Category: From Ordinary to Narrative

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From Ordinary to Narrative

One Woman’s Garbage…

The other day as we were walking both the dog and the kiddies during these strange times, something in the grass caught my eye. The grass around these parts is mostly uniform in length and wouldn’t dare stray into crevices. It’s the well-ordered suburbs for us and the grass knows its place. Laying unperturbed by the seeming orderliness of the surrounding area was a rectangular cardboard box. It was a pregnancy test box laying out for all the world – or at least anyone not attached to a screen – to see, looking rather defeated but unashamed that someone took out its innards and peed on them. 

It was the fact that there was garbage boldly and haphazardly strewn in the well-shorn and obedient grass and also it was the intimate nature of such an item in such an open and public sphere that caught my attention. I should note as a mother of four, let me be clear, this time it wasn’t mine. 

The world it feels at times has gone mad with Covid and Covid fear, leaders flailing and floundering, slow roll outs, mental health crises, tragic stories unfolding of the innocent dying and suffering from Covid, Covid related issues and other sources of anguish, important people being brought down by disturbing accusations and a general dread. However, looking around as we trudge our well travelled route, I see the same houses. Same suburban men ritually cutting the grass in the evenings like it’s an understanding among them, same houses, same cars going too fast, same people committedly walking their dogs. However, there in the grass lay real evidence that something dramatic was happening in the area. True, someone could have planted said evidence in the grass. Perhaps the grass looked so inviting that someone decided to pee on the stick right then and there as they simply drove through on their way to…well people aren’t really going anywhere too much so that last theory doesn’t seem to hold water. Or pee in fact. So with my keen detective skills I deduce someone close by right now is either filled with delight, dread, fear, depression, happiness, nervousness, relief, or some combination of any or all of the above. My detective skills are keen, not pin-point accurate.

This one piece of cardboard meant an awful lot to someone or someones. It also meant something to me. It means despite the appearances of somewhat normality, life behind closed doors is still happening. 

The results of the pregnancy test may have made someone feel so happy and blessed. For the more secular, happy anyway.  Maybe because they have been trying for years to have a baby and finally their dream has become real. Maybe because they do not want a baby and the result was negative. It could be the baby was planned. Or unplanned. This too doesn’t determine the outcome of the person’s emotions. Is the woman worried about having a baby? Having a baby in a pandemic?! Is the woman concerned about her job? Her job in a pandemic?! Was this baby conceived in a loving stable relationship? Was this baby conceived by people not wanting a partnership? Was the baby conceived during an affair? Recently I read about a baby conceived after a Tinder hook-up and now there are custodial rights being argued in court. If there ever was another reason for careful birth control…Was the baby conceived at a fertility clinic? Did this test belong to Jlo in the Backup Plan and all will be well and seriously fit? Was this test bought after a rape? How old is the woman taking the test? If there is a partner, is the woman worried about their reaction to a possible baby?  Is this woman financially secure? Is she healthy?  Is there a partner? Is that a good thing? 

The juxtaposition of the box laying in the 4.5 inch grass shed a new light on our walk, at least for me. The children and dog seemed unconcerned of my musings. 

Norms exist as a way for society to function. It would indeed be nerve-wracking to wake up each day and not know what the expectations of behaviour are for that day. Have they changed how we are supposed to greet one another? Will curtsies be expected? Do we now gesture wildly so people can read our masked expressions more accurately? Will we wear placards to say “I am smiling openly at you to suggest good will and community support” or “I offer a faint smile bordering on grimace not to encourage closeness physically or emotionally”? Are we following the lead of so many and now expected to openly sexually harass others? Covid seems to have thrown a wrench, or perhaps a mask, into the works. Changing rules, changing etiquette, changing understanding of the science or at least the convenience of the science has left many people wondering how will the world function today? This one piece of trash reminded me of all that. 

Most days in my very narcissistic state I assume most people, other than perhaps the Tinder couple, are having similar days like I am. Someone who owned that box, was not. I hope for them and the possible new life, that all is well. In this time of isolation, it reminded me there are so many lives doing their best to endure and while this long crisis drags on, life is happening. 

For all the unanswered questions I do have about this piece of trash, I do know I would have an absolute field day at the dump. Ahem, waste management facility. I just need it to open. 

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From Ordinary to Narrative

The Rescue – the new doggy style

Contemplating his humble beginnings

Much care needs to be taken with what I am about to reveal. No, not a self absorbed gender party, but similar. Before I impart this knowledge onto you I need first to set the stage. I have a dog, a black lab. Well a black lab-ish. A pure breed black lab-ish. He is mostly lab or at least does a very good impression of one. He looks like a lab mostly except there is a whiff of family scandal in some of his features. This suits me just fine as I simply wanted a larger dog for the family. No offense to him but pickings were slim.  I wanted a good natured dog who would also offer some protection. I got this and more with him. 

That part is not as important as the next bit which could socially ruin me. And by socially ruin me I am implying I have a high enough social status to fall from. It wouldn’t be much of a fall. I might actually have to get a step stool to fall down, but that’s not the point. Pregnant pause. I got him off Kijiji. He doesn’t have any papers and he doesn’t even have a grand name unless you count the ones containing swear words I yell every time he steals food off the counter. Shocked? Has your opinion of me changed? Not by my swearing, but my kijiji confession?

There was a time when people who wanted to adopt a pet went to the animal shelter or perhaps they saw a sign scrawled in just legible writing “Puppies to give away” or “Pups 4 sale”. In these parts, that doesn’t seem to exist. In this well-to-do area we seem to have lost our minds concerning canines. People carry their dogs in strollers and carriers strapped to their bodies. For those things I won’t judge. People thrive with the company and if that brings them happiness or relief then have at it, Doggy Bjorn. It is the introductions and implied mindset I judge, and judge harshly. 

Purebreds have found their niche here. Big, little, fluffy or cropped – purebreeds abound. Dog walkers run eight dogs at a time – dobermans, golden retrievers, German short haired pointers leaping gracefully with their pedigree seen in every rippling muscle. Clearly beautiful dogs.  Where are the shelter dogs? The nameless dogs with no pedigree? The dogs that leave us wondering and discussing over coffee (timmy’s for those with -ish dogs. The starbucks drinkers just dropped their dogs off at the doggy daycare as they sipped their soy latte, whipped, no fat, with just a hint of cinnamon and a generous dollop of pretension) what background gives them their long body, wrinkly forehead and short nose? Dogs that illicit wild guesses of their parentage. The dogs that are such a gem that we marvel at this fortunate blend of genetics to produce such a fine champion. 

There is a real snobbery about dogs at times. There are such exotic breeds I have been fooled many times by asking someone the dog’s breed and received as an answer something that sounds like a European HSFSAIdnshound. Or something like this. Trying to avoid being singled out as a mutt myself, I nod knowingly while spreading my fingers as much as possible to cover my Timmy’s cup.

