Step by Step

On Friday, we arrived at the cottage for the start of summer break. It took me hours to unpack and settle in, even though I am generally out here once a week. Around 5 pm, I decided to get out for a walk/run with our dog Abby.

Just northeast of our cottage, there is a sprawling section of rolling prairie—previous host to a wealthy rancher. It ambles away from the mountains, back toward the city, hovering above the Bow River.  The cliffs are steep and impossible to climb. The view is compelling. There is an old run-down cattle fence marking the edge of the property, with a worn path on either side of the fence, making it appear to be a popular hiking trail.

I was told by someone here, who was told by someone else, that the property—essentially abandoned—is owned by one of the residents at Cottage Club. Or was it one of the developers, I don’t quite remember. It was even intimated that it was okay, if not perfectly fine, to walk our dogs on that piece of meandering land.

On half a dozen occasions, I have wandered the land, knowing (at some level) that it was private property. I am not, by nature, a rule breaker. My first foray onto the land was with another cottage resident. Not wanting to appear the nervous fool, I ducked around the fence while the dogs shimmied through the barbed wire. I have to admit that it is one of the most peaceful walks I have found. Strolling across carpet juniper entwined with creeping thyme, a brisk breeze brushing against my back, and the sound of the rollicking river in the background is healing and grounding. And then, turning back toward home, the canvas is swept with the alluring Rocky Mountains, just out of range.

On Thursday, I received a phone call from my daughter in the middle of the day—on the last day of school. She was in trouble. Damn—so close to making it through the school year without any more infractions—so close to having my daughter returned to me…as if (maybe) I would have some magical influence on her. Damn!

She had been caught breaking the law. My child and her complicit accomplice were asked by an imposing security man to take a seat, and explain what they thought they were doing. The police were called, and each child was encouraged to call their parents.

My feet found their way over to the barbed entry. I paused as I always do, wondering if it was really okay. What if I got caught—or worse? No one knew where I was going. But, as I stood, breathing heavily after my short run down the gravel road, the pungent perfume of the silver dogwood invited me in. I shimmied around the barrier and plodded upon western wheatgrass, soft under my feet.

            A meadow opened up, protected by tall pines and trembling aspen. There is a rock-hewn fire pit there, with two plastic brown chairs, both over-turned, likely by the gusting Chinook winds that sail through the area. My dog Abby darted across hilltops and sand dunes, down paths and prairies, and occasionally stopped, her nose in the air—scenting something. I watched her for a sign, not sure if I was more afraid of running into humans or cougars.

            As I sprinted up and over the next bluff, Abby stopped in her tracks as we had very quickly come upon an older woman sitting alone at a fire. There was no sign of a dwelling, though I knew that eventually the path led to a ramshackle cabin. She stared at the fire and I wondered if she was an apparition, but then her head raised and her eyes took me in. Out of breath, I grabbed the collar of my dog, and smiled and said, “Hi, how are you?”

Just twenty-nine hours prior to my transgression, I got a phone call from Superstore.

“Hello,” I answered

 “Mom?”

“Hi honey, how are you?” I sang.

“Not very good…. I got caught stealing,” she sighed.

FWump…My guts tensed; tears sprang to my eyes and my heart heaved. It had already been an emotional week. I felt deep sadness. “Oh…that’s…ummm…that’s too bad,” I replied.

I got the details of where she was, and what was required of me, and after a brief talk with the security personnel, I hung up. I called my husband Ward right away, looking desperately for some support. He did not let me down. He volunteered to go and meet with her, and at first I was reluctant—she would be expecting me, needing me—but since I was out of the city, and I was having an emotional reaction that was larger than the event required, I thought it would be best if he went. So, while he went to deal with this mess, I had a good cry and a long walk, before meeting up with them at home.

The old woman sat at the fire, staring at me before answering, “I’m fine,” she finally said. My armpits itched as she stared at me. She eyed me from beneath her tattered green baseball cap, long strands of black and grey hair sticking out; she said,  “Where are you coming from?” 

