Little Woolly Mama

     Did you know that in the dictionary the word "Wool(l)y" is spelled with one or two "l"s interchangeably?  I say this just so that no crazy grammar-o-phile tries to pin me down as to whether I spell my name with one or two ls. 

    But today I'd like to talk about more than obscure spelling absurdities.  I've been meaning to share a bit behind the raison d'etre of my sewing ventures.  Some of you are already aware that I repurpose felted, upcycled sweaters into new children's clothing designs, in my spare time.....bAhaHAAhaaaa..."spare-time", too funny,...ahem.  I don't really believe that there is such a thing as "spare time", only time that you have set aside, during which you will say "NO" to other pressing demands on your attention.  So why do I choose to say "yes" to sewing when the crack between the stove and the counter is still piled with enough crud to fatten a rat for a month?  Why indeed.
     About 4 years ago, the Reed family that our church sponsors to work in Liberia developping sustainable business ventures in a chaotic political situation, came to speak about what they do.  Frankly, I'm not much of a poli-sci student so even though I listened intently to what they said (a lot to do with the country having been founded by repatriated slaves with no learned skills as to how to build a strong nation...) I forgot most of it soon after.  Actually, what struck me most were the outfits that the mother and daughter were wearing.  They had on the original designs of a West African textile entrepreneur which was one of the small businesses that they were encouraging to thrive among the women living there.  I'm a sucker for ethnic prints.  So when the presentation concluded with a request for we westerners to partner with these people to build viable businesses, especially for women entrepreneurs I felt a burning sensation  that this was something that I would love to be involved with.  Especially since I really appreciated the frank, honest manner of speaking of the Reed family.
     Then I went home, made lunch for my husband and  (then) three children, did the dishes, cleaned a diaper, played Candyland, wiped a nose, nursed a toddler, ...and figured this was not the time for me to think about additional endeavours.  Until...my fourth child was born.  She was delivered by C-section and my previous weeks of bedrest along with the surgery made me a 1 in a million candidate for a pulmonary embolism (a blood clot in the lungs)  which I did go on to have.  I was treated quickly and had trouble recognizing the peril I had averted (but for the grace of God go we) when people told me their stories of others they knew who had died from this.
    So, sewing, right?  How does this all relate?  Convoluted (but not really) as this may seem, on the same date that I went into the ER and was diagnosed with the PE,  one year later, I came down the stairs, casually mentioned to my husband what the significance of the date was and sat down to check my email.  The first message in my inbox was a note from my church breaking the sudden news that Bob Reed had died of a pulmonary embolism.  I did not know these people personally but I felt so bizarrely struck by the timeliness of this announcement, as if there was some divine correlation between their tragedy and ...me.  I have a meaningful relationship with God but that doesn't mean I "get" him.  While I do believe that everything happens for a reason I also believe that these reasons are so beyond our mental capacity that we should be VERY careful to claim that we understand the meaning of events here, on earth.  Having said this, I did take this weird connection as a divine kick in the ass. 
    Somehow, with now 4 kids, I've found the time to start up my own (very) small business doing what my highschool career interest survey said I should do all along.  Make things and sell them.  I love, love, love it.  It makes a little bit of money, especially around Christmas time, but I feel very convicted that if I don't need this money to provide for my family, then I have no business having it.  I feel, I suppose, called not to keep any of it.  It is very freeing to let it go and seems right that it goes to women in the textile industry.  It's more than a western feel-good donation to alleviate guilt in the midst of affluence.  I have to admit that I have been tested on this on several occasions.  There was a time when after an artisan market, the van broke down and required the exact dollar amount that I had just made at the sale to fix it.  Another time, the water heater needed emergency repair and the cost was precisely what I had made at another recent sale.  It becomes easy to rationalize reallocating those funds "for the good of my family" in those unexpected circumstances.  But you know what?  Our van is still running, and we still have hot water and my Little Woolly Mama money went to Africa.

    
So much fun to do.  These children's dresses, vests, leggings (not pictured but see my LWM Facebook page)and headbands are made from upcycled wool sweaters that I cut apart and repurpose.  But really, come visit me on FB .

Why it's still fun to have backyard chickens even though they attract filthy, rabid, creatures.

