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The Double Eagle

My parents enjoyed the outdoors and taking us kids on adventures no matter how loudly reluctant we were. We strolled, hiked, rode bikes and took out a canoe from time to time. Imagine our parents’ delight when our grandfather sold our family his boat, a 14-foot, 1980 Double Eagle, in pristine condition. It boasted orange decking, brown leather chairs and an off white hull — an adventurer’s dream. A six-pack of chunky, bright orange life jackets later and we were on our way.

All four of us were helpless casualties of their meanderings and self-guided boat instruction. The Double Eagle made them feel limitless with the wind in their hair (at way too many knots an hour) and their newfound capacity for exploration, they had the whole natural world at their fingertips. The Double Eagle was a patient teacher, rather built well. That’s the thing with boats — you learn as you go, and learn they did, thank goodness she was sturdy, built for unyielding adventure.

We hit a sand bar in one lake, sputtering us all right back into reality, our fate resting in the goodness of passersby to free our boat. We also ran out of gas, more than once if I recall correctly. Thankfully, we had oats and boaters, in general, are kind people and they came to our rescue. Our parents eventually learned the exact limitations of that boat and all of our sanity by putting them both to the test. Perhaps there was no other way — in the words of T.S. Eliot, “Only those who risk going too far can possibly find out how far they can go.”

We would pull up and jump ashore beside other boats more sleek and more modern coloured, it’s riders sported neoprene life vests in fashionable colours, I’d have given anything in those moments for a trendier neoprene life vest.

The trips started out small, just a few hours searching for everything we had been missing out on while boat-less. We found elusive beaches, hidden waterfalls and spent countless hours beach-combing for “jewels” — strangely shaped wood that had the potential to be made into a table leg or a lamp by my dad, who had very little extra time for projects. We would cheer him on, often adding our own finds to his growing pile. The wood secured the best seats on the boat and it became our responsibility to fit into the boat as best we could. He would lovingly place each piece of carefully curated treasure in a heap beside his shop. He’d eventually move the pile from house to house, very few pieces of wood ever reaching their full potential. Perhaps the pieces of wood were ok with that though, having enjoyed an extra moment of admiration, far after they had provided shade or danced in the breeze.

During one of our expeditions we landed on the shore of a boat-in only campsite. There were three groomed sites for tents hidden in the forest behind, a large beachfront and an outhouse. It was free, off-grid and involved the boat — our parents were thrilled.

Camping sites, back then, were first come, first served and we would drive around with a vehicle packed to the hilt with camping gear, tarping supplies, a large assortment of treats and four very hopeful children. No vacancy signs, confirmed by speaking with site attendants filled us with dismay as we drove with growing urgency, further and further from home and later and later into the day. How much trickier it would be to ensure the boat-in site would be ours, it was imperative we beat the weekend rush.

We never pared down our camping supply list, on account of needing to boat in all of our supplies, in fact we brought more. My dad packed enough two by fours and a sheet of plywood to set up a very elaborate beachfront tarp system, complete with level picnic table and of course an ample supply of firewood. We would need to do two trips. Weighed down, the trip took 45 minutes to an hour depending on the moodiness of the water. When we picked up speed, the rear of the heavily-packed boat often threatened to sink below the surface; it was my brothers job to hop up onto the bow. Those of us who could, clambered forward and the rest of us just leaned and held our breath, hoping we could displace enough weight to not go under. Somehow, our ambitious packing never caused our capsize, though in one terrifying moment, my brother and his friend were both washed into the water, but just once.

We had enough supplies to fill the beach, due to my dads over-sized tarps and furniture made on site. To onlookers, I’m sure it seemed as though we had always been there and were leaving no time soon and so we never had to share the camping area. I’m quite sure the small number of unruly, bedraggled children had nothing to do with it.

Upon arriving at our explorers paradise, the skies broke open and the rain poured down. We set to work unloading and setting up our tents. The outstretched arms of the cedar trees offered very little protection from the rain. We longingly joked about abandoning the whole trip for a warm hotel, but we grew up on a budget, dad had already left for the second load of supplies and it was already growing dark. We were just barely able to see beyond the branches of the trees, the rain making the lake’s surface come to life. We fumbled through set up and took shelter inside the kids’ tent. We climbed into our sleeping bags, clicked off the flashlight and settled in to wait for morning.

