for me. Our summer of busyness merged into an autumn of calm. We’re in our new house, and the majority of work on the exterior that we had planned to get done before winter is complete -we surprised even ourselves at how we met that goal. The garden is harvested. My work has slowed down, my husband’s too, somewhat. We’ve kept socializing to a minimum due to the illnesses spiralling through the congregation in recent weeks. It’s been quiet. 

Involuntary Detox

Like all ddetoxes, it hasn’t been painless. I chafe under the weight of too many days of getting nothing accomplished. I pine for the faces of the children I cared all spring and summer. I even miss the adrenaline high of chasing a runaway 8 year old across the city of Yorkton when he took off in anger after a fight with his auntie. 

I certainly didn’t plan to spend half of September and most of October motionless. I didn’t plan that I would have no work in the last few weeks, although to some extent I am grateful for that. I do know from other years that there is almost always a few weeks of lull between finishing up the last outside jobs and starting the rush of winter work. This year I’m hoping that lull lasts a little longer than usual so we can get more things done in this house before the busy towing season starts. 

I still get the occasional adrenaline rush. 

Sometimes I have to race the sun. Like the night I needed to get to Pelly to unlock a difficult dodge truck before daylight ran out. I lost that race. I also forgot my step stool. Luckily Mr and Mrs Ukraine were kind enough to 1. Find me an ancient chair to stand on and 2. hold a flashlight so I could see what I was doing. #amateurbreak-inartist 

I juggle the children, which can be exciting. Especially when they’re used to following their own rules, but they’re at my house so I have to enforce my rules to keep them safe. Example #1: we don’t take off walking across the field without telling anyone where we’re going. When I figure out where they are I practice not yelling frantically at them that they knew better. Also, BTT and I get to practice our parenting. (We’re bad at it) Him: “I though we’d decided only 2 kids on the quad. Why are you letting 3 of them ride at once?” Me: “I told them only 2 on the quad. I thought you were the one who let them all ride together!” Clearly we need to up our communication game. 

I play midnight chase vehicle to ambulances with a little brother and my husband inside. BTT and I take turns sitting anxiously by an emergency room hospital bed watching our child transition slowly back to reality and squinting into the neon lights of the hospital parking lot hoping for some epiphany to come out of this long sleepless night. (I never asked Brent if he was hoping for an epiphany, but I was.) Morning finally came and with it discharge; we heralded the sunrise by feeding the baby bird tiny bites of still-warm doughnut and half a can of Pepsi on the drive home and also venting frustration at the lack of answers /help we had received for him. (This is the same little brother I wrote about in the post No One Talks About the Days.) 

Conclusion. 

I have spent days trying to come up with the concluding paragraph I used to teach my students about. I’m continuously blank about how to complete this post or even how to edit it for readability, typos, grammar and interestingness. Okay. Thanks. Bye. (This ending is for you, Sister.) 

Berry Coconut Smoothies (dairy free)

BTT and I had to create a dairy free version of our 
smoothies for an event today. This is what we came 
up with and we were quite happy with the result. Better 
yet, the women who ate them seemed happy, as well.

INGREDIENTS 

 •Splash of almond milk, 1/4-2/2 cup 

•1 can coconut milk or equivalent amount coconut cream  

•1 pint of canned peaches, drained or fresh peaches (frozen could work too but you might have to adjust the amount of liquid)

•3-4 cups of frozen berries: raspberries, strawberries, and/or blueberries

•Whipped coconut cream for topping (optional)

•Chia seeds

•Toasted coconut 

DIRECTIONS 

Dump the milks and fruits  into a blender and blend well . You can check/ taste the finished product and then adjust it to your liking. See below for ideas. Top with whipped coconut cream, and a sprinkle of chia seeds and toasted coconut. Even if you don’t have the coconut cream don’t skip the other toppings. The toasted coconut complements the coconut milk in the smoothies beautifully. 

A FEW IDEAS FOR A BETTER SMOOTHIE 

•Use the thickest coconut milk, the stuff that’s more like coconut cream than coconut milk. You can tell the difference by shaking the cans; the thin stuff will slosh around and the thicker stuff won’t move much or make much sound. Personally I like the stuff from Dollarama because I’ve found it to be consistently thick instead of runny. Also, drain off the coconut water and only use the creamy stuff off the top. If your coconut milk is thickened there should only be a tablespoon or two of water at the bottom to drain out. 

•Add more almond milk for a thinner consistency, but be careful not to add too much. BTT found that adding too much more almond milk made it too runny. 

•more coconut milk/cream will make it creamier 

•a dash of maple syrup could be  added for sweetness, although we didn’t try it. 

•if it’s too thin add more fruit to thicken

•these aren’t the sweet milk-shake -like smoothies of your childhood. They’re actually pretty healthy and not super sweet. Adjust your expectations accordingly. 

Just the Punctuation

Just the Punctuation from a few things I can’t or don’t want to or haven’t gotten around to posting. A couple lists. A sarcastic but loving tirade. A recipe. Some lengthy life stories. And a few more things. 

There are some fun writing tools on the internet. Although this one isn’t specifically useful, I think the end result is beautiful and probably profound. 0040 is not the best time to analyze what this  says about me or my writing. But do I really use that many commas? 

Self-improvement September

Dont lie to me, he tells me. 

And then, Women always say that:

I don’t need anything. 

I wasn’t hungry anyway. 

I’m okay. 

I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. 

You go, I’ll be fine. 

People experience similar things, but rarely, maybe never, are two experiences/emotions identical. Close enough to be relatable, absolutely. Identical, I doubt it. So. when my husband plays the women always card I usually get upset at him. This time I looked into his eyes and laughed, because in that moment it felt like he spoke the truth about me, and he spoke it in the kindest way he knew. I knew he was clumsily trying to help me realize something about myself and our relationship. And if it’s a truth about people other than me, women or men, great. If not, it’s still me. 

Tell me if you can relate to me. If you’re Someone who says she’s okay, she’ll manage, when in reality she probably won’t. Someone who sacrifices the things she needs for the people around her, when it’s not healthy for anyone involved. Someone who apologizes for her personality instead of apologizing for the things she can control -her words for example. Someone who pushes away the people who try to listen to her. Someone who says no when someone wants to help.  Someone who hides her weaknesses behind responsibilities and commitments. Someone who refuses to admit to being incapable.

