Due to the increased amount of inquiries regarding my frequent references to church, allow me to dispel some confusion. I shall not expound upon doctrine because lightning would probably strike me…twice…but rather all the delightful cultural idiosyncrasies that come with membership in the fastest-growing church in the world.

LDS: The correct name of the church is The Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. Within church circles, many members refer to themselves as LDS and not Mormon, the latter of which is a nickname. And to those souls who frequently come upon my blog after googling “Are Mormons crazy,” the answer is NO. Present company excluded, of course.

Ward: This is our congregation, not to be confused with a psychiatric ward. Most of the time.

Callings: Usually every member of the church is given a calling, which is one of the key components in making the ward function with a non-paid clergy. Callings are temporary and are extended from the Bishop (the ward leader). They can range from working with the children, youth, adults or the real kicker that everyone wants: Ward Activities Leader. Or maybe not. Trust me on this one….

Singles Ward: When folks turn 18, they have the option of attending a Singles Ward until they are 31, otherwise known as a “Meat Market.” It is here that faithful young members bat their eyelashes and bear testimony of what a perfect mate they’ll become. It is such a pervading sub-culture there was even a movie made about this veritable marriage mill from which many people benefit.

Except for Jamie and I. He was dishonorably discharged when he became “of age.” He mercifully married me merely five days before I got the boot. Yes, we are model members.

Mormon Standard Time (MST): The estimated arrival time of at least 1/2 hour after an event is scheduled to begin.

Seminary: From the time kids are 14-18, they are encouraged to attend Seminary classes. Every morning during the school year, they drag themselves out of bed before the crack of dawn to learn the scriptures at their local church building.

Unless you’re me. I lasted one whole week. I was later punished for my slothfulness when I was called as a seminary teacher whilst pregnant with Hadley. Sadly, I was never sick enough to miss even one day and would always puke my guts out after I taught. The Lord has a funny sense of humor…

FHE: Family Home Evening. Every Monday, an LDS family congregates for a special night of games, lessons, bonding, chaos and the occasional black eye. And food. Lots and lots of food.

In the marriage mill Singles Ward, folks are divided into various FHE groups and these “brothers” and “sisters” meet together every Monday. This is how my brother Pat met his wife. Rest assured, there are an inordinate amount of incestuous relationships in these “families.”

Missionaries: Chances are you’ve seen the “Elders” (guys) hitting the streets in their white shirts and ties. And “sisters” have allegedly been seen riding their purple-people-eater bikes with dorky helmets and skirts that get caught in the chain every few blocks (I’m still recovering from the humiliation).

As many of you know, I served a mission in Switzerland and Jamie in Toronto. Elders leave when they’re 19 and serve for two years; sisters when they’re 21 years old and they serve for 18 months.

Prior to entering “the mission field,” they have a brief stay at the MTC (missionary training center) where they learn their assigned language and gospel doctrine. Oh, and ponder the mysteries of life, such as what exactly they put in that cafeteria food to cause a heady gaseous substance and incessant flatulence that permeates their small classroom.

LDS missions are voluntary and assignments are received from the church leadership. The reason for the latter is two-fold:

1) Inspiration.

2)Who in their right mind would choose to serve in a place such as South Dakota?…

Visiting Teaching: the glories of forced friendship

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

On Monday, the weather cleared long enough for us to go on a trek with our hiking club. Hadley was in her element and, as usual, led the pack.

Also guiding the troops was another sweet girl I’ve never met, whose mother looked like just stepped out of an ad for Backpacker magazine. She was garbed in full backcountry attire, including top-of-the-line hiking boots and GPS. Inwardly, I smirked and almost jokingly commented that we were merely on a 1-mile toddler hike and not a summit push to Everest. But I resisted because shockingly enough, not everyone appreciates my adorable brand of sarcasm.

A few minutes into the hike, I realized the GPS had a purpose besides just making her look like a dork: this woman was geocaching. Not familiar with the term? The basic idea is to have folks set up caches all over the world and share the locations of these caches on the Internet. GPS users can then use the location coordinates to find the caches (or treasures as we called them with the kids).

Before I knew it, Haddie, Bode and I left the group with this gal and were rifling through the woods, forging dried-up river beds and searching through hollowed-out trunks to find the hidden treasure. It made me shut right up and wish I was wearing my top-of-the-line hiking boots. Which I plan to do when we hook up with her again next week.

Just call me Dork Junior.

