Andrea Mulder-Slater

by Andrea Mulder-Slater There were two lines at the Tim Hortons kiosk - one for those ordering bacon, bagels and specialty drinks - and another for the rest of us. As the young man behind the counter handed me my tea, I began digging through the giant expanse that is my purse. Gloves. Princess stickers. Altoids. Chocolate bar wrappers… I was one customer away from my place at the cash register when I remembered the leftover taxi fare change in my pocket. When I looked over the railing, I could see that it was turning into a busy morning in the hospital so I was glad to have arrived early. I was tired, but anxious to find out if my mom would be able to come home after a frightening 38 hours involving a blood transfusion. “One fifty-five, please.” The girl behind the counter watched my money land on the counter. She began to scoop it up and then, she stared at me.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater I'm a Dutch girl. And so, when my editor at The Yummy Mummy Club recently asked if I would share my feelings on a Washington Post article suggesting that my people (specifically Dutch moms) are the most relaxed in the world. I did, and here's how it went... I’m five years-old and I’m in a small a town in northeastern Netherlands, visiting family with my parents.  It’s late afternoon and some neighbourhood kids are riding bicycles on the paths that run beside my aunt’s house. I ask my uncle if he has any spare fietsen (bikes) in the schuur (shed) behind his garden. He does, but they are all too large, except for one that – if modified – should do the trick. He and my father make some adjustments while my mother and her sister enjoy a relaxing cup of tea. Moments later, I pedal past the house, sitting on a bed pillow strapped to the seat post of a too-large Dutch bike. You can read the rest (and I hope you do) at:  http://www.yummymummyclub.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater When I was a teenager, I worked in a record store located in the downtown core of a rapidly growing city.  Beside the store was a run-down hotel where lived an assortment of characters – many of whom had an appreciation for Elvis Presley music and heavy metal t-shirts. I still remember the time an exotic dancer came in to purchase a Metallica shirt. She asked if she could try it on. We had no change room so I suggested instead that she buy it and return it if it wasn’t a good fit. Instead, she removed her sweater – the only piece of clothing separating her bare skin from the patrons in the crowded store - and proceeded to don the t-shirt. It fit – thank God, much to the dismay of several young boys who had been flipping through the vinyl. It wasn’t the last time I saw someone naked at the record store. One evening, a man in an oversize Santa suit came into the store. Not a completely unusual event – we usually saw several folks in