Controlled destruction

In the heart of every child lurks the desire to bust something.  And it's not often that kids can indulge that desire without worrying about getting into trouble.  So it was with obvious glee that the kids took on the task of dismantling an old John Deere tractor.  This tractor was a beloved toy of Jacob's.  He acquired it one fine day when he was about 2 years old.  We had gone to Trask's in Rosedale, planning to buy some birdseed.  Jacob came along and made a beeline for the green area of the shop.  You know, the corner that is bristling with John Deere model tractors and paraphernalia.  The corner that the owners probably secretly refer to as "our little gold mine".  He parked his rotund bottom on a John Deere pedal tractor and we all knew at that point that that particular set of wheels was coming home with us.  Sure enough, Jacob's dad capitulated to the pleading look in his toddler's eyes and the deal was sealed.  We loaded up the tractor into the van and it was ours - or rather, it was Jacob's.

He spent many a gleeful afternoon pedaling up and down the sidewalks at our previous home.  When he was feeling particularly brave, he would push his tractor up the road and then let gravity pull him back down at the furious clip.  He would end that particular exercise with a tooth-chattering bump over the curb and then sprawl onto the grass in triumph. Fun!

Fast forward 4 years and that same tractor had become a faded relic.  We knew it's day were numbered when it spent last winter sitting outside, cruelly exposed to the elements.  The front tires had been squashed by an unknown workman who had backed over it when leaving our yard.  The back tires were worn through in places from repeated skids.  The chain came off repeatedly and the seat was dangerously wobbly.  Indeed, it was headed for the dumpster.  

I briefly considered buying 4 replacement wheels but I figured that even then, it would be only marginally roadworthy.  It's fate was sealed when, two weeks ago, Bryan brought home a shiny new John Deere for Malia, our latest 2 year old.  Parked next to the new favorite, our old Johnny looked pathetic indeed.  John Deere #1 had been officially sidelined.  

Our only remaining dilemma was how we were going to dispose of our old tractor?  Can you put something so decidedly green and bulky into the trash can and pass it off as household garbage?  We thought not.  We had a better idea.  We would give our kids an assortment of tools and a saw, and let them dismember it.  And did they ever.  Jacob removed the wheels with a flourish and then Danielle set to work with the saw.  I could hardly bear to watch.  Although Danielle's intentions were noble, she had asked Breezy and Jake to assist with the operation.  Jacob's task was to sit on the Deere while Brianna was to subdue John with a sturdy foot applied to the fore section.  I feared that with one slip of the saw, either Jake or Bri would become howling patients.

All went well, however and the tractor has now been firmly consigned to the garbage.  

Malia has her say

Today I offered Malia cake for lunch.  She eagerly accepted the slice I gave her and took a hearty bite of it.  At this point I had walked away for a moment and came back to find her leaning over the garbage can, vigorously spitting it out.  Evidently, the cake I had presented to her did not approach her culinary standards.  In fact, she found the cake so repulsive, she stuck out her tongue so that I could wipe off the remaining crumbs from her offended taste buds.

 

Actually, I didn't really give Malia cake for lunch.  It was banana bread.


I think I need to take a different approach when I offer good food to my children.  Like, maybe not lying to them.

I gave Malia yogurt for lunch instead.  She liked it very much, thank you.

Happy Birthday Marlayna

On Sunday, Marlayna celebrated her 15th birthday.  She was born on Wednesday, April 17, 1996 - eleven days shy of our 1st anniversary.  I still remember the feelings of dismay I felt when she cried through her two first nights at home.  In desperation, I paged through my What to Expect When You're Expecting handbook and found the section on colic.  Could it be that my newborn darling was suffering from this dreaded ailment at only 2 days old?

Then my mom gave me some wonderful advice.  If baby is well-fed, burped and does not have a wet or dirty bum, let her cry.  Oh, what a wonderful release of anxiety and worry these words gave me!  In effect, she was telling me that mothering is imperfect, but so are babies.  At times, they'll cry - for no apparent reason.  And Marlayna did cry - probably more than my other children have at that age.  She also spit up a lot.  And I'm sure my lack of experience and bewilderment as a mother contributed to her frequent squalling.  She probably ingested too much gripe water.  It was our go-to solution whenever she howled without obvious explanation.  But to her credit, she was sleeping through the night by six weeks old.  And she made her for smelly hiccups and howls by having a sunny disposition.  Marlayna rolled over at just under 3 months old.  She could sit at almost 5 months old.  Her first tooth erupted at 6 months old and she could belly-crawl at precisely 6 months and 1 day old.  She was our sunshine.

