Grateful Grumbles

July 13, 2019July 16, 2019

Our Blatant Invisible Luxuries

They’ve done it. The third time is the charm. Twice my desperate pleas of, “I’m sleeping. Shut my door,” worked. “Pleeeeeease!” I add and pull the duvet up higher. It feels early, but it’s not — not in this house anyway.

I roll off the bed and take the almost giggling baby with me. She loves mornings, she loves the super high-pitched squealing declarations of love from her sisters too. Goodness, that’s high-pitched. I need coffee.

I power up the espresso maker. It stubbornly beeps at me, a reminder that I forgot to empty the grounds, yesterday. It needs water too. A petulant thing — I’d complain, but then again I’d give her anything and she knows it. Satisfied, she pours a double espresso, extra long, just right.

I release the dogs from their kennels downstairs and prepare their medicines. That’s right, they’re both taking medicine now, for the rest of their lives. We probably should have better timed getting dogs, so they weren’t both seniors at the same time.

I prepare breakfast for us all. We all want different things. Not a problem, the espresso has kicked in.

And then the poo. She warned me, by pushing and grunting. I bring her to the change table, and lie her down. I remove her diaper and carefully peel off her jammies. There’s poo in her armpit, well that won’t do. I run a bath.

Her sisters crowd around as I lather her up. She laughs and kicks her legs under the heavy wash cloth. Sufficiently clean, I lift her from the tub. She looks unimpressed to be leaving the warmth of the water. The towel I had neatly laid out on my bed is now balled up on the floor. “Thanks,” I mumble to nobody.

I rinse off her poo-logged jammy in our oversized sink, I spray on too much stain remover and place them into the washing machine. Before I press start, I gather the remaining laundry from the various places it has been strewn about the house, tucked into the couch and hidden under beds. I’ll repeat the same circuit later, scouring for dirty dishes and random toys.

The weather looks iffy and I can’t stand the thought of being indoors all day. It’s time to get to the park. They need a snack. Crackers and cheese strings will have to cut it.

The baby falls asleep on the six minute car ride there. I buckle up the baby carrier while making small talk with a couple in the parking lot. They lower a ramp out of their car for their Rottweiler, who very happily makes her way out of the vehicle. My kids are equally as happy as they make their way out of mine. The baby stays asleep, snuggled against my chest as her sisters chase down bunnies wildly waving their carrots in the air. “Go slooooowly!” I whisper.

We walk through the park, greeting everyone with a genuinely hearty, “good morning!” (I may have had a second espresso). They echo our sentiments, everyone is happy to be out here.

We stop a few times to throw rocks in a pond, attempt to climb a very large rock and to watch ants scurrying around.

While my kids play at the sandbox amongst the once loved, now abandoned, toys I contemplate this short morning, a typical one, mundane even (in the most beautiful way), I’m lucky.

I can’t help but think that of course they’re coming. Of course people want their children to experience even the smallest luxuries we all take completely for granted. Safety at the most basic level, enough food and shelter. Even my inconveniences are convenient — blatant invisible luxuries.

I did nothing to deserve this. Nothing. And yet here I am, completely complacent.

I’ll likely never have to risk dehydration and starvation crossing deserts. I’ll likely never need to brave the ocean waters with a child on my back. I’ll likely never need to cross borders to keep my family safe.

But I would. If it meant that my children for just one morning could run freely through fields, throwing rocks into ponds, attempting to climb impossible rocks or watching ants scurrying on the ground, not a care in the world, I would do it. I would.

July 2, 2019July 16, 2019

These Moments

“I want to keep having fun” she protests, but the clock indicates it’s past bedtime. We know all too well what venturing too far past bedtime entails — it isn’t worth it. How lucky that hanging out with us is her idea of fun, her choice even. For a moment, I feel guilty for sending her to bed.

There’s glimmers of this phase passing, when we are no longer our kids’ entire worlds. My three year-old playing in the bath, raises her small pruney hand and demands that I, “Get ouuuuuuuut!” My five year-old insists I return to bed, when I interrupt her and her sister’s early morning play, with my presence.

I snuggle our tiniest daughter in extra close, breathe in her sweetness as she paws my face in the very early morning. I wrap my arm around her little body as she drifts off to sleep again.

I’m so lucky our spirits found one another. I’m so lucky these beautiful existences are intertwined with my own.

