In the race toward crazy…I’ve got a strong lead

Captain’s log, Star Date 11192014. Our destination is planet crazy.

The Captain arrived home at 9:50 pm, after a grueling match on the pitch, against the Phoenix. In the captain’s absence, the crew was given instructions to perform maintenance on the UFF Enterprise—to return it to its former glory, and to put it into quiet mode by 9:15 pm. It was a careless tactic on the part of the captain, as she knew the crew was not quite ready, but she had little option because the First Officer had departed earlier in the day. He was leading a mission to the planet Ontario, in an attempt to reform the Ferengi Alliance.

On re-entering the ship, the Captain found chaos and many objects strewn about. In alarm, she ran through the ship searching for the crew, noting damage at every turn. It must have been a grueling battle. Thankfully, the crew seemed to have escaped the imagined battle unscathed—the Captain ascertained that the crew, by turning on every light in the ship, blinded the enemy, who then fled.

The Chief Security Officer was grooving in the corridor while brushing his teeth to the blare of “Trumpets”, oblivious to the captain’s arrival…the time of day…the task at hand…etc. The Diplomatic Officer was taking cover in the confines of her quarters, watching 90201, and undoubtedly getting tips on how to resolve relationship conflict. She too was largely unaware of the ship’s change in course, as her headphones prevented any distraction from the task at hand. And the Strategic Operations Officer was training the furry foster hound in the lounge, in case there was another attack. (And there WAS…the Captain started detonating immediately!)

Midnight – The Strategic Operations Officer flings herself into the Captain’s cabin and flips on the light. The Captain simply groans. The crewmember has no strategy for sleep, and climbs in with the Captain, bringing along the newly acquired furry, foster hound.

1:00 am – The furry, foster fiend begins to howl at the end of the Captain’s bed, bringing her attention to an intruder. The light reveals that it was the resident feline, coming to unseat the interloper from the end of the bed. A battle ensued.

3:32 am – The frantic foster fiend jumps from the bed and skids down the corridor. He overlooks the deck, and his chaotic yelping reverberates off the walls, causing all crewmembers to awaken.

3:39 am – The Chief Security Officer enters the Captain’s quarters to advise her that he is unable to secure a good sleep. She shoots a cacophony of scathing statements toward him, and wounded, he heads to Sick Bay.

3:42 am – The f…ing foster fiend paces and then whines his plea to go relieve himself. The Captain escorts him down to the transporter room. They end up in a dog run (in the midst of winter) and the fiend completes his business while the Captain shivers in her pajamas.

4:00 am – The infuriating foster fiend continues to pace and howl, at the wind…the creaking of the planks in the corridor…the sound of crewmembers breathing…the voice of God…

6:00 am – An alarm sounds in the quarters of The Diplomatic Officer, and (you guessed it) the ferocious foster fiend leaps into action, barking and careening down the corridor at break-neck speed, to investigate the alarm. The Captain gets up and heads to the Ready Room where she can get a bit of peace and quiet; she free pours Irish Cream into her coffee.

Dash Away

I feel like I have been waiting years for our guinea pig Dash to die. Not because he has had failing health, or because it is particularly hard to care for a guinea pig. But, it seemed like he had lived long past his best before date. The average life expectancy of a G.P. is 3-5 years; and we have had him seven years!

Many would argue that he lived so long because we treated him too well! Probably true, and even though we have a cat and a dog, neither were any threat to his well-being. Most of the adult cats have been afraid of him, and many of our kitten fosters just thought he was one of them, albeit a bit slower, and not much of a jumper. We had one kitten that would climb right into the cage with Dash and lie down.

However, when I got the call that Dash was faltering, it was not the relief that I thought it would be.

Watching the kids say goodbye to Dash has been the hardest. When we got our two guinea pigs, Laurèn was five and Yohannes was four (that was, I think, the most significant "risk" to our pig). They have grown into tweens since then, and SO MUCH has changed!

By the time I arrived at the veterinary clinic, Dash was a cool 34 degrees, his eyes were closed, and he was no longer able to move (but he still hummed when he heard my voice). After arrangements had been made for his “send off”, I was up front with the receptionist.

She looked up at me, and asked, “Would you like a general cremation, or a private cremation?”