“Just over at Cottage Club,” I pointed with my hand in the direction from which I had come (in case it wasn’t obvious).

She stared at me; I huffed and puffed; and she said, “You do know that you are on private property?”

“No,” I hesitantly answered, and then as I turned to go I looked back and said, “I’m sorry. Have a good evening.” She said nothing as she watched me go.

Shit, I had broken the law, and been caught. Surely no one would prosecute. Shit, she knew where I lived. I wouldn’t be hard to find, with my unique white and brown striped hair, and my big, fluffy, blonde dog. It was a benign act—wasn’t it?

            The policeman, like the elderly lady, did “let her off” this time. So, we are in the same boat, aren’t we? Not really. She cannot set foot on that property—or any property they own—for a determined period of time. Me, I could take the risk again if I chose to, but I know that my conscience won’t let me. I got caught, and I don’t like to break rules. That alone will effectively change my behavior: I will find somewhere else to walk. Moreover, it is about respect, and I have seen the whites of her eyes—as she stared me down. What about my daughter? What will motivate her to change her behavior? Embarrassment? Guilt?—at dragging an innocent friend down with her. I don’t know.

The thing that I am wrestling with now is—who committed the worse crime? Each of us made a decision with risks attached. Until Friday, I was able to justify my stroll along private property; the only thing that changed on that day was—I got caught.  Prior to meeting the land owner at the fire, my justifications felt valid: I am not harming anybody or anything, nobody even knows that I have been here, and anything that I take in, I am also carrying out. But life has consequences, and when we make mistakes the consequences eventually catch up with us. I didn’t feel like I was causing any harm, whereas theft causes harm—that is the difference.

            The reality is: making mistakes is part of the human condition. It is what we do with the mistake that matters. How do we adequately teach our children to take responsibility for their mistake, and then to go one step further and attend to the hurt they have caused in others…and in themselves? I think that we do it through understanding over misgiving and compassion over judgment. Her actions cannot exist without consequences; hopefully the consequences will provide a lesson as well as some thought-provoking reflection—but those are the things we have no control over. We can only “rule” on the crime, dish out the punishment, and then, in turn, support her through the tears, the anger, the guilt, and the difficulty of learning new things as she grows up.

            Tell me and I forget.

         Teach me and I remember.

         Involve me and I will learn.

Benjamin Franklin

        

Fostering Relationships

It is four in the morning. I can hear the high-pitched bark of our eight-week-old foster puppy Bandit. I quickly swing out of bed, grab my housecoat, and head to the kitchen. When I get there, the kitchen is already lit up like midnight Christmas shopping at Wal-Mart! But, it smells more like a barnyard at sun-up. Ward has already punched in; he is standing in the puppy pen, surrounded by shredded newspaper, and all kinds of puppy “business”. He is gathering garbage at the same time as he is slinging a mop back and forth. He is muttering things under his breath. As his mop moves forward, Baylor jumps on it with playful paws, and Ward leans over and pushes him aside. As he pushes him aside, Baylor slips and now has poopy puppy paws, and requires a little mopping up himself! This “game” continues for the next several strokes. Bandit, on the other hand, is standing with his front paws on the grate; he continues to bark like a seal until I reach in and pick him up. He wiggles and licks my face as if he is the child and I am the lollipop. He whinnies like a horse. (He might be a ventriloquist when he is older!)

We have been a foster family for the Calgary Humane Society for the past three and a half years. There have been so many animals through our revolving door; I cannot accurately give a count (Laurèn could!). I am going to estimate…twenty, or more. Kittens often come with littermates, so that could be a gross underestimate. You get the idea.  It is a volunteer job, and thus no money exchanges hands. They do not pay us, nor do we have to pay for the pleasure, (Well, we DO pay—but not financially). Depending who you talk to, the perception of this volunteer job is varied. Some of the kid’s friends have said, with enthusiasm, “You get to do this for free?” While their parents might look across the scuffed and worn floor, and ask, “Why…why would you do this?” or pulling kleenex from their purses, they ask, "How can you bear to give them back?" (It's really not as hard as you would think--I casually respond.) My close friends take it a step further—“Have you gone crazy?”—they ask, "Six kittens...Really?"

