Santa's Panties

A Guest Post by: Grant Tolley

In recent months I have taken to walking during my lunch hour.
Walking is my favourite form of just plain old exercise. A holdover, I guess, from my Boy Scout days when I always enjoyed hiking in the mountains and following a long trail through the forests and the trees.
But I digress already . . .
My noon-hour constitutionals take me most days to a shopping plaza that is about 2 ½ kilometres away from my office.
When I get to the plaza, I often visit the bank there.
I usually have to put some money in so that they can keep operating.
Ahem!
When I am not paying penance to the bankers, I sometimes wander through one or more of the commercial establishments.
Now I should say that I am not much of a shopper-for-the-sake-of-shopping. But in recent years – since the marriages of my children and the arrival of an increasing gaggle of grand-kids – I have taken to just wandering through stores, casually watching for a bargain on something that one or the other of them would like or could put to good use.
So I buy it, and salt it away in my joint-occupancy-with-my-Beloved closet, which holds most everything except what a closet is normally supposed to hold.
So the other day, I had found a small item or two, which I had cradled in my arms (having being either too short-sighted or just plain stupid enough not to have picked up a shopping basket) – and I headed to the cash register.
Now you must understand that this was the first really cold day of our winter, so I had on my bulky winter jacket, accompanied by dis-en-handed gloves which I held in one hand, holding the several items I needed to pay for, and then trying to fish my wallet out of a pants pocket that just happened to be underneath all of the above, and encumbered further by a set of keys and a blackberry, all not-so-neatly crammed into the same pocket.
I don’t have a clue who the idiot was who put all that stuff in there.
Needless to say, standing at the cash register, I was delayed somewhat on my wallet-fishing expedition, which held up the line of people behind me.
One of my own pet peeves! People who wait in line for 20 minutes to pay for their purchases, then wait until the cashier says “Twenty-eight dollars and two cents, please”, before they even start looking for their wallet or opening their purse.
And then inevitably not finding it.
Especially in a purse – in my Beloved’s purse, her cheque-book usually ends up hiding right underneath the kitchen sink.
But I digress again . . . .
I am sometimes annoyed by those persons – and now I find that I are one!
Begorrah!
A woman behind me starts talking.
To me.
I keep fishing, more hurriedly, figuring that she is like me, and I am annoying her by delaying the line. I drop my gloves.
I stoop to pick them up – and drop one of my purchases out of my arms.
The woman laughs.
Laughs!
At me!
And keeps talking.
I’m not hearing much of what she says, because my eyes are on the floor – not literally, but almost -- and my ears can’t seem to work at the same time that my eyes do under duress.
I toss my gloves onto the counter, stoop to pick up the dropped item – oops, make that now “items” -- which I quickly scoop up and throw onto the counter.
Whereupon one skids to the other side of the counter and falls, again, at the feet of the cashier.
“I’m sorry,” I say generally, hoping to include both the cashier and chattering Mom-like lady behind me.
And then I notice: Chattering Mom-Lady is smiling -- and still laughing!
And then, with my eyes back in their sockets, I stop to listen.
Amidst chuckles, Mom-Lady is saying to me, “Don’t you just hate it when that happens! Every time I get into a rush, that happens! Why it happened to me just the other day, and I bent over to pick up the new underwear . . . . “
My mind starts racing . . . . Is this going to be one of those way-too-much-information-from-a-total-stranger type of stories?
“. . . and when I finally bent my back upright again – that floor is a looong ways down there, these days . . . ." – she points to her rumpled grey hair doing its best to escape from underneath a too-small-for-so-much-hair, Canadian-flag touque -- “I turned to the guy behind me and tried to give him the panties that I had just picked up off the floor, and I told him, 'You dropped your boxers, Sonny!' And he just about fell over laughing!”
I smile, as a jolly guffaw that reminds me of one of Santa Claus’ rolling belly-laughs rises up through Mom-Lady and shines out through her face.
“Sorry to keep you waiting,” I mutter in an attempt at an apology.
“Oh my heavens!” says Mom-Lady, to me and the world in general. “I'm not in any hurry, Son! You just take your time.”
Fifty-nine years old, and she calls me “son”.
“Thanks,” I mutter again. “You’re very patient.”
By this time I have successfully completed my fishing expedition, the cashier has completed the transaction, and I am attempting to put on my gloves and retrieve all my shopping bags. There is one left on the cashier’s counter that I don’t quite know how I'm going to retrieve.
“Can I help you there?” Mom-Lady queries.
Having only two fingers left on which a shopping bag could be hung, I turn to Mom-Lady and, pointing with my last two fingers at the last bag on the counter, say to her, “Would you mind handing me my panties there?”
Mom-Lady guffaws, long and loud. I'm afraid we might have to call 9-1-1.
The cashier is laughing. As are two or three people in the line-up behind us.
Between rumbles of laughter, Mom-Lady hooks the last bag on my last two fingers, and says: “You have a great Christmas, son.”
Son. She called me “son”, and she couldn’t have been more than 5 years older than me. My hair was just as grey as hers. And even more rumpled.
“And you too, Mom” I reply through my smile.
As I think about Mom-Lady on my walk back to my office – arms loaded with shopping bags, for 2 ½ kilometres – I think, what a genuine human being! What a wonderful person!
Where so many others might have been consumed by Queue Rage – or Road Rage – or Airplane Rage, or so many other of the non-existent syndromes that we have invented as an excuse to be rude and impolite and impatient and unkind – how very nice it is to encounter whom and what I regard as a genuine, true, Gentle-Woman.
Might Santa Claus bring us many more – this year and every year.