After what felt like forever, we heard the trusty hum of the Double Eagle’s motor. Our dad —an experienced camper—startled us all as he walked around the tent pushing on the walls, “stay away from the walls to stay dry,” he warned. We huddled together, with our backpacks, in the middle of the tent. Sleep overtook us all as we imagined what tomorrow’s light might bring, listening to the falling rain on the tent.

We excitedly unzipped the tent and stumbled out to find a much more favourable day for camping. We played amongst the trees, on the sandy beach and cooled off in the frigid water. We enjoyed tubing, holding on for dear life until we plunged into the cold water that smacked like concrete and took our breath away. “Faster!” We screamed.

As the day warmed, an old man kayaked over to our campsite, two smaller kayaks in tow. A tiny bathing suit showed off his sun weathered skin, his eyes appeared so large behind the thick glasses he wore on a strap fastened behind his head. He may or may not have been a little “off,” said my mom who prided herself on her stellar intuition and never took her eyes off of us as he hoisted us in and out of his kayaks, summer after summer. I’m not sure if it was politeness or curiosity that led her to allow us to follow him to his campsite a short hike down the beach. She followed closely. He was set up to stay the majority of the summer in an incredible fortress made of the wood he had collected from the beaches. These sticks were surely enjoying their second life; I’m sure he was a good guy.

I admire my parents resolve for adventure. Taking four whining, heavily-resistant children into the elements is not for the faint of heart. I don’t recall any of us kids ever loving the boating part of these escapades, though when our feet hit the ground again, as we reached our destination, we were happy explorers.

My brother-in-law recently rewired the motor at my mom’s request, and we all cinched up our orange life jackets extra tight (pretty sure those were original), sat our kids on the brown cracked leather seats and took a ride on the Double Eagle, for old time’s sake, fondly thinking back on all the trips we survived.

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Don’t Tell Mom

As kids, we were routinely locked out of the house when our mother needed some well-deserved down time — which usually consisted of her reading her water-logged Bible in the claw foot tub, in our one bathroom house. We never knew how long it would be before outside time ended, she had a habit of stirring in more hot water and Revelation had fallen into the water a long time ago. It was our job to entertain ourselves on an eight acre acreage, complete with an abandoned barn, a forest, a creek and a pond, flanking the aptly named Bear Mountain. 

Our knocks and urgent hollering fell on deaf ears, in event of emergency we were without a doubt, on our own. After we wrapped our minds around things, we embraced the predicament we found ourselves in and lost ourselves in the voracious landscape and our imaginations. We could conquer this infinite passage of time — together. It was us against the elements, for perhaps eternity — there was no way to be sure.

Funnily enough, we never saw a bear, perhaps our heads were too caught up in our games to notice any curious onlookers. Perhaps we were too loud. Or perhaps our free-spirited, free-roaming dog, my dad found in the “unwanted” section of the newspaper —free to good home— kept them at bay. Shamoo, came with only the name, a half-bag of kibble and his thick white coat, full of the mysteries and adventures his happy grin only began to allude to. He traversed the perimeter of our property (and well beyond) alerting predators of his and our presence.

While there were places and activities forbidden to us, the rules were stretched or forgotten altogether when we ventured outdoors unsupervised. Our imaginations grew as we created portals into another world, one where only we existed, outside of the rules, outside of reality. We climbed tall ladders into high hay lofts, we rode dirt bikes at break neck speed we spent whole afternoons capturing and releasing creatures. While it was expected we had common sense, common sense was best learned by making a myriad of mistakes. Left to our own devices, it was up to us to learn and appreciate our own limits.

Given a brief introduction to knife carrying safety, my brother was set free with his first Swiss Army knife— never whittle towards yourself or run with an open blade. The instructions seemed straightforward and the knife made sense for reaching the next level of outdoor enjoyment. Sharp weapon-like sticks and rudimentary carvings were already in the works. It wouldn’t be long before we were blazing trails with machetes. When my brother fell, doing something he shouldn’t have, he lodged the knife deep into his hand between his finger and thumb. “Don’t tell mom,” he said. Those words were a pact we all deeply understood. 

While we enjoyed tattling on one another at many points in life, the wilderness built within us a camaraderie like no other. The fresh air that filled our lungs, ran through our veins and fuelled our hearts, coursing through us all — we were different outdoors. It was us against everything and we most definitely would respect the pact, by not telling mom. We learned wound care that day, and a deeper respect for sharp objects. 