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Thanks for the congratulations I’ve received for making the Top 100 Mom Bloggers list. I’m not sure what that means but I was honored to numbered amongst so many reputable bloggers. Can’t find me on the list? I couldn’t, either. I squeaked in at #96. I’m just counting my blessings it wasn’t a competition for the Top 95 Mom Bloggers because well, we know what that would mean….

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Anyone up for a huge blogging party this summer? I would LOVE to attend BlogHer, the biggest and baddest excuse for bloggin’ mamas to finally meet and play!

Last year, I read all the fantastic commentaries of the event and was remorseful I hadn’t attended because of a little thing called birthing baby Bode.

This time around, it’s being held July 27-29 at Chicago’s Navy Pier, a giant fun-park with rides, attractions, theatres, shops, museum, fireworks, and restaurants.

So start saving now! And hopefully a whole bunch of us will be able to paint the town red. Or yellow, a reflection upon when a bunch of women-whose-bladders-have-been-weakened-from-giving-birth attempt the roller-coasters….

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

I am glad Easter is over. This has nothing to do with anything Jesus but the stress related to planning our ward Easter party. The same that was supposed to be outside in the beautifully wooded area behind the church. You know: on the day it snowed.

I can’t tell you how many calls I received that morning to see if it was canceled.

What I said:
No problem! We’ll just move it inside.

What I wanted to say
Ask me how many Easter hunts we held outside in Canada. A big Z-E-R-O. We’d then go and chuck our eggs down the gully with two feet of snow. SO SUCK IT UP!

It would appear I’m a little bit burned out from this calling.

Easter itself was grand. As a ham hater, I graciously offered up my brother-in-law to spend eight hours slow-cooking a brisket with his new smoker. I figured his efforts put a small dent in the thousands of hours he sat on the couch watching football while the woman-folk slaved over the food.

And he’s somebody I like. Don’t ever get on my bad side.

The brisket was glorious and was accompanied by my MIL’s fresh rolls and funeral potatoes (with the assertion from Jamie’s sister that more people needed to die so we could eat them more frequently). Oh, and my strawberry and blueberry cream cheese angel food cake trifle; easier to eat than say!


By the end of hunting season, Haddie was a seasoned pro. The highlight was her final egg hunt at Grandma’s house wherein she was the only kid. Unless you count our herniated turtle, Bode, but he didn’t prove to be much competition.

I knew she had come into her own during our Easter party at the church. A friend came up to me and mentioned someone was sneaking the eggs we’d hidden for the hunt.

My first inclination led me to assume it was those blasted 10-year-old boys in our ward, who are solely responsible for the nightmares I have that Bode will one day become like them. And if so, I already have plans to ship him off to Grandma Canuck. Yes, they are just that bad.

But then Jamie found the true culprit. Hidden in a room with her secret stash.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

Easter means different things to different people.

For Jamie: it means Bunny Hatred, as is evidenced by his artistic rendering to “welcome” the Easter bunny to our home. I suspect it is not coincidental it bears a strong resemblance to our neighbor’s English bulldog.

For Bode: it’s all about copying Daddy’s Bunny Hatred

For me: it’s about the stress of throwing Easter parties for our entire congregation…and encouraging full-contact Bunny Hop races. (This is the Before picture; I cannot show you the blood bath that was the After Picture…)

And for Hadley: Not to be forgotten is, of course, Jesus. And it was our little Hurricane who reminded us of this very fact with her memorable observations last year at this time….

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

I had the opportunity to meet Annie of Hot Fruita Moms acclaim this week. I actually approached her to be one of the contributing writers for my Denver Post project and she eagerly jumped onboard. Or overboard. Stay tuned for the outcome.

She is the first person I’ve met through my online/blogging pursuits. Well, unless you count my hubby and you all know how that turned out. But Annie and I had a grand time hashing about our project, husbands, kids, life, etc. She is beautiful, energetic,vivacious and every bit as funny in person.

Annie brought her daughter along to play with Hadley. Even though she’s a few years older, they had a grand time tearing up our backyard and playing in our mucky sandbox. At one point, Haddie squealed for me to come see what her new friend taught her, which involved climbing onto the back of one of our patio chairs and precipitously hanging on the outside of our play structure before fearlessly scaling it.

Annie about had a heart attack when she saw Hadley’s attempts but I assured her this was much better than the back flip she did off the couch last week. The poor woman is obviously not accustomed to life with a Hurricane.