These are the things I remind myself of when I find the crackers they asked for smashed into tiny crumbs under the feet of a ferocious plastic TRex. Or when one is loudly begging to leave the park and the other removes her shoes in an even louder statement of refusal to leave the sandbox. Or when two of them have escaped their beds, far after bed time, laughing hysterically while hiding behind the kitchen table hoping to prolong their inevitable recapture. When they throw down more attitude than I have had sleep. When I want to rip the hair from my head and scream, “For the love!!!” or maybe a whole string of poorly matched obscenities — don’t judge, I’m tired.

But then her fingers curl around mine and I look down at the hand holding my own. Would you even be you if you weren’t this obstinate, fiery or ridiculous? Would we even be us without these moments? And in that moment — that exact moment — I wouldn’t change any of it.

June 24, 2019July 7, 2019

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.

June 20, 2019July 14, 2019

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.

May 18, 2019May 18, 2019

Laura’s Tree

She stands
Roots descending deep into the earth, fixed here.

Nature’s breath
A thousand butterflies fluttering to the earth, take flight.

Inconsequential
Made meaningful only by proximity, fleeting fragility.

Good company
Amongst the trees and the old lady who always makes time to chat, ever present.

Stirred reverie
Quivering boughs reminisce the seasons passed, hold dear.

Steadfast homage
Breathe in the billowing petals, transcendent beauty.

May 15, 2019May 15, 2019

We Can Do Better. We Have To Do Better.

It’s the end of spring cleaning week, the week our city purges their unwanted items and piles them onto the curb, in hopes that someone will claim our household trash for their treasure. Although it is a mostly green initiative, giving our unwanted items a second chance at life, it’s an impressive display of our wastefulness. The unclaimed items, making up the vast majority, will be conveniently removed and disposed of — never thought of again.

It used to feel like a welcome decluttering, cleansing even, this year feels different. Climate change news stories are circulating through my mind. My step mother pointed at the salal that grows wild on their property, indicating its colour. Salal, a bush native to western North America, is green year round, but now its thick leaves are dark brown and crunchy. Google confirms the browning is not limited to this area. I wonder what that means for the birds and bears that eat the berries, for the creatures that find refuge in their branches and for the mushrooms that grow in their shade. Small ponds are drying up faster than usual, disrupting frogs and salamanders from completing their transformation, dying before they can search for a new place to live. These are just two circumstances I can document with my own eyes. Mother Earth is warning us. While causing the extinction of other species, we are dangerously close to causing our own. My daughters are five, three and five months, I need to do better for them, before Earth becomes completely inhospitable towards us all.

We are not living sustainably, we haven’t for generations. We love our stuff — especially cheap stuff. We were all raised to be good to the Earth. In primary school we all pledged to recycle, reduce and reuse, it all felt so promising and yet it all rings so hollow now. Why didn’t they grab us by the ankles, hoist us into the air and make us watch as they dumped our “disposable” things into the Earth — piles upon piles of it — until our beings filled with dread and we promised to forgo our cheap plastic junk? Why didn’t some Christmas Carol-esque angel guide show us what catastrophe awaited us after decades of careless waste? Maybe they tried and we were too distracted by our things or we just didn’t care.

We need to add “do without” to the ol’ recycle, reduce, reuse adage. I don’t want to buy anything new, like ever. Although I wish I had made this decision after my hair dryer started smoking in an exhausted defiance of years of overuse, I’m sticking to it. Like everything else, I’ll simply toss it in the garbage, but this time there will be no google search, no amazon order — I’m trying to be better.

We are enslaved to consumerism. We work hard and we earn enough extra money to purchase new things — we “deserve” it. And then we need more, because styles have changed and our cheap broken items have been discarded or our fully functional items have become obsolete so we dispose and shop again, creating a need for more work and fuelling the market for cheap stuff. We have willingly jumped on this giant hamster wheel, specifically designed for us (smart ads) and we run, all while destroying the Earth and simultaneously giving ourselves anxiety, simply because we have too much stuff. Apathy and ignorance are killing us. We have to do better.

