Finger paint is the devil

Before attempting this project, do yourself a favour, and run your child a bath. You will need it. Finger paint is the devil. Move the curtains out of reach, strip off as much clothing from your child as you are comfortable with, and put newspaper on the floor. If your child is anything like my child, this still will not help much, but at least you will feel like you tried.

Ah, Father's Day. Time to appreciate dads with cute little crafty projects. Time to put into action ideas that sound quaint and easy. Time to add a few more gray hairs.

This project is fun (for your child), doesn't require many materials, and can be done in a short amount of time. It turns out a cute gift for a dad or grandpa. It also uses finger paint. Finger paint is the devil. See above.

But if you think, nah, surely this women is just inept, I could totally handle my 3 year old when both of his/her hands are full of paint, then read on. But don't say I didn't warn you.

For this project you will need: a canvas, some letter stickers, a permanent marker and finger paints.
Isn't it lovely how clean everything is right now?

Use your letter stickers to put a message on your canvas. These will act as a 'mask' for your message, so because it really doesn't matter what colour the stickers are, choose based on letter style. A thick font works best. Burnish them with your fingernail to get them as stuck to the canvas as you can. Stickers do not stick as well to canvas as they do to paper, and you do not want them coming up mid-project.

After the stickers are adhered, set your little artist loose on the canvas. Well, not exactly loose. If you want the painting to have different colours, instead of turning into one mix-y black and greenish mess, you may need to provide some guidance. Even if that doesn't matter to you, there may still need to be direction given to keep the paint on the canvas, and not on, say, one's chest...

But to each their own.

I have no photo of this step. Just picture the Tasmanian Devil with blue hands. That is pretty much what it looked like at my house.

And then, ta da! This is what you end up with.

After you have deposited your child in the tub, and while the paint is still wet, remove the stickers to reveal your message. Once the paint is dry, you can use the permanent marker to add your child's name and the year.

Cool, right? Almost makes you want to try it?

Don't say I didn't warn you.

Green for luck

Happy St. Patrick's Day from my two little leprechauns!

Merry little Christmas

The tree is up. The wrapping is done. I have a huge pot of Christmas Eve dinner borscht in the fridge, and the cards have all been sent. We are off to my parent's house for the major gift opening this afternoon, so come 2 o'clock Christmas will be here. But for now I am happy to be sitting by my laptop cuddled up in my robe, with my hair still damp from the shower.

Nik is watching 'Mary Poppins' in the next room, eating cheezies in his pajama top and underpants. On the floor can be found the contents of the couple of presents we let him open last night. Little things like toy cars and new books. Nothing needs batteries.

I got my Christmas present from my husband last night. A couple of new CDs, a small teapot, and clothes that don't fit... ;-) Looks like we will be braving the after-Christmas mall exchanges crowd once again. From me he got a new digital watch and a game. Actually, I gave him the game a few weeks ago after Nik saw the same one in a flyer, and told him, "Daddy? We have that game. That game is hiding." No surprises when a 3 year old is in on the secret, I guess. :-)

Christmas is quieter for us this year. About a week ago, I entered that stage of pregnancy when running up and down the stairs starts to seem like a major undertaking. Walking down the hall to put something away requires a cool-down and a 5 minute breather. Unloading and reloading the dishwasher may be the most productive part of my day. So there has been more sitting, more reading, more knitting. More cups of tea and movies. And much less decorating. No baking. No Christmas letter.

Nik did get to see Santa, but it was because my sister took him. He will be recieving a mountain of presents from extended family, but at home there will be only his stocking on Christmas morning. We are going to two Christmas dinners, at beautifully decorated homes. I am bringing the borscht, and the mashed potatoes. We seem to have found a balance between festivity and simplicity.

It has helped me to see the blessing of family and friends even clearer. We don't have to do it all to have it all. So often I am grateful that is not left to my husband and I to provide all the trappings of Nik's childhood, or even of our own lives. Over the years we have received so much, from cups of coffee and conversation, to money to help up pay for our wedding or first home. Children's toys, clothing and books, baby equipment, computer parts, meals, lodging... even air fare has been given to us. People have shoveled our driveway, mowed our lawn, washed our dishes, and folded our laundry. I think of where we would be without the helping hands of those around us, and I can't believe how much I so often take for granted. How much poorer we would be without them, in all ways. How much less we would be able to offer to our son.

But with our lives enriched by the generosity of others, we have easily found our way to another merry little Christmas. Wishing each of you the same.