10 Tricks to Surviving the Family

Grandma’s House Rules

by Grandpa

The holiday season is fast approaching. A time of family get-togethers and, hopefully, fun family times.

Hopefully.

We'll start with a . . . 

Disclaimer

Parents are responsible for their own children while at Grandma’s house. Grandpa and Grandma used to be responsible – but they’re not anymore.

Toys

1.  All toy trucks with sirens are forbidden – alarmed neighbours keep running out to see if Grandpa has run over their cat.

2.  All musical toys are also forbidden. The national anthem of the Tolley house is not “Turkey in the Straw.”

3.  “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” is not on the list either.

Food

4.  All treats for grandchildren are under Grandpa’s control. He’ll share with you as soon as the release him from the psyche ward, which will be when he stops humming “Turkey in the Straw.”

5.  Food prepared at Grandma’s house is made with TLC. Despite what Grandpa puts in it.

6.  At Grandma’s house the “best before” date on her food expires in two hours. Food ingested but not swallowed before this time will not be recycled.

Diapers

7.  Soiled diapers cause leprosy. All carriers shall be banished immediately to the leper colony at the end of the hallway.

8.  All soiled diapers shall immediately be wrapped securely in a plastic bag and placed on the front porch for eventual transport to the garbage can. Most grandchildren should be removed from the diaper first.

9.  Reusable cloth diapers soiled for longer than one day before washing shall be sold as fuel to the nearest nuclear power plant or placed in a rocket and shot into the sun.

10.  No pooping under the dining room table, even if you are wearing a diaper. This means you, too, Grandpa.

You can thank us after the holidays.

Half-Baked Christmas

Husby and me

The very early days of marriage, of most marriages in fact, are days of exploration and discovery.

Of the combination of ideas and ideals. 

Of the solidifying of the ties binding the couple together.
So it was in our house. The happiness that goes with simply being together. 

Peace. 

Love.

 Joy. 

One imagines that it will last forever. And it does. 

Until . . . The First Conflict.

I use this term lightly, because it really wasn’t a conflict, but more of a steady pull in two different directions. 

He wanted us to spend Christmas with his family. I wanted to spend it with mine.
I won.
Mostly, I admit because he's nicer than me and I painted a rosier picture than he did. I snared him with magical words like . . . food, fresh baking, treats, candy, chocolate, sugar, sugar, sugar. 

Okay, I exaggerated. 

But my family really did have fun on Christmas Eve. I wasn’t ready, yet, to miss it.
And my Mom was a really good cook.
He gave in. And so, Christmas Eve found us nestled snugly in the bosom of my family, preparing to enjoy. 

Unfortunately, the preparing part went on a little too long.
My eldest sister was home for the holiday and she and Mom, demon bakers both, were lost in their own fragrant world. 

Admittedly a pleasant place to be, albeit rather ‘calorific’. 

The rest of us floated by periodically, sniffing, staring hungrily at the stacks . . . and stacks . . . of pies, cookies, cakes, butterhorns, brownies, fudge, cookies, lemon squares, butter tarts, cookies.
There really were a lot of cookies.
Dinner was forgotten as more and more goodies emerged from the cavernous depths of the great ovens. 

Cries from hungry tummies grew more and more insistent. 

Also, the younger set was getting impatient. It was time for that games of games, anticipated for a whole year. 

The annual Stringam bloodbath. 

The Christmas game of Rummoli.
With real poker chips.
Okay, so it wasn’t a bloodbath. Not even particularly violent. But it was as close to gambling as the Stringam gang ever got. 

And we really did anticipate it feverishly. 

Well . . . some of us looked forward to it with excitement. 

Okay, I really liked it. 

Geeze.
By 10:30 pm, many had given up the thought of getting ‘Christmas Eve’ started. 

Baking was still being pulled from the ovens, dinner still hadn’t materialized and even the faint hope of a Rummoli game had long since vanished. 

Husby looked at me. 

He was too kind to put it into words, but I was getting fairly good at reading him, and his expression said, “For this, we gave up an eight-course meal with my family?” I shrugged my shoulders and tried to laugh.
It was a weak attempt.
He decided to take matters into his own hands. 