Due to our apocalypse-fearing Christian upbringing, we often played an enchanting little game called, “End of the World,” where we imagined we would soon be the only people left on Earth, or need to go off-grid for any variety of reasons. Whatever the situation, it was pressing that we sharpen our survival skills. Imagine our dismay, when we learned a compass comprised of a magnetized needle and a leaf in a bucket of water could not save our mortal souls. It didn’t much matter we could survive the rugged terrain, bellies full of the sourest huckleberries. We could catch fish in buckets and we discussed the nutritional value of grubs and insects, only one of us brave enough to try. We had nothing but time, the wilderness and each other and so we practiced well. 

A friend from work mentioned she had removed a book from the school library shelves, titled Schoolyard Games, a how-to type of book, circa 1980. One of the chapters boasted a fun little game where children throw pocket knives at the other participants to avoid boredom and of course, increase knife skills. Thinking fondly of my own childhood, and us throwing sharpened sticks at eachother, I suggested she re-shelve the book (to no avail — though probably for the best). 

I couldn’t help but smile to myself, as my brother presented his own children with their very first pocket knife, during a family camping trip. I even got to listen in as he explained the simple rules for the miniature blades. I watched as they carefully realized what potential lay in their palms. “Enjoy.”

Now we have the most incredible opportunity watching our own children from our windows — giving them the illusion of aloneness — as they scale tall hills, use sticks as swords, catch frogs, gather insects and test their own limits, right at the foot of the same Bear Mountain. I watch as they increase their familiarity with the wild, one tiny step at a time. I listen intently though for worrisome sounds, not quite ready to draw myself a bath and lose track of them altogether, one foot in the 90’s, one foot right here. If ever I am lucky enough to overhear the phrase, “don’t tell mom” used by my own young children, I will try my absolute best to smile. 

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The Highway

Every day we would hit the bump in the highway with increasing velocity and increasing hopes that today would be the day when we momentarily took flight. 

A year, felt a long time to travel the same stretch of highway, every day — an introduction to the drudgery of regular routine and we celebrated the break in monotony by attempting to launch ourselves into the air, with no regard for consequence.

I met my dear friend in a Math for Elementary Teachers course. I didn’t know she would become my friend just yet. I did know, she needed help, and while I was adept in math I didn’t realize I was in need of a lot of loud laughter and support for many years to come. Five years and a few courses later, we were thrilled to have been accepted into the same teacher program and we made immediate plans to carpool.

Excitement grew when winter came and the bump grew under the freezing conditions like only a newly settling freshly twinned highway over a wetlands could bend a highway. We wondered how much more the road could endure before crumbling completely under the intensifying conditions — but her integrity remained intact. Everyday we hit the bump speeding, and for just a moment before we returned home each afternoon, we were weightless. 

A professor we deeply admired, encouraged us when feeling uncertain, to plant our feet firmly on the ground connecting ourselves with the earth. Unsurprisingly, when you envision the entire earth beneath your feet, supporting you, you begin to feel calm. (Whether this worked because of a true connection or a distraction method, the results were the same.) This technique became invaluable as we interviewed for teaching positions and beginning our career. We planted ourselves in the interview seats and became fixed in positions that required even more routine and regularity than student life allowed.

As we became fixed in our new phase of life, my dear friend moved away and the highway folks “fixed” the blacktop on our beloved stretch of pavement — taking her defiant beauty. 

Every now and then I come hurtling down nostalgia highway and more often, the regular highway. While her playful, unruly ascent no longer remains, she still bends a little, fondly reminiscing of the time she sent us soaring — an enthusiastic accomplice in our escape from the usual.

Thank you, dear highway, for always taking us to where we needed to be. 

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into the rain

Distracted, I nearly hit a man, with my grocery cart, as he slowly made his way across the opening of the aisle, on his motorized scooter.

“I’m sorry.” I smiled — a sheepish apology. I had used this trick successfully before, so I felt unsure when he didn’t smile back. The minor accident check list always works. Admit guilt, check. Smile, check. Wait for a forgiving smile in return. But he didn’t. I studied the look on his deeply wrinkled face — like a puddle that had spent an entire season without rain. He looked perturbed. His thickly furrowed brow furrowed even further and without another word we headed in different directions.

And then it happened again. 

My daughter pulled the cart along at the check out as she hurled all of the easily bruised groceries into any available space on the conveyor belt. 

“Clink.” The cart hit the cart in front of us.

“Sorry,” I laughed. The lady smiled, understandingly. 

And then I saw him, right in front of her, paying for his groceries. 