Prior to Annie’s Denver visit, she mentioned she was going to meet me on her blog and asked if anyone had any questions for me. Like I’m some kind of celebrity, of course. And much to my shock, a few folks obliged.

1) Q: Thoroughly Mormon Millie asked about my days in radio.

A: Though the brunt of my career was in print and as a publicist, I did two different stints on the radio. The first at the very beginning and quite appropriately, also at the end. My first job out of college was as an intern for SkiUtah, the PR/marketing end of Utah’s ski industry. Through that, I landed the position as their snow reporter on all the radio stations. When I took the job, the reports were blase and boring. I mean, how exciting can snow totals be?

And that is when I created the Craaaaaazy Canuck Snow Reporter. I made every report energetic, fun and had a different sign-off everyday. I was amazed how well received I was just for putting in a little bit of effort. I had a blast, had more ski days than I could count, made special appearances and now have the impressive resume of how to say “skiing is cool” in 100 different ways.

At the end of my career, I freelanced for Metro News, one of 60 nation-wide bureaus. I worked during the Salt Lake City 2002 Olympics and did everything from filling in as the News Director to voicing the on-air traffic and news reports.

The absolute worst was when I was the Traffic Producer. We had a special drop-down box for road conditions and during a particularly early (and perfectly clear) morning, I accidentally clicked on “Foggy conditions” instead of “Freeway speeds.” Close enough, right? What I’m saying is just don’t trust everything you hear on those reports. Or when I’m in charge, don’t trust anything….

2) Q: The other question that was posed: are they real? My curls, that is. A: The answer is mostly yes. I always had straight hair until puberty. And then when most girls were blossoming bosoms, I got dreadlocks. These days, I get my hair permed once a decade. Just because the heavenly scent of those perm solutions is a natural high.

And as for the other are they real question that was never posed but that I am sure you’re all wondering: yes, they’re real, too. Though I guess there is a reason why I’ve never been asked that question by anyone who has met me….

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

To all those folks who wasted their money to spend Spring Break in Florida and not Colorado last week: SUCKERSSSSSSSSSSSSS!!!!!

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

The grandparents want it so you have to suffer through it. An update on the children, that is. Because you don’t hear enough about them in this blog.

Bode “Bubby,” 8 months

Bode is a hoot these days and enjoys laughing his squishy guts out at Hadley, doing face plants in the bath and is enjoying the effects of prune juice on his err…plumbing problems (which takes effect immediately if you’ve ever wondered).

He has also started crawling. Well, he goes about as fast as a herniated turtle and I admittedly chortle at him when he becomes high-centered like one.

I’m supportive like that.

But he has officially begun getting on all fours and scooting around. I’d like to say I’m ecstatic about it but in the end, it will just mean more work for me. Y’know because I will have to clean the floors more than once a year. I would like to believe this will be the spark he needs to become more independent but I strongly suspect it will just give him more access to his mama. Nothing like your own parasitic shadow, y’know?

Sleeping is still a challenge and he is up several times in the night. On Saturday night, we implemented Operation Suck It Up Cry It Out Tough Love. I’m not into the extreme methods but I agree with my pediatrician who advocates going in there every few minutes, rubbing their back and then letting them drown in their own slobber.

I’m supportive like that.

The Hurricane has been living up to her name and keeps a frenzied pace. When she’s not running up mountains with her little hiking group, she’s taking swimming lessons and promoting Dance Fever at the library’s storytime (she is indeed quite the little wallflower like her mama).

We have also been living and breathing potty training, with an emphasis on the breathing part because our house smells like it is just one big toilet. I’m quite sick of the whole process but the frustrating part is her inconsistency. She’ll go a couple of days with very few accidents and then will flat-out refuse to even try.

I have started implementing threats gentle coaxing wherein I bribe her with sweets and withhold privileges to which she feels entitled, such as unlimited Dora viewership. My methodology has not worked and she is perfectly content to sit in her soiled diaper sans Dora and food. And so I just eat her jelly bellies instead. I think I’ll gain 50 pounds by the time she’s finally trained.

She is also gymnastics-obsessed and I am proud to say I taught her how to do a back somersault and a head-stand last weekend while we watched our church’s General Conference on television. Because you didn’t think we’d actually sit still for four, two-hour sessions do you?

And when I say “taught” I don’t mean “demonstrated.”It was more along the lines of barking instructions from the comfort of my cozy jelly belly-ladened rear.