It is not that there are no mixed breeds here. There are a few, but they aren’t recognized as mixed breeds. They are now “rescues” from Greece, Texas, and even the Cayman Islands. They aren’t even a mutt from the Caymen Islands. Rescues. On a couple of occasions I have met people walking two dogs, one almost dragging his impressive pedigree behind him and the other with not quite as much baggage. When asked the breed, the owners have said with a tone of the pious, “He’s a rescue”. It is as if they need to justify the lack of pedigree. It’s okay that he isn’t the result of years of careful selection, because we have rescued him from a fate worse than death. We did that. We are civilizing him with our generosity and good will.  Modern missionaries. 

If you doubt me I throw down this challenge to you. The next time you see a suspicious dog skulking about, ask the owner about the breed. Said owner may even place one hand preciously on chest and declare, “He’s a rescue”. And if you listen carefully, you might hear the rest – “because I’m a morally superior person who has a saviour complex and I need the complete strangers to know this and while I can’t outrightly tell people this I do it surreptitiously while walking the neighbourhood. Please ask me, please”. 

Mixed breeds can not be tolerated so what should the socially conscious do to remedy this contradiction? They create the terripoos, the bugs and the bermedoodles. These are not true breeds. They are by essence mutts, but that doesn’t sell for thousands so a seemingly endless list of doodles and schitzpoos are revealed. And all lovely dogs. It’s a shame about the ostentation. Doodles of all kinds, bugs, terripoos – must give this tiny bundle of fur a title. And then sold for ridiculous costs for a dog that used to be a dime a dozen at a local animal shelter. Elevated and made worthy with a title. A made up title. 

I suppose I have rescued my dog too. Rescued him from languishing on kijiji to be scrolled over and left behind in favour of a new hammock for my lazy afternoons of deep personal reflection and meditation. Yes, I did that.  

With my first trip to the vet, I might as well have brought an alien to the appointment. My first mistake was acknowledging where I “adopted” but really bought my dog. The vet, who prefers to be called Dr, barely managed to keep his eyes from rolling in his head. He pondered aloud how we would not know his exact age, how big he would grow, his behaviour. He was quite perplexed. And I was quite ashamed. I had taken my money and purchased a dog who seemed healthy and happy and brought him into my home without….a title. We changed vets shortly after. Our new vet does not seem bogged down by mutt suspicions at all. 

I have to go. “The rescue” just pilfered a loaf of bread off the counter and needs a walk.   

Lab paws – ground perspective

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From Ordinary to Narrative

The Romance of It All

A number of months ago I unabashedly watched a holiday romantic movie. I say unabashedly because I have the enviable ability to watch these shows and acknowledge the ridiculous writing, characters and general plot while happily and carefreely munching on a giant bowl of cheddar popcorn. In my movie choices, I have absolutely zero standards except I enjoy very little reference to the real world and its terrors and sadness. And I like a lot of cheese, in my popcorn and plot line. It’s a low standard I know. Anyway, the plot had a writer as one part of the love story. I knew he was a writer not because I heard his work, but because he had glasses and a sweater. Those are indeed the first requirements to writing. Glasses? Check. Sweater? Check. Proceed. It was as if the wardrobe department went to get costumes at a Halloween store. Lets see…writer? Aisle 13. Right past warlocks, witches, women in scantily clad costumes (that takes up most of the aisle and is actually overflow from the previous four), and finally, ahh, yes here it is, writers. Glasses denoting a profound intellect and a sweater so the writer doesn’t get chilled as blood rushes to the brain. 

It is this depiction of the writer that interests me. 

If you recall get-togethers, you might remember titles of work are socially important.  I once had a title too. Now I have another. I am a stay-at-home mom. Yes, a SAHM. I don’t even get the full name. The actual name, stay-at-home-mom, is so long it is as if someone forgot to shorten it to make a title. For you Office fans, I’m akin to “the assistant to the regional manager”. Tonight my three year old out of the blue said “mama is a worker”. I like that. It isn’t an acronym and states the role plainly. A little like I work for a communist regime, but let’s face it, I do. It’s called family. Highly inefficient. All money goes to the state. Corrupt. I eat more chocolates than anyone else and let’s face it – a lot of our money is keeping me in coffee. But a worker I am. 

In addition to my title of “mother” I have a mind to be a….wait for it…writer. Which brings me back to my ability to watch really terrible romance movies. 

How can a person announce – come out if you will – they are a writer? How loudly would people laugh about the woman who declared herself a writer but hadn’t actually written a book? Or maybe they would offer pity instead. Poor, poor “assistant to the regional manager”. What was her name…Sam? Well, when does someone get to give themself the title and more importantly does it come with a crown? And will Meghan take that too? Admittedly, the last one was a bit of a tangent.  

I once heard a commercial for learning to read. It stated if you wanted to contact the organization look under “L” for learn. And no, they weren’t trying for levity for the illiterate. They were attempting, perhaps poorly, to open the doors to the written word. An admirable action. The “L” was the place to begin a journey into the literate world and hopefully one filled with good writing. Finding the “L” can be just as tricky as finding good writing.  It is good writing that connects us to the greater experience. A world that must be safeguarded, nurtured, and by no means perpetuated by trends and knee jerk reactions. Good writing may point out errors in judgment, make readers uncomfortable and illicit a desire to cull. Some writing will contain ugly truths, but these truths give way to discussion and debate. There is an open mindedness and connection to history in good writing. One should not receive bonus points for each popular phrase scattered throughout the rhetoric. This is a world in which I would like to belong. 

I can write. I suspect you can too unless you really only just threw yourself into the reading bit and ran out of time. The question is now, how do I move this idea of writing along? I have already embraced the cliche of “mother”.  Grey hair, a scowl I catch in the reflection of the car, ill-fitting clothes, tired, oh so tired, and if I see a crumb on your face I may wipe it off despite our status of strangers. Well, COVID may discourage that last one but COVID may be putting pressure on other cliches as well such as that of the writer. I am ready to embrace this cliche as well. 

I don’t need glasses to write so I have opted for sunglasses tonight. Corey Hart must not have tried this because sunglasses at night are not helpful at all. Maybe that’s why he was pouting. I suppose my new squint in the darkness will make me look more pained as any good writer must. 

Now I must find a sweater. Not a turtleneck. Too pretentious. I don’t want my sweater speaking for me. It would probably speak the Queen’s English. Slightly less. A cable knit. Just the right amount of pretension. In case lobster fishing or a cold breaks out, I am prepared. Draped in an intellectual sweater and writing during COVID may make the writer cliche more bleak. More Nietzsche esque. He and I wearing the same sweater, dammit. How embarrassing. Who wore it better, Vogue? 

And do I have to ponder a lot? Noticeably? Can I be doing something useful like the dishes or must I find a window seat somewhere? Perhaps just a recessed window where I may perch a la The Thinker, slightly more clothes, and not get too comfortable. Also, I need to be committed to the ponder. Perhaps a quirked brow would not be remiss? To what others say. To my own thoughts. Or perhaps odd noises the dog makes. 