Community lights

I have heard it said that Winnipeg is famous for its Christmas lights. Not world famous, or even nationally known, mind you. What they say is that the pilots know us. That the pilots that fly over Winnipeg, in and out of the airport here, see a difference between the night scene here and that in other cities. Tiny points of lights are everywhere.

The downtown strip is done up every year by the city. Various BIZ (Business Improvement Zone) groups also do their part, dressing up their own mini Main streets, hanging wreaths, stringing lights and decorating trees in front of the shopfronts in their neighbourhoods. The casinos also get in on the action, with lit up message of 'Season's Greetings', lights on the building and trees, and large lit figures next to the entrances. Even the roof of the Super Lube is sporting stripes of golden lights.

One of my favourite traditions in the Christmas season is taking the long way home. Once the sun has set, we will often detour from our regular route, and take to the quieter residential streets just to look at the Christmas lights on everyone's homes. I don't know if you could find a block without Christmas lights. They range from the truly understated single green porch light, to the massively overdone Christmas wonderland scenes complete with Nativity, Santa with sleigh and all nine reindeer, and light-covered roofs, fences and house fronts. Some homes boast large amounts of blinking coloured lights, to which my son will say, "Look Mom! A party house!" I am glad we don't live across the street from 'a party house'.

Last night, as we searched out the Christmas lights, we drove through one of the newer neighbourhoods not far from our home. It is full of impressive, two-storey houses built just in the last few years. Many of them have vaulted ceilings, attached garages, and sparkling chandeliers. They are open concept with large windows, through which you can see large leather seating arrangements and dark wood dining sets.

We live in the left side of a duplex that was built in the 70's. It needs paint. The floors squeak. The fence is old and decrepit. And it is certainly devoid of vaulted ceilings, attached garages, sparkling chandeliers, large leather seating arrangements and dark wood dining sets. After such a description, you might be thinking I returned home last night wistful, and wondering when we will be able to move into that newer neighbourhood. But that is the not the end of the comparison.

On my street, there is a sidewalk. And on that sidewalk travels the mailman, delivering mail from home to home, often with a smile or a nod for passers-by. Traveling east down our street will lead you to the community centre, which has a small playground, baseball diamond, and outdoor skating rink just outside its doors, and out of which runs a Mom 'n Child drop-in playgroup, and a local kids hockey team. Traveling a few blocks south of our home could lead you to the public school with it's large playground, enclosed by trees and backyards, or to the swimming pool, wading pool or hockey arena. If you are willing to walk a little farther, there are many more parks, schools, churches, shops and even the public library, all accessible by sidewalks canopied by towering elm trees.

The streets of the new neighbourhood have no sidewalks, just many, many driveways. There is just one large mailbox for 40 homes, and the mailman stops there in his truck. I saw just one small playground, and this was right next to the road, with nary a tree in sight. And there are certainly no wading pools, libraries, or baseball diamonds.

Both neighbourhoods are full of Christmas lights. But I believe that my neighbourhood is also rich in different kind of light, the light of community. And I wouldn't trade it for vaulted ceilings.

Melancholy mama

I am approaching Mother's Day with a heavy heart this year. It is hard for me to put aside the fact that, without our loss earlier this year, I would've been 24 weeks pregnant this Sunday. Additionally, many friends of mine have also lost pregnancies in the past year, and earlier this week, I witnessed a very old friend standing at the graveside of his first son, barely one week old. With so much loss, it is hard to be excited about gifts and cards in celebration of motherhood.

It is not like me to focus on what's missing, and yet, this year, those missing things seem too significant to overlook. The missing pink line on a pregnancy test. The missing bump in my middle. The missing baby from my friend's newborn-ready apartment.

Opening the door to parenthood makes you vulnerable to measureless heartache. Loved ones all around me have had their hearts put through the wringer while trying to conceive, or after a pregancy was lost, or a baby died. Even if your child is born healthy and grows to adulthood, you aren't immune to heartache. Your child could still hurt you, leave you, pass away. Whether you lose a child at 6 weeks pregnant, 6 weeks old, 6 years old or 60 years old, there seems to be no loss quite so tender.

When I was working in a personal care home during my university years, one of the residents lost her daughter, Joy. Joy would have been a senior citizen herself, I think, or at least very close to it, but the pain her mother experienced at her passing was overwhelming and difficult to witness. I sat with her for hours that first weekend, watching television, and holding her hand, and hearing her cry and softly sing, "I've got Joy, Joy, Joy, Joy, down in my heart." I learned the depth of a mother's heart from her.