I simply stared at her, stumped…where am I again? Who are we talking about? Has someone died?  She just stared at me—right at me. “Ummm….” I faltered (I was waiting for her to offer full memorial services too.)

“In the general cremation the animals are cremated together, and then the ashes are spread outside of the city, …

Is that legal?

“…and in a private one, it will be just your pet, and you can come and collect the ashes.”

What?  “The general cremation sounds fine.”

I said goodbye to Dash, and our retirement savings, and headed home.  It is sad. Our pets are much loved here. But, in the words of Yohannes this morning, “It’s okay mom, it’s the circle of life.”

Some Day

“Keep on pushing for what is right, what is just; [and] keep on being unafraid. You are armed with exactly what is needed to take on these challenges. You are the generation I’ve been waiting for.” ~Mia Farrow at We Day Alberta

It has been an unusual week. I have attended three awareness/fundraising events within five days. Not an easy thing to do, considering where the funds are needed, and the stories that are shared in order to help us understand why the funds are needed. Three separate events, two humanitarian organizations, all connected …

At a Women’s lunch, hosted, in part, by my friend Carolyn Torhjelm, we heard from Mama Leah about the “Me to We Artisans” program (Free the Children). She has been with the program since it started a number of years ago. The artisans make beautiful jewelry and accessories that are sold globally. She told us of the life changing importance of being able to work and support her family.  Now, she leads over one thousand women in the Me to We Artisans project!

Later in the week, our keynote speaker at a Canadian Humanitarian fundraiser, Dr. Samantha Nutt, spoke about the lives of children in developing countries. “Do you know what the number one predictor of child mortality is?” she asked an enraptured audience. “How many of you think it is food?” Several hands went up. “Access to medical care?” My hand went up. “Clean water?” People were nodding all around the room.

“The thing that changes infant mortality the most, is the ability of the child’s mother to make an independent living.” ~Dr. Samantha Nutt at "Hope for Tomorrow" dinner

Faven and I attended We Day, which is held once a year for 16,000 enthusiastic youth. It is a concert, a story telling, a testimonial, and an awareness campaign all woven together. It is dynamic. It is loud. It is life changing for our youth and the adults who accompany them. It is electric inspiration.

“The light of your eyes lights so many lives.” ~Mustafa at We Day Alberta

At two of the events I attended, we heard from Faith and Juliette, two youth from Kenya who have benefitted directly from the support of Free the Children. They were lovely and humble and well spoken. One part that bothers me about sending funds to those in need is that we (the audience; the givers) are seen as the ones who have made the difference, when in fact it is each Faith, and each Juliette the world over who have made the difference for themselves. Yes, money is necessary, but we are so much less committed to change than they are—aren’t we? I am profoundly uncomfortable with their praise and thanksgiving, but immensely proud that they have chosen to do well with what they have been given.

You have “abilities that when awakened will develop and lead to future success. Unleash your destiny.” ~Tom Jackson at We Day Alberta

At We Day, Faven and I met some amazing people. Serendipity brought us together with a mom and daughter who we are so thankful to have met. Hopefully it is a life-long connection. There was a strong message to our youth: BE YOURSELF . . . acknowledge your own strengths and struggles . . . remember that worthiness is not something to be found out “there”, but within yourself. These are hard messages for someone who has had profound struggle in her life; for someone who doesn’t yet have the confidence to believe in herself; for someone like Faven.

“I’m here to tell you that we can turn our weaknesses into strengths. Rock your differences!” ~Ashley Murphy at We Day Alberta

“You are worth it!” ~ Silken Laumann at We Day Alberta

A profound realization hit me this week at the Hope for Tomorrow dinner benefiting Canadian Humanitarian. Dr. Richard Northcott, (founder of CH) talked about humanitarian aid; he informed us that everyone asks the same question, Is humanitarian work really making a difference? Yes, it is. Later in the evening, Dr. Samantha Nutt spoke too of humanitarian organizations; she said that it is not always possible to help everyone, so “we” have to look at projects that “keep the largest number of people from dying”.  Imagine if we had to live under those kinds of circumstances.

“If you’re really passionate and persistent, you can go out and make a difference and change this world.” ~Spencer West at We Day Alberta

Faven with Spencer West

Each event I attended was different. A couple of events revolved around food, wine and speeches. One was geared to women, one was geared to youth, and one was geared to adults. All were geared to those ready to donate (time, talent, funds), but more importantly to those ready to contemplate socially informed actions.