Drinking I suppose. A scotch? In excess more than likely. Depressed? Too wise about the world not to be. I can’t drink myself into a stupor. I still have that mom cliche, remember?  Not committed enough to this trade.  I  would like to put forth another trait to replace the drinking. I can eat an inordinate amount of M & M peanuts. Costco style. I’m not boasting. It’s self-medication in a crazy world. My dedication to the craft allows me to reach nausea and push through. I can see I should stop but another small bowl would be perf…nope, too far. 

As a writer do I need to follow trends? Do I need to discuss my privilege? Do I ask permission to those lurking and delivering scathing rebuttals of my position, omissions and word choice? Current social rules demand I make clear statements of my political leanings and social position while genuflecting . I must say the right things or say nothing but saying nothing damns me as well. I must simultaneously say much and say nothing. Confused? Yes, I think they have us.  

Perhaps I am not ready.  I may need to look under learn too. Back to the costume bin.

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Nostalgia (Pre-pandemic posts)

Social Niceties Run Amok

On a recent trip to a maternity clothing store I was reminded of the tacit permission that being pregnant gives to complete strangers to abandon any semblance of social grace. After speaking with other women, I see I am in no way alone. I don’t visit maternity stores often, preferring to wrap my growing girth in whatever fabrics and aluminum foil I can reasonably secure around myself. I exaggerate somewhat as I am not yet at the stage of tying curtains around myself – no taboo Gone with the Wind romanticised version for me. I would have to wear blinds in our house and frankly the chafing is nothing to scoff at. I am regularly seen bursting out of non-maternity tops and the uniform black yoga pants are often called upon for yeoman’s service. However, when I realize I am starting to dress like a homeless woman, I do darken the doors of said maternity stores in search of the jean that somehow restores the casual chic image I envision. Why I envision this when non-pregnant I am not a fashion icon, I don`t know. Apparently I think the extra weight, pregnancy inspired acne, and general discomfort of my new form adds to my sense of fashion.

Anyway, in search of the perfect cargo or skinny jean – manufacturers of the skinny maternity jean clearly have not studied the literary devices of irony and oxymoron – I always feel a bit out of place. True, I am a pregnant woman and yes, I wear clothes, but for some reason this specialized store feels foreign to me. I feel out of place as if they may see me as a fraud or perhaps not a good pregnant woman. I have never claimed this aversion to maternity stores to be rational. Nevertheless I prevailed and gave it a shot.

My strategy – I want to see the pant, try it on, fall in love and wear said pant for the remainder of my pregnancy. Then ceremoniously retire the pant as I seamlessly revert to my prepregnancy size, only more muscle-toned immediately after the birth. Seriously, the pants from the Sisterhood of the Travelling Pants has got nothing on these pants.

I want to do all this without attracting too much attention of the sales people. I just want to do my thing, however ineffective and misguided. I veer towards what I know – jeans. I grab a pair and ask to try them on. Coast is clear. I may make it out with my dignity and composure until a seemingly innocent clerk asks with no prompting from me, “Now how are your undies and panties fitting?” She says this with sympathy pooling in her eyes and I feel the tug to divulge all intimate panty details to her. Now unless she had a better vantage point for viewing the effects of my undergarments then I, I have given them very little thought. If I am not spilling forth, then in my books they are fine. My first response in my head was a mature, “What`s it to you?” or perhaps, “Fine. Yours?” Instead I replied with a very quick and seemingly appreciative, “Good for now, thanks”. Now I don`t know what circles you travel in but I don`t usually discuss my bloomers with strangers. Not only do I not broach the topic to them, but they don`t ask and as far as I know no one has the slightest interest in the fit of my undies.

As I walk towards the dressing room I start to fill the pinch of my underwear which I swear was not there 30 seconds ago and I ponder her pregnancy inspired question. In retaliation, I grab a pair of pants and determinedly head to the cash register to pay for them. They aren`t The Pants by the way; they are simply pants that cling in all the wrong places – traitorous underwear – continuously fall down so I have to indelicately heave them up, I can only really wear them for special occasions and may actually be the wrong size. Keeping all this in mind, I pay a fortune for them and wish the cashier would hurry so I may take my pants of shame home.

Just as I believe I am in the clear, the cashier clearly believes the transaction is not quite done and asks me in an almost sympathetic voice if I have all the stretch mark cream I am going to need. I had almost made it out of the store but now I have paid a fortune for pants I don`t actually want, consider my bra and panties to be conspiring against me and can actually hear the inevitable stretching of whatever abdominal muscles I ever had in the first place. All in all, a stupendous shopping experience.

I do realise that some women may enjoy having someone see to their needs as this cashier had been trained to do. It might even make someone feel pampered and special to have someone guess their pregnancy needs even before they themselves do, but to me these questions were highly personal and yes, made me feel not only pregnant but as someone no longer worthy of the same respect I was once afforded. Perhaps a more helpful approach may have been in lieu of questioning the sturdiness of my undergarments but an offer of a nice cup of tea or, heck, if you truly care a nice invigorating foot rub. After that, then we can talk undies and stretch marks. We need to at least get to first base. I may be pregnant but don`t be suggesting anything untoward. I have my values.

In case you believe I am generalizing one incident to mean something more about social norms, let me continue my tirade, er…observations. I can recall on a number of occasions at work where I was the target of very open discussions. Let me be clear, when I say target I mean just that. I was not involved in the discussions at all, unless standing self-consciously in the middle of the room deflecting comments defines me as a participant. A man I worked with – sorry Man, although you are a nice guy, this needs to be written – upon hearing I was pregnant, he was clearly delighted for me. I know this because he scrutinised me and declared it preposterous that he hadn`t noticed earlier. Thank you for that. I thought I had disguised my advancing pregnancy so well with the fabric and foil I had been using instead of my $80 maternity pants. Anyway, after the initial congrats were over, said man asked me how old I was and stared at me for several long moments and then into space somewhere above me and then back to me again. I wasn`t sure what was going to be said, but knew the silence and age question boded ill so I was braced for impact. It was starting to look like his wisdom was going to hit hard. After what felt like a very long time, he then declared that given my age by his calculations I would have time for two children. Again, thanks so much. Do not fear for my self-esteem though, despite the comments on my ageing ovaries and my fuller figure, he then proceeded to tell me how attractive he had always found pregnant women. Hooray for me. I had a fan and what a silver-tongued devil he was.

Some time after this target practice, I was walking across the room. This same man stopped, cocked his head to the side and smiled at me. Feeling like I was missing something I succinctly said, “What?” He said he just wanted to watch me walk. Before you think I walk in some inspirational or perhaps complicated gait a la Monty Python, I can assure you I walked quite like any 6-7 month pregnant woman does in bad pants and ill-fitting underwear– as carefully and as light-footedly as possible, nothing fancy I assure you. “Now what?” I thought. I could run. Bad choice given my already alluring walking technique apparently. I could back slowly out of the room, but it`s a large room so it might take a while. I opted for the deer in headlights look and refused to move until he did. No freebies here, mister. He didn`t even offer that elusive foot rub. Seriously, if you love pregnant woman so much, stop gawking and do something useful.

