Puppeteer

We were sitting on the bus – yes, that’s right, ‘my‘ car is getting fixed again. This time Leif’s brother Kyle is doing the work. So this time I’m thinking that I’ll have a car again, it’ll run, and how awesome, it sounds like he’s got the leaking sunroof fixed.  I swear, his whole family is wonderful. Welcoming, kind, generous.  But that’s not the story I want to tell tonight.

 

So back to Cameron and I were sitting on the bus.

 

He was playing with a puppet he’d made in class, smiling and happy. Distractedly, he made a comment that caught my attention. Put the phone away Melo, this is more important than Facebook.

 

Mama, what if we’re all just puppets?

 

I asked him what he meant, did he mean that someone was making us do everything, say everything, think everything?

 

Yeah. Just like puppets.

 

Hmmm. Okay. I asked him, who is pulling our strings then, who is working us?

 

God, of course, Mama. Well, duh.

 

This is new.  God, huh. So we talked for a bit about this. Does God choose everything for us? Decide where we go, how we move, what we say? What we think? Everyone, not just the people who believe? I pointed out that he gets unhappy when everyone around him – me, Leif, Kate – tells him what to do, how comfortable is he with the idea that someone else is making him do and say and think things?

 

God must be very busy.

 

Yeah, I agreed, it must be exhausting.

 

But Mama. Wait. Who is God’s puppeter?

 

I waited, watching him think.

 

THAT’s what I wanna be when I grow up!

High Orange

Mme was in the school office when I arrived to sign Cameron out early from school today, and we chatted on the way to her classroom about how Cameron bugged her all day. C’est l’heure? C’est l’heure? Is it time? He was so excited that he bounced into my arms, then couldn’t decide what to do next. Show mama around the classroom? Or get out the door as soon as we could? The sort of excitement with so much to do that nothing gets done. Finally, we got on our way.

Turned out we were super early. But oh well, better than being late. And I figured he’d get all his sillies out of him, wear off some of the hyper, shake out the ants.

Cameron had a tough time focusing. It wasn’t his best effort, in fact, there were several times that this mama was cringing on the sidelines. But that’s not what matters. The dojo knows he can do all the skills, they know he can focus (some of the time), at this age a belt test seems to be mostly a formality. That’s what today’s adventure was – testing for his next belt in kickboxing. It was tough. All the excitement, some pressure, they don’t test on the same floor they normally have classes, and … there’s this mirror. Cameron spent half the time making faces at himself, and missed some instructions because of it. Still, he did show them that he knows the moves. He can kick, he can jab-punch, he knows his belt level stuff. He just has his own style, as my friend Deb pointed out.

And I’m proud of him.

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Pancakes!

As a kid, the actual day seemed somewhat random. Sometime in February, after Valentine’s Day, there would be Pancake Day. Mom would make her amazing hearty stick-to-your-ribs pancakes for dinner, and we’d get to drench them in real maple syrup.

It’s a tradition I like to pass on to my family now.

So today I sent Leif a text message, saying that dinner tonight needs to be pancakes, because it’s Shrove Tuesday. Little did I know, He had no clue what Shrove Tuesday is, and had no experience with the whole Pancake Day thing. And he somehow missed the text message – busy day!

He looked bewildered when I arrived home with the kids, and I saw that he’d started making dinner – a dinner that did not include pancakes.  But … but … it’s Pancake day, I’m ashamed to admit that I whined.  Just a little. A mere hint of a whine. He pointed out that we had lots of leftovers in the fridge that we had to get eating! He’s right, but hey, I’ve been taking leftovers for lunches. I’ve been good! There’s not that much, and not much that’s threatening to spoil. Yet. But … pancakes? I still thought at this point that he knew what I was talking about. Because everyone does. Don’t they? My amazing partner relented, and let me do pancakes. He recognizes slightly crazed obsession when he sees it loves me. Helped that I had the kids on my side, they had heard about the pancakes, and there’s no way leftovers would go over well with any of the three of us at that point.

I didn’t try Mom’s thick and hearty ones. I had been thinking forever about a recipe I remember from childhood, German Pancakes. Apparently our former neighbours, when I was really little, made these. They’re rich and golden, full of eggy goodness, light and fluffy.  So dug up my binder filled with Mom’s recipes. I love that binder. It’s got photocopies of newspaper and magazine clippings, typed out recipes, and some handwritten in cherished and recognizable writing. Mom’s, Nana’s, Mimi’s, Dad’s. I’ve got another binder with my great-grandmother’s recipes in it. There, typed out carefully, are the instructions for German Pancakes, with my mathematics scrawled out in the margins from the time I tried to figure out how much to increase it by for a different sized pan.

So dinner was German Pancakes with whipped cream and strawberries, breakfast sausages, and of course (since it was dinner) spinach salad. I think we average spinach salad five times a week, at least. And I talked a little about Pancake Day. The kids were intensely relieved I think that I have no intention of making them observe Lent, but we did tease them a little. No TV, no Xbox, no yummy food, no … candy! Being not particularly religious I pick and choose which holidays and events to observe, generally sticking with the pleasant ones.