I’m all about being an independent, capable, strong woman, about being unselfish (but you know from my last post how hard that is for me.) and sometimes life doesn’t leave me a lot of choices. But frequently my stubborn independence and strength alienates people close to me, and my unwillingness to admit weakness makes it difficult to be realistic. 

I’m saying it like it is today. 

I was too chicken to post this when I wrote it, but after my post earlier this week I decided I have nothing to lose. September seems to be the time for personal growth essays. Readers, do you have any of your own to share ? 

Maybe in October I’ll switch from self improvement to house improvement stories. Who is interested in reading those ?

No One Talks About the Days

No one talks about the days when you sit on a gravel pile beside your brother in law and try not to cry.* Tears Because. All the things. But Basically because you’re a selfish person and can’t muster up the patience today (and yesterday and the day before that, and beyond) demands. Also Because you’re tired of his passive aggressive attempts to hurt you every time he gets within kicking or shoving distance.  Also because you can’t listen to one more of his continuous inane questions without screaming. Also because there’s one slice of pizza in the fridge that’s calling your name really loudly, but you know that as a semi-loving semi-responsible adult you’ll have to share it with him. At least he kept the swearing for his mother. 

In the moment, I just see behaviours. The agression. The whining. The not listening. The calling his mom a string of expletives. The crying dramatically if he doesn’t get what he wants. The purposely doing things to annoy people. The endless endless endless talking. 

In the moment I don’t think about how his life has been. The first few weeks of school this year  have been hard for him -a favourite teacher quit after the first few days because a not so favourite teacher isn’t cooperating to make his school days happy and successful. Home Life is a little chaotic right now with people working crazy hours on harvesting and meals happening in random locations and fields. Further back, he has struggled for most of his life with illnesses, seizures, and physical handicaps. Further back yet, before he was belonged to this family, he was a tragically neglected baby who was never removed from his car seat for the first months of his life and had minimal human interaction before coming to live with our family.  

Life with a child with handicaps is difficult. He’s not my child, but he’s spent a lot of time at our house lately. (Remind me again -why did we move so close to The Parents?) He can be precious, adorable, loving, even helpful. These qualities have been scarce recently. When he was in bed tonight, the last battle of the day over, I was finally able to get some perspective -to think about the tragedies of his life and how they have impacted him, to remember that he does not have to tools to communicate his feelings, emotions, or even physical pains through words. “Every behaviour is a message,” says my mil after he’s finally asleep. His behaviours are so much easier to process when he’s sleeping. 

An admonition. Treat people with handicaps with respect. Treat their caregivers with respect. You may not be someone who knows what it’s like, and that’s okay. A former student who is growing up fast told me some wise words today about how to treat “our” child, and this applies universally. “Treat him like you treat everyone else,” she said, “kindly.”

*i realize this specific situation is not a universal problem. however, selfishness and reacting badly in difficult situations are. if anyone has suggestions for ways to be a better adult in these situations I would love to hear them. 

A Word on Subscibring, and How Mennonite Weddings are Just Big Memory Games

First of all, thanks, Cuz, for the post last week. I was as excited to post it as you all were to read! It gave my blog some new perspective and meaning on life and living with a chronic disease. Some readers have expressed interested in hearing Mom Life perspectives so this post certainly qualified in that category as well.  

Life Update 

We moved. Finally. We’ve been in our house for over two weeks now, and have had (night) company for a lot of that time. Although it’s easy to focus on all the work we have ahead of us, we are so relieved to be out of town in the wide open space of our acreage. This week we’ve worked on chopping holes in the interior of the house, putting windows in the basement and finding creative ways to keep the cat outside every night. Re the Cat: he’s won every night so far. We kind of spoiled him when the little girls were here by letting him sleep with them. I know. I know. But have you ever seen anything cuter than a little girl snuggled up to a big Worange cat ?  

I have our old house listed on AirBnb, and we just finished successfully hosting our fantastic first guest (fantastic because he left a good review). He stayed for nearly a week. I couldn’t believe my luck; I never imagined there were actually people looking for short term rentals in our sleepy village !  I’m also convinced it’s only beginner’s luck; I probably won’t get any more bookings, but it was a good beginning. 

My Mums and two little sisters came to spend time with me (us).  They stayed for a whole week, which is about 6 days longer than they usually stay.  The little girls had a happy time going to Bible school, and Mums worked hard helping me with all sorts of things. We ate better when she was here than we have all summer; she even left delicious foods and ingredients  in our fridge /freezer when she went home. 

Memory Games 

I sat beside a sil at a wedding reception the other day and tried to figure out who people were. Who’s that teenager. Whose kid is that. Who is that girl’s husband. Is this one a friend to that one.  Is that guy in love with that girl. Almost every person is part of a set -a family, a friendship, a marriage, a youth group. Many people belong to several sets. A friendship and youth group. A family and a congregation. I spend my time matching people up and asking other people for hints when I can’t figure out who belongs with whom. Unlike in a real Memory Game, people are usually happy to give hints about the matched sets they know about and also ask questions of their own. Usually there’s one or two people who aren’t part of any set at all, and those ones are the most confusing. Sadly, my memory is lacking. I may have inherited some form of face blindness. If Mennonite weddings were actually a massive game of Memory, I’d lose big time.  

Subscribing. 

I still haven’t figured out a new notification system for my blog. The data service at our new house is less than stellar and our wifi hasn’t been set up yet, so anything more than basic messaging blogging internet use (ie. situations where I have to load a lot of different pages/ articles) is difficult right now. For now, if anyone is interested in subscribing I’ll use an old fashioned, unautomated method. If you want alerts on new posts, send me your email address or WhatsApp number and I will add you to a broadcast. Once you’re part of the broadcast you’ll get a message every time another post goes up on my blog. To be qualified for updates send your contact info to my mobile number or through my email address peacelovefords@gmail.com. 

My Life With an Autoimmune Disease and Becoming a Wife and Mama ☆guest post☆

Today, a guest post from my friend who is also my cousin.