One question that I have only recently stopped blanching at in the last few weeks is a personal favourite – When was your last menstrual cycle, commonly known in the medical world as Last Known Period (LKP)? Again, I rarely discuss my menses – love that word – with anyone and certainly not strangers, but I have shared this personal tidbit with more people that I can count. It is on every form I have handed to random medical personnel and at this point anyone who puts their hands out as I walk by. Doctors, ultrasound technicians and their receptionists to name a few have all inquired. They can`t seem to get enough. I wouldn`t even mind so much if there were a few lead in questions. Get a girl comfortable. How are you? How has your day been? Anything you would like to share? And then pop the question. But it is usually right there at the beginning of conversations. This date legitimizes you and then they can proceed. Okay, okay, so if you are dying to know. July 8th. It was a sunny day but with a breeze. A Monday. Happy now? I`m a changed woman – an open book.

People have always said that having children changes you, but what they don`t say is pregnancy starts that change. I think it breaks down the social niceties so when you are lying there with a sad little hospital gown valiantly trying to protect your privacy with your feet above your head and screaming bloody murder during labour , it`s old hat. Nice planning, mother nature.  

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From Ordinary to Narrative

Can’t Go Home Again

 The old adage “you can never go home again” is eerie in the age of COVID. A time of fear, illness and even death. It is a time for reflection and worry.

I have lived away from what we have affectionately referred to as home-home. Not the home in which I currently live nor any of those varied apartment stops along the way, but the home in which I grew up. It wasn’t meant to be a cute name just a way to avoid miscommunication. I’m going home. I mean home-home, my Cape Breton home. And this was said every summer since we lived away. We have never stopped referring to it as our home despite not living there for 20 years or so. Prior to COVID, it was understood we would be going home-home every summer. At first it was my sister and I for several years and then later one, then two, then three and then four children and a husband who came too if he could get away. It has always been there. School starts in September, Christmas is in December and we go home-home in the summer. 

So when COVID hit and the world eventually started to close in, I did not decide not to go home. I lived in some sort of state of denial. I didn’t say we would go as the world said we should not, but I didn’t say we wouldn’t go either. The children asked many times if we would be going or when we would be going and I prepared them for the possibility that we might not. But yet, I didn’t decide then and there that we wouldn’t go; we just didn’t. Now not making a decision can have the same results as making a definitive one, but as a coping mechanism this worked well for me. The end of June came and in an anti-climatic way school let out for the summer. July came and went and here we were. August arrived. We would surely be on the road by now and yet here we were. Living every day as best we could. Walking and avoiding people, working and playing. Calling home and lamenting about the loss of the good times and yet seven months later I still have not made a decision to not go. 

And then in the fall my mother had a terrible car accident. We thought we had lost her. We waited helplessly here to understand both what had happened and how she and my father were doing. In normal times, my sisters and I would have flown to be there with her and our father to provide support, to worry, to make food and simply just be. Covid has us rooted to our separate spots. 

The rehabilitation for our mom has been slow and we feel frustrated and angry and helpless so far away. We know it is far worse there to help during what was already a difficult time, but being away breeds a maddening restlessness. I can feel the worry scratching at my mind all day. I’m uneasy and irritable. The urge to start heading east is strong. We have discussed who could go and how they could go but for now, we stay rooted. And so we call , encourage and attempt to problem solve long distance. We Face Time and celebrate holidays and special days through the computer. It is not the same. The children want to see their grandparents and the lost time with the grandchildren is painful to hear in the voices of my parents. 

I have heard people say dismissively they are “so over COVID”. It’s a funny statement. It sounds trivial but I do understand the sentiment to a degree. I, however, am “not over COVID” so much as I am so very angry at it. I suppose this makes as much sense as stating one is tired of it. I am but one person in a world of sad cases who may not get home. What difference does it make that I am angry at a virus with no heart, or mind or feelings I can hurt with my slinging of slurs and swear words. I know this but I am angry for the fear it has caused, the lives lost and hurt. I am angry that it has taken this time away from both my parents and my children. I am also angry at what it may take from us yet. 

Categories
Nostalgia (Pre-pandemic posts)

One Slipper at a Time

Some months ago, I looked around at school pickup. I always look around for parents careening through the parking lot, wild children running freed from the confines of school, but on this particular day I was really seeing something.

When asked how old my parents were while I was growing up, I remember responding 45 or 46. I’m not even sure if I allotted each of them one age but grouped them together. I remember they even unnaturally stayed those ages for some time in my mind. Looking around at the parents of the school, I was suddenly acutely aware of their appearances. They were attractive people, sure, and by and large well-manicured and in some cases preserved as it’s a well to do area, but all had the same look. Not middle aged, but certainly they had heard of it. Trendy clothes, fitted, highlighted hair, goose company jackets, but there was something about their eyes. Again, not old, but tired. Something about their jaw, not sagging, but rigid against the inevitability of it all. They looked, well, like parents. Well, duh. They are. They weren’t enjoying the congested atmosphere of school pick up just for giggles.

I managed to herd my children through the throng of this group. I tried not to gawk through my new lens. I made it home, but couldn’t shake the thought. This is saying something if you have ever brought four tired and hungry children with you, well , anywhere. Gosh, when did this happen? And how did I manage to scoot right past it all? I’m the same as I’ve always been. Sure, tired and getting out of bed is more like launching a ship these days, but I’m the same. How lucky for me to have escaped, unscathed after all the late nights/early days, endless worries, long days, tantrums, and breakdowns (some mine). As I stood there pondering this, my thoughts were brought to a slow grinding stop. Wait. If these parents are showing signs of aging and I am a parent and my ID claims me to be in that nebulous age my parents were in…Egad. Light dawns. Then darkens as I realise that I too have eyes not quite so free of dark circles. Not the easily replenished eyes of a 20 or even 30 year old working and partying too much and able to sleep through a Sunday, but the eyes of a parent with all the parental worries and responsibilities that keep you up too late and one who also happens to be in her 40 somethings. It is such a ridiculous realization that it doesn’t even deserve the name. Perhaps even a downgraded awareness. Still it hit hard. I was my mother.

Please don’t misunderstand. I have a lovely mother. Supportive, kind, understanding and unflinching in both her love and sense of loyalty. Just recently my mother declared I have a singing voice to rival Julie Andrews. Yes, the world renowned singer beloved far and wide. Two peas in a euphonious pod, we. You may not have heard of me as my mother is the only one to offer such a critique of my crooning. Devotion, not unappreciated, but tone deaf. I don’t just write this as I know her loyalty will have her pouring over these words repeatedly probably during the wee hours as she never sleeps. Hi mums. My epiphany has not meant I have re-envisioned myself with all these wonderful qualities, but I have embraced the fact I am a mother. Not a new mom, not a young mother, not a “you are too thin, too put-together, or too sophisticated to be a mom”, but a real mother. Nope, not that. I’m keeping this clean. Just I have suddenly fallen, leaped, dived, slid into honest to goodness motherhood.

The case for this is clear to me now.