Last Saturday, I went shopping with Marlayna.  To see her striding through the mall (she takes big steps and her ponytail swings when she walks) was an eye-opener.  She is growing up and new character traits are evident.  I appreciate her confidence.  I love her sense of humour.  I'm in awe of her social skills.  She is (mostly) considerate of others and is kind to her younger siblings.

Marlayna, I love you.  Happy birthday 15th birthday!

 8 years old

 loving newborn Malia

enjoying ice cream - Veere, the Netherlands

Soccer

Well, it has come to this.  Bryan, in his eagerness to sportify our kids, has signed up four of our children for spring soccer.  This new activity was met with barely lukewarm show of enthusiasm on my part.  I've always hated soccer.  In high school, I couldn't stand the game.  Kick and run at the same time?  Are you kidding?   It is a sport I simply cannot do.

Seeing my children out on the soccer field fills me with subdued admiration.  You see, the weather conditions have been far from optimal.  I found Monday's weather rather miserable.  It was overcast and cold.  Yet, Jacob and Marlayna played their games and actually enjoyed themselves.  I am so proud of them both!

Yet it was today's lamentable weather that literally set my teeth on edge.  Breezy and Dani play games back-to-back, which means that this evening I was forced to watch for 2 hours while my offspring were slowly turned into perambulating popsicles.  It was heartbreaking to see.  The whole way to the soccer fields, the girls were betting that the games were off and that we somehow missed the announcement.  But it was not so.  When we got there, we saw the the usual horde of parents and kids.  We squished our way the playing field where Bri was handed a white T-shirt and a pair of immaculate white socks.  Somehow, this girl had to put them on while surrounded by a see of wet grass and mud.  How in the world....??

It pains me to admit it, but at first I just stood there and watched.  I could feel the cold (only 6 degrees above zero) seeping through my gloves and boots.  Taking my gloves off at this point would only diminish any chance of me getting through the next 2 hours in relative comfort.  But I soon took pity on Breezy and helped her lace up her shoes.  I couldn't watch and not be moved at her stalwart courage.

Breezy, trooper that she is, enjoyed the whole muddy fiasco.  At the end of her game, she materialized out of the gluey haze with a triumphant grin on her face.  She and her sodden team mates had played - and survived!

Danielle was a little less thrilled with her accomplishment.  She is more like her mother and spent most of her game pondering the insanity of it all.  It will take a healthy dose of sunshine and an even healthier trouncing of the opposing team next time to banish this detestable experience from her memory.

Going potty

Malia is learning to pee on demand. This however, is not to be confused with toilet training. A toilet trained child will recognize the signals her body is sending to her brain and duly make her way to the bathroom, where she will remove whatever clothing is standing in the way of successfully consigning her bodily waste into the proper receptacle, be it a toilet, potty, or heating vent in the bathroom floor.

Malia however, is learning to pee when I ask her to. This process starts with me asking her if she "has to pee", and generally she will answer in the affirmative. Together, we will peel off her clothing and already-sodden diaper. Then, with a look of obvious delight (she knows she has my full attention) she will ascend the single step to her throne. And it is from that lofty vantage point that she will rule my day.

I'll say no more. If you've potty trained a child, you know what I mean. If you never have, you can probably do it 10x better than I can. And if you are in the midst of toilet training your child, I wish you every success.

