How to make a mother's day...

I’m eagerly anticipating spending Mother’s Day with my daughter in Calgary. The last time she and I spent Mother’s Day together was 2002. Seventeen years ago—nearly half her lifetime now—when she worked as a nanny in Switzerland.

There, it’s known as Muttertag and it’s still on record as my best Mother’s Day ever.

The day began with a bus ride through the breathtakingly beautiful Swiss countryside to Mindy’s church in Sursee where she had a big surprise for us. She was performing in a short drama with the church’s youth group! Though we couldn’t understand a word of Swiss German, it still melted this drama director’s heart.

The sermon that morning was lost on us, too, but it didn’t matter. If the drama hadn’t been enough, the music more than lifted my heart. Although the songs were unfamiliar, we tried to follow along with the German words on the overhead screen. As we joined in praise to God as best we could, I was struck with a brief glimpse of how it will look when we gather around the throne of God in heaven, every tribe and tongue worshiping together—but without stumbling over foreign words. I looked around and saw faces of people who clearly knew Jesus as an intimate friend, not the distant and lifeless icon portrayed in some of the historical churches we had toured. 

Then they sang a song we knew, first in German, then in English. The familiar tune and words brought tears to my eyes as we sang along wholeheartedly: “God will make a way, where there seems to be no way. He works in ways we cannot see, He will make a way for me. He will be my guide, hold me closely to His side. With love and strength for each new day, He will make a way.”

God had indeed made a way for Mindy to find Christian brothers and sisters thousands of miles from home. He had made a way for us to visit her and share this experience. He’d made a way to show me his children are family, regardless of language, customs, or geography. My heart was full.

After the service, all the mothers received little tin buckets with live roses in them. My bucket still sits on my dresser.

At McDonald’s for lunch, they were giving away free coffee and cookies to all the mothers—and if you know anything about European coffee, you know it got me through the rest of that busy day. We spent a delightful afternoon walking around looking at the abundant flowers. We laughed at a sign that said, “Do you like to know how your English is? Ask for Linguaskill and we will tell you!”

Hubby and I called our mothers, neither of whom had ever received a phone call from Switzerland.

We capped off the beautiful day with a delicious dinner at a lovely restaurant with a family Mindy had grown close to. The other mom and I enjoyed complementary dessert.

I don’t expect to experience such an exotic Mother’s Day this year, but I’ll have something far better. My girl is now a mother herself, and I’ll get to spend time with two little boys I haven’t seen for seventeen months. Thanks to modern technology, I hope they know me even if they’re shy at first. Shucks, I may just be a little shy myself at first.

When merely being together is a rare treat, it really takes nothing else to make a mother’s day. Have a good one!

Keeping the "imp" in "Mission Impossible"

This spring break, I decided to take a week’s vacation so Grandpa and I could host sleepovers for our grandsons – three in a row, one rascal at a time. Knowing the solo stays would be easier to manage, I told myself they would provide a chance to get to know the boys as individuals. I stocked up on children’s books and videos from the library and shopped for easy-to-prepare food and treats. 

I knew better than to clean the house.

Alfalfa, six, was first in line. We took him to our local theatre for the matinee presentation of Mr. Peabody and Sherman. Back home, we played Scrabble Junior. Alfalfa showed off his reading skills by reading a couple of books aloud. After supper, we played hide and seek and discovered Grandpa finds the best hiding spots while Grandma tends to rely on camouflage.

 

A few rounds of Uno, some ice cream and berries, and a Snoopy video got us to bedtime. The next morning we found time for a couple games before church, a fast food lunch after, and a few computer games before home time. I felt pretty smug about how Project Sleepover was going.

While Grandma napped in preparation for round two, Grandpa took Alfalfa home and picked up Buckwheat, age four. With him, we played Candyland and Memory and made the coolest fort EVER where we ate popcorn and watched Duck Dodgers. Buckwheat slept in the fort. 

Due to circumstances beyond my control, his sleepover stretched into two nights. I watched while Grandpa and his boy spent a good hour in the PCU Centre pool. That evening, my energy giving out and round three still ahead, I started questioning my sanity.

By the time we arrived home with Spanky, age two, it was supper time of the fourth day. Did I mention Spanky is also known as Hurricane Spanky? If it moves, he chases it. If it doesn’t, he moves it. If it’s tall, he climbs it, and if it has a button, he pushes it. His mom advised that taking him outside or putting him in the bath tub would make him go to sleep faster. We did both, to be sure. 