For a while I have to admit I was ready to give up chicken farming. ( If you can call raising two hens with princess names "farming", which I don't think you can. ) After the masked bandit massacre of the first "Sarah" and "Kate" we were on hyper alert for vermin in the back yard.  If you choose to stay indoors after dark in the city you will remain blissfully unaware of what lurks in the night outside your door. But that was not us.  No, we kept all the garage, porch, and balcony lights on and slept with one eye open after the brutal demise of our biddies. Our bedroom has a screen door that opens onto a balcony overlooking the back yard and on this balcony Ed and the kids had arranged an arsenal of raccoon weaponry.  Rocks, water balloons, bricks, a stuffed animal that looked pretty convincing as a fat alpha raccoon daddy.  The neighbour actually gave us his slingshot and asked to be woken up if we heard anything and there were several over-the-fence conversations about how ludicrous it is to read front page headlines about people who take city-rodent population issues into their own hands. 
      The buggers came snarling, a whole family of them, on the first night.  We aimed, fired, and missed, full of adrenaline and a sense of vigilante justice, but not of skill in marksmanship.   We would improve as each night passed we resolved, but soon we got a little tired of spending our days bleary-eyed because we had spent too much time whipping rocks into the dark at 3 and 4 in the morning.    One night while doing "the sweep" with the flashlight off the porch, Ed and the kids saw 4 raccoons, an unidentified slithery mammal (a possum?, a weasel?) and caught a strong whiff of skunk, all within an hour.  We began just muttering "shut up" out the open window from the comfort of our beds.  We were outnumbered.  Sure, there was talk about live traps,  leg-hold traps, antifreeze, and shotguns.  But these were mostly suggestions from my dad who has never lived in the city and tells stories about his grandmother who hypnotized chickens and performed gizzard surgeries out back of the barn.  We city people don't know how to handle things ourselves. 
    We reinforced the chicken wire with $80 worth of heavier guage stuff and the lost chickens were replaced with new hens which our son, very economically, christened with the same names as their predecessors.  The new "Sarah and Kate"  had to bear many scathing comparisons to the old pair and sadly came up short in egg laying, plumpness and personality.  This, we later learned was probably due to the fact that they were not quite "ready to lay" as our order to the chicken store had requested.  It took them two weeks to begin popping out treasures for the kids to steal and once they did, they were instantly better liked and thought to be rather smart after all. 
    That was 2 months ago.  We've stopped even thinking about critters in the night.  I suspect they were always around and it wasn't the fault of the backyard poultry that now we were more aware of them.  If the chickens are locked up tight they can go about their nasty business and we don't care.
     Except today at 3:00 in the afternoon the kids were outside and had let the chickens out to roam (and decimate the swiss chard patch).  I was called out to help put the chickens back in their pen when my oldest boy yelled "MOM, LOOK!"  and pointed to the corner of the yard where a fat raccoon was sauntering along the hedge.  Like a true hero, born of desperate times,  I sprang into action to protect child and beast from the menace trespassing our land.  I seized a nearby (dollar store) lacrosse stick and leapt into battle, screaming like a girl.  The insouciant beast neither flinched nor quickened its casual gait.  It looked at me a second and over the pounding of my heart I may have heard it mutter " Put the toy stick down , Idiot"  and then it was over the fence on its way to nowhere in particular.  But I shudder to think what may have befallen our ladies if it weren't for the quick thinking and valour of Crazy Lady this day. 
    And that's why I'm glad we still have the chickens even if they may attract vermin.  Never underestimate how much fun it is to chase vermin. 

Nothing says vacation like conjunctivitis.