“Hello, again.” I smiled — twice rejected.

“Do you generally make a habit of hitting people with your grocery cart?”

“Not generally, no.” I follow it up with an awkward laugh. 

“Hmph.” He said before departing into the cold mist of the day.

“Good riddance,” I thought to myself as we continued checking out. We paused for a moment to pull on our hoods before slowly venturing into the rain.

I saw the man in the distance. A cigarette nestled in his yellowing fingers, fighting against the elements. He saw me too. 

“No one smiles anymore.” He stated. “No one has time for small talk either.” He said as we wheeled a little nearer. The mist coated our clothing, his unkempt hair and settled into the thirsty crevices on his face. Almost pleasant out of doors — we stayed and chatted for a minute or two — there in the rain. Perhaps it was more than his skin feeling thirsty.

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Teeth Time: A Torturous Tale

The five year old found a long lost tooth brush from the depths of our voracious couch — its grungy bristles splayed in protestation of years of misuse and neglect. A combination of crumbs, dust and dog hair littered the ground as her hand vibrated with every step she took, wielding it towards my face. I locked my lips, but she shouted, “Open wide!” I shook my head. “Open up!” She shouted again.

I interjected. Honestly, I’m surprised it took this long to be repaid for this beloved nightly ritual, so I unlocked my lips and prepared my mouth for the words that were about to spill out of it. “Get mine!” I generously offer. “Get mine and then you can do it.” I immediately regretted the words.

Happy with the compromise, she trotted off to prepare my toothbrush. She returned, the brush in hand barely visible beneath her tight grip and a thick layer of minty toothpaste. She tapped her foot and smugly demanded, “Open up.”

I did. She painted my teeth with it, the foamy saliva toothpasty mixture made its way across my lips and my chin and eventually up to my nose.

I smiled — a Joker-esque toothpaste grin- perhaps my good behaviour would elicit some in return.

The three year old watched with pure glee on her face, I could read her thoughts — it’s her turn next. For now she accepted her place in line, and as holder of the spit bowl — there was no way they were letting me get up to use the sink.

She recreated our nightly routine perfectly by shouting commands, tickling the roof of my mouth, prodding my tongue and giving me receding gum disease all while muttering something about getting all of the sugar bugs. 

I protested. 

“I’m not finished yet.” She countered, as she continued to rake my gums. 

Before my jaw physically fell off of my body, I shouted, “Show time!”

It worked though. The three year old was slightly more sympathetic to my nightly endeavour and there was only a short wrestling match that night.

Time well spent.

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A Midsummer Cold — Patience Level: Zero

Our home was hit with a cold. Not the wipe-you-off-your-feet-putting-you-on-the-couch-with-a-box-of-Kleenex-eyes-barely-open-as-you-listen-to-your-favourite-TV-show-hovering-somewhere-between-consciousness-and-completely-asleep type, but the one that just barely messes with your wellness and majorly depletes your patience level. It interrupts your children’s sleep as the virus hits their little bodies a little harder, rendering you and everyone in the house in a state of utter exhaustion.

In this particular circumstance the croup cough resulting in a midnight ambulance call might not have helped things. But when your three year old wakes you up with a terrifying, panicky, wheeze hack and manages to say that she swallowed a rock and the hubby is on an out of town shift, and there’s two other kids still sleeping, you call. A false alarm, thank goodness, but then we were all awake, still stunned and on edge. Eventually the hum of the fan, the uneven snores of a croupy three year-old and the claws of an eight month-old baby, on my face, lulled me back to sleep.

They’re bickering before I even lift my head from the pillow, like really bickering complete with neck punches. I am in a fog that no amount of espresso can lift. I find myself losing my patience and then apologizing, on repeat. All. Day. Long. “I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m sorry.” None of us are our best selves, physically, mentally or emotionally and we are all simultaneously both imploding and exploding. All. Over. The. Place.

Our five year-old, while not obviously sick, seems to have the same level of irritability as myself amplified by the heat, and is antagonizing her sister and me at every turn. She pushes allllll the buttons. “Get ready!” I yell, “It’s time to go!”

I bend over to help our three year-old put on her swimsuit, she refused to take off her shoes. I’m dizzy and I feel myself slipping into another moment of unnecessary exaggerated frustration as I try to jam uncooperative shoes through a seemingly invisible leg hole. As I take a deep breath, I catch a glimpse of her footwear. Her paw patrol socks are stretched up to her perpetually scratched knees, and her mismatched shoes on the wrong feet. I take a minute to remind myself that she’s three, and she’s not feeling well either. There’s a thin layer of snot across her entire face, and wisps of her hair are booger glued to her face, I attempt a crunchy pair of pigtails.