Clam chowder

On Saturday morning, I woke up with a steel rod jammed into my spine. Now before you hand me a supersize bottle of Advil and inundate me with sympathy, this steel rod is exactly what I've been needing for a long time. It is a metaphor for my new attitude - toward motherhood, wifehood and general life here in the 'hood. I've long thought that molding myself to the wishes of my 6 children and busy husband would, in the long run, would net me a peaceful home and swimming pool full of warm fuzzies. However, aside from the bucketfuls of lint I scoop out of my dryer, the warm fuzzies have been in short supply lately. With two of my daughters now in their teens, one in her preteens and the rest of my children madly scrambling for their share of attention, things have been rather chaotic around here. It is not unusual for my hubby to be out working many evenings as well as weekends (although never Sunday, thankfully) so to be honest, the raising of the children generally falls into my lap. And don't get me wrong, I LIKE my job. I love my kids and generally adore them. But one area of their raising has continually confounded me. I have always found it incredibly hard to get them to eat (let along appreciate) the food I cook for them. Four out of five new recipes will generally get an almost unanimous thumbs down from my whole family. And to add insult to injury, the snide comments will begin before I've even thumped dinner onto the table. While I'm cooking, the kids will file in varying order into the kitchen in inquire what I'm cooking. Generally, my response will be met with an upturned nose (if they're feeling sensitive to my feelings) or a full-out deflating comment about how gross they find that particular meal. And let me hasten to add, I'm not that bad of a cook! I have my standards and I like good chow as much as the next chick. I've eaten in enough restaurants to know what other folks are willing to eat and I'm convinced that what I cook is NOT pig-slop in comparison. Sure, what I prepare is not restaurant fare. I don't plate the kids' food, nor am I willing to stick a sprig of rosemary in their mashed potatoes for a haute-cuisine effect. I'm sensible enough to know that those efforts would be wholly unappreciated. The rosemary springs would only end up dangling from their lips as mock cigarettes or be flicked back and forth across the table between dueling siblings. But my food is decent and my purpose has been pure - to feed my family with good food that balances flavour and nutrition.

However, the upshot of all this mealtime melodrama has been that I've been taking, more and more, the easy route. You want potato skins? No problem darlings. Let's throw some extra salt on them and really make your kidneys writhe. You like your boerenkool with more sausage this time? Good idea - the grease oozing out of them DOES make such pretty swirls on your plate. And so on - my own sarcastic comments an unhealthy sidekick to the boring and uninspiring fare hitting their plates at mealtime.

Which brings me to my steel rod. I woke up Saturday morning with a plan to do better. No more side-stepping the disparaging mealtime comments. No more ducking when the kids sling their verbal mud at me. I would fix 'em good - I was gonna make clam chowder. And make it I did. I started off with crisped diced bacon (a nod to their baser instincts for artery-clogging fat) and then brought out the big guns. Carrot, celery, onion - they all went into the pot. A full 28 oz. can of plum tomatoes. Splat - there it went too! By now the soup (stew?) looked decidedly healthy and I knew the kids would squirm when they saw it. But it gets better. Next I added (are you ready for this?) clam nectar. It's basically a cloudy liquid heavy on the salt with a pinch of clam saliva added for authenticity. Not content with this insult to their tastebuds, I added the final affront. Clams. Yeah, minced clams. Not the whole, perfect little clams that were gently hoisted from their shells at the seafood-processing plant. Nope, these were the reject clams. The ones that were either clumsily pried out and inadvertently minced by novice clam-harvesters or else ones that spontaneously exploded while being processed. These are the clams favoured by mothers who are trying to hide seafood in the soup. They're ugly but serve a nefarious purpose. These clams are so nondescript that when your child (or better yet, all six) ask whether there are clams in the clam chowder, you can honestly say, "I don't think so". I mean, I really had my doubts that I was dealing with real shellfish at this point.

The whole nondescript concoction bubbled in the slow-cooker for about six hours. Then I transferred it to my big soup pan to cool. This process took a further 3 hours and then I transferred it to the fridge for the night.

Sunday evening was the big reveal. To sweeten the deal, I had bought a nice crusty loaf of French bread and some fresh sliced deli ham and cervelat salami. All I would require of my children was that they eat of small ladle-full of soup.

Things were off to a rocky start when Bryan, fresh out of bed after a sweet 2 hour hap, saw the soup reheating the stove and asked, "What IS that stuff?". His question was innocent enough but the fact that he promptly made himself a plate of cheesy nachos 15 minutes before dinner did not bode well. The kids, of course, had to have nachos too.

When the family was finally sitting down for dinner, I gamely spooned up a small ladle-full for each of them. Their collective expression was one of, "Aw, gross!" The meal wound down to it's inevitable conclusion. The kids gorged themselves on French bread, each at a bare spoonful of chowder and I was left with a heavy soup-pan full of unwanted soup.

When we were cleaning up Bryan, in a typical show of spousal support, held up the soup pan and asked, "Can I chuck this stuff out?"

I resignedly told him, "No, I'm having that for lunch this week". And have it I will. I should last me *sigh* until Friday.