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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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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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When Parents Lie and Other Magnificent Things

I never cleaned under my bed. Ever. It infuriated my mom (I get it now, I’m sorry, Mom). And by never cleaned, I mean not only did I never clean under there, I also used it as a place to sweep all of the other items from my room that I didn’t want to clean up, which was mostly dirty laundry. By all appearances my bedroom was clean, but the facade quickly crumbled each and every time there was even the tiniest of inspections.

I’m sure she grew tired of repeating herself, so in some next level genius mother move, she created a horrendous atrocity of an insect that I had no idea only existed in both of our imaginations. It had wings, many eyes, long legs and it hopped, quite possibly flew and very much enjoyed dirty spaces and especially dirty laundry (well played, Mom).

I can vividly picture it to this day. So vividly, that for the next few years I peered anxiously at dust bunnies and lost socks with angst, I most certainly never swept anything under there again and anything that happened to slide too far into the darkness had to be written off, for the rest of time. I spent the next few years leaping onto my bed from a safe distance so as not to disturb what may have been lurking underneath. There was no need for further inspections, the lie eliminated the problem. I’m fairly certain she forgot about the bug, not long after the dirty dilemma ceased to exist, though I would continue to be haunted by it for years to come.

She successfully converted me (although I’ve exchanged the antiquated “cleanliness is next to godliness” adage, for a slightly more favourable and much more achievable “keep it tidy or kinda close so droppersby won’t think you’re gross” sort of motto). It was not until I had become a parent myself that I actually questioned its existence. That’s right I was 32 years old, speaking to my own daughter, and repeating myself about the importance of maintaining a state of near cleanliness, when the bug hopped into my mind and I realized it was all a clever hoax. 32. What an effective ruse.

I grew up before the Internet age, a time when parental lies went unchecked. A time when most lies were unverifiable, my mom had the upper hand, and really she had all the hands, because a parents word was irrefutable. These days we parents are dangerously close to losing the “parents are always right” advantage.

Our five-year-old daughter captured a black and vibrant yellow millipede in her grandparents garden. She lovingly prepared a home for it in an empty coffee can, and allowed it to crawl all over her hands and arms. When she wanted to know what to feed it, she asked me to ask my phone. She knows. She knows exactly how the internet works: no question needs to remain unanswered. She even fact checks her dinosaur encyclopedia against the internet, hoping to catch an error. In this circumstance we learned black and vibrant yellow millipedes are poisonous, and it now resides outside, again.

But that’s not all our parents lied about, they also told us if we dug deep enough, we could get to China and then handed us a shovel. We believed them, maybe we were extra gullible or maybe the idea that we could pop out on the complete opposite side of the world was so entertaining it was worth the effort, so we dug, real blister-popping, callous-forming, rewarded-by-splinters, digging.

My sister thought my kids thoroughly vacuuming the stairs with a play vacuum that spins heart shaped sparkles around while whirring, was painstakingly sad. She was born in the 90’s though, things must have been different then. My kids think they’re helping, and they are, it’s just not with vacuuming. Sometimes we parents need a minute, where the kids are occupied and not with fighting.

I tried it. I told a lie, at least I think it was a lie, or maybe it has actually happened once to someone somewhere and the story has been retold for generations to come, as a warning for all of us. I was locked behind u-shaped table, which limited my access to the rest of the class, which occasionally frequently strayed from the task at hand. I glanced up from the laboured reading of the yellow group and locked eyes with the new boy. Surrounded by three kids who had flipped their eyelids inside out, he was TERRIFIED. Before I had time to think, I blurted out, ”they’re going to stay like that!”

“But we’ve done it before,” they countered.

“Yes. I know.” (I had taken time to explain how horrifying this was, just yesterday.) “But that’s the thing with eyelid flipping, you don’t know when it will stick, it just does sometimes.” I raised my eyebrows, summoned an ominous voice and added, “Forever.” I had to, in for an inch, in for a mile, or something like that. For his sake, I perpetuated the messed up children’s urban legend and added a Russian roulette twist. Before you judge, don’t forget how I was raised. Bonus: they never did it again and while I wasn’t incredibly proud of how I’d curbed the eyelid flipping, it was effective. So I get it and I think I’d do it again.

I grew up in a time, when “because” or “I don’t know” sufficed as answers, but my kids are used to answers because the answers are so readily available, and they know it.

I don’t think I’ve deliberately lied to my own kids yet, aside from the usual exaggerating of the truth, like if you don’t let me brush your teeth they will rot, where the immediacy is very intentionally implied. I also often blame things on time, like it’s too late/early for candy or it’s time to go. I find it concerning that when the time for real lies, the big imaginative creative ones, does present itself, the internet has the capability of instantly and effortlessly tearing my intricate web of lies to pieces.

Has the internet deprived us parents of the chance to recirculate the lies we were once told? Or are kids still buying into the urban legends of our youth?

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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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The Hand Mold

A week after Christmas, our home had resumed a level of near normalcy we felt comfortable with.  Presents had mostly found their way into closets and toy bins.  But one item remained on the counter, unopened, constantly attracting the attention of our four-year-old.  We had said enough “laters.” She was clearly onto us.  Knowing we had little to no intention of opening it anytime soon, she pleaded that we open it immediately.

Removal of the packaging attracted our two-year-old daughter, who pulled up a chair so she could partake in the action.  My husband, occupying the tiny space between both chairs, very wisely intercepted a small but dangerous amount of glitter, and threw the contraband straight into the garbage.  With a bit of warm water, they prepared the hand-molding, memory-making kit.  

They poked, then kneaded, then stretched the dough-like substance.  Excitedly, the girls stretched out their fingers as their dad worked to flatten it, stretching the dough to accommodate three hands, on a dough that was meant for one.

It was meant for our youngest to commemorate just how tiny she was on her first Christmas.  Just two weeks old now, I held her as I comfortably sat on a bar stool on the other side of the counter.  I observed my husband using all sorts of patience to complete the task, kindly accepting help from the very persistent hands begging to take part.  

When he deemed it large enough, he took our four-year-olds hand and pressed it into the white material, carefully pressing each finger to make a deep enough indent.  Our two-year-old spread out her fingers as wide as she could, her hand overtook the remaining space.  It took several attempts to position her hand appropriately, only to find she had blue marker all over her hand, that was now a part of the commemorative hand mold.  Now it was time for our youngest daughter, the one it was intended for.  Her hand barely fit in the tiny remaining space, he struggled to unclench her fist, jostling her around, while he pressed her hand gently but hard enough to make an impression. Both older sisters crowded in even closer.  

And then she spat up.  A big one.  All over the whole project.  Our four-year-old was heart broken, our two-year-old cried loudly.    

It was salvageable, just like most of these moments that go awry.  After he wiped it clean, he etched in their names and the year with a fork.  He laid it flat to dry, still somehow it curled.  Maybe it needed the glitter, maybe it needed to not be spat up on or maybe it didn’t like being washed. 

This curled, stained, spat up on commemorative hand mold, perfectly represents our imperfect family.  Normally this happens when we attempt “nice” family photos, someone is doing something ridiculous, isn’t looking or is facing completely backwards.  I love those photos, always laughing at how accurately the camera is able to capture all of our personalities or our particular moods that day.  Like most of our attempts at anything we do as parents, this didn’t go as we had envisioned and all we could do was laugh and carry on.  

And now this beautifully tiring season in our lives is solidified in a weird piece of foam that hangs on our four-year-olds bed.  

It’s perfect.