My Life With an Autoimmune Disease and Becoming a Wife and Mama

☆guest post☆

I was diagnosed with JRA,(Juvenile Rheumatoid Arthritis), when I was one year old. I have never known life without it. I learned to walk approximately a month before I turned 2. It was a miracle and I am very grateful to God that I'm not in a wheelchair. My parents could tell you more about the early days, months, and years of this than I can. I'll try and give you a little glimpse of how my life has been. 

RA has definitely made my life painful and not always very easy. I haven't been able to do everything my friends were doing such as running fast or playing well at games and sports in school. Some sports I didn't participate in at all. (I went to our private church school for 9 years.) I also have suffered from side effects of medications at times. After I had graduated from grade 9 I was able to do some babysitting. When I was 16 and a half I started working part-time babysitting a darling baby boy. That job became more full time and I was there when another darling baby boy joined the family and I stayed with them till the oldest was 6 and the youngest was 3. Then I headed off an hour from home to teach school in another of our private church schools. I stayed there for 2 school terms, had a few months off and headed off to Edmonton to volunteer for 6 months. Then I came home and taught in another of our church schools closer to home for one school term. When that school term was over I guess I figured that with me having arthritis and all and I was 26.5, I wasn't going to get married, so I accepted this fact. Soon after that acceptance, I received a proposal from my fellow teacher. I said yes. During these different stages of life I suffered from various arthritis flare ups, pain, side effects from meds, etc. During our engagement I changed my arthritis meds because the one I was on was making me feel nauseated and sick a lot of the time. This new med didn't make me feel this way thankfully. We got married and enjoyed young couple life. Of course there are adjustments to a new life. And my health was not the best. I didn't have a lot of energy and I couldn't garden because kneeling is pretty painful for my knees. I know my yard wasn't beautiful and it hurt sometimes to know that and wonder what others were thinking. I compared to other young married women and I didn't do a lot of things that they did. I've had to realize and remind myself many times that people will not always understand and I shouldn't compare either. It hurts sometimes but a person has to get over that. And not only that! I need to remind myself many times not to judge others either. Arthritis is an invisible disease to a certain extent. I don't know what invisible things others are dealing with. I hope and pray I can be understanding. I also want to say that my life wasn't all discouraging and filled with pain. I've had many happy times and blessings too. Now I'll write a little on getting myself to motherhood. 

First of all I asked my rheumatologist what the chances were of me having a child with RA. I don't remember numbers, but he told me that the chance of me having a child with RA is only slightly higher than for someone who doesn't have RA. 

When you are on certain types of meds you can't get pregnant while you are on them. That's how it was for me. This meant going off of my medication, cleansing it from my body and waiting a certain amount of months before trying to get pregnant. During that time my arthritis majorly flared and I could hardly walk. So they put me on a pregnancy-safe med and I didn't get pregnant. Finally I found out that this particular med can mess with your cycles. So I switched meds and it didn't take long after that. My pregnancy was not all easy. Morning sickness, sinus infection, scary arthritis flare, and the pandemic. But I made it to 40 weeks...

MOTHERHOOD 

In summer 2020 our dear little C was born, via emergency c-section. She was born right on my due date. A tiny little thing, but the sweetest little thing. We were in the hospital for a couple of days before we went home. Then my husband was home the rest of the week before going back to work. Because I had c-section I had to have full time help so our families pitched in, especially my mother and my mother in law. Also the church ladies brought meals. About 2 weeks postpartum, I landed up back in the hospital with infection on my incision. Little C and my husband were with me there. Once we were home again I had to have home care come in to do dressing changes. Our moms continued to help us. I feel like the newborn stage was not the most fun for me because of all the extra complications, but I adored our sweet little baby even if it meant getting up a lot at night. Being in a pandemic with unbearable lockdowns, having RA, and having a baby didn't make life very easy. I relied on my mom a lot when my husband was at work. I was depressed at times. BUT there are so many joys in motherhood and I believe that they far outweigh the bad things that happened/happen. Watching a baby develop is so much fun! Learning to eat cereal and baby food from a jar, learning to move around, playing with toys, giggling,  cooing, talking, getting teeth(not all fun), learning to crawl, eating table food, and so much more! Little C is my life. She is now a year old. No, I still don't get everything done. My yard isn't beautiful, I don't always get meals cooked, and our house is often dirty. But my husband is so good about bringing food home or helping cook. (We also have some meals at our parents' places.) My husband helps with other jobs too.

I have to remind myself that the most important thing as a mama is keeping my little one happy. Reading to her, singing to her, feeding her, talking to her. Yes, I have to get laundry and dishes done, but she will play happily a lot of times while I'm busy. Sometimes she likes to come "help" me. I love her so much! She is the joy and happiness in my day. So is my husband! It's fun to make him happy too! When I feel up to it, I enjoy cooking a good meal. 

Some days are easier than others. Some days I feel like I hardly get anything done. Little C maybe had a bad night and so I'm tired and don't get a lot done. Sometimes dishes are stacked up in the sink for a week or more. Sometimes they get done every day. Thankfully I have a dishwasher so a lot of the dishes go in there. 

I feel like I'm jumping around with my thoughts here a little. Another thing about having arthritis and being a mom is that the first how many months of Little C's life she mostly got her baths at my mom's house. I can't kneel on my knees so to kneel on the floor by a bathtub wasn't an option. My mom has a nice big laundry sink where we gave Little C her baths. Now she is big enough she can have baths at home. I had to bathe with her the first while because she was scared of the running water but now she loves baths and I sit on the edge to watch her play and wash her. 

One more thing. I feel so grateful for my husband! In the evenings he generally takes care of Little C while I quickly finish up some work, have a shower, and take a rest in bed reading and just relaxing. I need this so I can keep on being the happy Mama I want to be.

Being a wife and Mama isn't always easy when you have RA. But it is 100% worth it!!!

Pasta Recipe

Unstaged photo of 3-day-old Pasta. This sauce was made with 3ish spoonfuls of tomato sauce and the noodles are gluten-free ones salvaged from some  gourmet Kraft-dinner style packages that super store likes to pawn off on me when I spend a lot of money there. 

Purist Pasta

This recipe is roughly based off one my family has been making for years. The ingredients have been a list in my brain since I was a preteen, and I have been using and adapting it ever since. The current version, the one I’m posting today, is an homage to the fresh garden produce (onions, garlic, herbs, squash, and more) so abundant at this time of year. This is a recipe to take with you as you start wrapping up your summer and edge your way toward fall.

