Pillow Talk

A few years ago, we met up with out-of-town-ish friends. If memory serves me correctly, they had come into “town” to run errands, so we bombarded them at IKEA. An odd place for a visit, but a visit at IKEA is better than no visit at all!

I remember the experience well. I was using an IKEA wheelchair, as I’d sustained a minor leg injury crawling through a play gym with my then 3 year old. I could walk, just not around IKEA, if you know what I mean. Colin pushed me in the wheelchair as I pushed the kids in the stroller.

Our friends had come to IKEA to get new pillows. They tested out many pillows and really thought through the decision. I don’t know if they ended up purchasing them or not (as I was a bit stuck in Roth-chaos), but I marveled at the extent to which they went to choose “the right one”.

I’ve never put much thought or money into what I rest my head on, and it’s usually just turned out fine. I guess there are a few reasons that I don’t put money or effort into pillows.

For starters: I’m cheap. No…not cheap. Thrifty.

Another reason: Colin’s cheap.

Lastly: we’ve been going through more pillows since the kids were born. They unfortunately have not mastered the no-peeing-at-night skill yet. It’s because they are such deep sleepers that their bladders can’t wake them up. I’d take that over a wet bed almost any day.

Thanks to the good ol’ plastic “pee sheet” (aka mattress protector) though, sometimes the pee migrates north to the pillow. Then the pillow has to have a bath in the washing machine. Sometimes it comes out good-as-new, and sometimes it comes out so lumpy that I need to throw it out.

*note: I’ve since invested in pillow protectors. They cost as much as 2 Wal-Mart pillows, but saving me from the pillow-washing hassle (and saving the landfill) is worth it.*

While packing for this last holiday we returned from yesterday, Colin and I decided that since we camp so much, (exhaustingly much, some might say), we might as well keep our current pillows in the trailer. They’re getting super flat, so we’ll start the new $4 spares from Wal-Mart that are sitting in our closet. So our beloved old pillows were demoted to trailer pillows to make room for the new and improved. I kind of felt like I was losing my blankie.

Last night was the first night we used the new pillows.

I started by lying down on it normally. You know, with just your head on the pillow. They are so huge and fluffy that my neck angle felt close to 90 degrees. I feared my trachea would get a kink in the middle of the night, cut off my air supply completely, causing an untimely death due to suffocation.

So then I tried with my head, neck and shoulders. That just made me feel like I was sitting in a recliner.

I tried my whole torso on the thing lengthwise. NOTHING I tried was comfortable.

Meanwhile, I’m whining to Colin about it. Ever been in a situation that does not annoy you, but then you hear someone else complaining about it and then you realize, “hey, they’re actually right, this DOES suck”, and then you become just as annoyed as they are? Sorry Colin.

Colin starts tossing and turning and twisting and adjusting.

Finally, we threw the stupid giant marshmallows on the floor and grabbed a couple of throw pillows from the couch. Nice and flat. ZZZzzzzz…..

I think from now on, I’ll put more time and money (if I HAVE to) into my pillow shopping.

The Cool Parent

I am not the cool parent in our house. I thought I was a pretty cool parent, but I came to my grim realization on the last day of  Kindergarten when Nathan brought home his journal.

I open it to the first page:

"I was at the ocean and I saw a fish in the water. Daddy saw an owl"

Awe, that’s so cute!

And the next:

"This is my dad's pumpkin so big"

I start tearing up because he loves his Daddy so much.

And the third:

"I went fishing with my daddy. I caught a ten pound fish"

It starts to hit me. He hasn’t yet mentioned ME.

As I flip through the book faster and faster, I get increasingly mad at Colin for being the cool parent.

I have no idea what this says but it includes the word "DAD"

Of COURSE Nathan journals about Daddy. They do so many adventurous things together. If he mentioned me in the journal, he would conveniently forget the time I took him rock climbing and would likely draw something like this:

Or this:

Or maybe even this:

Last night, I took Nathan to get some immunizations. I am the one sacrificing him to a stranger for a voluntary multiple stabbing, so yet again… NOT THE COOL PARENT.