He got up and wandered nonchalantly past the stack of baking which completely covered the counter and nearly filled the space between the upper and lower cupboards.
Seriously, we’re talking an area eight feet long and somewhere between 18 and 24 inches deep. Covered. With. Fresh. Baking.
His hand snaked out, nabbing a butter tart. 

Quicker than the eye can blink, it was in his mouth. All of it. 

The heavenly combination of flavours poured through his soul like celestial honey. His knees grew weak. He brought his teeth together to begin chewing this small slice of perfection. 

Mom straightened from pulling yet another pan out of the oven, her face flushed with heat and effort.
He was caught. 

He suspended all chewing movements and tried to look innocent, but Mom could spot sneaky at 1000 paces. 

Certainly she could recognize it standing across the counter.
That counter filled with mouth-watering . . . but I digress.
She set the hot pan on the cupboard, placed both hands on her hips and levelled a glare at him. “Don’t eat that!” she said. “It’s for Christmas!”
He stared at her. 

Then at the mounds of baking that couldn’t possibly be eaten in the next 24 hours. 

In the next 24 days. 

He put up one hand to cover his mouth. And the precious contraband that now had a home there. No way was he removing it from his mouth. All sorts of places in his body would have rebelled if he had tried. “Sorry,” he mumbled, slowly backing away, his hands spread apologetically.

We never did get our Rummoli game.
Or supper.
After that, my husband and I saved Christmas Eve for his family. And Christmas morning for mine. 

It was easier on our relationship.
Oh, and the statement, “Don’t eat that, it’s for Christmas!”
Quoted every time someone pops something into their mouth. 

Year round.

Just FYI.

Mystery Meat Blessings

Mmmmmm . . .

Every family has traditions at Christmas.
Some are fun.
Some funny.
Some weird.
Our family has several that fit into this last category.
One is Christmas stockings.
Okay, yes, I know that many, many families enjoy the custom of stuffing a stocking for each family member.
It's what goes into said stockings that sets our family apart.
Maybe I should explain . . .
On Christmas, after the kids have been shuttled off to bed, Mom and Dad (Spoiler Alert: Alias Santa) bring out the loot.
Erm . . . gifts.
Each stocking is laid out and stuffed full.
I look after the common, everyday, run-of-the-mill gifts:
1.Toothbrushes.
2. Socks.
3. Underwear.
4. The orange in the toe.
My Husby looks after the strange and bizarre:
1. Various styles of catapults.
2. Magnets.
3. Quirky -- ie. strange – books, puzzles and games.
4. Expanding T-shirts. Just add water.
5. And little tins of meat.
I know what you're thinking.
Why on earth would someone give his kids catapults?
You weren't?
My mistake.
Sooo . . . tinned meats.
Every year, each of our children finds a tin of . . . something . . . stuffed into the inner reaches of his or her stocking.
And I'm not talking tuna fish here.
These are tins of something fancifully called: Vienna sausage.
In various flavours.
All neatly and brightly and attractively packaged.
And yes, I realize that there may be people around the world who love Vienna sausage.
My kids were raised on the prairie.
And served beef three meals a day.
With the occasional foray into the world of chicken or pork.
If the animal didn't originally bellow, oink or cluck, they regarded it with deep suspicion.
Or outright revulsion.
Okay, the ingredients listed on the Vienna sausage tins said: beef and/or chicken and/or pork and/or meat.
But it was mechanically de-boned and mixed with . . . other stuff.
So in the words of my kids, mystery meat.
Need I say that my Husby's gifts weren't received with gladness?
Probably not.
Oh, they tried it.
The very first year.
It . . . wasn't popular.
No tin was every willingly opened again.
And when the detritus had been cleared from the front room after the all-important opening of the gifts, the only things remaining were several tins of meat.
Left where they had been dropped upon being discovered.
Husby immediately scooped them up and stowed them carefully away.
Only to bring them out and drop them into another stocking the next year.
One particular tin of sausage re-appeared six years in a row. The last a few years ago. In Argentina (where our youngest son was living at the time).
His roommate ate it.
Something we didn't think was possible.
One of our kids asked their father why he kept putting those little tins of -to them- inedible meat in the stockings.
His answer surprised all of us. “Because I want you to appreciate that we live in a place where we have plenty. That tiny tins of mystery meat can be laughed over and disregarded. We are very blessed.”
We truly are.

Decidedly Different Decorating

Wraith - His usual location

We are a theatrical family.

And by that, I mean that we are deeply involved in theatre.

Not that we are prone to theatrics in the home.

That would just be silly . . .

The Tolleys are known for things like – bursting into song spontaneously.

And everyone knowing the words.

Launching into long quotes at the mention of a single phrase.

Dressing up.

Our family was, quite literally, raised on the stage.

To anyone not so inclined, we're weird.

We do weird things.

We direct/perform in/produce plays.

We host Medieval feasts for no reason.

We dress up on a theme and invite the neighbourhood to come in and eat pie to celebrate . . . whatever.

To our neighbours, we are that family who doesn't do anything normally.