Ingrédients. List I. 

•1-2 newly harvested garlic cloves, peeled and thoroughly smashed (I use a kitchen mallet or knife blade) 

•1 small garden onion diced into tiny pieces (optional) 

•1/2-1 cup butter (No substitutions.) 

•Handful of fresh parsley, basil, or mixture of both, finely chopped 

Directions. Part I. 

In a pot, sauté garlic, and onion in butter over lowish heat for 10-15 minutes or until soft. Stir periodically; do not let the butter or aromatics brown or burn. Add herbs and sauté a minute or two longer. While your veg are sautéing I’d recommend getting that pasta cooking or turning your oven up really high and roasting some wedges of spaghetti squash. If you’re not interested in a meatless meal toss a couple strips of bacon on a hot cast iron pan or whip up a batch of blackened chicken. 

•optional: finely diced sweet pepper, jalapeño, habanero, spinach and/or Swiss chard can be added along with onion and garlic at the beginning of the sautéing stage.  I like these add-ins, but the purist in me loves the original uncomplicated version the most.  

Ingrédients. List II. 

•1/2-1 cup Parmesan (I start with a smaller amount and adjust to taste)
•1 cup of milk or heavy cream. 
•4-6 heaping spoonfuls of sour cream.  If you’re using heavy cream you will need less sour cream.
• salt and pepper 

Directions. Part II. 

1. Add the above ingredients parm, milk/cream, sour cream, s+p to your pot of butter and sautéed veg. 

2. Cook over low/medium heat, stirring frequently until it the sauce is heated through and ingredients are semi-incorporated. It’s hard to get the butter and milk to blend; it doesn’t affect the end result if they’re slightly separated. This sauce can hold up to a 15-20 minute simmer on low low heat if you give it a little stir every once in a while. 

3. Taste your sauce, keeping in mind that once you pour it over the calm canvass of pasta, the flavours won’t be nearly as intense. Adjust ingredients to your liking. Add butter for saltiness, parm for intensity, milk if you don’t have quite enough sauce, sour cream for creaminess. And if you to play up the comfort food aspect , add a dash or two of some kind of tomato sauce (pasta sauce, pizza sauce, sautéed tomatoes, whatever) just enough that your sauce looks pinkish. You’ll know you have the right amount when each bite has a quiet, sweet, tangy, tomatoy undertone. 

4. Pour sauce over cooked pasta of your choice, or serve with roasted spaghetti squash, my favourite way to eat this in fall. 

5. Serving this dish with slivers of crispy bacon and blackened  chicken are great way to erase the vegetarian connotations of this dish, but honestly, if you get the sauce right, you don’t even need the meat. 

6. Finally, garnish with a few sprigs of parsley, and serve.

 

My Life in A Word

I told my mom about our evening. 

Although I hadn’t even included the dramatic details of all the dramatic incidents preluding the dramatic main event, she replied, “That’s dramatic.” 

I told her that word basically fit our whole life. 

She said she couldn’t disagree. 

I frequently wish for less drama. 

Some weeks are more dramatic than others. 

Some days. 

Today isn’t one of them.

 I miss the drama of yesterday.

 Anticlimax is my nemesis.

Hesitant Missionary

You look down on people who don’t do what you do, she said. I love it that there are people in my life who can tell me this stuff. I fully recognized it as truth. I don’t want to be this person. I want each of you to do the things you’re doing, the role you’re called to, without feeling judgement from me. Honestly, I want you to treat me the same way. 

Many days (today, for example) I feel reluctant to participate in the life I’ve been called to, just like the main character in my latest audio book read. Sadly, it’s a novel. I want it to be true. Although reluctant to begin with, Main Character soon has a change of heart and becomes Hesitant Missionary. She gives up her source of income, sells her most expensive possessions, buys a motorcycle 🏍.  Hesitant Missionary devotes her time to driving though the rough parts of town befriending the friendless and then devotes her life and home to supporting women and their children trying to exit drug and prostitution rings. 

Hesitant Missionary made a lot of mistakes. She alienated  friends because they didn’t like the drastic ways she was changing her life to serve others. (Spoiler alert: Like in every good novel, they came around to her way of thinking for a happily ever after ending.) Hesitant Missionary ignored the Holy Spirit sometimes because she thought she had better ideas. She failed some of the people she tried to help but also managed to genuinely help a few. She forgot how to have faith after a woman she was trying to protect dies and a child she was trying to protect is taken into government custody. Hesitant Missionary second guessed herself every other step of the way. These failures sound incredibly true to real life; maybe it’s based on true stories.

Although much less dramatic, there’s so many ways, I recognized myself in this story. I alienate friends and family by my devotion to my kids. I second guess any decision I make. When things go wrong, I forget to have faith. I ignore the Holy Spirit and probably often don’t even notice it enough to ignore it. I disappoint the children and parents I’m supposed to be helping. I sound condescending. My friends helped me realize that it’s a stupid manipulative coping mechanism I use I’m reluctant to do the things I/we feel I/we need to do. I didn’t sign up to be the person I am. Miraculously, I became her anyway, hesitant, but almost willing. Almost willing to do the thing I’m called to do. Always vert willing to project my insecurities on others.

Hesitant Predictions for Tomorrow: 

I’m going to spend the morning trying to get the cooperation of a brother who won’t hear anything I say unless I use the words gloves and swimming.  It’s a foregone conclusion that I will be completely frustrated and energyless and quite possibly resorting to anger by the time I return him to his parents. 

Then I’m going to go to Pelly and spend the rest of the day and evening wondering how to comfort the mom whose teenager OD and nearly died. In all honesty, I’ll be hoping to avoid that conversation altogether, but, like any hesitant missionary, in the end I’ll feel compelled to halfheartedly ask how he’s doing. I’ll inevitably mumble some kind of useless response to her motherly monologue and update on his condition and prognosis. 

At the end of the day I will feel accomplished. I’ll feel happy. I’ll also probably go to sleep wishing I had done something differently. But the Hesitant Missionary taught me something: failure happens. One of my sisters-in-law taught me something else: tomorrow is another day. 