They’re not buckling their car seats and yet for some reason the three year-old still feels the need to scream “I do it my own self!” When I reach in to help, she swats at my hands and stiffens her body — an angry, snotty, piece of defiant plywood. The harder I push, the harder she resists and it takes everything I have to stand back and watch her struggle with her badly twisted straps as her baby sister, in desperate need of a car nap, begins to loudly complain.

Somehow we made it through the day, good friends who don’t mind some venting and help to keep my kids happily occupied, helped for sure. We made it and I head to bed optimistic that tomorrow is a new day.

The baby has it now and her clogged nose makes it impossible for her to keep her beloved soother in place. All night booger sucking, bum pats and quiet shushing mean that again I got very interrupted sleep — a recipe for disaster.

Unwilling to waste even one warm summers morning I prepare them for an outing. My head is stuck in a “seize the moment” mentality and I overly ambitiously decide it is very important we head out early to beat the heat of the day. My head is spacey as I shuffle three kids, two dogs, enough snacks, water bottles, extra clothes and a blanket into my car.

Then, “Crunch!” I backed my car into our mostly opened garage door. Tiny pieces of styrofoam shoot out from the now very curved garage door and I let out a frustrated cry. My good-hearted neighbour reminded me it was an accident, a fixable one and my husband graciously laughed as I delivered my news via FaceTime.

We should’ve just stayed home, embraced a sick day and watched a movie, but the edges of wellness are deceptive and I really thought we could do it. Summer provides so much time for relaxing and yet counterintuitively adds a sort of pressure to get out there and provide our kids with opportunities to have fun, lest we waste the day. I’ve been keeping a mental summer to-do list — the last summer before our five year-old enters kindergarten — of all the great things I remember enjoying when I was young.

I often tell my kids that we all make mistakes, but it’s important that we learn something from them, to hopefully avoid repeating it. I learned it’s ok beneficial to waste use a warm summers day for rest and repair when our bodies and minds require it. The next kinda unwell day, I’m calling it, right from the get go, couch and cuddles, no matter the weather and perceived pressure to have fun.

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When Internet Friends Become Real Friends

Photo by Cristina Cerda

We lost our first baby. He was born at 35 weeks 2 days pregnant, it was both shocking and devastating, to say the very least.

The hospital social worker warned us that internet groups could be dark places and to be wary of them.  Armed with a handful of bereavement pamphlets, a memory box and this information, we left the hospital.

Still reeling, I couldn’t handle the obnoxiously happy weekly pregnancy updates infiltrating my inbox. I tentatively logged on to the website to delete my account. My vision made blurry from constant tear swiping, I navigated my way to the “delete account” page — a nearly impossible feat. The site, like most sites, claimed to be very genuinely sad to see me go. They begged to know why I would ever want to leave their very informative and useful site, and provided a multiple choice click option. And for once in my life, I was grateful to have to explain my reasons to a computer, because there it was beside one of the tiny check boxes: miscarriage/baby loss. The site expressed its sincerest condolences and listed several forums I might find comfort in. 

But wait, the social worker had warned me about these dark corners of the internet, where grieving people wallow in their sorrows amongst the internet cobwebs — often never heard from again.

Too late — before I knew it, I was the newest member in all three of the loss groups the site had recommended for me.  

I have “real life” friends, great ones, family too, they were so so good to us after our loss, but my soul longed for a kindred connection with other souls, also still reeling from the overwhelming trauma, that is baby loss.

I spent hours poring over every single post. I made posts. I commented on posts. I marked comments with a tiny heart, just to let someone, somewhere, know they had been heard. It was a safe space where I could say whatever sad or disturbing thing I wanted and I was completely understood. Some nights, long after pre-loss me would have been sleeping, I lay in bed, clinging to my phone, the screen illuminated the darkness, as I refreshed my feed, over and over again. I didn’t want to miss anything.

There was a specific group of us, that had all lost babies within a few months of each other (three of us had babies born on the same day — including our son). We frequently commented on each others posts and passed private messages back and forth. Then one of them made a Facebook group. I was hesitant to lose my anonymity by linking these two worlds, matching screen names with real names, but I’m so glad I did. 