The message that came across at all three events is:

TAKE ACTION.

No action is too small.

“Why not? Asking why not leads to greater opportunity than asking why.” 

~Carolyn Torjhelm

“Someday”

“Set me off here I go,

straight into tomorrow

Our dreams are waiting

on the other side

Someday

At the edge of our life

Someday

Starin’ me in the eye

I’m gonna break through

Get to the medal

Someday

Today”

 Lyrics by Neverest, 

performed at We Day

Photo: Yohannes Flemons

Clutter, Chaos and Magic

I don’t remember ever doing spring-cleaning; in fact, that feels like the worst season to clean. In spring, I am called outside. The fall however, feels perfect for purging. It is with itching urgency that I threw myself into the task. I started with things I could control: the bathrooms, the kitchen, the mudroom, and my bedroom and clothes closet.

Part of the purge coincides with my reading of an important book, called “Minimalism, Live a Meaningful Life”. Over a year ago, I heard an interview on CBC radio with Joshua Fields Millburn & RyanNicodemus on “minimalism”. They talked about their journey, and though I thought it was interesting at the time, I discarded it because they were thirty-something, single, childless men. How could their words, experiments, and philosophies pertain to me?

Recently, I heard them again. This time I listened, and it resonated. We have so much “stuff” in our lives: cars, homes, electronics, clothes, and plastic containers, to name only a few! I have a full bin of “Single Gloves/Mitts” in the mudroom. I have been “collecting” for years! FOR WHAT? Do I really expect that the mate will show up? Why don’t I throw them out, or marry them to a well-suited but mismatched partner, and put them back into use?

Caring for, sorting, organizing, cleaning, and hiding our stuff consumes SO MUCH of my time. I am such a master of closet organizers, bins, garage containers, and under-the-bed storage that I should be the recipient of the “Concealing Your Crap” award.

After sifting through the areas I had control over, I headed into the land less travelled, and peeked into the kid’s rooms. By far, the best collector in our family is Laurèn. (Although Ward does have a pretty impressive sock collection that takes up three drawers!) Laurèn is fiercely attached to her stuff. Moreover, she has an internal catalogue of all the debris flung willy-nilly, like the contents of a piñata across the landscape of her room. The minute I remove an item, she comes to me looking for that item. So I won’t start there.

Faven has a lot of stuff too, and she often hoards other peoples’ stuff and also hides food, but she does a pretty good job of keeping her room tidy. So I will turn my eye away, for now. Yohannes can also make his room look clean, however, he has issues all his own. (Isn’t it great that I get to experience the full range of the spectrum—the whole colorful rainbow—with the different personalities, temperaments, and habits of my kids?) Yohannes has a “stuffing” problem. He gets overwhelmed with his things, but he doesn’t want to take the time to put them away properly, so he stuffs them—anywhere and everywhere.

I had done some reading recently, in a magazine called “ADDitude”, and was eager to put into practice some of their suggestions. First I “unpacked” all of the stuff that he had hidden, and sorted it in the middle of the room: garbage, laundry, recycle, and reuse. 

Under his bed was a black wooden box that contained all sorts of magic paraphernalia—he had pilfered it from Laurèn and then hidden it. I set it aside. There were blankets, pillowcases, clothes, garbage, and miscellaneous charging cords for things he didn’t even own.

In the bookshelf I found candy wrappers (What! My kids don’t eat candy!), granola bars, pens, pencils, erasers, a spatula, corn skewers, and Laurèn’s pink puppy iPod stereo . . . Oh, and a few books.

In the shoe organizer hanging in the closet, I found dirty socks, underwear and t-shirts (he is always running out of clothes, despite doing laundry regularly). On the top shelf of the closet was a Magic book, wrapped in t-shirts. I put the magic book next to the magic kit—it would be a great gift for someone a bit younger.

In the closet organizer (that I so lovingly built) there were two drawers—you know, for things like socks and underwear—among other things, he had a library notice for a school book due this past March. On the overdue notice, there was a penned note, “Past due. Your class has lost the contest. You were the only one who did not return your book.” And even that did not motivate him to return it! (Shame, shame, shame.)