My mother’s behaviour often confounded me growing up. When I said something plainly and my mom said, “What?” and then in the next instant she answered because she had actually heard the first time, it used to drive me batty. I assumed she was trying to make me start pulling my hair out. I now do this all the time. The poor woman was buying time! She was handling three crises, 13 demands, and simultaneously creating a culinary masterpiece for her youngest daughter who decided to become a vegetarian on a whim. Sorry. And I got frustrated when she wanted just one more second to process.

These days my name is being said with increasing frequency and pleading tones but sometimes it doesn’t actually require me to respond. Other times, I need a moment to consider my options and I just buy time until the parental muse inspires. The delay is a survival technique. My mother had it all figured out. This genius does not, however, explain why my mother was seen at times to be wearing only one slipper or sock. That can’t be comfortable, I thought. That is much worse than wearing no footwear at all. When this was at times brought to her attention, she would absent-mindedly, or so I thought, wave it away as if it was normal. Infuriating.

In a fit of worry the other day that my voracious dog would eat something he wasn’t supposed to, for safekeeping I placed the forbidden food in the laundry basket in the middle of the dining room table. And still worried the dog might devour it. Far-fetched I know but so my mother. Still I feel like hiding in two places was right. My mom would agree. She also thinks I sing like a bird.

There have been times when I have had an out of body experience when talking to my children. The other day as I heard a great commotion up the stairs, I yelled, “Enough is enough!”. And stopped cold. I looked around. My mother was three provinces away. That was my voice. Enough is enough. I remember hearing that throughout my childhood. What a ridiculous expression. Enough is enough. Well, obviously. Why state it? Now not only was I stating it but emphatically so because enough really was enough. So wise.

A few days ago, my blood ran cold again. After a discussion with our oldest daughter I instructed her to leave her tone and eyes where they should be. What an incredibly motherly thing to say. I had chills. I kept it together long enough to call my daughter’s bluff, but wow. When did I start to speak like…my mother? For the record, her eyes and tone were heading northward and she knew exactly what I meant. Again, motherhood, I have arrived.

It’s not only personal observations that have led me to this conclusion. At drop-off one morning – yes, apparently, I have great moments of clarity in the school yard – I was struck – not by a car, thank goodness, although it’s dicey. Struck by someone else’s impression of me. A teacher valiantly standing guard at the kiss ‘n ride made eye contact with me and then eyeballed a mother who had her back to us. This mom was dressed to kill. She looked great. Long flowing tresses, cropped jacket, black tight tights – not a typo, those things were a second skin – and heeled boots. It was 8:45 am. Let’s just say I was not wearing this same outfit. Thank goodness I was spared the embarrassment of dressing the same. Anyway, the teacher then looking back at me kind of rolled her eyes and said, “Ha, young mothers”. Ha, ha….wait a minute. I can’t share a laugh at a young mother in hot pants because I am a … well, I don’t happen to be wearing hot pants right this minute. Mine are in the wash. An itty bitty wash on delicate. With this one statement this teacher boldly ushered me into the older mothers’ club and I hadn’t even hinted in the least at the desire to join. I’m young and carefree, just happened to procreate, but that won’t hold back my inner flare and toned backside. I can wear spray paint masquerading as clothing. I’m young. Did I mention I’m young? I might be confused with a student. Student teacher? Grad ..school…. student? Youthful local artist volunteer? Stalled millennial? Not a parent? Surely not the older and sensible parent only caught dead in elasticized waists and my husband’s cozy oversized hoodies? Perhaps I did seek an invitation to this club inadvertently, but dammit, I don’t want to be in on the joke. I want to be the joke.

As a full fledged badge wearing member of the mother’s club, I can feel my mother’s presence as plainly as if she were here next to me. It’s in my words, my tone and even some of my attitudes. Each time this happens I am taken aback and then ruefully I realise how bizarre I once found her behaviours. The mother’s worry bordering on paranoia, the mother’s focus bordering on obsession, the multi tasking bordering on chaos. It’s all here. I am not an exact copy. I don’t have a stylish bone in my body, I can’t decorate a cookie to save my life, and to my great shame I am the worst at imaginative play with my children. I last about five minutes. They say we all turn into our mothers, but that seems far-fetched. I am willing to consider a progression along those lines, but my daughter will never be as confounded by my behaviour. Satisfied with this comforting conclusion, I look around the rooms tormented by toys, books and puzzle pieces and I limp ever so slightly over to begin tidying and wonder where in the world did I put that other slipper….

Categories
From Ordinary to Narrative

Back to the One Room Schoolhouse

There is a lot of talk of how COVID has squashed our adventures this past year. If that’s how you see it, you haven’t been looking hard enough. Home with four young children, three of which are participating in online schooling fills our house with enough adventure to keep the heart racing and adrenaline firing. 

The rush one gets when poised and ready for adventure is alive and well here. It starts before my eyes are open. I should have them closed so as not to see the challenge looming before me but no, they are closed because I am asleep and small children are already protesting that today is a school day. Despite their protests of the day starting, they are up early to protest. Why not have a good sleep in to fortify oneself for rebellion? A good rabble rouser needs their wits about them. The protest isn’t going anywhere. Not seeing my point perhaps due to it being mumbled, I summon any enthusiasm not beaten out of me by a year living as we do now. While there is no leaping into a white water rafting expedition or testing the springiness of a bungee cord, I do have to half blind extricate myself from flailing limbs and stumble my way downstairs to the most magnificent of adventure companions, the Keurig. It and I have seen much together and it doesn’t fail me now. 

Children would like to play Monopoly with me and it’s dark outside. They know my limitations and wait for the coffee to hit my bloodstream. Sight gradually returns and I can open my eyes more with each sip. Game is played, arguing ensues, good morning check-ins and snuggles and finally some breakfast. There is jam, yogourt and crumbs everywhere, people for some reason are pacing while eating, I am refilling endless glasses of milk and the dog has stolen someone’s egg. Seeming to think I can’t find them if they scatter, I turn around to help myself to just a wee bit more caffeine and perhaps the crust of someone’s toast eaten over the sink, and everyone has vanished. The joke’s on them though. Since we don’t leave the house, I know they are here. Abandoning any semblance of order in the kitchen I hunt and gather children and herd them upstairs. Once we arrive with me carrying and chasing, the only motivation to get dressed or brush teeth is mine alone. And this is waning. Most days we settle for some semblance of hygiene by teeth brushing and if someone wants to change clothes or perhaps wear a cat or pumpkin costume, that’s success. 

We have been awake for hours before it’s even decent and somehow it is almost 9:00 and we are at risk of tardiness to reach the dining room that has been converted to a school room.  All children have at least some teeth brushed, some degree of clothes have been adorned, and somehow I am still wearing my panda nightgown that says “the snuggle is real” and my teeth aren’t brushed, but we have made it. No one will sit down, my son has disappeared to the basement, one of my daughters is under the table and the youngest has decided to climb into the fridge to retrieve food as she is soooo hungry pleading why I never feed her. And worse yet, I have misplaced my coffee. 