We celebrate with each other. We cry with each other. We talk each other through some of the scariest moments of our lives. We lift each other up. We talk each other down. We’ve watched each other’s families grow both in size and in experiences. But most importantly, we remember together.

When the entire world feels like it is entirely too much, we make jokes about buying a castle together, or a tropical island and escaping it all — quite possibly forever. 

I was so lucky to meet one of my friends, after almost three years of chatting online. She generously invited my family to stay with hers in her home in the Dominican Republic. It was awkward for exactly one minute before we dove deep into conversation, right where our last chat had left off. We visited her sweet baby in the cemetery and celebrated her rainbow daughter’s first birthday, alongside her family and friends. We holidayed together and watched both of our daughters playing in the sand under the palm trees. We marvelled at this exhaustingly beautiful stage of life, while reminiscing about our journey here. How lucky we were to have found each other.

I casually talk about my Internet friends and I’m often asked how I met them, because they are scattered about the United States, another in Canada and my dear friend in the Dominican Republic. “Oh,” people always respond, flatly, and I quickly feel the need to legitimize our friendship, but maybe it’s not something you fully understand, until you have internet friends, who regularly check in on you.

My soul found what it needed there, in that dark little corner of the internet, I found them, or maybe they found me, all of us a little broken, all of us in need of an understanding ear, all of us connected by a life-altering, world up-ending event.

Seven years, several miscarriages, many heart breaks, personal and family traumas, countless laughs and 27 rainbow babies (another on its way), we all remain friends.

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The Very Hungry Caterpillars

I thought I would be a good mom, you know, one that embraced her children’s interests and science and nature and said “yes” once and awhile, especially since this is my oldest’s last summer before kindergarten. But. Oh. My. God.

Three weeks ago, we spied butterfly eggs, helplessly lying on the leaf of my daughters sunflower plant. The plant my daughters raised from tiny sunflower seeds, given to them in a party bag, the seeds they lovingly shoved into a weird puck of hard packed dirt, the plants that had already survived the dutiful over-watering of a five and three year-old, their “gentle” hands, several drop and spills and an aphid infestation. They likely wouldn’t survive a hundred hungry caterpillars. Seriously, why this plant?

Unbeknownst to me, they built a caterpillar Tupperware terrarium and scraped the eggs from the leaf into the container. I warned them they were unlikely to live.

They placed the container on the counter and studied its contents each day. Nothing happened. Just as they were about to be written off completely, and the dirt deposited back into the earth, they popped out of the eggs and a very tiny caterpillar climbed up the side of the container.

I thought I knew what I was doing, I had read Eric Carle’s, The Very Hungry Caterpillar after all — a deceptively short book.

I cut off a couple of sunflower leaves and placed them gently into the container. With a piece of grass I carefully dropped each very tiny caterpillar onto the leaves, sprinkled on a few tiny water droplets. The three of us, mesmerized, peered into the container. I warned them again, it was still very unlikely they would survive.

When they began to nibble tiny holes in the leaf, I thought to myself maybe, just maybe they would be OK.

The next day, my five-year-old daughter asked, “Do wood bugs eat baby caterpillars?”

“Why?” I asked, as my daughter led me to the container and pointed at a very large, very grey, wood bug.

“Take it out,” I said.

“Why?” she asked. I raised my eyebrows and she carefully picked up the wood bug and carried it outside.

Google confirmed wood bugs do, in fact, eat baby caterpillars — which might explain why there were less caterpillars than there were yesterday. How did parents even parent pre-Google?

“There’s two,” she informed me, “There’s another wood bug somewhere under the dirt.” So again I warned them, the caterpillars were unlikely to survive.

The following day, I took a head count: One missing wood bug resurfaced, three wilted leaves, nine tiny caterpillars, a plethora of caterpillar poo and one clump of quinoa — they like to watch them while they eat.

A few days later, none of the caterpillars were moving and I was certain they were all dead. They weren’t. The quinoa had sprouted some mold and a tiny little weed curled out from the dirt. They needed a container change — as if I didn’t have anything better to do (but I don’t, I really don’t, because these little guys make her heart happy, so my heart is happy) — I instructed my children on how this should happen, because unlike Eric Carle’s hungry caterpillar, these little guys are highly particular about the food they choose to eat and defaecate on. I encouraged the caterpillars from very wilted leaves and the girls replaced them with fresh ones.

Google assured me my their beloved caterpillars look very much like cabbage worms. Which made me feel slightly less guilty about this unintentional science exploration as all of the websites listed ways to eradicate the pest, rather than care for it.