Stuffed into the deepest recesses of the closet was a potpourri of dried and weathered items that I felt certain should only be explored in full surgical gear. Nonetheless I forged bravely ahead. Amidst the Lego tracks, socks—belonging to EVERY member of the family—and crumpled and shredded paper, was a Ziploc bag—a science experiment?—silly putty? Opening it revealed that it was, in fact, yester-months lunch! More interesting than that was the tub of ice cream, Mint Chocolate Chip. Yes, there was still ice cream inside!

I was rooting through the closet, on my hands and knees—it felt a bit like the closet from “The Lion, The Witch, and the Wardrobe”. My hands, like small rakes, sifted and pulled the clutter out. There was simply too much of it, to look at everything. I leaned against the wall to rest; I was in a sweat! That is when I spied a white glossy paper folded meticulously into quarters, eighths…sixteenths. I reached over and picked it up. It was roughly the size of milk jug lid. As I methodically unfolded it, tiny squares of information appeared—I felt like I was playing a picture puzzle game. How exciting!

I started to see parts of human bodies: arms, legs, chests—all naked. I frantically unfolded the remainder. I stared. My mouth gaped. My eyes teared. My heart stopped…and then started with a thunderous boom. Without moving my eyes from the cover, I bum-scooted over to the pile of stuff for re-gifting, and laid my hand heavily on the “Magic” book. I turned it over in my hands a couple of times, it was a non-descript beige color, and there was nothing on the front or back of the book. I slowly turned the book so that I could see the spine. In gold embossed lettering was the title, “The Magic of Sex”. I opened to a random page, and the pictures mimicked those that were on the front of the now creased, origami-like book jacket.

I laid back on the floor, amidst the wreckage, contemplating this sudden turn in our lives. My baby boy is only eleven. Eleven. My hands covered my eyes, but there was already a movie playing on the inside of my lids. I envisioned Yohannes and his friends hanging out in his room listening to music or playing games, but, what if… what if… OMIGOSH! Illustrated sex education at the Flemons’ house! As my thoughts swung around erratically, I wondered where he got this book. With one hand still covering my eye, my other hand reached around for the book jacket. I lifted it up and put it in front of my eyes, as if to screen the sun. The subtitle read, “The book that really tells men about women and women about men”. A slow awakening fell upon me as I realized that (of course) this was our book! Somehow it had moved from the bedside table to Yohannes’ closet (that is a fascinating story too, but it will have to be in another post!)

Over these years of intense parenting, like any married couple, we have struggled to figure out why our physical relationship has suffered. Now, I knew why, clearly we had lost our “Magic”!

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POSTSCRIPT

I emptied Yohannes’ room of ALL the hiding places: I removed his six-drawer dresser and put in three large baskets and eight wall hooks; I took out the bookshelf and closet organizer, and put in one “milk bin” for books; I removed his bed-frame, and dropped his bed onto the floor. He came home later that day, and loved it!

It is not what it seems

Life has kinks and turns that we could not—no matter how hard we work, how much we read, how deeply we love, or how often we pray—prepare for.

Last Thursday, a boy turned young man—just twenty years old—took his own life. I don’t know him personally. He lives in the eastern part of the United States, and I live in the western part of Canada. But a part of his journey is also our journey.

I met his mother Melissa Fay Greene just once, here in Calgary. She was the guest speaker for a fundraiser that I organized along with a dedicated group of volunteers, several years ago. We had a serendipitous connection because her family met and got to know each of our adopted children, before they joined our family. I learned of Melissa through her book release, “There is No Me Without You”, in 2006, which details the life of the House Mother of the orphanage our kids spent some time at. We quickly connected through e-mail, photos and sharing stories.

Melissa, a journalist, writer, and adoptive mother, has walked in some of the same places as us, in Addis Ababa, Ethiopia. Her Ethiopian (adopted) children lived for a time, in the same orphanage as our kids, and some of them, at the same time.

The world is like this; there are links and connections everywhere.

This week, my heart is broken for them, and their indescribable loss. Their son, Fisseha (Sol), was adopted at age ten, like our daughter Faven. It sounds like he had a joy for living, and was eager to go along with anything, like our son Yohannes. His story is different, and his life’s path was not theirs. And yet, my heart bends a bit more deeply in feeling their loss.