Even our Christmas decorating is a bit . . . I'm going to go with the PC term and call it . . . different.

We don't do lights.

We did, but we've gotten lazy.

Now our Christmas decorating consists of our Halloween decorating, plus a small addition.

I know. Weird.

Wraith at Christmas
And, yes, that's a Humbug hat.
Don't ask . . .

Years ago, for her graduating project, our youngest daughter sculpted a wraith.

You heard correctly.

A wraith.

Nine feet tall and rather spooky looking.

We love it.

It comes out of our back yard every Halloween and is prominently displayed next to the front door.
Where it can scare the cookies out of the little 'trick-or-treaters'.

And where it usually freezes so solidly to the grass that it must remain through Christmas and into the spring thaw.

Sigh.
How do you hide a nine-foot-tall behemoth?
In plain sight.

You can see what I mean.

Yep. Christmas at the Tolleys.

Everyone welcome!

Santa for Sale

It's starting . . .
Today is our first 'Santa' party!

The best time of the year!

Maybe we'll see you at our next party!

With love,

Santa and Mrs.

Weekend Friends

It really only looked scary.

Maybe I should explain . . .

Husby played basketball.

Actually, Husby played basketball well. As did his teammates.

Because of that, they were invited to many different tournaments.

But that has nothing to do with this story.

Okay. He was away. He found a great store that sold neat things.

He bought something.

I guess it has a little bit to do with the story . . .

The something he bought was a snake.

A large snake.

Rubber.

Convincing.

He thought it was cool.

When packing up from their tournament, he stuffed said snake into his backpack and headed for the bus.

The next morning, in a hurry, he dumped the gear from his ‘weekend’ backpack onto his bed to make way for his ‘going-to-school’ backpack.

Something stuck.

His new friend.

He pulled it out and gave it a toss among the other paraphernalia.

Then left.

Some hours later, another day of school behind him, he entered the front door of his family’s home.

And there was his mother.

Now it wasn’t unusual for his mother to greet her sons at the door when they came home.

Usually it was a cheerful exchange of ‘how-was-your-day?’ or ‘anything-exciting-happen?’ followed immediately by ‘I’ve-been-baking-food’s-in-the-kitchen’.

Today was different.

She was sitting in the armchair.

In the semi-darkened living room.

Actually, ‘huddled’ would be a more accurate term.

She was huddled in the armchair.

Husby walked in. “Hi, Mom!”

She turned to look at him. For some seconds, she said nothing.

“Mom?”

“What is that thing on your bed?”

Just FYI. When you bring a friend home from your weekend . . .

Tell your mom.

Spider Sense

Gerry has an intense unnatural horrendous unhealthy paralyzing fear of spiders and all things spider-y.

And members of the same family working in the same place can be a blessing.

These two statements go together . . .

Logan and his mother, Gerry, both worked at the Raymond Mercantile.

She, upstairs: administration.

He, main floor: sales and everything else.

It was a sweet setup.

Most days he would climb the broad, wooden stairway in the center of the store and lunch with his mom in the upper reaches of the store, which, as it so happened, were completely open to the lower reaches, allowing the upper echelons to actually look down upon the lower echelons.

On this particular day, as Logan approached the stairs, he noticed a large bin had been placed as an endcap to the row of shelves nearest the stairway.

Anyone ascending – or especially descending – would get a full view of . . . whatever that bin held.

And that bin held rubber animals.

That would have been okay, except that many of those rubber animals were spidery in shape. And large in size.

He called the manager over. The conversation went something like this . . .

Logan: “Ummm . . . you have to move that bin.”

Manager: “Why?”

Logan: “Because my mom is up those stairs.” Points. “And she won’t be able to make it home because she won’t be able to come down those stairs.” Points again.

Manager (frowning): “What?”

Logan (patiently): “My mom has a paralyzing (see above) fear of spiders. If she sees this bin with the . . . erm . .  . spiders, she won’t be able to walk past it to leave the store.”

Manager: “What? No. Your mom is the most together person I’ve ever met.”

A little aside here. Yes. Gerry is the most together person you will ever meet. She also has a paralyzing fear of spiders. Back to my story . . .

Logan: Picks up a spider. Holds it for Manager to see. Then tosses it backwards over his shoulder into the upper reaches of the store.

Pause here for someone to take a large breath . . .

Gerry: SSSCCCRRREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEECCCCHHHHH!!!!!

Sounds of frantic scrambling and furniture flying.

Logan: “See?”

Yeah. He had her back.

Productive Boredom

Can't you just see the mischief?

Husby is crafty.

And by this, I mean the ‘he likes to make things’ crafty.

Not the ‘crafty’ crafty.

Although with further thought, he qualifies both ways.

Moving on . . .

At times when most young men his age were watching TV or getting into mischief, he was . . . creating . . . stuff.

Some of it useful.

And some . . .

Husby had been busy in the garage and in his bedroom. The periodic sounds of hammering and sawing alternated with the occasional lapse into quieter busy-ness.