It’s obvious, right? I am crazy. No, that’s not what I meant. It’s obvious why we take in these fosters…or, more specifically why I take in these fosters. Because they make me feel good. They make all of us feel good—sometimes. (Not so much at four in the morning…or eleven at night. Or when they jump from our kitchen island onto our leather dining chairs and land, claws extended, and slide all the way down. Or when they get frightened and "hit the deck" and then pee straight up, all over themselves.) But, other than that...we feel good, we are making a difference.

We started the foster program because of animal loving Laurèn. It seemed like a benign way to experience more animals, without adding more pets to the family! But, I might also be accused of not really thinking it all the way through. It is A LOT of work. And the “head of the house” bears the brunt of that work, with a little bit of help from the underlings. The underlings love the cuddling part of the job.

Although we started it because of Laurèn, everyone (except maybe Ward) has experienced some benefit in the presence of our foster animals. They need us, and we can care for them in a way that we can’t always care for each other. However, when we reach out to care for this other vulnerable living thing alongside one another, it brings us closer. We laugh more together, especially when we have kittens. A kitten carefully placed can ease tension like no other remedy we have tried. Especially with our emotional tweens and teens.

So, if you think that I am crazy, think again. I am crazy brilliant!

Bandit and Baylor.

Blog hop - Not my usual step!

I was asked by a fellow writer (Melissa) to participate in a Blog Hop, and since I love to dance, I said YES! 
However, only in the fine print did I realize that Blog Hoppin' is not at all like "hopping and bopping to the Crocodile Rock"--Well! Why not? 

Melissa and I were in a class together, insomuch as you can be together when living 8000 kilometres apart. Melissa lives in Japan, at the moment. But on-line learning allows for us to be together when we don't even share the same day or night. Somehow she made it work. Check out her blog at: http://melibelleintokyo.com/author/melibelleintokyo/.

All bloggers on this Blog Hop are asked the same four questions. Here are the questions, and my answers.

 What am I writing or working on?

Through the winter months I worked specifically on motherhood stories, through an on-line writing workshop called “Motherhood and Words” with author Kate Hopper, and a group of like-minded women. It was a great experience, and a group of us is attempting to stay connected through other book study, such as "Bird by Bird" by Anne Lamott. 

Now, as I prepare for my Creative Writing Final Project at the University of Calgary, I am continuing my work with Kate Hopper as mentor, editor and writing guide. I am creating the beginnings of a manuscript that I will work on in the final course work, but will also take further.

  How does my work differ from others of its genre?

Memoir is perhaps a difficult genre to make your mark in. Personal stories and journeys share some universal element to them—usually struggle, adversity, survival, and acceptance. Let’s face it: parenting is not that unique. However, the ways in which families are created is vastly different than it was a generation ago. I strolled into mothering when I stepped down the aisle and towards my husband-to-be and his two children; we later added a child through pregnancy, and then two more through international adoption (Ethiopia). This situation gives me lots to pause and ponder about, but moreover, it gives me plenty of opportunity to “screw-up”. There is no better way to learn about oneself than through mistakes. Writing gives me a place to express the many faces of mothering, some of which are painful to bear and others are hilarious.

Why do I write what I do?

Recently, a friend challenged me on the amount of time and effort that I was putting into writing, and writing courses. In a way, what she asked was, why are you spending time doing that, when you don’t have to? It is kind of a bummer that a writer/mother/etc./, such as myself, has to explain the why of writing. I said, “I don’t think you understand my writing life…” And she responded, “Yes, yes, I get it—it’s a hobby.”