Setting up laptops and making sure camera angles are forgiving enough not to be pointing at yogourt and crumbs or general chaos of the house we somehow settle. Miraculously someone is online at 9:00, someone else at 9:15 and the other child will get to work….eventually. I am careful to avoid camera shots as I am still in my pjs. My eyes are almost all the way open with the excitement/panic of the start of school and I’m feeling fairly confident that we may have made it for another day of education when the 5-year-old bolts to avoid Jack Hartman singing his heart out to the seven days of the week. Ignoring, cajoling, encouraging has no effect. I have now resorted to threats. Not exactly the introduction to school I was hoping for, but it has the desired effect and she is back sitting more or less in front of the laptop and more or less listening to the earnest and kind kindergarten teachers trying to make this work. She and I settle for her close proximity to the laptop and a good colouring sheet. 

Turning my attention to my son, he is easy to find as he is repeating his mantra “I hate school, why do I have to work” loudly as soon as I round the corner to the basement.  My husband is also online in the basement and this view of his homelife must be enthralling for yet another audience in the house. The mere sight of my son’s journal which I bought specifically to encourage him and  have decorated with stickers has him bellowing. The slightest whiff of the words of the week has him rocking back and forth. We settle for worksheets and while he may write the letters, he is making noises I can only compare to that of a sick moose. It’s actually quite impressive that he can still possess the manual dexterity to print words ending in -uck while still emitting such sounds. Surely this is extra credit? Any older and he would use those phonic skills to complete the -uck words rather aptly.

The three year old has now retrieved whatever it was I never feed her from the fridge and has joined us and begun to search for the ipad. We have until the pandemic kept all children off the tech rather well and here she is, oblivious to my heartache, clutching the ipad to her heart and declaring her love for the device. I might if I am lucky tempt her to colour with me while I work with Bullwinkle or perhaps she can crash the kindergarten program with her older sister. She will at some point turn to me and confess she has done no work today and “why don’t you ever let me do work?” So now I don’t feed her or provide her an education. She’s got me. 

Keeping an eye on all who need paper, attention, misplaced work, or the continual flow of food and drink is not making me perform to my best abilities. Sometimes I turn around and someone is gone again. And sure as shooting as soon as I admonish anyone, the oldest child has unmuted her mic to speak to her class. I shudder when I think of what gems of conversation each class has heard from our home. Long suffering moose, dog barking, hungry children crying and a mother clearly on the edge.  

At some point I feel I can scoot away to change and brush my teeth. Or at least change. It’s a risk. It must be the right balance of engagement and independence. At least I think that’s the recipe. I can’t recreate it. Maybe had it once. Regardless, I will at some point slip away and then will have to tear down the stairs as dog is barking and someone is unmuted and blessed ipad is running out of battery. The other day I heard my oldest daughter yelling at the dog in a voice that sounded hauntingly like myself and then unmute herself and speak to her teacher in the gentlest of tones. They are learning much. I seem to only have the one voice these days, and it borders on desperation and frustration and maybe on a good day a little angsty. We are here all day, every day. 

Where is my coffee cup? I sneak in to the kitchen yelling commands, suggestions or encouragements as I go. I maneuver my way around laptop cameras and try to look supportive and in control of all that is happening here and make my way to my friend, Keurig. It understands me. I stand taller as I walk by and realise out of reflex I was composing myself as if there was a camera in the coffee maker. Now to the best of my knowledge there is not but in my own home I was now tiptoeing around and worried about what the world will see. I laugh at myself and utter a small prayer of thanks that there is no camera there.  Can you imagine what those early morning headshots would be? My coffee maker loves me despite my air of desperation and is simply intrigued by that new twitch when my oldest yells, “mama, the teacher is going to pick me. Make everyone be quieeeet!”  The Keurig may even love me because of, not despite, these things. Adventures bond us. My husband thought my adding the milk to the cup as the coffee maker poured was a little on the desperate side, but my Keurig doesn’t judge. It indulges and sustains.

The coffee was not finished pouring and there are now open cries of dissent coming from the school area. At some point I will release the five-year-old and shortly after the six-year-old needs a break as he sees his sister skip off out of the clutches of school. The eight year old perseveres for some time. There are periods of highs and lows, chases, pestering, playing, arguments, pleading by children and myself, and through it all I continue to lose my coffee cup and the dog continues to bark. It’s 10:30. More food and drink. Break time. Rev up and go again. At night when all children and wildlife have quieted, I can still hear the moose when I close my eyes. I ponder that  we will all be illiterate including myself by the end of it. The end…of it. The end? And then I realise at this point, I’m not too sure I care if we are. 

I have no idea if what I am doing is right in this adventure.  I don’t know if I have the right approach or attitude for four lively minds to be remote schooling. We made the big decision to keep them home and make little decisions every day to educate them. The adventure is the constant balance of formal education, exercise, happiness, calm, confidence, play and a healthy awareness of current affairs. Some days are better than others. I would make the same decision tomorrow, the adrenaline junkie I am. I would however, like to remember to stop bending over in front of the cameras as I tidy. Laura Ingalls, you had it so good in your one room schoolhouse – not one camera. 

Categories
Nostalgia (Pre-pandemic posts)

For the Love of Family and the Game

I’m not a hockey fan. Blasphemy for a Canadian. I’ll be writing under a pen name.  I’m hockey curious. I’m still not confident about the rules surrounding the blue line, I can’t fathom our societal expectations for 22 year boy-men who look younger the older I get, and I’m honestly perplexed by Don Cherry and my confusion has little to do with his jackets. 

Growing up on the East Coast I was certain there were two teams – Boston and Montreal. And you fit into one camp or the other. I didn’t know there were alternatives. And I never questioned this tiny league with a large rivalry. Sure, as times went on I did learn there was more to hockey and more to hockey and well, more. At least this is what the myriad of commentators and interviews with these boy-men have told me. Well, okay, not me personally but the general hockey loving public. 

One of the reasons I have become so well versed – meaning I know there are a few more teams – is because I married a hockey fanatic. This fanatic once tried to pull the wool over my eyes: yes, he jerseyed me and before we were married. Gasp! He confessed to me that he really only watched sports to have some ideas of small talk for his work. He claimed he could chat with most people about some sport. I thought this strange at the time given his attention to all things TSN and Sportsnet but it was early in the relationship and to be fair, I hadn’t yet told him I like to leave things on the floor routinely and I often forget to fill the car with gas. 

It was only after some time that I began to notice huh, this man is so dedicated to his craft that he spends this much time and attention to detail to… sports. Does it help a stilted conversation to be able to recite all jersey numbers and players on the Leafs? Can it relax a client to remember what university or town a player attended? After careful thought as my husband hooted and hollered about a Leaf game as he sat by himself watching tv, I began to question his sincerity. I think we have come to terms with hockey in his life. He has confessed to loving it and I confessed to toleration for the sake of the marriage. We all have our secrets. It is with this acceptance, I find myself turning. 