The Ghost of Canada Present

Grief doesn’t always begin as a process that is the result of the death of a Loved One. Sometimes grief begins as a result of a broken heart, and that usually never ends. -Carol Rose GoldenEagle, The Narrows of Fear

One of Brent’s friends recently told Brent a gruesome forgotten story about some local residential schools years ago. It was as horrible and heartbreaking as all the other stories. What made it different to me is that it took place in my community. It makes it personal. Pete is in his 80´s and this story was something  that happened to his father, so it’s safe to guess that it took place almost 100 years ago. The time frame really doesn’t matter. 

The truth really does. I’m not going to go into details here but you can private message me if you want to hear more about this heartbreaking truth. Sometimes my heart feels like it can’t hold more heartbreaking things. Then I start imagining what it must’ve been to be the parents of one of these children who abruptly and silently disappeared from their life forever. Then I decide I don’t know heartbreak.

I spent an hour or two of this Canada Day talking with my husband about our province’s history and its newly discovered mass graves.  That conversation left a haze of melancholy hanging in the stifling air. 

A fist bump from a First Nations stranger who told me I wasn’t racist and that I was pretty cool for a white girl eased my survivor’s guilt a little. The same man told me he and I would each keep loving other people’s children, that that was a way to move forward. 

His words were striking in the face of the renewed grief that Indigenous communities across the country are facing today. This man truly believes that Every child matters. The ones who endured the worst atrocities in the past. The ones who are alive today. Every child matters. 

I know you all have your precious white babies to care for in their perfect little nurseries, but don’t forget to cry tonight over someone else’s babies who weren’t treated as if they were precious and who didn’t have even their most vital needs met. because every child matters.

Gifts, Presents, Cadeaux

Gifts, Ungifts 

I just learned the French word for gift today. Cadeau. plural Cadeaux. This is providential, because it reminded me that yesterday I had written down a list of the gifts I got in the last week. I wrote because I didn’t want to forget any of them. My memory is that bad, not kidding. I tried walking into BP yesterday with one of Brent’s crocs on one foot and one of my flip flops on the other foot. A good memory is not one of my gifts. 

I also had to write these gifts down because it was a difficult week in a lot of ways, and after listing those difficulties, I had to list the gifts for some perspective. I know I should be like modern influencers and share about more of these difficult parts of my life on here, but I can’t for various reasons.  For one thing, My husband doesn’t like it if I write a lot of details about him and about our life online. I have tried to respect that and learn from that and share innocuous things or talk about the parts of my day that don’t involve him much. He’s not the only one who feels that way; one or more other family members are on his side too. I’m not writing this in judgement, because I understand why they feel that way. I’m writing this in the interest of honesty and perspective.

Gifts I got this week

A handmade bracelet from one of my girls. 

The smile on her face every single time she saw it on my wrist all week was amazing. Remembering to tie it on every morning was not so amazing, but that smile helped kick my memory into gear when I was blearily stumbling out the door to go to work at 6:30 every morning. 

The priceless gift of a sour candy from a child. I know it was precious to him; he doesn’t have a lot of candy and he was saving these 3 candies, But his generous soul had to give one to me “because you shared your gum with me yesterday.” I felt a little guilty eating it. I felt so honoured and loved by this selfless gesture. I felt unworthy and unprepared to be a care giver and trusted person to this 10 year old. I felt anxious about breaking the fragile bond we’ve developed. This tiny gift came with huge responsibility. 

A few packages of Bologna from a family who never has much money for extravagant or extra groceries or sometimes even for what I would consider necessary. So often sharing looks the most effortless from people who have the least. (Any one have ideas of ways to make bologna palatable?)

A whole jar of chopped and frozen garlic scapes from one of Pelly’s proficient garlic growers. Their garlic is precious to them and I know they worked hard for this jar of scapes. 

A beautiful pile of fresh brown farm eggs from my auntie. 

C’est L’été

A few words to faithful readers. 

C’est l’été. It’s summer, and the so far it’s the busiest summer of our life. 

We’re working, we’re moving, we’re half building a house. We’re also still trying to meet the demands of our every day commitments and support the people who depend on us. 

As a result, We’re neglecting unimportant things like elaborate cooking and mowing our lawn the minute it looks a little shaggy and blogging. 

If I’m fairly quiet for the next couple months, don’t be surprised  I dream up lengthy pieces in my head, but rarely have the time to get them down in writing. I hope to post more regularly again, but that’s a dream that will wait for a different lifestyle to be fulfilled  

A request 

Because I don’t have time/energy to write and because I feel like I tend to write on the same topics over and over, I’ve been wishing for some different perspectives on this blog.  A few months ago I  tried to get my sister who doesn’t have her own blog to write something for mine, but she has never responded enthusiastically to that  request. I think I also asked my mother, but she didn’t come up with anything either . Although they are unwilling, maybe one of you is willing or inspired to write something to post on my blog or to share something you’ve already written. Private message me or let me know in the comments if you’re inspired. Topic can be self chosen, name can be included or withheld. 

A small announcement to subscribers 

Sometime in July, the email notification system that blogger uses is ending. Supposedly there is an alternative, but I haven’t been successful in figuring it out. Sadly, this is all to say that the email notifications of my blog cluttering up your inbox so irregularly will quit coming in July and will continue to not come until I figure the new system out. 

Au revoir. Have a bel été. 

Just Say No

“He probably just couldn’t say no,” my mom said about my husband today. I’m sure she was right. He can’t say no to a child who needs him or to a caregiver who needs a break. I know she wouldn’t say no either. I know she worries and wants to protect us. I know she herself would do the same in this situation.

“Just say no,” my other mom told me today. Tell them what you can and can’t do. 

I agreed, but inside me I knew. I knew that I wouldn’t have the heart to refuse for a while yet. It’s fairly easy to set boundaries on the weekend from the safety of my home, but when life gets real on Tuesday and 3 children call my name from 5 different directions while I’m trying to walk out the door I won’t be able to look into their eyes and tell them I’m not coming back. I know my mil knows that, too.

It’s exhausting to be a carer. Also, it’s exhausting to care. Some of my friends tell me the same thing. I will paraphrase.