Two weeks later, there were ten. I don’t know where the tenth came from, it’s much smaller than the others. They poo a lot, by a lot I mean A LOT. They eat a lot. Also they’ve turned orange and black, are very furry, and are most definitely adorable little Woolly Bear caterpillars. Google says they will molt — which makes their heads falling off feel less alarming now — six times before forming a chrysalis. Six. Eric Carle told this story in twelve pages.

The five-year-old says she does not want to set them free at the park, not even just a couple. Instead she gathers a variety of leaves, flowers and sticks from every place we visit — a self-proclaimed caterpillar mom.

With any luck, in a couple months she will be releasing her moths into the wilderness. Around the same time I will be dropping my oldest off at kindergarten — marking the end of a monumental summer of transformation. I imagine it will feel like a combination of “I’m so sad this time is over” and “I’ve waited so long for this” for both of us mothers.

Stay tuned.

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Dear Lovely Strangers

To all of you Lovely Strangers,

Thank you.

I thought I knew what I was doing having three kids. I had successfully maneuvered a large box from the post office to my car with two kids in tow — and by in tow I mean one twenty feet ahead and another trailing twenty feet behind — while eight months pregnant. Surely managing an infant would be similar.

And it is, exactly like that, except the box baby needs things which often reminds the older two, they too need things. They often wait for inopportune times to loudly express their demands for things like food and water or to use the bathroom, or whichever thing I offered them only moments earlier, when I wasn’t changing a dirty diaper. Some days are exhausting, others are lovely (but still exhausting).

So thank you. Thank you for seeing me. Thank you for offering — even if I don’t take you up on it — I appreciate your offer, and more than that, I appreciate you.

You saw me struggling to buckle up the infant carrier. Usually an easy feat, I stretched my arms reaching for the buckle behind my neck, while balancing a tired, crying baby on my chest, maybe it was my hair in the way, maybe it was the squirming infant, but the buckles would not meet. You asked if you could help, thank you.

You saw me bouncing and swaying with a baby nearly asleep in the carrier, keeping an eye on my other two children, running wild circles around the other picnickers while waiting for our lunch. I filled a mini cup with ketchup and prepared to balance two precarious plates overflowing with food truck goodness back to where my older two were supposed to be sitting. You asked if you could help, thank you.

You saw me as I herded my two children towards the ice cream line up. Their bodies anticipating sugar, vibrated with excitement causing them to physically bounce and spin and loudly shriek which flavour they’d prefer. With a baby in one arm and my other hand full of teetering lunch time garbage, I scanned the area for a garbage can. You offered to help, thank you.

You saw me struggling to close my very obstinate stroller. No amount of jiggling, jostling, pushing, pulling, or silent cursing were collapsing the cantankerous pram. Beads of sweat dotted my brow as I stared at it with a great deal of contempt and considered abandoning it all together, when you walked by. You offered to help, thank you.

You saw me walking ten paces ahead of my very over tired three-year-old. I used my very best patient voice and tried to coax her the last few steps to the exit of the park. Walking by with a group of friends and seemingly well-behaved children, you suggested we mothers should fist bump each other in trying times like these. Thank you.

You’ve picked up soothers, chased after me with fallen shoes, held open doors, helped my children off of swings and shared stories in exhausted solidarity. Thank you.

When my five-year-old daughter sneakily fuelled by sugar and freshly scolded, locked me out of the house and didn’t return to the door no matter how gently or furiously I knocked, I hesitated to ask for help. Partly because I thought she would open the door, and partly because I had never experienced helplessness at this level. It is hard to be completely helpless to circumstances, to admit things are completely outside of my control, especially sugar-induced spiritedness. With my phone inside, a baby in my arms and a very sweaty, very sticky, pant-less daughter by my side, all of us shoeless, I found you on the sidewalk. You didn’t judge me as I explained our situation and I asked to use your phone. You kindly listened, and empathetically distracted me with small talk as you walked with me back to my house. You waited as I explained the situation again to my husband on your phone. You waited until my five-year-old finally opened the door, a cheeky smile on her face, my phone in her hand and her dad on the screen. Thank you.

It really does take a village, and I’m so lucky to have a fairly capable body, a great husband and a strong circle of family and friends to help along the way and then there’s you, lovely strangers, filling in the gaps. I never realized before how much that African proverb also pertains to the parents. It takes a village to raise a child, but it also takes a village to raise a parent. Thank you for helping to raise me. Your kindnesses do not go unnoticed.