Next morning, books and games didn’t make Spanky’s agenda, just a lot of chasing around. Grandma was rapidly wilting. I took him outside awhile, only to discover he could easily walk on top of the high snow drifts and escape while I plunged in hip deep. I swear this kid’s guardian angel deserves some kind of medal.

Back inside, I peeled off his coat, mitts, and boots first. In the time it took to remove my own, Spanky had made his way to Grandpa’s home office, photocopied the entire phone book, and Skyped with somebody in Venezuela.

After lunch, Grandpa took over while I fell exhausted onto the couch, feeling less and less successful as the involved grandparent I fancied myself. I was still there when Grandpa returned after taking Spanky home, a miserable lump of a failure sitting in the middle of the chaos.

“Guess what?” Grandpa reported.  “The boys’ daddy hinted that maybe this could become an annual tradition. Alfalfa and Buckwheat haven’t stopped talking about their sleepovers.” 

I know the day is coming, faster than we’d like, when the rascals will lose interest in sleepovers at our house. Until then, I truly do hope we can make it a tradition.

Just let me take a long nap before I commit.

One rascally long day…

Don’t spread this around. Last month I accepted an invitation to spend an entire day, from rising until bedtime, alone with three unbelievably handsome gentlemen. To keep things anonymous, we’ll call them Alfalfa, Buckwheat, and Spanky.

Alfalfa is six; Buckwheat is three and a half; Spanky is one and a half. 

As the appointed day approached, the arguments between Cynical Me and Optimistic Me went something like this:

CM: You’re never going to have the energy to keep up with those rascals all day.

OM: Hey, I already know how to do this. I once had three preschoolers of my own.

CM: Yeah, but you were in your twenties then.

OM: So, I’ll just let them tear around while I sit and watch.

CM: You’ll become exhausted and irritable and then you’ll get mean.

OM: No I won’t. All I need to do is keep them alive for one day until their parents return. How hard could it be? 

By the time breakfast was over, I had prayed for help three times, but I felt pretty proud of myself. Everyone was fed, Spanky had a clean diaper, and the kitchen was sort of clean. So what if Alfalfa decided to stay in his pajamas all day? The cold wind prevented us from playing outside, so we spent the morning reading books. Actually, Spanky and I read books while Alfalfa and Buckwheat jumped from bed to dresser to floor until I made them stop lest someone or something get hurt. So they jumped from crib to floor until something did get hurt: an overhead shelf came crashing down. But hey, everybody was still alive.

After lunch, I put Spanky down for a nap and sent Alfalfa and Buckwheat to their rooms for quiet time.

“But I don’t need a quiet time any more, Grandma,” Alfalfa said.

“I know,” I said. “But Grandma does.” 

We survived the afternoon and after supper the weather improved enough to go out. With a big farmyard to play in, I turned Alfalfa and Buckwheat loose and focussed my energy on watching Spanky toddle about. Until I heard heart-wrenching screams coming from the other side of the barn. Buckwheat had managed to collapse the rotting top fence rail. His belly still straddled the second rail, his head and hands lost deep in the long, woodtick-infested grass on the other side. Alfalfa looked on with an amused expression.

From the safety of the mown side, I managed to pull Buckwheat off the fence and checked him over for broken bones, cuts, bruises, and ticks. A hug and a kiss and he was good to go. But now where was Spanky? How did that little hooligan disappear so fast? I started calling.

Thankfully, he had only ventured inside the barn. That’s when I spotted the big red wagon. Hey, what a great way to contain all three boys—I’d give them a ride! They happily piled in and I began to pull. But half-way down their long driveway, I gave out.

“Say, Alfalfa,” I said. “Wouldn’t you like to pull your little brothers in the wagon?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re going to. Hop out.”

So Alfalfa pulled Buckwheat and Spanky to the end of the driveway. On the way back, Buckwheat pulled Spanky until, with one heroic last effort, I pulled all three of them again for the last half. I then left the two older characters outside while I wrangled Spanky into the bathtub.

When I called Alfalfa and Buckwheat inside for their baths, Buckwheat had soaked his shoes and socks in a deep, cold puddle and was howling again. But hey, everybody was still alive and Spanky wore a clean diaper and pajamas.

I got Buckwheat into the tub and went to hunt down Alfalfa. Meanwhile, Spanky wandered into the bathroom where his brother splashed around, soaking the entire room. I had to start all over, wrestling Spanky into a dry diaper and pajamas.

Eventually, everybody was tucked into bed, still alive, and their parents returned home. I drove home to a cup of tea and my own bed, thinking about how dearly I love these three little rascals and how thankful I am that God gives children to the young.

                                           

Alfalfa, Buckwheat, and Spanky