“I need a coping mechanism,” one friend told me in the middle of a long busy week. She’s a very capable person, and like she says, her parents did a good job of preparing her to deal with the things she’s dealing with. Even so, being a carer is overwhelming sometimes, especially when the situation or the people are difficult. She asked me if she could say no. I didn’t tell her that she should say no, because I have a different perspective than she does. From a distance, I see that if she doesn’t do the things, they will fall onto someone else’s shoulders, and maybe those shoulders won’t be as strong as hers. So, even though she has really wanted to on so many days, she hasn’t said no.

Another friend told me she was tired of working with people. “I’ve done it for so many years, and now I’m tired.” She didn’t say she didn’t love her job. She didn’t say she was tired of her job. Caregiving is difficult, emotionally more than physically often. But she still doesn’t say no

“Taking care of a newborn with medical needs is difficult.” These words came from friend who is a new mom. “But BabyBoy makes it so worth it,” she concluded. She’s a mother, she’s responsible for this child. She can’t say “I don’t want to take care of you now,” and walk away. She can’t just say no.

This is from the perspective of women in their 20s. Kids these days assume we’re major adults Cos we old, but some of us know otherwise. From conversations with friends, and my own real time experiences, it appears like we’re still learning how to care and be caregivers. Many of us will make that our life’s work, but  right now, in the learning stage, we  haven’t figured out how to take care of others and ourselves. We sometimes give too much of ourselves away, sometimes too little. Sometimes we feel like we’re caring too much but in reality we’re not caring enough. Sometimes the opposite. Myself,  I often feel both. 

Does being a caregiver get easier as a person ages? Do you learn how to compartmentalize so this work doesn’t take over your whole life ?  Maybe it’s meant to take over our lives. Maybe it’s mostly personality. Some of us probably handle caring better than others. Some of us probably avoid caring when possible.  

The disclaimers come near the end:

To be fair to my mom and mil, I have to say that neither of them say no to children or to caring either. They are just looking out for us like moms do.

I wrote this a few weeks ago, but never managed to pull it all together to form a cohesive post. It still isn’t very cohesive because I haven’t figured out how to blend it all seamlessly, but seamless isn’t what I’m trying to portray here. Real. Raw. That’s life, my life, anyway. I didn’t think I’d post this one every but Today it’s so relevant, once again, that I have to. 

Today I think I can’t do another day of zoom school with hyperactive third graders with fasd who can’t read or write, of feeding the hungry children from empty cupboards, of trying to keep the marijuana-smoking preteen from killing his little siblings, of pouring out every single ounce of love I have into a dark hole of need sometimes only to have it regurgitated and hurled back in my face in the form of anger. 

But I can’t say no. 

I’m not sure what little things that keep you caring and caregiving when you think you honestly can’t do it another minute. For me today it’s Small boy picking a single perfect dandelion for his teacher. The angriest boy who now lets me give him hugs/comfort even when he’s upset, a relatively new development. The weed smoking preteen making a point to talk to me in the mornings and open the door (after first slamming it) to yell  LOVE YOU at me instead of slinking off to school without a word. The little girl who treasures the tiny birthday gift I gave her and who calls me 3 or 7 times every day, even the days that I’ve  been there, because she needs someone. It’s the pure delight of a circle of children when we make a recipe they found on tiktok and it turns out perfectly. 

Inadvertent Faux Pas

Don’t  let Mama see you do that. I startle at the words, momentarily relaxing my busy repetitive scrubbing of the broom across the floor. Confused. 

???

?

Do what ? I finally have to ask, because I’m not figuring it out. It must be something important; these people don’t give orders or tell me I’m doing something wrong often. Just love the kids like they’re yours and do things like you’d do it at your house, is a favourite phrase here. 

That. Distracted for a second with keeping Mir from pulling out her feeding tube, R gestures vaguely toward the table. 

I wait. My mind spins in circles. 

Those shoes, he gets around to telling me. 

You mean on the table ? I’m sorry. I just thought they weren’t dirty-

No. He cuts me off. It’s our superstition. You’ll get bad luck. It doesn’t matter about them being dirty. But You might get bad luck. 

I apologize. Three times. Or five. I’m sorry. I didn’t know. I just know Mir only uses them in her playroom so they aren’t dirty. I didn’t know. And then, because I’m all the way across the room, I’m busy, I leave them there, thinking I’ll grab them when I leave the room in two minutes and go put them away. Thinking the conversation is over. 

We don’t care about that. But you might have bad luck. Him

I laugh it off. I’ve had black cats run in front of me. My clumsiness has broken more than one mirror.  I laugh, because I still think he’s mostly joking. I’m not sure if I’m rambling about luck out loud or in my head. If I was going to have bad luck I probably already have it. 

I keep sweeping. I think about other things. 

R doesn’t forget that quickly. It’s bad luck, he says again. 

And again. 

Its take me a while, but I finally realize he’s not laughing. He’s serious. He believes this. He probably would’ve gotten up and moved them himself by now if he had been able to safely leave Mir’s side. I drop the broom and go move the shoes. He’s happy now, but still can’t resist one more worried comment a few minutes later, I really hope you don’t have bad luck because of this. 

I tell him I will be okay.

All the way home after my shift I’m wondering- Ukrainian superstition brought from the Old Country 2 generations ago? family belief handed down through the ages? personal belief based on experience? Possibly I should’ve asked. Possibly I should have told him there was Someone stronger than mere bad luck.  

Unforgettable

We’re approaching the end of our lockdown here in Saskatchewan, and I’m a little sad. Contrary to popular opinion, I’m not ready for normal life to resume fully. 

I like our Sundays of sitting by the pocket-sized speaker listening to church. But beyond personal enjoyment, these Sundays at home listening to church and not being able to socialize have offered us opportunities and experiences we wouldn’t have had otherwise. 

Take last Sunday for example. The 4 preteen neighbour girls stopped to see us in the morning and ended up hanging out with us all day. The first ones came just as the church service was starting to stream through our speaker, and we could still sit around listening and drawing together.  A little later, two more girls came, and at that point their noise nearly drowned out the pastor’s words. Nearly, but not quite. .