As I packed for our vacation I considered the bulk of each item and weighed it's necessity for a two day camping trip in the civilized part of Alonquin park.  I was pouring sweat with the effort, and went to check the weather report for that area for the next few days.  Looked warm and beautiful, and as I hadn't had any use for long sleeves or even a sheet to cover me at night for months, I packed light, proud of my space efficiency and my willingness to make do with little which is what seasoned campers are admired for by their outdoorsy peers. 
   Well, of course, it rained the day of our departure, something it had only done for an hour or two in the last 43 days of this dry, hot summer.  Our spirits were not dampened, however, because we planned to stay with friends in Baysville the first night of our vacation and surely the sky would clear by the morning. 
  Puke, however, has a way of dampening cheerful resolve much more than water from the sky,  and if we were not made of sturdier mettle we may have despaired as we washed the spew from the bedding in an oily puddle at the rest stop on the other side of Toronto.  The kid who has never had motion sickness before, chose that day to begin and two other kids complained of nausea too.  This made us look forward to next year's drive to Prince Edward Island.
   Glad to leave the confinement of the van and  its  vomit vapours we enjoyed a wonderful overnight visit with friends in their new woodsy home in the Muskokas.  And they had wine which was good.  The kids played soccer, caught toads, chased each other up and down the treacherous spiral staircase and left the adults to talk and laugh about the many thoughts and ideas which we have in common.  So great to have conversations with people punctuated, back and forth, with the word "Exactly!". 
   The next morning it rained.  But after a time it cleared and we packed ourselves into the caravan with bright optimism that the patch of blue sky above us would follow us to our campsite.  It did.  But by the time we had the tent pitched and were cooking supper wearing our ONE warm outfit it decided to pour again.  Luckily, we were camping with friends who had a dining tent.  And a propane flame thrower.  And beach chairs in addition to their campfire chairs.  And a full size Radio Flyer kid wagon.  And probably at least 3 or 4 sets of warm clothes.  It was really cold.  And I was having a visibly hard time laughing at the irony that the TWO days of the year that we decide to be outside at the mercy of the elements all day and night, it's freeeeezing and wet.  And there was bed to look forward to.  Suddlenly that light comforter didn't seem like such a brainwave after seeing the forecast at the park office that called for SIX degrees above the temperature at which water freezes for a nighttime low.  When the 5 year old girl fell in the mud in her warm pants and sweater which would also serve as her pajamas,  I just hope the kids weren't able to hear the f-bomb I dropped over her wailing.
    Sure enough we slept badly, maybe 3 shivering hours of REM each of the two nights at Algonquin.  But not because of the cold.  The same 5 yr old that fell in the mud also was running a low-grade fever which would later spike to 102.5 F because of what would prove to be conjuntivitis, or Pink Eye.  We all know how catching Pink Eye is...  Exactly.
  Despite all these things we really did have a great time during the days.  Hiking in the beauty which is Algonquin (hefting 30 lbs of feverish child in my arms), swimming (well the kids did while I wore the sweater that I slept in), seeing a mama moose and her calf (which Tobin said was his dream-come-true, how validating!), beaver lodges and dams, and talking with old friends.  All the things we love about camping. 
  So, after enjoying two days at the park we arrived in Huntsville at the home of another dear friend.  She hadn't had water , unbeknownst to us, until the previous day when trucks had dug up her yard and fitted her riverside home with new plumbing that actually worked.  Dodged a bullet there.  There were 12 of us spending the weekend.  Running water was nice.  And so was the annual float down the river from her sister's house upstream, the swimming, kayaking, campfires (that flame thrower is a really handy thing, it turns out) and more great, real conversation between old friends. 
  And so, reluctant to leave, because we only see these friends once a year and it because it was warm and sunny, we piled in the van for the 4 hr ride home feeling battle-weary, yet happy to be alive.  No one puked on the way home which was good, and the only incident was when the 5 yr old girl shrieked during the whole story of Carl Lowbeer's retirement on the story CD we had listened to one too many times.  But even she stopped her shrieking long enough to hear the part about how Carl buys so many carrots that his wife serves them to her guests with their coffee.  Then she resumed but when the story was over we peacefully drove through Toronto without any traffic to speak of and it was raining now but we didn't care because we had a dry home to go to at the end of the trip.
   We arrive in the driveway and the neighbour crosses our lawn and welcomes us with "Hey, there's the happy campers!  Welcome home."  Then he pulls Ed aside and tells him the news that raccoons killed the chickens the second night we were away.  Unbidden, more expletives bubble around in my mind.  Until I see my tough, emotionally restrained, oldest boy comforting his younger brother  by patting his back and letting him win at the game of war he invited him to play to take his mind off the tragedy of his birds.  He learned the need for this compassion from the death of his own pet earlier this summer. 
   " Weeping lasts for the night, but joy comes in the morning."  From Proverbs.  That's so true, says my nine year old boy.