While my husband watches every leaf game and absorbs all there is to know about any team anywhere, he now has followers. Our children. Our six-year-old daughter sounds like a world weary commentator as she watches the play, echoing her father and making hard criticisms to any team who dare challenge the leafs. Every morning she asks to watch the replay as a child of modern technology she just can’t wait for the goals to happen in real time. Our second daughter, three-years-old, has named John Tavares, Johnny Vares and plays him in their pretend hockey in the living room. Him or Emma. Depends on her mood. Sometimes she is Martina who sings the anthem at Leaf home games. Our four-year-old son needing a healthy outlet for his energy not limited to leaping off furniture or terrorizing the cat, we decided to sign up for Timbit hockey and this has had a ripple effect. 

As many parents already know, hockey means early cold mornings, a surprising amount of expensive equipment and a love for the game. While not possessing a love for the game, I do, however, have a great love for our children, so I’ll give this hockey thing a try. I confess at the beginning of the session that I hadn’t asked my husband the right questions when he signed us up. It started in November and it ran until late Feb? What? It was how early? Could they find a rink farther away? I wondered if there was perhaps another sport we had overlooked? I hear table tennis can be rewarding. But despite my misgivings we persevered. I say we because hockey practice in one way or another became a family affair. It impacted what we did the night before, it determined what we had for breakfast.

There is a lot of care of equipment and pep talks and teaching of life lessons. There were a couple mornings our son tearfully told us he was too tired, so we listened and didn’t send him. Most days though the words “let’s go” had him flying upstairs to get dressed faster than I had known possible for him and coming back with his big boy voice. With the mention of hockey, his voice fell at least one octave. You may know some men like this. He became very business like, and less like the tender and emotional little boy I cherish. This endearing little man was new to us. And so very impressive in his love of the game. 

After what seemed like months and months of early hockey mornings, there came the last day of the session in the form of a gala. I, still a newbie, assumed red carpet finery and high, high class. I was wrong. I still object to the use of the word gala, but that’s another point I am willing to generously overlook. The gala turned out to be pretty swanky but not in the traditional sense. Swanky for four-year-olds means an official lineup, real refs in uniform, a ticking scoreboard and a particularly loud buzzer to signal line changes. Please note the hockey jargon I am throwing around here willy-nilly. Not meant to impress, but some things I can’t help. Fist bump.

The game on gala day was at 1:30. At noon our son on the potty burst into tears, no way was he going. Nerves. I am sure those man-boys of the NHL experience the same. Just on bigger potties. I thought oh, here we go. We are not going to make this really fun growth experience because we can’t make it out of the house or perhaps even the bathroom. However, I underestimated our son and the outburst lasted long enough for us to remember he is four and this was all new to him. He recovered beautifully and with the voice of a forty year old man, he got his gear ready and off he went.

Now I have heard the phrase hockey mom and I have never considered myself one, thank you very much. I have children that for some reason appear to love the game, but I am outside of all that. I make food and help them get ready, but my role in the actual sport is limited. In the background and that’s just where I want to be. However, watching our little man take the ice to line up for the fancy game with introductions and anthem was moving and, dare I say, thrilling. There was a rink full of teeny players who a few short months ago many couldn’t stand up on the ice let alone skate. Here they were under their own steam standing at centre ice. After the anthem, they warmed up by skating around the arena. Maybe to some onlookers this wasn’t incredible but when you consider how far they had come and take into account the work done by the parents to get those little bodies out there, it’s awe inspiring. I don’t believe our son was the only one to have nerves about getting out there. I don’t believe I was the only parent concerned for their child that he or she have a positive experience or the only one to have ensured their child ate well that morning and had enough sleep the night before. Considering each child was supporting their own weight and the good wishes of their parents, it was all the more impressive to see them skate by themselves. 

There is a lot of talk and news stories about the conduct of athletes and their parents. Seems like there is always some parent yelling at a game or getting into an argument about a child’s sport. Well, today in this one arena with 20 some four-year-olds, I saw parents, grandparents, aunties and uncles, siblings all smiling and cheering. Video cameras were rolling, signs were waving and people were celebrating each small success for both sides. I had my camera out and recorded our son and the woman beside me recorded each time her son played on the opposite line. Together we have the entire game. Little siblings watched and wiggled and at times objected to sitting still. Grandparents beamed and seemed genuinely delighted with each player and not just their own grandchild.

The game was nothing short of hilarious. Great attempts, some luck, some skill, some clear understanding of the game and lots of four year old focus. Lots of focus but not always on the puck. Teammates bumped into fellow teammates, goalies stood stock-still like scarecrows as someone had obviously told them to make themselves big but that’s where the lesson must have stopped. Great shots a mile away from the net, some shots at the right net, and general pile ups. There were also some slow breakaways, and the first part of passes and clear delight when the puck found a stick. It was innocent and wonderful and each player for being out there deserves some kudos. They played a tough  sport, had come a long way and played to a crowd. I doubt many adults could do the same. 

And the hockey moms and dads were appreciative. And all this happened in a 20 minute game with no score.

I’m a hockey mom. Good grief. For better or worse, I had no idea what those vows meant. Look at me now. I better run. There’s a game on somewhere. 

Categories
From Ordinary to Narrative

Time Sensitive

The world as we know it has changed. Seemingly overnight and in ways we haven’t either had a chance to ponder or are too afraid to ponder. Some of us saw it coming and some of us seemed blissfully unaware as we set out to indulge and yet here we are, stuck in the same metaphorical boat. Well, perhaps not a boat. That expression may be passé.   

All kinds of things have changed. Where we go, who we see, how the days are structured. Life has gotten immeasurably harder for most. Homeschooling, working from home, working in dangerous and stressful conditions, losing jobs, making ends meet have all brought us a new reality.  It makes me nostalgic for days gone by. And those days were not all beyond reproach. Simple activities are no longer allowed. A coffee with friends, catching a movie or grabbing a drink are dangerous and socially irresponsible actions. Instead of bemoaning their loss, I have decided to host a dinner party. 

Now, since I have no desire to become sick, infect my family or spread the contagion to anyone I will practice safe social distancing. Prophylactic dinner party. Both fantastical in my hosting and cooking prowess and my intended invitees. The requirements to be invited are strict. One must have had a profound impact on me. Sure, sure the world too of course, but it’s my fantasy and as such I reign supreme. It would be quite pathetic if one had to take a backseat in their own fantasy. Unless that’s your thing then have at it. I, however, have a few favourites who enlighten, soothe, cheer and, frankly stop me cold in their observations of humanity.  My fantasy dinner is a little on the heavy side. But in this day and age, what superfluous conversations can one have? Emergency has rid us of the trappings of luxury. Fashion and sports are out. Reality tv like 

while being watched in our isolated mini worlds seems less real than ever before. We wish we could be catching undisclosed STIs and striking the death knell for feminism, but alas no, we have it worse. 

So while the pandemic rages, and children and the vulnerable are sheltered inside, my dinner party will be fabulous. 