Finally, all was silent.

His mother, in the course of her day, went into his room.

He was lying on his bed, reading.

A rope dangled down the wall. She frowned. Surely that hadn’t been there before. “What’s this?” she asked.

Her son looked at her. “Pull it.”

Now you have to remember that this was the mother of a son who would one day rig his car horn to honk only when the ashtray was pulled out (see here).

Among other things.

She was justifiably cautious.

She looked around the room.

Seeing nothing immediately dangerous, she shrugged.

And gave the rope a pull.

On the far side of the room, connected to a complex network of ropes and pulleys, a trap door opened.

Revealing, in large letters, the words: Works, Donit?

His mother frowned and released the rope. The trap door closed.

Grinning, she pulled it again.

With similar results.

Then, shaking her head, she left the room.

Husby smiled happily. Mission accomplished.

Or so he thought.

A short time later, his mom was back.

With one of her friends.

“Go ahead. Pull it!” Husby’s mom said, indicating the rope.

Gingerly, the friend reached out and gave it a pull.

Obligingly, the little trap door opened, again revealing the aforementioned words.

The friend stared. Then started to laugh. She pulled the rope several more times.

Then, “This is amazing!” She looked around. “I could spend all day down here!”

Okay. Now mission accomplished.

Intimidation by Music

Father and son.

My second son is a large man.
Large.
Six foot eight in his stockinged feet. When he puts boots and a hat on, considerably taller.
And he is a body builder.
He works as a cop in our fair city.
Let me put it this way . . .
No one argues with him.
They just nod politely and do as he asks.
His very first day on the job, he and his partner responded to a knife-wielding incident. When he got out of his car, the 'perp' took one look, dropped the knife and spread-eagled himself on the sidewalk.
Size is important.
But the man inside the uniform is a gentle, loving person.
And tons of fun.
Before he began to serve with the police, he spent eight years with the armed forces, reaching the rank of Sergeant.
And he drove a big truck.
These two points are important.
Moving on . . .
One day, he was on his way home from the army base driving the aforementioned (good word) truck. It was a beautiful, warm day, and his windows were opened wide.
His head was shaved and he had his army kit on.
He looked every inch the soldier he was.
He was 'in the zone'. Listening and moving to his favourite music, blaring from two powerful speakers.
I should mention here that his favourite music probably isn't what people expect to hear from a head-shaved, muscular, giant of a man in army fatigues.
And sunglasses.
In a monster truck.
But pouring from the speakers were The Archies.
And they were singing their hit song, "Sugar, Sugar".
He stopped at a stoplight.
Still grooving.
Then he glanced to his left.
A small pickup was sitting beside him.
With three teenage boys in the seat.
All of whom were staring at him.
Up at him.
Their expressions were . . . interesting.
My son grinned at them and nodded. Still bobbing to the rhythm.
The light changed and he drove on.
But the small truck stayed where it was.
I think he frightened them.
Who says you need a weapon to intimidate?
Sometimes all it takes is the right music.

Who Threw Goo?

There is a toddler golden rule:

Silence is golden, except when you have a toddler. Then it’s suspicious.

I have a new one:

If a toddler is giggling, it could go either way . . .

Our family is large.

Because of that, food is always purchased in quantity.

A little aside here . . . Our youngest daughter had moved out on her own for the first time and was grocery shopping with her roommates. She made a momentous discovery. One that she had to phone home to tell her mother about. “Mom! Did you know that peanut butter and Miracle Whip come in little jars? Really! I had to buy them. They were so cute!”

But I digress . . .

True to form, we purchase many things by the restaurant-sized pail.

There is one drawback.

Buying in quantity isn’t always practical when said substance needs to be refrigerated.

Unless one also possesses a restaurant-sized fridge.

Which we don’t.

For that reason, condiments are quite often stored in the garage. In the sun room. Or right outside, depending on the cycle of the Great Canadian Weather at that particular moment.

Our house has another option. When it was built, the contractor neglected to insulate the floor under the back kitchen entrance.

In winter, that floor gets . . . a tad chilly.

Perfect for extra food storage.

And right off the kitchen.

It was in this area that I had placed a bucket (see above) of ranch dressing.

Okay, yes, it was within perfect reach of Grandson #3 (hereinafter known as GS3), but the lid was on.

And let’s face it, even grandma needed help getting that lid off.

I’ve finally gotten to my story . . .

The family was over.

Dinner was done and the older kids had gone downstairs to play.

The adults and those deemed too young for the hijinks of the older crowd were in the front room.

Visiting/crawling about. Maybe I should clarify. The adults were visiting. The babies were crawling about.

GS3 had disappeared into the kitchen.

We weren’t concerned. Everything was buttoneddown/closed/outofreach.

He was there for some minutes.

Then the giggling started.

A giggling toddler is a happy toddler is a good sign. Right?

Ummm . . .

A few minutes later, his mother went in to check on him.

“Uh-oh!”