Summertime and the livin' is easy.

I'm so glad that my 7 yr old boy spilled that tumbler full of saturated sugar water in the bottom of my freezer.  What else would I have found to do with that hour and a half of wiping, dripping and mopping?  (The many, many ants which live, uninvited, in our home were especially pleased, I'm sure.  Beats that Borax we've been diligently feeding them.)
     Throughout the homeschooling year I always look forward to summer because logically, if you remove 4 hours of lessons from the day there should be a lot of extra time for those projects you've put off all year.  But there must be some kind of mathematical glitch in that thinking.  I'd love to be sewing for four hours to stock pile "Wooly Mama" stuff for the encroaching Fall markets, but I find myself just pouring more glasses of milk and wiping them up when they spill, refereeing more disagreements between Super Competitive Eldest Boy and his younger brother, Mild Mannered Until You Beat Him and Brag About it for the 63rd Time This Week,  searching for lost flip flops of which there were 8 at the beginning of the season, preparing snacks for the starving child who had lunch 10 minutes ago(the dishes for which are still waiting for me on the counter, which is sticky)  and I can't account for what else fills my time.  But fill it it does. 

I wrote this in about 10 minutes without any brainsearching at all after reading "If You Give A Pig A Pancake" to my daughter, realizing that Laura Numeroff must watch through my windows on certain days: (apologies to FB friends who may have seen this before.)

If you give Anneke a muffin, she'll want you to boil water and dust off the teacups for a tea party.
So you'll put down your laundry and fill the kettle.
While you're waiting for the kettle to boil, Anneke will ask you to go up the stairs to drag down the rubbermaid of duplo.
30 seconds of dumping all the blocks on the floor will reveal that the one inch duplo figure of Dora is missing and you'll be asked where it is.
You'll walk back up stairs and dig for that stray Mexican in the wooden block bin where you'll find a half eaten sandwich left by Ruby 4 months ago.
Seeing the sandwich will remind you that the children are long overdue for a wholesome snack.
You'll go back downstairs, stopping briefly to press the hush button on the fire alarm set off by the burning of whatever was in the stove element you used to boil the water that has all boiled away.
You'll find a cucumber in the back of the fridge that isn't too limp and you'll chop a pile of slices for each child.
Isaac won't eat his and they will roll under the table gathering dust and cheerios until they land in the cold air return.
The dust will remind you that you didn't nag Tobin nearly enough to do his chore of sweeping after lunch.
You'll resume your nagging and be shushed due to an important hockey card transaction being in progress on the living room floor.
Seeing 422 unsorted hockey cards on the carpet will remind you that you need to vacuum before 5:00. You'll descend the basement steps to find the 90 lb upright vac and step on a jewel case for Ed's library CD, due today.
You'll check inside to see if you scratched the CD only to find it missing.
You'll go back upstairs wishing you had never taught the 4 year old to work the CD player as you open and shut all the CD cases until you find the missing Radiohead CD in the Wee Sing-a-long case.
Seeing the pink cupcakes on the cover art will remind you of muffins and Anneke.
It will be very, very quiet.
After a furtive search you will find her and Ruby in the bathroom wrapping up chunks of chocolate muffin in 15 clean diapers. You'll leave them to it and walk outside. Where it will be raining.
  
    If I'm completely honest, this is not true.  There are idle moments between these crazy moments that could be used to write the Great Canadian Novel or other constructive and creative projects but too often these are spent wandering listlessly, assessing damage, and lamenting the fact that if I did sit down to begin something I couldn't count down from 10 before someone urgently needed my help to find the green paperclip that went missing 14 months ago.  And of course, lest I come across as whiny, (dear Lord, no more whining, especially from Mom) there are also many wonderful hours spent swimming in other people's pools, digging gopher holes in the lawn, beaching it, and reading lots of stories and chapters from our favourite books.  I do realize how blessed we are despite the harrowing trials of sticky floors and toddlers who don't clean up after themselves.

So I do love summer but, once again, I must recalibrate my expectations.  i.e.  make them lower.  But I really am going to go take on the boys' closet right now.  Wheeee!