Tal, the oldest of the four at 12 years old, came and huddled over the speaker with me for a couple minutes, listening intently. How you live is how you’re going to die, the pastor intoned. Tal didn’t like that statement and repeated it three or four times before deciding she definitely disagreed, But it must have got her thinking. 

For the next five minutes Tal sat silently. Then she  surprised BTT and me with an insightful question, are you ready for the Lord to return ? We both told her we were and asked her if she was ready for the Lord to return. She said she didn’t know, she said she was worried about it.  She didn’t really know how she’d figure it out. My Mom says she’s ready; you guys are ready. But how do I know if I’m ready for the Lord  to return? she wondered. 

My heart aches for this girl, but I’m a little speechless. How do I explain Jesus to a twelve year old who has only once or twice set foot in a church and has learned everything she knows about God from movies and her off and on drug-addicted mother ? She knows a lot facts about Jesus, the Bible and heaven, (When it rains on earth, it’s the angels or God peeing, don’t you know?) but so many of the things she believes, I have a hard time reconciling with the real life Jesus I know. 

Finally, I find something to say. If you’re worried or confused about if you’re ready for the Lord to return, you can talk to Him. In fact, you can tell Jesus whatever you think and feel, anytime you want to. He’s always around to hear you. I don’t come up with those kinds of words. I mean, there’s a reason I’m at home in Saskatchewan and my sister is the one off in distant lands being the Missionary. Not my words. But I said them, never realizing the immediate effect they would have. 

What happened next was the best. With her typical half smile and a simple, Okay! Tal immediately folded herself into a reverent pose, clasped her hands under her chin and prayed. Miraculously, the other noisy girls noticed her praying and shushed each other to give her some semi-silence for her conversation with Jesus. Tal prayed silently, so I have no idea what she said. I also prayed silently and I have no idea what I said either. The pastor was still droning, unheeded, in the background, and the other little girls and BTT were hissing at each other to shshshsh! Tal’s praying! And then she looked up and smiled and said she felt better now. 

and that was that. 

Truly, though simple, this is a raw story, full of energy and emotion. It's the story of a deep-thinking child, often confused by the things she sees happening around her. I don’t know the future. I only know today. Tal is young, she’s hopeful, and she’s very spiritual. Jesus is and means and expects something different for every single child of His, so I’m trying to squash my tendency to think He’s limited to the way I know Him and the things He asks of me. Now Tal is worried that she might not go to heaven if she doesn’t spread the gospel like the Bible says to. I told her Jesus would tell her how she needed to spread the gospel, and if she’s not sure  her she can talk to Him about that too.  She said she’d do that. She might be growing as a Christian faster than I am. Tal is obsessed with the original 12 disciples of Jesus and likes to try to list them by name. And now that she had this conversation with Jesus, Tal says she’s a disciple of Jesus, too. I have no doubt she is. 

Selfishly, I also got some things out of that day. I got faith. I got to witness  another of the weird incredible ways Jesus works. And I got a story to tell. It’s not my story, it’s God’s story. It’s the oldest story, but for me it’s the first time I’ve witnessed it in action like this. And I. feel. unready. unworthy. and unable to forget it or stop telling it. 

Let Them Eat Whole Canned Mushrooms

 I have a tin of whole mushrooms in the my mini pantry. 

Also, I have a bit of a hoarding problem.

I’m not exactly sure what I had in mind when I bought a couple cheap cans of mushrooms a few months ago, because I generally don’t buy cans of anything, but it probably had something to do with the idea of an emergency rainy day mushroom soup or similar. 

My little neighbour Lex loves canned mushrooms.  Although I can’t personally understand their appeal, she’ll happily eat a whole tin of them at one sitting and then dreamily wish there was more. Since I bought these cans she’s eaten all of them except for the one last can I had hidden on the top of my fridge, hoping she wouldn’t think to look there. She never did find it, although she was suspicious I had one somewhere and tried half heartedly to find it.  Eventually I got tired of seeing that speck of yellow wrapper on the top of my fridge and moved it back to its real home in the pantry. Guess who discovered it there on her next hungry tour of my cupboards and fridge. Of course she did. And of course she asked if she could eat it. I. Said. No. Next time she came over she asked again, and, again, I told her I wanted to keep it. Sometimes she’ll just open the cupboard to look at that being yellow can with a hungry glimmer in her eyes and I’ll hard heartedly pretend not to see her. I think she’s stopped asking if she can eat it. 

Today I opened my pantry and saw that can of mushrooms and wondered, Why. Do I even care. Is a dollar twenty five worth of disgusting canned mushrooms going to do me half the good it will do her ? Or will it give me a fraction of the joy it will give her ? Never. Will my proverbial rainy day come before this tin has been bumped and bent and sat in my cupboard forgotten for 3 years ? Probably not. And by that time Lex won’t want it anymore either. Lex isn’t here today, so I shut my pantry, left the mushrooms in there, and kept thinking off and on about the absurdity of hoarding a stupid can of mushrooms. 

But now, as I wrote this, I had a brilliant idea. Lex just turned 9 years old, and I have a little gift for her sitting on my counter. As soon as I’m finished posting this I am going to go to my pantry, pull out that can of mushrooms, and add them to her gift bag. And to be honest, I think that will be her favourite part of her gift. 

More Stories From Our Town

A friend came through town on business a couple weekends ago and we exchanged stories. We hadn’t seen each other for over 6 months. There were lots of stories. One random and slightly unnerving story even happened while he was here. A woman from our town who is involved in using and selling certain things that are not legal, tried to break into our house, not being able to process the fact that the door was locked and would not open. Then,  a couple minutes later, she half attacked this friend in the dark street. If you’ve read former posts or visited our town, you may not be surprised by this drama.

BTT and I sometimes get immune to the drama of our town. Until we get into story telling mode. Or until dramatic things happen when other people are around to witness them with us. Or until their children show up on our doorstep without proper clothing and start talking about what’s happening to them. Or disappear entirely for weeks on end. The children, always the children, the loved-but-forgotten, neglected, self-sufficient, children. It’s always about the children with us. But I vowed (to myself) I wouldn’t focus on them today.