Firstly, I will throw something together at the last minute and it will be delicious. Even in my fantasies I can not find any matching linens and like at home growing up the family will take the last plate as it never matched the others. However, my guests and I will be above all that mundane frivolity. I have invited them there simply for their brains. And as you will see the occasional song. But the songs are, you got it, heavy. 

First to arrive, Rex Murphy. You can see his brain before he rounds the corner. He says hello and due to his extensive vocabulary I stand transfixed by his cerebral presence. Forgetting myself, I stand in the doorway gawking, hoping he speaks more. His brain is a dreamboat. I know he has much to say and his insight will both soothe and ignite righteous anger at all the appropriate people and events. Moving aside, he and his brain settle in for a thoughtful few moments while I answer the door. 

Next guest changes the energy. Perfectly timed as always, Melissa McCarthy has arrived in a flourish of colour and energy and the most magnificent twinkle in her eye. I am smiling from ear to ear and usher her inside. The yin and yang now meet and it’s pure chemistry. The scathing intellect from Newfoundland and the comedic Hollywood star have found balance in the tumultuous world. 

Again the doorbell. Before I open the door I hear a song of pure emotion on the other side. Humour, nostalgia, loss, a reckoning have all landed on my doorstep in the form of one well booted woman, Jann Arden. She is delighted to be invited and says she was so happy to see me at her concerts and wasn’t it a shame she couldn’t invite me on stage to help with some of the more vocally challenging numbers. Hey, it’s my fantasy here. She enters and mentions Rick may stop by later. 

As the guests begin to mingle, and introductions are made, a weightiness is felt. The doorbell rings. I head over to touch the handle and I feel a lifetime worth of pain, determination, and the defiance of odds. I open this door to welcome Max Eisen. He is old now, by his own admittance, small of stature but a backbone of steel forged from a lifetime of inconceivable experiences during world war II and the ghosts thereafter. He has built for himself both a life of love with his family and has given with great personal sacrifice to the world through education. I had the honour of meeting this man at a book signing in December. You remember when we could go to such places? At that time, I was awestruck and unable to say any of the things I should have said. Now, in my fantasy, I have found the perfect combination of words to convey both my sorrow of his and so many others’ experiences and delight of meeting him in a simple greeting. It’s a beautiful and moving moment. 

We are all in. The evening is rife with scintillating conversations. I exchange barbs, commentaries, insights with all. The food is delicious. Dolly and Bruce drop by. I am feeding endless amounts of mashed potatoes to Rex to comfort his fears for humanity and iron rich foods for his brain. For  Melissa, I attempt to pour her a drink but I can barely stand up every time she tells me another seemingly harmless anecdote that critiques the status quo. Jann, while occasionally breaking into song at my hosting abilities, in her self deprecating style has us appreciating life’s journey. As for Mr. Eisen, he is quiet and surveying the scene around him. So much has happened in his life experience and now he finds himself here. This is a raucous and slightly tipsy group with much to share. Mr. Eisen keeps us grounded and connected to the vastness of history and the human experience. I told you, even in my fantasies I still have that darkness. Nothing light here, especially the dessert. 

As the evening winds down, talk turns to reality. The pandemic even invades fantasies. From all there is fear of loss, uncertainty. There is the actual virus, government responses and the human component. For many, we have not seen struggle such as this and are afraid we are ill equipped to understand the sacrifice demanded. The need to hold strong while holding loved ones close and also far from us to protect them plays with our minds. We have fought nothing like this before. We are now so far removed from Disney cruises, Friday night drinks and weekend playdates. We are mobilized and yet quite still. Time is our greatest weapon now. Buy more time, plan, treat and potentially cure. Time is also against us as we are a culture used to wanting more. A soft culture. Amazon prime culture. We see it, we want it, we get it. First world problems if it’s late or shoddy. Neat and tidy vacations, drinks and food and child care done with a swipe of the card. Now we wait. Our wants must wait. 

The mood of the party now reaches a sombre one. Desserts have been consumed. Drinks are low to match the mood. These great minds feel the weight as we all do. We are now in the history books. But we wait to see what the next chapter reveals of our fate. It’s not a choose your own adventure but it’s close. Handle us with care and determination, politicians. We will rise to the challenge as our fate depends on it. I hope there is someone left to write that book and someone there to read it. 

The  guests file out. The dinner party was a success. Bonds formed in our solidarity. Great minds capable of feeling and articulating great emotion. They have had much to discuss. 

. 

Categories
From Ordinary to Narrative

Coffee, the more bitter you are the deeper I fall

from Kaboompics.com from Pexel

I have honed over many years of little sleep a loyal and steadfast love of coffee. An otherwise exhausting day rejuvenates my inexhaustible appetite for caffeine. I have the ability to drink coffee, hot or cold, sloshing down my arm and staining my shirt. I can drink it black, with milk and once upon a time when I was a novice I thoroughly enjoyed a Timmy’s double double. Sigh. In those inexperienced days when I thought I had the vaguest notion of being tired I gobbled down the cream and sugar with the splash of coffee and thought I was a coffee drinker. Wrong. I was drinking coffee with training wheels. It may have been the tired puffy eyes and poor manual dexterity in the early hours that caused me to stop putting cream and sugar in my coffee, but I suspect it has more to do with the fact that in the morning I could mainline caffeine and I’d still be impatient. 

I drink more coffee than I should. How many cups? I know, I know, Timmy’s cups aren’t actually the size of a measured cup but it is called a cup so I am leaving it as the measure. No one has offered to swing by and buy me a bucket, barrel or cask from Timmy’s so I rest my case. If you want to debate this let’s sit down and discuss. If you look thirsty I would be a poor host if I didn’t make you a vat, er, cup of coffee to quench your thirst. And mine.

 I must admit I can’t actually say how much coffee I drink. And it’s not because the number is embarrassingly high. Well, not only that. It’s because I make many many cups but due to the fact that with children I very rarely sit or in fact, remember where I put my cup. It seems like it wanders away and when I find it, it’s cold and usually a hair is floating in it. So that can’t count – drinking the hairy cold coffee, right? In days of yesteryear when we visited people – I’ll tell you all about it over a cup someday – I would visit my in-laws and they would always offer me a cup of coffee. Not just any coffee, but a Nespresso.  I’d gladly accept. I know you are shocked. Hope you were sitting down. And then because I was again chasing those pesky children I would often seemingly abandon by cup. My father-in-law being the dedicated host he is would then chase after me with cup in hand afraid I would miss out on my drink. Where children went, I followed and closely after that my Nespresso. I assured him my coffee drinking would not be hampered by distance or temperature. I would find my way back. It calls to me. 

There is a lot of talk about blends, beans, and origins of coffee. I am no snob. Nor am I a barista. I get nervous thinking of ordering at Starbucks. I can’t grind. That felt like the article took a turn. Coffee I mean. I can’t grind coffee. I don’t have the patience to wait for it to percolate. I want instant coffee. I want Coffee. I am bestowing a capital upon it. It’s been grammar knighted. And yes, it’s a thing. It’s especially a thing after a few vats have hit the bloodstream.