Andrea Mulder-Slater

by Andrea Mulder-Slater I’m an oatmeal girl. I start my days filling up on a bowl full of hot steel cut oats, flavoured with a touch of salt and butter. Sometimes I get wild and crazy and throw on a drizzle of honey, a handful of raisins and a few almonds. My daughter – on the other hand – is not an oatmeal girl. At least, she isn’t one anymore. As a baby she gobbled up the stuff, but that was before she discovered she had options. And while her breakfasts today are nutritious (fruit, vegetables, yogurt, cheese), I’ve always hoped that her love of oatmeal would return. Here’s why…

*Warning: Contains Graphic (Dirty Bathroom) Images by Andrea Mulder-Slater I was over for coffee at my friend’s house on the weekend when another friend dropped in. And because all three of us have kids under seven, the discussion quickly turned to the merits of baking soda. “It’ll take that craft paint right off your window.” “It worked wonders on the bathtub after pink dye leaked out of a piece of fun foam.” “Baking soda is great, but it has nothing on vinegar.” And with that, Rachel proceeded to tell us about a magical vinegar-based Pinterest potion she uses to rid her bathtub of soap scum.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater I love the online health food store because where else I can place an order for Vitamins B, C and D while lounging in yoga pants and eating chocolate - snapped into bite-sized pieces because fewer calories – without being judged by 25 year old yogis drinking beet juice behind the counter. These chips are organic Sasha. I'm hurting myself if I don't eat them. Then there are the random free samples offered at time of checkout. Once I received a minuscule tube, inside of which was just enough eye cream to moisturize my fingertips. Then there was the tiny bottle of zinc ointment, which - to this day - I still carry around in my purse. Not long ago, it was a trial size teeth-whitening system, including magic minty toothpaste. Because I’ve always been curious about people with glow-in-the-dark incisors, this freebie made me a little more excited than usual.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater When I was a kid, I broke my wrists. A few times. In fact, I was so good at collecting casts in the emergency room, I once fell and sprained my left wrist while my right arm was wrapped already in plaster. Falling off a chair, scratching my back while jumping into a pile of leaves and slipping on a pillowcase while running down a hallway are just three of the ways I wounded myself when I was between the ages of 5 and 7.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater I've been eating (mostly) gluten-free for about four years now. It all started after I had my daughter. During pregnancy, I had three basic cravings: vanilla (steamers, milkshakes, pudding), french fries (McDonald's) and saltine crackers (Premium Plus). In fact, during my first trimester, I gorged myself on anything and everything wheat-based. By the time my baby was born, I was back to eating in a healthy, balanced way. But, I had developed a penchant for breads, cookies and crackers.

by Andrea Mulder-Slater The hour-long drive home from the hospital where my daughter was born was fraught with danger. First, there was my perineum (if you have to ask, you just don’t get it). Then, there was the night sky, which meant that for the first time since her birth, I was unable to keep constant watch over my infant. The bumpy road and unfamiliar sounds and smells led to the overwhelming realization that I was in need of another painkiller and had exactly zero experience keeping a miniature human being alive.

“Lemme out! Lemme out! Let. Me. OUT!!!”  My 6-year-old was shrieking as she madly fumbled with her seatbelt in a desperate attempt to flee the vehicle. She, my husband, mother and I, had just returned to our car, parked on a small town street. It was late - past 10pm - and the sounds of the post-symphony gathering we had just departed, covered the damp grass like a blanket. As my husband helped my daughter into her booster seat, my mother spotted something scuttling up one of the black sweaters I had elegantly draped over the front passenger seat headrest (in case of a late July flash-freeze). Because the flickering streetlight on the corner provided a less than satisfying glow, the only opportunities to see inside of the car, were during the brief moments when the doors were ajar. “There,” my mother urged, “A tail.”

by Andrea Mulder-Slater Dear feet, I’m sorry. I mean, here we are in Florida and there you are, completely and totally naked. But here’s the thing. I forgot your warm-weather shoes at home. In the closet. As you know, our exodus from the snow-ravaged north was rushed (what with the back-to-back storms heading our way) and as a result, so many things were left behind. My favourite black Capris, that cute sunhat I ordered online, the poolside read I had picked out specifically for this trip… All of it, forgotten. In the cold. So here we stand, on this gorgeous salty beach, next to my happily barefoot daughter. Exposed. 

by Andrea Mulder-Slater I opened the bottom - right hand - cupboard door to look for the colander because those olives weren’t going to rinse themselves. A hand mixer, several plastic bowls, an electric can opener and a package of millet (hastily placed after our arrival the night before) greeted my eyes with nary a colander in sight. I crouched down to get a closer look and as I peered into the darkness, something caught my attention. It was dark, it was brown and it was alive. At least, it used to be. My mom and I laid it on the stove top to get a closer look. This is Richard, the palmetto bug. Richard is was huge. May he (and his detached leg) rest in peace. It wasn’t the first time we’d encountered palmetto bugs while on vacation in the southern US and by the way Floridians, you can call them what you want but a cockroach is still cockroach.

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 folk...

by Andrea Mulder-Slater “Girls have balls. They’re just a little higher up, that’s all.”  ~Joan Jett  My husband and I don’t often talk about his boy bits but when we do, I’m usually throwing out questions like, “Hey, do those ever fall out of your underwear” , “How do you fit everything inside your pants?” and, “Can you please put that stuff away now?” I mean come on; those things aren’t cute. You know I’m right. Still, I feel for the men, I really do. It can’t be easy, walking around with all that junk. When I asked my guy what it’s like having a set of testicles, he said, “It’s like having pocket watches permanently attached to your crotch.”