Mom-speak for, “We’ve just set our levels to def-con one!”

I hurried in.

The walls (and, indeed, every available surface of the back entrance) were heavily spotted in thick, white goo.

GS3 had somehow wrenched the lid off that pail of soppy, white substance. Dunked his little fingers.

Then flung them around.

Numerous times.

Thus, the giggle.

Mom took the toddler for a needed cleaning and Grandma started in on the mess.

I will say this. The coating proclivity of Ranch dressing has never been fully explored. Someone should get a grant and do a study. Preferably a parent . . .

Also: If anyone needs help removing those impossible-to-remove lids, I have a toddler who can help.

Third Time Lucky

After the pancakes.

Our children learn from what they see. 

And hear.
Most of the time, it's a good thing.
Occasionally, it's not. Sometimes, it's just plain fun . . .
My husby, Grant, had our twenty-month-old son, Mark, in the highchair.
Eating pancakes.
Mark's very favourite.
I was across the room, nursing our two-month-old son, Erik.
All was well.
Everyone was happy.
Then Husby decided to take advantage of Mark's utter absorption in forking pieces of pancake into his mouth and make a quick trip to the euphemism (real word – look it up!).
For a few minutes, Mark was happily engaged. Then, the pancakes ran out.
Oh-oh.
“Daddy!”
I looked over at him.
He was waving his little fork in the air.“Daddy!”
No response.
“Daddy!”
Still no response.
Mark changed tactics.
“Da . . . Gwant!”
“Gwant!”
Faint sounds from the euphem . . . okay, the bathroom.
Not enough to satisfy Mark, however.
By the way, how did he even know his father's name?
I always called him . . .
“Ho-ney!”
That.
Now there were definitely sounds emanating (good word) from the bathroom.
Laughter.
“Ho-ney!”
Mark had gotten a reaction. With twenty-month-old persistence, he was going to pursue it.
“Ho-ney!”
More laughter. But definitely getting louder.
“Ho-ney!”
His father emerged, still chuckling.
“What is it, son?”
“Mo' pancake, Ho-ney!”
We had created a monster.

The Cookie Diet

Admit it. You want some . . .

Cookies. The ultimate in snack foods. That perfect balance of sugars, grains, fats, and deliciousness. And the most unique and perfect forum for getting small, semi-disguised chunks of chocolate into your mouth.
Chocolate that you can savour but dismiss as insignificant when tallying your calorie count at day's end.
Or at least I can.
I love cookies. And I make the mistake of baking them on a regular basis.
Call me a glutton for punishment.
Or just a glutton - the shoe fits. (Or did, before I started making cookies.) But I digress . . .
My six children have been raised on my cookies. Mostly with some form of chocolate as a noteworthy ingredient. They love those small handfuls of pure perfection as much as I do.
Bliss.
But life, and reality, tend to sneak up on you and smack you soundly, just when you aren't paying attention. And so it was with my cookie consumption.
I was going merrily along, enjoying my cookie-filled life until, one day, I dragged my favourite and freshly-washed jeans out of the drawer . . . and couldn't do them up.
Now I know this has happened to many of us, and certainly is nothing new, but it was a first time for me.
And it made me . . . unhappy.
To make matters worse, which we all try to do far too often, I decided to step on the scale.
I should note here, that the person who invented the scale, and non-stretchy clothes, was a nasty, evil individual. But again, I digress . . .
I had to make some changes.
Or buy a new wardrobe.
Finances won. Losing weight was in order. And the first thing to go was my mostly-cookie diet.
I baked one last batch . . . and started eating them as though they constituted my last meal on earth.
Finally, heroically, I put the lid on the still-half-full cookie jar and left the room.
But they . . . called to me.
Cookies do that.
Finally, I could stand it no longer. I answered that call.
I went back into the kitchen and discovered that my beloved cookie jar . . . was empty.
At first, dismay. Then, relief.
"Who ate all the cookies?"
From somewhere in the house, my daughter, Tiana's voice, "Tristan!"
Also from the nether regions of said house, my son, Tristan's voice, "Sorry!"
Me. "Oh thank you, thank you, thank you Tristan! I could hug you! I just couldn't leave the silly things alone!"
A pause, then my daughter's voice, "Tiana."
The cookie doesn't fall far from the tree.

Party Kicks

You un-decorate how you want and I'll un-decorate how I want.

It was a party.

And all sorts of things happen at a party, right . . .?

Becoming a teenager was a big thing.

Well, it was to me.

And I was having a party to celebrate.

A different party from any I had had before.

This party was going to include *dun-dun-duuuunnnn!* boys!

Yikes.

I had planned carefully. Games of pool and ping-pong. Music. Dancing.

Food.

I had even decorated with streamers and balloons and invited everyone – jocks. Cool kids. Regular Joes (my group).

Everyone.

And, wonder of wonders, they were all coming.

It was going to be great.

It was great.

Competitions ongoing in both the ping-pong and pool rooms.