Melissa described her son Sol as a “golden boy, miraculously strong, fast, beautiful, intelligent and kind”.  He was part of a large loving family, with eight siblings, and a large loving community, which included a strong faith, and it sounds like he brought consistent joy to all of those around him.

This week as they have struggled to grapple with what has happened, Melissa recounted the words from an article her family shared during the summer World Cup. They have become, in recent years, a huge soccer family, due to the soccer skill of their Ethiopian-born children, one of who was Sol. The article was about Brazil’s incredible, stunning 7-1 loss to Germany. The author wrote:

“It was utterly beyond belief. It was the sense, obviously irrational, but still strong, that we were outside the realm of things that can occur.”

In reference to the death of her son, Melissa said, “We […] are witnesses to an event that not only should not have occurred, but an event that is “outside the realm of things that can occur”.”

Outside the realm . . .

What is so hard for me to comprehend . . . in life, in suffering, in hardship, and in death . . . is that love is not innately preventative. Love is a good thing—a very good thing. But it is not a balm for a wound that cannot be seen, or a wound that comes up suddenly, and unexpectantly.

Fisseha, Sol, was a natural born athlete, who dreamed of one day playing in the World Cup. He was gifted, and he excelled on the field and off. His father said about him, “his ferocity on the field was matched by his sweetness off it.” Tragically, his death has something to do with his perceptions around soccer. Melissa spoke to the young people at his funeral, and here are some words that are so relevant and important, especially when we live in a society that highly values accomplishments;

We see you all—in the fullness of yourselves – even when you all do not.

Yes, you do always look handsome in your uniforms.

And yes, we’ll take sports drinks and orange slices to your games, and we’ll photograph you and videotape you, and cheer for you, and believe in you.

But here’s what we cannot and will not do. We will not believe with you that your prowess on the soccer field is the most important thing about you. Sol’s prowess was second to none.

But, what we do not and will not believe is that soccer—the beautiful game—is the full sum of your beautiful selves. We do not believe that off the field, out of uniform, in your little striped knee socks that you’re somehow of less value. We do not agree that if you’re brilliant soccer career falters—if you have a bad half, a bad game, a bad season, if you’re not a starter, if you don’t get off the bench—that you’re not the genius we always thought that you were.

We don’t believe there is no plan B for you. You are still irreplaceably marvelous. There is always a plan B.

There is something like the dream of soccer greatness in every one of you. But the big news is that the real greatness, the true, deep, brilliant, untouchable, greatness has nothing to do with your resumé. True genius is the genius of the heart, the genius who knows how to love, to give, to make other people joyful every day of their life. Fisseha, Sol, was a natural born athlete. But we didn’t love him because he was the best we ever saw at soccer, football, basketball…

We loved him so much because he was a genius of the heart, a natural born athlete of joy.

In loving memory of Fisseha (Sol) Samuel, photograph Melissa Fay Greene

Got me a new APP!

Every now and again I write a story that deviates from my norm. And then, once done, it begs to be shared. If this were a face-to-face conversation, it would contain too much information. If you prefer to continue knowing me as a well put-together, fit, and wise woman, turn away now, and don’t look back!

This week, I got a new APP. Given the millions of free Apps available, why should you care about this one? Admittedly, only a select few of you will benefit from this unadvertised, specially adapted, life-changing APP. Once installed I will be able to do sequences and runs without any leaks.

This APP has been around for years but no one talks about it. It is a socially awkward topic, but I have such faith in it, that I am willing to leak this APP to the world.

To have my APP installed, I had to make an appointment with a specialist. Once the consultant had checked out my device, and taken a few measurements, she left the room to get some equipment. It seemed that she was more interested in how my device had been working than anything else. She did a lot of probing.

She returned with several small bags. It seemed that this was going to be a delicate procedure, as she donned gloves before approaching my device. Giving it one more careful look, she tilted her head like a dog does when humans have conversations with them. She held in her hand a circular object that was baby-doll pink in color. It looked to the untrained eye, like a small umbrella canopy; one that could have been used by Bernard to shelter the glamour-mouse Miss Bianca, in “The Rescuers”.

As she approached my device for the installation, I grimaced slightly, and looked up. The drop ceiling was classic clinic white, it had evenly spaced illuminated fluorescent lights. The panels had gray pockmarks, as if just recovering from acne; and each tile was framed by a polished silver grid that eerily reflected the contents of the room.