One day, when my hands are less full, I promise to pay it forward.

Thank you.

This post was republished by Scary Mommy right here.

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Another Day at the Pond

Photo by Mélanie Martin

We trudged up the hill, the trees, usually generous, offered no relief from the sun, high in the sky. Rubber boots against black pavement amplified the heat and chafed our bare legs. When did this hill become so steep? It was important that we hurried.

They sighed in loud opposition, as they often do. They didn’t want to be here in the heat of the day, still I urged them forward. It was important that we make it.

Days earlier we had studied the shrinking pool of water. It was much smaller than a few days before that. As the water surrendered to the warming days the pool became more obviously alive. We stirred up the water with a stick and watched as creatures emerged from the murky bottom. I’d always been fascinated by pond life. 

My grandparents owned a beautiful five acre property we loved to explore. My grandfather carefully tended each area, tamed blackberry bushes and proudly toured us around, feeding us the things he found while noting seasonal changes and improvements he’d made. There was a barn that housed a horse and chickens, large gardens and a dilapidated caboose, all the things childhood adventures were made of. But the most fascinating part was the pond. Each Spring, we bore witness to life itself, while observing eggs turn to tadpoles and tadpoles to frogs.

My grandfather cared greatly for his pond and the life within it. He took it upon himself to give it a concrete bottom on one half, I’m sure to ensure that the pond would not dry out before the tadpoles had completed their transformation. It was important to him for these tadpoles to join the loud chorus of adult frogs in the neighbourhood. 

We would venture into the pond, stirring the ground with our boots plunging ice cream pails into the water, excitedly studying each scoop, until our boots filled up with water. We returned to the pond week after week, spring after spring making note of changes.

It’s no wonder I love ponds, this oddity is likely a part of my DNA. Naturally, I was thrilled when we bought an acreage with a pond on it, my kids would love this, they’d have to. If it wasn’t already a part of them, it would be soon.

Routinely we walk our property, appreciatively breathing the fresh air. The walks always move slowly, as we stop for each puddle and collect all of the treasures that catch the eye of my daughters, until their pockets and hands grow heavy, until their legs grow weary.

We religiously study the water levels as cool spring days become warmer. Each year we watch as puddles become captivating ecosystems, wriggling with life. As the days grow longer so does my concern for the well-being of the puddle dwelling creatures that have entertained me so. I cannot bear to let them succumb to the heat of the day. And so we hurry.

They are moments from death. Near victims of the perilous sun, they lay still. Helplessly packed together, their delicate skin is only kept damp by the body pressed against theirs. Survival had sent them to various deeper pockets of the puddle. The ground around them cracked, baking in the heat of the day. With both my hands I carefully scoop them into the bucket. There’s no way to know for sure but they it looked as though they were celebrating this necessary change. 

My four year old daughter drags a net through another puddle, carefully tapping the net on the bucket to release its squirming contents. Tadpoles, salamander efts and dragonfly nymphs cascade out. All natural predators of each other, I pondered if I ought to leave one type behind. Having already interfered with Darwinian survival principles, I decided against throwing off the balance of predator and prey. That and I couldn’t possibly. It was too rewarding rescuing them, imagining all of the creatures happily re-homed in a much larger pond, one able to withstand the summer sun. 

Our two-year-old quickly lost interest and found herself tangled in  a long black berry vine. Even after rescuing, she cried to return to the comfort of our house, dramatically indicating her freshly scratched legs. It was time. We had rescued hundreds. The next large puddle over had several days still before they too would be in dire condition. I made a mental plan to return. 

We headed back down the hill. The bucket sloshed against my leg as I tightly gripped it and our crying two-year-old daughter’s hand. Both loudly complaining now, they were prepared to collapse right there on the road, just minutes from our home. Desperate promises of popsicles in the shade, coaxed them along. 

I carefully let more water into the bucket and left it in the pond, acclimating, under the watch of the weeping willow. After some time my daughters and I went back to the pond to bid farewell to our friends. I slowly tipped the bucket into the pond, some eagerly swam away, some hesitant, clung to the bucket, waiting for more help. They were free. I watched as they began to migrate further into the pond. They had made it. Relieved, I continued to watch as a large salamander crept out of the depths and snatched up an unsuspecting tadpole in its mouth, before disappearing again. And the circle of life marches on, just another day in the pond.