He didn’t take it well at all. I guess it was his first set of shots that he really knows what’s going on, so he was quite traumatized by the experience. He didn’t even laugh when the nurse said, “Put your nose in Mommy’s armpit and tell me what it smells like” (???) as she came at him with the needle.

[Just to clarify, he did NOT say I had stinky armpits, however he did tell his Daddy at bedtime that he saw Mommy’s armpit whiskers. Nice.]

To cheer him up, I took him to a new pet store to look at the animals.  We stroked the chinchillas: the softest animal ever created. We saw bearded dragons, Peruvian ground squirrels (aka: rats) and parrots. When at a pet store, we always spend the most time at the fish section. “Fish” was Nate (and Evan’s) first word. It’s as if they were programmed to like fishing right from the beginning.

I saw something in a tank that I’ve never seen before. A freshwater crab! Nathan LOVES crabs. When we go to the beach, he literally spends ALL his time finding crabs, as I still do used to when I was his age.

I bought it for him. Before you call me a pushover, please note that I was going to spend this money on a yummy treat for us. At least the crab will last longer. Hopefully. 

He named it “Feisty Savary” (It’s a feisty crab that reminds him of his vacation on Savary Island). As we were all watching it explore his new home last night, Nathan says, “I’m going to start a journal so I can write about what the crab does”.

He gets that from my genes. I also used to document my observations of living creatures when I was a kid. It was called “spying”. Only I hid up a tree to do it.

So this is his first journal entry:

"I was [looking] at the fish [tank]. Dad was [sleeping] and I was [looking] at the crab"

???WHAT???

That's it.

I give up. Colin, you win. Even when you're sleeping you're cooler than me. 

Naming a Boat

We all know that when starting a story, we’re supposed to start at the very beginning; a very good place to start. However, I feel the need to start at the end of the story of our recent vacation to “BC’s tropical paradise”, Savary Island.

You see, since it’s been nearly 4 years since I’ve blogged, I must start back up with a bang. So this is the story of how Colin’s latest boat got it’s name.

It all began the evening before we left the Island….

The day was windy, and the water choppy. Fishing was, unfortunately (for Colin) out of the question for the day. But the crab traps were still set out from the night before, and they need to come in, despite the chop. I had been banged about with bruises up my legs and compressed my vertebra one too many times, and was a tad grumpy about having to go out again. An adult has to go out with Colin every time to be “the weight at the front of the boat to balance out the overpowering motor for the small boat”. As my Dad puts it, it’s like being on a sea saw. Up and down, over and over and over again. Remember when the other person gets off when you’re at the top, sending you plummeting to the hard ground? Yah. So do I.  

A big shout out to my Dad who took my place that evening. Guess he still gets tired of hearing his youngest daughter whining.

Colin, Dad, Max and Nathan return back from pulling up the crab traps for the last time. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I was glad we didn’t catch any crabs big enough to eat this time. We’d had 2 crab feasts already, and it just seemed like more work on the night before we leave.

Colin and I have a conversation something like this after dinner.

C: “I think I want to go check my boat”

N: “Why? Concerned about the choppy water?”

C: “No, the boat is slowly taking on water and I want to see how much has come in”

Um…what?? I ask for clarification that “taking on water” is the non-stressful way of saying “there's-a-hole-in-my-boat”. Yup.

I timidly agree to go with him.

We get to the dock, and there are 3 foot waves. I’m in the water trying to steady the rowboat so Colin can actually get in and row us out to our “larger” boat (which thankfully is still there). It takes a long time and a year off my life, but Colin rows us to the holey boat.

There’s 4 inches of water in it.

Colin shouts over the sound of my screaming the waves “hop in the boat!”.

So…just to clarify…I am supposed to hurl myself from an extremely rocky boat with no hole, to an extremely rocky boat with 4 inches of water and a hole during a storm where there are 3 foot high waves coming over the sides of the boat?? Oh, ok. No problem. Just checking.

I time my epic boat transfer between two waves. I start bailing. I am trying not to cry, mainly because my tears would add to the volume of water to bail.