I’m supportive like that….

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

Yesterday was the first of our five Easter egg hunts. Yes, that would be five, two of which this Party Princess will oversee. I figure we’ll use the same strategy we did at Halloween when we went Trunk-or-Treat hopping and recycled our candy over and over. Because we’re cheap like that.

Jamie has been extensively prepping Hadley after last year’s fiasco. Some of you may remember at the commencement of the hunt, all she wanted to do was go down the slide. This, while all the other little urchins swiped those eggs that were rightfully ours. Admittedly, I scooped a few up in her basket for good measure. And didn’t share afterwards. It’s not like she earned them.

This time around, Jamie role played with her beforehand and she then gave me a mock demonstration:

“And dis is how I will scoop the eggs up and put dem in my basket!” (Note: this is the same basket that, when we were at the store, I told her she could pick whichever one she wanted…until she chose the most expensive one on the shelf. I then generously pointed her in the direction of the $1 buckets and repeated my offer. Because I’m cheap like that.)

“Great job picking up eggs, Haddie!”
“And if da kids get in the way, Daddy says I can push dem over.”
“Do you think that is a good idea?”
“And den dey’ll cry!” she announced triumphantly.
“Why will they do that?”
“Because I’ll swipe all the eggs.”

Well, it did not play out quite as violently as their tutoring sessions. Sure, Jamie coaxed her to cheat when she started 0.7 seconds before any other kid. And she did manage to shovel a good number of eggs in her bucket.

However, something he had not anticipated was that she would spot an egg the egg on the other side of the playground and pass over a gazillion others in order to retrieve It. This alone caused Coach Jamie to pull his hair out as he barked instructions:

“No, stop! You’re missing them! What are you dooooooooing?”

It made me look forward to allllll those years I’ll spend on the sidelines with him during our kids’ sporting events.

And as for our little Egg Hunter, Proud Papa took a picture of her afterwards with all her spoils:
Though don’t you think it would’ve been a bonus if he’d gotten the bucket with the eggs in the picture as well?…

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog

It has been 11 years since the day I almost died.

I seldom reflect upon it anymore, nor have I really written about it. Well, except for when I poured out my soul for an essay contest in college, only to win an honorable mention. Guess I would’ve taken first if I’d have actually died. Nothing like tales from the crypt.

Lately, memories of the accident have come back to me in consuming flashes. At first they were haunting but I have recently taken another approach to their message: to reaffirm the simple blessing it is to be alive.

It was March 1996 and my friend Heidi and I planned to ski at Park City Mountain Resort. I was the Executive Director of PR for our student government and had been heavily promoting this student-sanctioned ski day. And so what better way to publicize it than to skip school and do it?

I had intended to clean out my car but didn’t have time so we threw our skis in the backseat and grabbed some fast food instead. We were driving on the I-15 gabbing away when we encountered a slow-moving semi truck in the middle lane. The left-hand lane was blocked, so without hesitation I moved to pass the semi in the right lane.

That was when it happened.

Without seeing us, the semi changed into my lane, sending us reeling across the three lanes of traffic into the median. We bounced off it in a deadly pinball game, only to land underneath the back tires of the truck. It proceeded to run over the backseat of my car and spew us back out onto the median.

This is the account the witnesses gave. My experience was very different. I felt the initial impact and knew we were spinning. But then there was light. It wasn’t something that I saw but rather, it was something that penetrated me to my core. I lived an eternity in those few seconds that I could never even try to describe other than to say I have never felt so divinely protected.

When we finally stopped, there was a long pause as we sat in stunned silence. I chose to break it.

“Heidi, I don’t think we’re going skiing today.” Hilarity ensued. We surveyed the damage. The semi’s tire tracks were merely three inches from my seat, completely destroying the back of the car where our skis were located.

“I’m sure glad I didn’t clean my car today.” More laughter.

Within moments, a trauma nurse and police officer were on the scene. “These girls are delirious,” they prescribed.

I didn’t have heart to tell him we were always like that.

Eventually, they had to call in the jaws of life to get us out. We were rushed to the hospital and were miraculously given a clean bill of health.

Well, minus some inevitable bruises and whiplash. The next day when I was limping around my apartment, someone asked how I was doing.

I looked pointedly at them before blithely replying, “I feel like I’ve been run over by a semi.”

Duh.

© Crazy Bloggin’ Canuck–A Denver Mom’s Blog