This week, I saw the strength of a mother's heart when I saw a young mother turn, and walk away from the grave of her only baby, as a whole crowd of mourners watched. Back at the church, when I held her hand, I glanced at her belly, still swollen from pregnancy and said, "I'm sorry for your loss." Words seem meaningless next to a loss of such magnitude. And yet, she was standing, and looked at me with the tired eyes of a mother, and thanked me.

This Mother's Day, my thoughts will be with all those families who have lost a child, and also with those who are deperately trying to conceive one. And if any of my readers are standing in that particular crowd, I wanted to share this:

It's worth it. Every penny, every sleepless night, every teardrop. Loving a child, even one not yet conceived, may open you up to no end of heartache, but there are moments with no end of joy, too. I wish for you all, Joy, down in your hearts.

Eggs of life

My father's family is Ukrainian in background, and even though my father and his siblings are second generation Canadians, their Ukrainian heritage shows through, especially around the holidays. After all, the number one way we stay in touch with the Ukrainian in us is by eating, and there is no better way to celebrate. Cabbage rolls and borscht, dill buns and perogies, creamy mushroom gravy and the best quality kolbasa... Dinner time is a good time to be Ukrainian.

When Andrew and I were dating, the first holiday I spent with his family was Easter. As his parents live a good 14 hour drive from us, I knew that if we spent Easter with them, it would mean missing my family Easter dinner back home. Missing dinner represented missing my check in with my Ukrainian side, so I devised a way to take Ukrainian Easter with us. Before we left home, we stopped by Oseredok, the Ukrainian cultural centre here in Winnipeg. I went in search of a Ukrainian Easter egg to bring to Andrew's parents as a gift, but though the cultural centre was lovely in many respects, it was completely free of real Psyanky. They only had the painted wooden eggs, which is as much Psyanky as margarine is butter.

Not knowing where else to look, I called my former employer at Sevala's Ukrainian Deli. I had worked as a dishwasher at their Ukrainian buffet when I was in high school, and I knew that he had his finger on the pulse of all things Ukrainian in Winnipeg. "Where can I find a real Ukrainian Easter egg?" I asked him. "Todaschuk Sisters," he confidently replied. Um, who?

I found them in the phone book, and called for the store hours. "What time are you open?" I asked, when a women answered the phone. "When are you coming?" was the unexpected answer. Feeling a little on the spot, I suggested a time later that day, and Andrew and off drove off in search of Todaschuk Sisters' Ukrainian Boutique.

Located in an old part of town, the boutique is delightfully unusual. An awning stretches the length of the store front, above the windows. The store itself is tiny, just a squarish room with a display case on one side serving as the cash desk. There aren't really any shelves, no traditional store displays of any kind. Instead, there is a Christmas tree in the middle of the room, hung with ornaments for sale, and lengths of traditional red beads. There is another display case on the wall adjacent to the front window, filled and piled high with candles, dishes, embroidered tea towels, floral wreaths, candy dishes. More goods are in piles everywhere you turn, and there is really only enough room to circle the tree single file as you shop. Here is a photo of the Pope, there is a fridge magnet, here a display of postcards, there a teapot.

In the back of the shop you see a sewing machine, and rolls and rolls of woven trims for making traditional Ukrainian costumes. There is also a hairdresser's chair, and the faint smell of permanent solution fills the air. Then you notice the stairs. They lead upstairs, to where the shop owner lives with her husband. And now let us talk of Sylvia Todaschuk, the wonderful lady who finally had my authentic Ukrainian egg.

Standing behind her overflowing display case, this smiling women peers over her glasses at us. An egg? Of course, she has them. She reaches into the depths of her case, and resurfaces with a basket full of eggs. I pick one up, and it is heavy in my hand. They aren't blown, or boiled, she explains to me. Eggs are left just as they are found, because an egg is life, and if you destroy the life, the symbolism is lost. Cash or cheque, there is no automated debit or credit card machine here.

Sylvia stands and talks to us in the unhurried manner of an old friend. She is not worried about getting back to anything, and doesn't pressure us to buy anything other than our one humble egg, but I pick up a postcard anyway. We thank her and head on our way, and the egg survives its 14 hour drive to Calgary a few days later.

On Thursday, Andrew, Nik and I went to again to buy this year's pysanky. We have bought one for every Easter we've been married. This year brought our fifth egg, and we talked with Sylvia as Nik ran around the tree in the center of the shop. "He's being so good," she crooned, and ran upstairs to get him a treat.

They are moving their store soon, she told us, to a new location downtown. They will no longer live in the room above the shop. The end of an era, I think. But we will find her in her new store next year, anyway, because we know she will always have our pysanky, our eggs of life.

Thanks to my brother, Darryl, for these fantastic photos of my eggs.