What do you think they will say about us, millions of years after our passing — the self induced extinction of humankind? What will they make of us when evolution has breathed life into another self aware species capable of exploring Earth’s history? What will they learn from our mistakes? What will they make of our homes packed with things, right beside other homes packed with the exact same things? What will they make of the fences that separated us, loudly marking what belongs to us, as if this Earth and her kindnesses were ever ours to divide? What will they make of our vast garbage heaps, buried not so discreetly just below her surface? What will they make of our willingness to pollute our Earth for a few dollars or a few moments of enjoyment?

Humankind, victims of vanity, independent to a detriment and consumed by convenience.

I can’t make up for years of impulsive purchases, and irresponsible wastefulness, but I can do better right now — so I will.

April 24, 2019April 24, 2019

The Hallowed Em Dash

When I don’t understand things I simply avoid them, much like when I thought it a good idea to enroll in calculus 12, I never understood sigma. I tried — several times — before I decided to take it as a loss, coming to terms with the fact that I might never master it. Not worth the frustration, I forfeited the questions on assignments and during exams. It served me well, for awhile. Just like Kenny Rogers’ Gambler, I knew when to fold them. After a couple of low scores, I knew when to walk away — earning myself a double spare block for the rest of that term.

I recently started reading a new blog. I described the writer, Cate, to my sister as a captivating storyteller and retired journalist, who uses fancy words, like prosaic and acolyte. And I know she’s very talented, grammatically, because she uses that hyphen-line-thing, you know — that really big hyphen thing.

And then I learned its name, “The em dash,” she said, like it was no big deal. But it was a big deal — to me. She continued to educate me on the sophisticated and ever so versatile em dash, while I sat there, intrigued, and questioning my entire education.

Then, there they were, everywhere, mocking me and my inability to incorporate them into my writing. I counted five of them in my twenty minutes of bed time reading, five! Is this what separates the amateur writers from the esteemed ones?

I’m not unread, I had noticed them before, but no one had taught me about em dashes. Mr. Grant, my senior English teacher, must have known about them, he was the honours teacher after all. He let us plan an entire Elizabethan feast, complete with costumes and entertainment, but somehow he had forgotten about em dashes. It had been a contract negotiation year, complete with strike action — perhaps he had to trim that lesson. Perhaps, he didn’t know I would one day write a blog, aspiring to be a grammatically competent writer.

I minored in English, but the em dash was a skill I should have learned years prior. By the time I entered university, it was probably assumed I was already proficient in grammar usage — kind of like my high school gym class, where students pathetically attempted to hit a softball without any earlier instruction — completely not their fault, but still somewhat humiliating. Finally, I was made to feel grateful for the years of softball I endured as a young child.

I ended up taking calculus again, as an older and much wiser university student, determined to conquer the sigma sign, that had bested me years earlier. I succeeded. Sometimes, all we need is a little perspective and persistence, so I’m giving myself a grammar lesson.

Thank you, for bearing with me while I learn how to use them.

Next up: the colon.

April 19, 2019April 20, 2019

Words of Appreciation

Hug your family tighter, they always say, after a tragedy. Someone else’s loss resonates deeply within me, unsettling, it could have been us, and my spirit feels guilty for surviving. I continue with my life while someone else is stuck in the throes of grief. I have the opportunity, again, to appreciate the life that surrounds me. Reminded of my own mortality and that of those I love, I become alive — again. I am lucky, but luck, much like life, is temporary.

I think of loved ones who have left this earth and the ghosts of words unsaid echo in my mind. Did they know how much they meant to me before they passed? Did they know my life was made better because they were a part of it? Do those here know how much they mean to me, because what good are the words after they’re gone? I’m haunted by the thought of them not knowing and I want to tear open my chest, expose my heart and declare “I am so lucky to have you in my life!”

Except, there’s a certain vulnerability that comes from revealing one’s feelings, even when they are completely reciprocated. And I stop. Maybe they know, even though I haven’t explicitly said it. Maybe every time I seek them out, they know. Maybe each time I visit with them, they know. Maybe each time I send them a message, they know. Maybe.

I heard once, when we hold back compliments we are keeping them from the person the words belong to. I think it works the same way for words of appreciation. I can choose to become the barrier of my appreciative thoughts or I can give them to the person they belong to. I’m beginning to see my appreciative thoughts as an opportunity to brighten a moment, but also to alleviate future guilt — I don’t want to miss it.

Maybe soon, I’ll actually say them.

I’m trying to be better.

April 14, 2019June 24, 2019

Another Day at the Pond

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.