Kids dancing in the family room.

Kids circling the food table.

But nothing is so good that it can’t be made just a bit better, right?

Wrong.

Toward the end of the evening, I was in the ping-pong room.

A final match had just ended and the champion crowned.

The lights had been dimmed.

Did I mention that I had decorated with balloons?

I did.

That is important here . . .

Suddenly, I had the fun idea of ending the evening by breaking up the decorations.

And what would I use? My foot.

Okay, I can see the look on your face. But it honestly made sense at the time.

I chose my target - one of the lower balloons fastened to the wall. I took aim.

And kicked.

The balloon gave a satisfying ‘pop’ as it expired.

But it remained fastened where it was, making a dark shadow on the wall.

A large black shadow.

Weird.

Before I could investigate, one of the cool boys I had been trying to impress all evening decided to take my example and kicked the balloon next to mine.

His results were even more dramatic. His balloon also perished on a lively note. But it must have been a vastly larger balloon because it left a vastly larger shadow.

A foot-shaped shadow.

Oh-oh.

On closer inspection, it turned out that, not only had our balloons been destroyed.

But the wall behind them had, too.

Yep. My party had just turned a corner. The one wherein property damage is considered in the cost.

I managed to stop anyone else from following in my footsteps – so to speak.

But the damage was there for anyone to see.

Anyone.

My dad is in that group.

Shortly after that, the party broke up and peace once more settled across the Stringam household.

I managed to keep my mom out of that room for the remainder of the evening by offering to clean it myself. (Yeah, she was surprised, too.) Alone in there, I turned the lights up and examined the damage.

Yow.

Then I noticed that the drywall (the renovations were ongoing and the taping and mudding and painting had not yet been completed) was a yellow colour.

Hmmm . . . almost the exact colour of the pads of yellow, legal-sized paper on my dad’s desk.

I dashed upstairs and secured two sheets of the stuff and some glue.

Hurrying back to the scene of the crime, I held one of them up to the wall. Eureka! (Don’t you just love words?!) It was almost the exact same colour!

Quickly applying glue, I fastened a sheet of paper over each gaping hole.

Gone!

I will mention here that my parents never mentioned it there.

I mean, the person who finally did the finishing on that wall must have discovered my oh-so-clever camouflage. But my parents sold the house shortly after my party and the paper was still on the wall the day we moved out.

To this day, I don’t know if they ever knew.

I was always afraid to ask.

Feeding the Masses

Mark and half of his family. Feeding the next generation . . .

It only ever happened once.

But I’ll remember it forever.

Maybe I should explain . . .

My Husby and I raised six children.

Four of them, sons.

They are, all of them, tall people, ranging in height from six feet to six feet, eight inches.

They were, all of them, big eaters.

And that’s where my story starts . . .

My oldest boy, Mark, ate like a bird. And by that, I mean he consumed his weight in food every. Single. Day.

His next brother, Erik, wasn’t far behind.

We used to joke that we simply gave each of them a trough and a shovel.

And watched the food magically disappear.

The two of them easily ate as much as the rest of the family combined.

It’s true.

In fact, when Mark moved out, our food bill was cut in half.

When Erik moved out, ditto.

But back to that day . . .

It was a coupon day at the local McD’s. Two-for-one.

My Husby (a coupon collector extraordinaire) had managed to hoard a mittful of the colourful, valuable bits of paper.

We loaded the kids into the car for a rare, but fun, family treat.

And we were off.

Feeling distinctly magnanimous, we told the kids to order what they liked.

And Mark did.

His order? Four Big Macs. Two large orders of fries. Two large drinks. And four apple pies.

Did he eat them?

He did.

And, swallowing the last bite of apple pie, he turned to me and said something I’d never heard.

Before or since.

“I’m full.”

Wow.

I stared at him. Had I heard correctly?

He nodded and patted his stomach.

Who says miracles no longer happen?!

There is a little addendum:

As we were leaving the restaurant, I had linked arms with each of my tall eldest sons. We were laughing about something that one of them said. Full and happy.

A woman seated near the doors looked up and smiled. “I just love seeing brothers and sisters such good friends!” she said. “It’s inspiring!”

We smiled back and thanked her, not bothering to explain that one of those ‘siblings’ was, in fact, the mom.

A good day on sooooo many levels.

Language Lessons

Yumm. No matter what it's called . . .

We live in Canada.

French and English are spoken here.

Quite often in the same sentence.

But that doesn’t mean that all of us speak both languages fluently.

Or at all.

Oh, and my second son, Erik, worked at the local Sobey’s grocery store.

I realize that these facts seem to be irrelevant.

Wait for it . . .

It was a normal day at work.

Erik, one of the numerous stock boys, had spent the day uncrating merchandise.

Stocking shelves.

Packing groceries.

And helping customers find things.

Sometimes, this last duty was the most demanding. And amusing.

A woman had been wandering up and down the soft drink aisle for several minutes.