I really need to learn to take pictures of things that I make.

At any rate, like the other recipes I’ve been testing out on the family, this went over really well.

So I’ll share.

Preheat oven to 425F.

 

Mix 1 cup flour, ¼ tsp salt, ½ tsp baking powder in a bowl.

Add 1 cup of milk, beat well.

Add, one at a time, five eggs, beating well after each is added.

 

Warm a tbsp of oil in a heavy pan that can be used both on the stove and in the oven. 9×13” is recommended – I more-or-less doubled the recipe and put it in a deep pan that’s roughly 13” in diameter.  Cook on medium heat for one or two minutes, then transfer into the oven.

 

Bake for around 20 minutes until it rises and is golden and fluffy all over.  

 

Serve with whatever toppings you like. Maple syrup, jam, fresh fruit, applesauce, whipped cream, fried onions, whatever tickles your fancy. Enjoy!

Not Enough Hours

 

Somehow there just don’t seem to be enough hours in a day. After snuggling with Cameron for the endless squirms and fusses until he falls asleep, doing household chore-ish things, watching Sons of Anarchy with Leif, and sleeping, I just haven’t been finding the time to blog. Maybe I should forgo sleeping.

 

Ohyeah.

 

And then there’s my latest addiction. Pinterest. If you haven’t found it, it’s this marvelous internet pinboard for collecting and sharing all the neat stuff you come across on the internet. I’ve got boards for dreaming about what to do with the house, dinner inspirations, bathroom and kitchen ideas, and best of all, craft ideas that I can do with the kids!

 

So I’m thinking that I need a section where I can write about the crafty adventures and culinary adventures we get up to. I’m thinking of calling it How (not) To. Because it never fails. I try to do what I see online, and don’t get it to work quite right, but still manage to pull of something pretty cool. Still, I’ve made several great dishes for dinner, a valentine’s garland for the fireplace, put glowsticks in Cameron’s bath, bath fizzies, sparkly ornaments, and many other things.

 

Yeah. I’ll do that blog revamp thing. In all my spare time.

Maybe I should make a board on Pinterest gathering ideas for it …

Treasure Hunts in Parallel

Melanie, what’s this say?

 

J-u-i-c-e. Sound it out. Juice, that’s right.

 

Off Kate dashed to look in the fridge, under the juice carton, where indeed she found another heart. She needed occasional clarification when trying to read my handwriting, but mostly just needed encouragement to sound out words.

 

Coffee pot! Under the coffee pot! MAMAAAA? What’s the coffee pot?

 

Ohright. I probably should’ve sent Cameron looking under the tea pot. That one he would’ve known.

Sound familiar? Yup, it was time for another treasure hunt. I’d been trying to think of a way to work it with two kids, in a house that’s … ah … cluttered. But in the end it was easy. Pink hearts for Kate, blue for Cameron. Each had similar clues, and the same number, just in a different order. Candle, mantle, kitchen, door, fridge, table, toaster. I had a good mix of  household words in the treasure hunt clues, some that the kids could read easily, some that they had to sound out. Kate’s better at reading than Cameron, of course, so I gave her some of the harder words. Sure, sometimes I had two kids needing help reading a word at the same time, but hey. First come, first serve, and the next one can just cool his or her heels and wait a moment.

Of course Cameron got his favourite clue: Look in Mama’s pocket! Off I dashed with Cameron in hot pursuit, until he caught me in the hallway. Kate had the same, only it was in her Dad’s pocket.

 

I normally hide the treasure at the end in a hat, or under a pillow, but this time I made it harder. The final clue was to look under a table; kitchen for Cameron, dining room for Kate. The Kindereggs (ohright, those aren’t in the US, are they? Think Easter egg with a little plastic capsule in the middle, containing a cheap toy or game) were taped to the bottom of the tables!

 

Ten minutes of prep time meant about twice as many minutes of fun, with practice reading to boot. Not bad!

 

Next time though, it’ll be made clear to a certain six year old boy that the treat at the end is dessert, for after dinner. Because there was at least another ten minutes of total meltdown after the game was done.

There’s a Little Blue Fish

There’s a little blue fish, a beta, in the freezer.

 

Our fishtank has been a source of much drama, and much no-fair-ing from Kate. To start with, Leif insisted on replacing our broken tank with his (I think he was happy to be rid of his), meaning that Kate no longer had a fish tank, and then in a year and a half I managed to kill all of their fish.  Then, Cameron earned a blue beta for being responsible and fish-sitting for over a month.

 

When we moved in, the drama continued. No fair, Cameron had a fish and Kate didn’t. Then we got each of them a fish (plus some danios to keep my sole survivor happy), and still, Cameron had one more fish.

 

Then, the new fish both died. Why, we will never know. But let me tell you, there were tears. Cameron drew a ‘I love you Ghost,” memorial picture, and he still pulls it out now and then with stolid determination and a quivering lower lip.