During the kafuffle, we decide that we have to beach the boat overnight. There’s little chance it could stay afloat. So we tow the little boat behind the holey boat to shore, making sure to lift up the motor before the waves slam us up on the beach. Then I put on my Popeye suit, eat my spinach, and help Colin carry the boat up past the high tide line.

It’s been years since I’ve been so terrified. But it’s over. For now.

Fast-forward to the next morning when it’s time to leave. Now, usually when you leave an awesome vacation, you are kind of teary and down because you don’t want to leave. I, on the other hand, was teary because I was scared to death of crossing the 6 km span of the Pacific Ocean in a boat with a flipping hole in it. I was, however, overjoyed that the 3 kids and my parents got to take a water taxi that does not have a hole.

Before we leave the cabin, Colin takes out his emergency radio and says, “Nance, we’ll be fine. But if we do capsize or sink, flip this to channel 16, shout ‘MAYDAY’ 3 times, and give them your location”.

Dad and Mom try to reassure me that God looks after us. To this I say, “Yes I know He does, but He also doesn’t expect people to go boating in the Ocean on purpose with holey boats. That’s when God says, ‘Dude, you’re on your own’”. I can just see God rolling His eyes and shaking His head saying, “Oh, Colin…”.

At the beach, Colin, Mom and I got the boats to the water at low tide. Mom’s in the Ocean in her runners and jeans simultaneously steadying the boat from the waves, and reaching over the side to jam her finger in the hole on the bottom of the boat. Then she makes a hard decision and lets her baby get into a sinking ship with a crazy pirate to cross the sea. I kiss my kids goodbye and tell them I love them.

As soon as I get into the boat, I jam my toe into the hole, and flatten my foot along the crack. I also have to shift my weight as far forward as possible. This lands my rear on the boat moorage float (like a yoga ball) instead of on a seat. The float acts as a trampoline every time the boat hits a wave (which, I might add, is every 2 seconds). One arm is holding onto a rope, the other onto a bailing/barf bucket, and between my legs are prawn traps and other fishing gear, giving me one new leg bruise per bounce.

As I’m playing this dangerous game of Twister, 4 things are going on in my head.

1. Prayer. I’m praying hard.

2. I’m composing this blog post.

3. I’m wondering, “Now where is that stupid radio? Wait a minute… it doesn’t float. WHAT GOOD IS A STUPID EMERGENCY RADIO IF IT DOESN’T FLOAT????”

4. I’m trying to remember what about I love about Colin that makes up for this experience.

Just when I couldn’t get more stressed, Colin starts singing Great Big Sea songs. Jolly, happy tunes about being on the Ocean. If I had a free hand I would have smacked him upside the head with a paddle.

I return to thinking about #4 above.

Even though I’m bouncing like a rag doll, you think I let my foot off that hole even once? Not. A. Chance. My foot goes numb from the temperature of the Ocean on my foot. I did a darn good job at plugging the hole because Colin only had to bail a bit near the end of the half-hour ride.

As I get out of the boat and onto the mainland, I suppress the urge to hit the deck and kiss the slippery boat launch concrete. No, that would be weird. I do, however, kick the boat and yell “Swiss Cheese!” at it.

Hmm. In hindsight, that might have been a weird thing to do too. Nonetheless, the boat now has a name. And one day soon, while Cap’n Colin is at work, I will be painting it onto the side of the boat. 

Starting New

I've missed creative writing. It's an outlet that I think I need. Since it's been 4 years since I've attempted blogging, blogger has given up on me and has cached my old blog. I'm no longer allowed to post to it. But since it's been 4 years, I think starting new is a good thing.

Wherever our family goes, crazy follows. And I am stuck in the middle, with nothing to do but roll my eyes and grit my teeth. I'm not sure who to blame this on... (cough, Colin, cough).

I hope you enjoy these stories of the Roth family, and the wonderfully fun chaos we get into.

Oh, and if you are interested in reading the old blog (mostly written in pre-kid era), please visit The Roth Spot. I almost promise you won't be bored.