And had enlisted the aid of at least one other stock boy and, finally, the store manager.

She was growing impatient and a trifle red-faced.

Erik set down the box he was carrying and went over to see if he could help.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am,” the manager was saying. “We simply don’t carry that kind.”

“I got it here!” the woman burst out. “The last time I was in this store! Right in this aisle!”

The manager shook his head. “I’m afraid you’re mistaken, Ma’am,” he said quietly. “We’ve never carried that.”

“Young man! I took it right out of this aisle. Right here!” she pointed. “See? There with all of the grape juice.”

The manager followed the pointing finger. Then shook his head. “I’m sorry, Ma’am,” he said. “Grape juice is all we carry. We have no Raisin juice.”

The woman dropped her arm and frowned. “Are you telling me I’m stupid?”

“No, Ma’am, no!” the manager was quick to disagree. “I just think you may be mistaken. Something that happens to all of us. Me, in particular!” He smiled.

Erik stopped beside them. “Anything I can help with?”

The manager looked at him. “This customer is looking for some Raisin juice,” he said. “I’ve told her we don’t carry it.”

The woman glared at him, then turned to Erik. “And I’ve told him that I got it here,” she said stoutly. “Right here! Raisin juice!”

Erik looked at both of them for a moment. Then he reached out and turned around one of the Grape juice boxes.

‘Raisin’ was plainly visible on the label.

‘Raisin’ is French for ‘grape’. Just FYI.

Both of them stared at it.

“Oh,” the manager said.

“That’s it!” the customer said happily, grabbing the box and departing.

The manager looked at Erik and shrugged.

“Who knew?” he said.

Who indeed.

Being Honest

Okay, yes. We're a work in progress . . .

I taught my children the moral lessons my parents taught me.

Now my children are teaching their children.

Sometimes, their success is . . . uncertain . . .

We were leaving church.

Our daughter and her daughter (hereinafter called HD) were recapping lessons learned that day in Sunday School.

“We learned about honesty!” HD said in her three-year-old, glass-shattering, there’s-a-lot-of-noise-in-this-hall voice.

“And what is honesty?” her mother asked.

She looked at her mother. “Mom!” she said. “It’s when you don’t show your knees. And you don’t show these!” With that last, she pulled down the bodice of her dress, flashing everyone who may have been within eye shot of their little family.

Approximately fifty or so people.

“Aaaah!” Her mother quickly pulled HD’s dress back into its original position. “I think you’re talking about ‘modesty’.

“Oh. Right. Modesty is when you don’t show your knees and you don’t show . . .” This time, her mother was able to anticipate the action and keep her daughter covered.

“. . . these.”

We’re not yet sure about her whole take on honesty.

But at least she has modesty . . . down.

Un-Artistic

Artistic: fourth from the right, top row.
Un-artistic: fourth from the right, second row.

Grade three art class.

So much fun with so many things artistic.

None of them me.

I’m not sure, but I think when artistic ability was handed out in Heaven, I was outside.

Doing something else.

Or if I was there, my ability was poured in with a teaspoon and someone jiggled Heavenly Father’s elbow.

Moving on . . .

Others in my class were gifted with a bit more.

Quite a bit more.

One boy in particular was amazing.

And it was to Randy that I looked whenever a new assignment was handed out.

He never let me down.

We were in grade three, and had been given large pieces of paper and paints and instructed to paint a tree, I immediately turned to see what he did.

And how he did it.

He started with a graceful, fluid line of brown from the bottom of the page to the top.

I dipped my brush in my brown paint.

And made a streak.

That’s all. A streak. Heavy. Clumsy.

And distinctly un-graceful.

Sigh.

I tried to fix it.

It became an ungraceful streak that . . . thickened.

My teacher asked me, kindly, if I’d like to start again. I received my new piece of paper with relief bordering on giddiness.

And proceeded to do the same thing.

Oh, I did produce a tree.

But I had to label it so others would know.

Another time, we were given pictures to colour with our new pressed-wax crayons, and I fared better.

Again, I craned my neck to see what Randy would do.

His Santa picture was coloured heavily, completely filling in the spaces.

No white specks showing at all.

I tried to copy his technique.

But without his results.

Oh, I managed to stay within the lines. And it even turned out . . . acceptable.

But it just didn’t have the flare – the snap – that Randy’s did.

But I was nothing, if not persistent.

Every picture from then on was coloured with great intent. A lot of crayon.

And Randy’s technique.

But with equally disappointing results.

Then, a few months later, Randy changed things up.

For this newest colouring project, he outlined each space heavily, then proceeded to fill in lightly.

I could almost feel my mother’s relief as requests for new boxes of crayons . . . diminished. In fact, I think my current box and Randy’s new method actually lasted me through the end of the year.

Progress!

I kept on trying. And sometimes, was actually satisfied with my efforts.

But, by the end of grade three, I had realized something.

When it comes to things artistic:

Some do.

Others appreciate.

I’m definitely in the second category.

And I’m happy there.