People die and come back to life in our town. Maybe this doesn’t happen often, but it has happened at least twice in the last year or half year. I don’t know a lot about drug use, but this town had taught me most of what I do know. Sometimes someone accidentally overdoses, and when they do, someone else is there to administer the antidote and count the minutes until they start breathing again, and, depending on their fear level, call 911. Those adverts I’ve been seeing that read, “don’t use opioids alone!” are there for a reason.  

BTT was called by the RCMP to the aftermath of one of these happenings a couple weeks ago, minutes after the ambulance had left the scene. He listened to a woman who had watched her friend die, then come back to life. Although she is a user herself, this happening really shook her up and she cried as she told the story. She takes this risk frequently to quell her demons and satisfy her addiction. But it scares her  .

I haven’t been able to see drug use from this angle before.  In my mind Ive know exactly what kind of person this woman is: the kind whose addictions are more important to her than her children, who are no longer in her custody. Hearing this from her, made me realize it may not be that simple. For her, these addictions aren't only a hallucinative break from reality. They scare her with their tight hold and uncertain power.  They are a power, an evil one, stronger than she is. She may have once chosen them, but now they choose her and she is powerless to resist. 

I am almost ashamed to say that I can’t fathom my life so desperate that risking killing myself daily was my best attempt at happiness.  Ashamed, because who am I to be happy.  So many people the world over are so desperately unhappy. So many people are squandering their Easter weekends in the euphoria of opioids or the soothing company of alcohol. As a result, so many marriages are ending violently as mine thrives; so many children are being neglected or abused in the houses of my town and every other town across the globe, so many families and communities are being ripped apart by the sinister power of drugs and alcohol. 

One friend who works on the local ambulance told us that drug overdoses, alcohol abuse and domestic violence has skyrocketed in surrounding  communities in the past couple months, presumably due to continuous social and physical isolations. I don’t have much to add on this other than to implore you: if you’re feeling isolated and depressed please find a trusted person to help you, or begin new healthy habits and hobbies instead of cultivating  brand new drug and alcohol addictions. And if you do find yourself locked in a routine of drug and alcohol abuse, don’t use opioids alone. And, please, find someone you love to take care of your kids before the government has to do that for you. 

Parachuting into Another Community

Sacrifices

I got a life (a job) so I quit blogging. Full disclaimer: I’ve had a part time job in a town nearby for a few months, but it hasn’t interfered with my blogging. Only recently, however, I got asked to work full time with another family for a few weeks in another town almost 100 kilometres away from my home, and that’s cramped my (blogging) style and perhaps affected other areas of my life as well. My floors are dirty. I’ve cooked only halfheartedly and we’ve been eating a lot of repetitious leftovers (and even serving them to company. I know my mother and mil are probably horrified.) And our yard really needs a spring cleanup.  On the other hand, some things haven’t changed: My neighbour girls still spend hours here, for one thing, and, as I told one friend, I don’t think I’ve cooked for just BTT and I for month: it seems like there’s always someone here: brothers, more brothers, sisters!, parents!, the neighbour girlies a few evenings a week, a nephew....... 

Payback 

So I’ve established that there have been sacrifices or compromises with my lifestyle. But the payback has been worth the sacrifice, and I don’t mean in actual money. I have become a small part of helping to keep children with the family they already know instead of going into different foster homes or group homes. I’ve witnessed firsthand the devastating effects that being shuffled from foster home to foster home or group home to group home has on children. Although I had no idea what my job as a support worker would entail or where it would take me when I first started it, it’s giving me a chance to do something that, while not glamorous, is allowing me to be part of a process I care deeply about: keeping children with the families, biological, adoptive, or foster, who have loved, cared for and bonded with these children. And there’s another reward. In my most recent assignment I have been able to get to know some brother-in-law  A’s bio family, which is such an honour and a delight. I’ve seen the sparkle in his eyes in the eyes of his little brother and witnessed some of his personality traits coming out in siblings, aunties, and cousins.  It’s just so cool. 

Skydiving, Differences and Similarities 

I parachuted, figuratively, of course, into a community with completely different values and lifestyle than my community. Or so I thought. Others thoughts so too. One woman even said those exact words, point blank, to my face. I had a hard time taking that as a compliment at first because in my heart I just want to be seen as the same as every other Canadian. The whole job, distance to work, crowd of new faces, suddenly being part of a different family and community and trying to learn their lifestyle and routines etc. was a little intimating and intense at first, thus the skydiving metaphor.

I think I’ve gotten over that, and my time spent in this city community has reinforced something I should’ve, or maybe did, already know: most people aren’t so different than me. Their lifestyle choices might be different from mine. Their clothes definitely won’t look like my clothes. Except for our lawyer the other day, who was wearing a black headscarf. Matching ! Their family might have vastly different careers than my family (ballet vs yard care.) There’s lots of differences when you’re looking for differences.

Despite the differences, many people hold similar core values to mine.  Parents and guardians are mostly just trying to raise happy, healthy children. Many have different methods of teaching and loving their children than I idealize, but those methods can also yield happiness and security, and even though their ways of showing it aren’t my ways, parents from every walk of life love their children deeply. School teachers in public schools also love their students as much as I, as a teacher in an independent school, loved mine, and they are going the second mile and sometimes even the third, fourth, and fifth mile to make sure their students succeed. Some of them feel the same guilt I often felt as a teacher when they fail a student in need or miss a day of teaching and witness the fallout in their students as a result of their absence. There are others communities besides mine where grandparents, friends, and community members rally around each other in support in times of need.  There are homes in other communities whose doors are open to anyone who needs a place to go. These families make me aware of how selfish I am even when I’m feeling generous. (The school teacher in me thinks I should take out that last sentence because it’s veering slightly off-topic. I just came up with a solution: I’ll create another paragraph.)

And then there’s the things I can learn from this community. These families make me aware of how selfish I am even when I’m feeling generous. No one has made me feel unwelcome because I am just another government employee or because I wear a dress and a head covering. People treated me with respect and have been very friendly, which is not something I can say with certainty I would do if the tables were turned. This community seems to celebrate a laidback sense of time, where the priorities are politeness, taking time to talk to people and dealing with things as they happen, all of which aren’t natural for me due to my stoic German Mennonite ancestry.

And then there’s the children. There’s always the children. I didn’t even begin on them. That might be a story for another day. Or maybe I’ll post a recipe for steak with green enchilada sauce like my mom suggested.