   

Confessions

These are the organic, whole wheat pancakes made with eggs from our own chickens, served with pesticide-free raspberries from our own back yard that we eat every Saturday morning on "Pancake Day".

This is my dear, baby girl drinking Coca-cola from a baby bottle.

   Nobody is righteous all the time.

    It's not just food. 

I wore my babies but I still had an exersaucer.  And a swing.

 I homeschool but some days all we learn is how to measure the extent to which mom will freak over another glass of spilled milk.

 I'm Dutch but I could plant a weed in the filth behind my toilet and it might grow.

 I was an art student but now I craft (kill me now!).

I like animals but last night I went to the circus. 

 I like to support independent artists but sometimes I get the Biebs stuck in my head. 

I appreciate good literature but sometimes a Danielle Steele page turner is nice on vacation(scratch that, that's just reprehensible) 

I use the word "nice".  

I've read "Wind in the Willows" and all of the Little House books with my kids but right now there's a pink and glittery, gawd-awful princess book in our library box. 

 I breast-fed my babies but I have,in the past, bought 2 cans of formula. 

 I use cloth diapers but am currently on a Pampers vacation out of sheer laziness.   

I understand the benefits of positive parenting but I still yell at my kids. 

I don't bake my own bread, I buy it at the store even though I know it's not as healthy.

  

The list goes on and on. 

There's a million reasons to feel guilty.  That's what grace is for.  When food or parenting styles or lifestyle choices become a condemning religion, it's time to eat a kit kat and realize that maybe life is about just a little bit more.  Even Jesus found the religion of "musts and mustn'ts"  really annoying.  Perhaps it's not about me anyway.  Maybe my kid won't plunge into a downward spiral of sugar addiction and illiteracy if we all enjoy a donut and a Disney movie on a Friday night.

Gotta go.  The cat is eating leftover boiled eggs off of the table and I can't allow that.  Good people don't.

    

Compound Livin'

     If I had a nickel for every time someone suggested that I join a commune, I'd have about 25 cents.  Not enough to buy land, sever it and build some kind of intentional community on. ( Intentional community,  that's what the kids are calling them these days.)  I must have that look about me.  Sometimes I let my leg hairs go in the summer (and definitely in the winter)  and I own several wrap-around skirts.  Is that what it takes to thrive in one of these things?
     So, it appears, at least in my circles,  that people are looking for more community than they have.  I know exactly what they are talking about.  I've got great neighbours but I have to be lucky enough to catch them while they dash from house to car, car to house.  Often it's polite "hi" and "bye" and "is it hot 'nough for you" kind of talk, although occasionally more.  I'm part of a great church family and homeschooling network of friends but too often when we talk about getting together we just don't or if we do make the effort we're flipping calendar pages and saying "looks like were getting into next month, how about 38 days from this date at 2:00?"  And it has to be 2 p.m. because morning is no good that day and we've got swimming lessons at 4:00.   Makes you pine for effortless communication over a fence.
     So sign me up for this intentional community thing.  How great would it be to step outside and see all your neighbours sitting on their porches?  We were actually in a neighbourhood like that when my first was a baby.  It was great, old ladies who only talked and never listened (and fed cookies to my baby, my first, my holy child who would never taste chocolate before the age of 2 because that, I was convinced would lead to a lifetime of healthy habits and well-being), Jamaicans who were always "bringin' ova da rotis", the men who were addicted to renovating and giving tours of their walk-in closets, the woman with her cuban musician friends who would spontaneously play in her back yard while the neighbourhood wandered in, and there was us, the young couple with the brand-new baby to pass around.  What a great neighbourhood to begin my time as a stay-at-home mom. 
    Then we moved on up to the west side.  Nobody was out on the street.  Some, but not a lot of interaction with our closest neighbours.  But that neighbourhood had hubs.  I loved those hubs.  If you were ever tired of being inside you just had to walk to the park, or the library and there was always someone you knew well enough to talk to.  Ahhh, adult interaction.  I miss that hood in a lot of ways although it wouldn't be the same going back.  The little kids are in school now and a lot of moms have gone back to work.
     So porches and hubs.  That's what this world needs more of.  If you feel the same, I'll let you know when the next house comes for sale in my hood.  Don't worry, at no point will you be asked to wear gingham jumpers and follow a charismatic leader.  Just be willing to ask me to watch your kids a minute while you run to No Frills for the creamed corn you so need for your dinner.

