Multiplying Decimals and Other Things I’m Bad At

Multiplying decimals is harder for me than for 11 today. I end up with the correct number, but keep inserting the decimal point at the wrong spot. How ? I do know this stuff, in fact I just finished explaining it to 11 a couple minutes ago, like I did to many other 11s in a few years of teaching grade 5. While I mindlessly make mistakes, 11 gets the dot in the correct spot. He may have multiplied 9x7 and got 54, but at least he’s got the decimal concept. Unlike me. 

11 loves it when I’m wrong. He gloats over it, counts the ones he got wrong against the ones I did. He remembers and catalogs my mistakes as easily as he forgets his own. 

A lot of kids like it when I make mistakes, actually. Helping 11 with his stack of homework today makes me remember my first group of school kids, who took as much delight in correcting my occasional  spelling/grammar  mistakes as I did in catching theirs. The first time it happened, I was kind of defensive. I was supposed to be the teacher. As time went on I learned to see the fun in it, and eventually I even started to admire the crazy proofreading and literary skills of my 6th graders. But to this day I still haven’t forgotten one girl’s accusation at the end of a grammar lesson on the past tense of see. “You say ‘I seen a moose.’ just like the rest of us.” I had just finished cruelly attributing this exact phrase (a personal pet peeve) to local dialect. I was in denial about my grammar at that point, but have since tried to Listen to myself speak occasionally. Spoiler alert: she was right.

Another class, most of them driven athletes, liked to call my raises and off side mistakes in hockey. It didn’t happen  a lot, but when it did I felt the way they must’ve felt when I yelled “take 100” at them across the ice when they forcefully lifted a little kid’s stick -Defensive and a little angry. In the school dynamic, the line between respectfully correcting a teacher and outright insolence can be a fine one, and it becomes even  thinner outside on the ice. I’m not saying my kids crossed that line; it was the rare time when any of my students were outright disrespectful ever, maybe even never. But when it was me with 10 ruffians on hockey skates engaged in an intense and incredible game of hockey, my guard came up immediately at any hint of defiance. Again, I know these kids were right. I was so busy making sure everyone else kept the puck below head level and yelling at the uber confident kids to “PAAAAASSSSSSS!” and keeping the slacker from playing in a snowbank that most of the time I forgot to watch my own stick. I’m sure I made a lot more mistakes than they ever dared point out to me. 

There’s another group of kids that loves to comment on my clumsiness and tell me how much less clumsy everyone else they know is. Kids being who they are, this is never done is a cruel way. It’s a guileless statement of facts and nothing more. Every time I pour Lexus a glass of water she nags me good naturedly about the 3 drops that inevitably fall beside her cup. She even told a random lady we chatted with the other day about how clumsy I am. And, just like my former students and their grammar corrections and sports advice, this girl is not wrong. 

All this is to say that I make a lot of mistakes in life and, weirdly, have found this makes adulthood more relatable to the kids in my life. Maybe this is a universal thing, a bridge between all humans, not just between children and adults. I’m still learning and learning and also sometimes failing to learn to admit my mistakes and acknowledge the things I’m bad at, but the kids in my life are doing their level best to make me humble. 

Me vs Sandwich

 Me vs Sandwich: When food and the Bible coincide. 

A phrase from a Bible verse (2Corinthians 3.18. KJV) made me compare myself with a sandwich. It used the words open face, talking about beholding God. That phrase open face really got my attention. It connotes beauty and friendliness and serenity, really  all the good attributes in a person beaming out of their face.  

I think my husband or maybe strangers might know this better than I do. Whether I’m like my favourite sandwich. 

Open faced. 

Sandwiches are better this way. So am i. 

Written 2 long years ago in 2020 when people still walked around with their faces showing. 

Domestic Dream

 

I’m living the domestic dream. 

Of a good Holdeman woman.

All except for the milk cow. I still don’t have that. Sad face. 

This Domestic Dream hasn’t always been my dream, and I have long fought the stereotypes that accompany it. Nevertheless, here I am, and I’m actually quite happy here. The part I’ve long feared about embracing wife life/ stay at home mom life/ good Holdeman woman life is that it seems like an irreversible decision. Nevertheless, here I am, and I am happy to be here! 

Here’s how the domestic dream is playing out for me:

The puppy is perfect. Yes, she peed on the floor at first, but her adoring puppy dog eyes made it all okay. She’s better company than our current cat Ladder Kitty (rip, Worangey😢): more cuddly, less hairy and much more down to earth. No, Rebel is not a house dog, but she thinks she should be on these really cold days and on the nights when a coyote pack  decides to feast on her deer. Her adorable husky face is picture perfect sitting straight up and perfectly still in the front seat of the tow truck beside Brent or me. She’s a perfect silent companion for me on my quiet house days and long bitterly cold walks. She’s never happy/ relaxed in the mornings until she’s said a very lively good morning to both Brent and me. I have to remind myself sometimes that I actually don’t even like dogs. 

We have long term house renovation projects. Is there anything more Holdeman Woman in Rural Saskatchewan than that ? Progress is slowing the further into winter and pregnancy we get. We are both trying to be patient and optimistic, and having moderate success with both. In fact, I think our families are more depressed by our construction (also destruction) projects than we are, but as winter wears off in the next couple months, we hope to pick up where we left off when the snow started flying.   

Long leisurely walks with my dog and my bébé (and once, on the day after Christmas, with my husband!) in the sparkling winter sunlight, or more often the winter twilight and sometimes even under a full moon, are a part of my daily life. On the coldest windiest days we don’t wander much past the sheltering rows of trees, but, when the weather cooperates, we sometimes walk miles across the lonely prairie. 

Parts runs for the mechanic version of my husband (not to be confused with Version Tow Truck Operator) happen so often that I recognize the front desk employees in Napa, Olsen Diesel, Canora Automotive, etc. Consequently, I also know which ones I want to avoid when I walk into each place. Possibly they all despair when they see me coming, but I have unwittingly become much more well versed in the lingo of injector cores and thermostats and spark plugs, etc, so I think I am an easier customer than I used to be. 

I talk on the phone a lot and give a lot of receptionists and health care workers my health card number and date of birth. Why did nobody warn me that being pregnant would mean a lot of phone calls with strangers ? 

This week I help cook hot lunch for the school children. This will be our first time ever doing this. For so many years we were on the receiving end of this deliciousness; being the one doing the cooking and serving makes me feel like a real life good Holdeman adult woman. Maybe someday the feeling will be reality.

After moving to the next town over and then spending Christmas holidays with their dad a few hours away, our neighbor girls have started coming over again. Lexis spent her hard earned money to buy us a Christmas gift, and I feel so honoured, especially because I could tell she put some thought and debate into what to get us. She bought Brent some gummy worms and me a Christmasy green mason jar with starry string lights inside. She wanted to come to church with us last night so I quickly altered one of my skirts for her to wear; she doesn’t wear dresses normally, but it’s very very important to her that she wears a dress or a skirt when she comes to church. The service was too long for her and she basically fell asleep near the end, but she was adamant that she was happy she came. All the girls are super excited about our bébé and feel like it’s partly their baby, which is fun for us to see. They are convinced it will be a girl so we can all have lots of girl parties; BTT likes to argue with them and say he’s sure bébé will be a boy. Lexis went around yesterday telling all the Ladies at Church that she wants a girl and Brent wants a boy, Which made me giggle to myself. It should give the Ladies at Church a day small nugget of gossip, anyway. haha 

Byeee. I gots to get back to my domestic dream and clean my floors and cook supper so we can go back to church for more reviving.