Well, it turned out that my specialist was a nurse named Anna, and I was at the pelvic floor clinic for the installation of this APP (Anti-Pissing Pessary).

As I mentioned, this APP has been around for ages! The pessary is a simple device that is inserted down below into parts that we make our young children pronounce accurately (Can you say va-gi-na? Regina. No, VA-gi-na. RAgina) and then stop saying altogether as we get older.

After the nurse got the device in place, I got up and gathered the back of the flapping clinic gown in the fist of my hand. She asked me to jump up and down, legs in a straddle, and cough at the same time, all while standing overtop of a white towel. I giggled like a girl playing hopscotch for the first time. We were told to arrive with a comfortably full bladder. I stared at the towel, I looked at the young nurse—I wondered, Is this the only job you could get, watching older women with failing sphincters and spurting bladders, jump up and down? I grasped my gown a bit tighter and began to jump. It was just like personal training—but not! My bottom jiggled aggressively since it was not flattened by spandex, or camouflaged in loose shorts. Up. Down. Look. Sigh. Repeat.

I passed the first test. I was sent to the bathroom to see if I could pee with the APP installed. I pissed the second test.

Anna sent me back to the room, alone, and instructed me to see if I could find the pessary. Feeling good after flying through the first tests, I closed the door and gingerly began the search. It reminded me of a time a few years back when I was undergoing pelvic floor physiotherapy (I know, I had never heard of that either). Just like every other physio. regime, I had props. My props were: a brightly colored plastic Easter egg (the ones that come covered in chocolate with surprises inside), and a box of condoms.  I felt like I was in training for a “ladies of the night” Las Vegas show!

I was not able to un-install the APP. After some coaching from the nurse, she too gave up, and said, “Well, you really only need to take it out every three months, so you can simply come back and have it removed and cleaned then.” “What?!” I stammered. Do they have express service? Do I just cruise up to the “secret” door and knock three times? And then when the door slides open, do I lie down on the bed and press the button marked “Pessary Removal”? SERIOUSLY!

So I walked out with a silicone dam wedged somewhere between north and south. It reminded me of a time when one of my close friends, who had just returned from a doctor’s appointment, came skipping into the room, “I’ve got a secret, I’ve got a secret,” she chanted with impish cuteness. She had just been fitted with a diaphragm. Seems to me that her secret was a lot more fun than mine!

That night, I had a soccer game and was keen to see if this APP would improve my internal hard drive, and restore me to my former glory. The main reason that I had this dam contraption installed is that I am capable of double-dribbling all the way down the field! I have spent the entire season wearing a pad the size of a small mattress.

Success! Now I know how a toddler feels—one who goes to bed in a diaper and wakes up dry in the morning, and who gleefully pulls down her bottoms and says, “Look Mommy, I dry!” (I spared my soccer team my excitement.)

The fact that I couldn’t remove the APP caused me a great deal of consternation. It interrupted my thoughts and kept me awake ruminating over my eventual demise.

I woke up frustrated, and said to Ward, “I can’t get this damn thing out! They are probably going to have to cut me open from here to here to remove it”. (belly button to pubic bone-sometimes I can be a bit dramatic)

“Why do you have this thing anyway? Is this because of soccer?” he asked.

“YES, it is because of soccer!” I said.

“I don’t understand why they can’t just put porta-potties on the side lines.”

Staring hard at my doctor-husband, I said, “Do. You. Even. Know what STRESS INCONTINENCE is?”

“Umm…I guess not,” he admitted.

“I BASICALLY PEE MY PANTS AT EVERY SOCCER GAME! I would need a porta-potty strapped directly to my body, and for some reason they don’t allow women to play soccer with a potty strapped on to their butt!”

Now he stared hard at me, (stuck with a picture in his mind, I am sure) “Really, you pee your pants?” (he shook his head) “It sucks to be a woman.”

“ARG.” I stormed off.

However, I know that I am not alone. A couple of weeks ago, a good friend of mine was supposed to come over for dinner, but she had a horrible cold. I sent her a message on the day of dinner, to see how she was feeling, and if she was able to come. She replied, “I want to come. This cough is bad. Just peed my pants. Awesome!”

This is the kind of sharing we really need to do, because no one is ever suffering from something that someone else hasn’t been through before.

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*Look back at the picture, and see if you can see my new APP.