P.S.  If I had a nickel for every time someone said "My, you've got your hands full"  I'd be obscenely wealthy and I'd buy me a farm where you could all come and build your own house and we'd have more than two chickens.

Sarah and Kate

     It all started when my oldest wanted a cat.  I was not interested in another member of the family who expected me to clean up their poop so I told him we would mark it on the calendar and see if he still wanted a cat in a year's time.  That August date was coming closer and I knew he wouldn't decide that a fuzzy little friend was not something he wanted after all.  So I decided to tack a few requirements onto getting a new pet.  Things like learning to tie his shoes which was long overdue anyway and by gum he did it so now I was committed.  The day we got the cat, my second son concentrated all afternoon and by the time Daddy arrived home from work he proudly demonstrated his new skill of lace-tying and for this he demanded chickens.  Raise poultry in downtown Hamilton?  Why not?
    Seriously, I don't know what the big issue is about having chickens in the city.  The chickens we got this spring are quieter than the cat.  (We're actually on our second cat now, but that's another blog)  They are easier to keep than rabbits and they lay eggs.  They do poop, however.  But at least more of the humans around here flush their own now.

     Here is my blog-tutorial on how to get started (What fun!  A blog tutorial about a simple thing that you could google, or visit your public library and find more info than you need already.)
     1.   You need a covered hen house.  Raising Poultry the Modern Way (copyright  1975) suggests a floor space of 2.5 square feet per laying hen.  Then build a little outside run space to go with it.  There's a million different designs for this.  Some people use old Little Tykes houses to house chickens. Off to Freecycle you go.
      2.  Get some non-tipping feeders and water troughs.  My dad used to use a hub cap with a big rock.  Our ancestors did too, I think.
      3.  Order your chickens from a local feed store.  We got ours at the Copetown Quickfeed store.
      4.  We bought a prepared laying hen food ration since it had all the minerals and grit and so forth already mixed in.  The chickens looove greens.  They've already scratched and pecked all the grass in their outside run so the kids pick grass, chives, and swiss chard (which we grew more of, for "the ladies" as we call them).  Watch the chickens get all excited as you pick.
     5.  Some people let their chickens run "free-range" in the yard but I'm not that interested in stepping in poop with my bare feet, or in running down the street after a chicken.   We let them out once in a while which is lots of fun.

  My little urban farmers. They check the nesting boxes like some people (not me) check their facebook.   It really is a lot of fun and not rocket science at all.  Just go do it.



   

My Very First Blog Post.

     I spent many years and many thousands of dollars learning to write a decent paper.  And now I'm flipping burgers.  And pancakes for FREE.
      It's not that I want to devalue my role as mother and wife to 4 children and a wonderful husband.  I understand that it is a high and noble calling indeed.  It's just that I want the bloody dishes and laundry to stop reproducing when I'm not looking!!  And that is why I want to blog.  To escape the dishes and do something that I enjoy for just a moment knowing all the while that each stolen minute means one more sticky puddle, one more soiled diaper, one more broken bowl on the driveway to deal with...later.
     I'm not actually much of a blog-reader, myself.  The few that I have followed, on and off, have been written by friends or acquaintances going through harrowing medical dramas or they have been the blogs of women that have apparently been given 30 hours in their day to homeschool the 6 children, pick fresh flowers for the table, attend speaking engagements for monks in other countries, and sew a nine-patch quilt with their six year old during their idle moments between 6 a 7 am.   Mercifully, and mournfully, I am neither of those type of blog-writers.
     In fact, I think the fact that you are reading my words indicates that you may need more to do.  Or maybe, you might see a little of yourself in this space and just maybe that will help you to find something to laugh about when your lap feels suddenly warm while your little moppet snuggles on your lap (in a sodden nappy) to hear about the adventures of Clifford in Hollywood, once again, for the 7th time today.   Yes, the dishes can wait.  But you still have to do them.  There's no getting out of it.