 

Both kids got a new fish. Actually, so did I, and Leif got a frog. Kate’s fish died quite immediately, and a sad little girl buried the body out in the garden in a quiet and private ceremony. The frog died. And Blue Rock, the beta, died.

 

I did what I swore I’d never do. I went out and bought a look-alike, and passed it off as Blue Rock.

 

Blue Rock II died. So did my guppy. Yes, Leif has had the water tested – nothing majorly wrong. Just one of those things.

 

Cameron hasn’t yet noticed, but Kate has. In fact, she knows about the sneaky replacement too.

 

So now I’m left with a difficult choice.

 

I tell Cameron, and cope with the tears and drama.

 

Or

 

I don’t tell him. I try to protect him from this sadness, after all it is just a fish. I stop at a pet store and get Blue Rock III on the way home tomorrow, and Cameron need never know. Except that 8 year old girls aren’t well known for secret keeping ability, though Kate did admirably well around Christmas time. Just tonight, though, she tried to whisper to me, with Cameron right beside me and trying to hear, that she knew that Blue Rock had died. And what message does that give to Kate? That we disrespect their attachment to fish so much that we’ll just pass one off as another? Won’t she start wondering if we’d do that with her fish?

 

That’s why one of the Blue Rocks is in the freezer. At least, I hope he still is. So that if his absence is noted, or if I decide to be honest with Cameron, he has the chance to follow Kate’s example and hold a funeral.

Eight

My dearest Kate,

Only you would prefer to be called Katherine.

So for today, let’s go with, my dearest Katherine.

But it’s habit. I met you over two years ago as Kate, a little tumble of gingery hair with brilliant blue eyes in the back seat of your daddy’s car that evening he drove me to Whistler on your way to Pemberton. You were so excited for your trip, happy to be watching your movies, eager to share the funny parts.  You were learning the days of the week in French, and knew how to say oui, but most especially non.

Two years ago you loved to put on ‘shows’ for everyone,  only you’d get into the spotlight, and suddenly be all too aware of everyone’s eyes on you, and you’d lose your nerve and sing your song to your feet. Oh, but when time came for applause, you’d shine, and curtsey your heart out.

You welcomed me into your life with all the exuberance of a five-turning-six year old. You and Cameron fell into friendship immediately, and soon into siblinghood, even long before Cameron and I moved in.

Oh, some things don’t change. You still have melt downs, though nothing like what I’ve heard tales of. You still love and yet fear the spotlight. You still like sparkly pretty things, dressing up, believing that your doll Sienna is your little sister. You’re still generous with your hugs, and need snuggles sometimes when life just isn’t going quite right. You’re finding it challenging, I think, to adapt to not being an only kid…. And yet you’re doing it so well.

You’re hard on yourself. Probably you’re the hardest person to please that you’ll ever meet. If it’s not perfect the first time, if you have to try (and risk failing), you very much don’t wish to do it. And work,, after all, isn’t fun … it’d be far more fun to write Pee and Poo than spell out your dictee words. You hear the criticisms of the other kids in your class, and take them to heart, without realizing that those kids aren’t perceiving the real you. And so you believe that you’re not smart, you’re not good at reading, you’re not good at French. But what you don’t see is that you’re really a very clever, and quick, little girl.

You’ve grown a lot, too. Not just in height, but that’s quite noticeable. Your face has changed – it’s subtle, and I can’t quite put my finger on exactly how, but it’s more than just losing the flat, round,  And your voice is lower, not quite so shrill and piping, a big kid’s voice. It’s also your mannerisms that have changed. Sure, you often still squirm around and move without thinking about it, in fact you’re pretty much constantly in motion. But if you’re thinking about it, you make gestures and affectations that are social in nature, mimicking friends and family, trying to fit in.

You’re sweet with Cameron … except when you’re  both bickering. But generally you want to be the big sister, teach him, show him things. You want to jump in and keep him out of trouble by telling him to stop doing things. Sometimes – sometimes it’s a little bit too much, too far. Sometimes I lose patience with it, and say, “I’m his mother, Kate. That’s enough. Kate, worry about Kate.” But I do recognize that, while sure you like to be in control of things and people around you (who doesn’t?), you’re also trying to figure out this big sister thing. And let’s face it. Big sisters can be bossy. It’s their job.

This year you’ve done and learned a lot.  You learned to swim, and despite insisting that you could only do it in a pool, you did manage in a lake. You finally got to take swimming lessons, and even gymnastics again. You’ve always got a new song to sing. You’ve learned a new tune on the piano. Your life got thrown into a blender when Cameron and I moved in, and everything about your home, your rock, seemed to change all at once.  You learned some downhill skiing, and even though you’re certain that you hate it, you’re not bad at it. We flew kites. We went camping at a new place, and while you missed your old lake, we did still have a great time. You really got comfortable riding your new bike, and even got to try roller blades. We went to a BC Lions game, tried to catch fish, and caught lots of grasshoppers … only you call them crickets.  You’re in grade two – one of the big kids in a split ½ class.

It’s been a fabulous year, Kate.

I hope eight is even better than seven was.

Happy birthday!

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