Quite simply, I am a storyteller and so I write. Life experience informs any writer, and I am no different. I have been writing, in some form or another, for most of my life. Right now, I write about the struggles, triumphs, and just plain messy parts of being a mother because it has remained a secret for too long. We are not perfect and we are not alone. It feels important to get that message out there.

How does my writing process work?

My home life is at times chaotic and highly distractive. When I want to write, I pack up my computer and head to a favorite coffee shop, or to our cottage nearby. I need a space that is organized and quiet. (I know coffee shops are not always quiet, but nobody there says, "Hey Mom, what's for dinner? ...where are my cleats?...can you drive me...?", and so I can ignore it.)

Finding a process that works for me has been a moving target, because the demands of mothering are ever-changing. It is helpful for me to be in a class. Just as an athlete exercises more through the week when taking one class, I find that I will write and produce more when I am engaged in classwork and learning. My one consistent practice is writing in my journal daily--that is my pen to paper, jumbled thoughts and emotions, just for me. 

I do ten-minute writing prompts on most mornings. Right now, I am doing exercises from "Old Friend From Far Away" (Natalie Goldberg) or "use your words: A writing guide for mothers" (Kate Hopper).  I have two large blocks of time scheduled each week to write.  

Writing is place where everything is okay (even the really bad stuff!). It is a space within which I am invisible and unseen, yet heard and understood.  

I thought such awful thoughts that I cannot even say them out loud because they would make Jesus want to drink gin straight out of the cat dish.  

Anne Lamott

Inherent Risks

It is 9:10 pm.

The foster cat is in heat. Her incessant yowls are bouncing off the walls, like an echo in the Grand Canyon.

It’s a school night.

Faven just went upstairs with a bottle of hair dye…blonde. (Don’t ask.)

Laurèn is in the bathroom filling up water balloons—to throw at the neighbors. (Yup!)

Yohannes just sat down to eat supper. (Gulp.)

I can’t really explain why I failed to make supper. But, let me try. At suppertime, a whole bunch of kids were riding their bikes over to Mac’s, and my kids were among them. Why go to the trouble of cooking, when:

A) No one was around,

B) their stomachs were going to be filled when they came back, and

C) the shining sun was so soothing.

My kids were thriving in the chaos of our community—all on our front lawn, and I did not want to interrupt what felt like the first day of summer. I too, was thriving, sitting on the front deck, with a tumbler of white wine sangria, sunshine on my face, surrounded by pages of hand-written and typed notes that may one day turn into a manuscript.

Ward is in Vancouver. When he is away, the crazies seem to climb out of the crevices of our body—and fling themselves about as if our skin is their trampoline.

This weekend, when Ward was in Red Deer, the wheels wobbled and then fell off. (He misses all the fun!)

Yohannes asked me if he could go to the park with one of his friends. I said yes, and went to my room to get dressed. Moments later, I heard a hacking, gagging kind of cough on the main floor. I leaned my head out the bedroom door, “Hey guys, who is coughing?” One of the girls answered, “It is Yohannes.” That's weird, I thought, he hasn't been sick. As I was putting my shirt on, he banged on my door. "Mom, mom,  mom..." he called, and coughed and sputtered like an old smoker. I quickly came out. 

“Buddy, what’s going on?” I said.

“ Well…” (cough, cough, cough) “You know the tennis rackets?”

“Yeah.” I answered and immediately started coughing myself. 

“Well,” he started and then his voice broke and croaked out. My alarm center immediately got flooded. “WHAT happened?”

“Umm… well…” (cough, hack, cough)

“Whatever, it was…” (cough, wheeze)  “…it is okay… (cough)  I just need to know what happened.”

“Well, the tennis rackets…”

“Yeah.”

“There was a black spray thing by the rackets, and I …ummm….pressed down…ummm, the trigger.”
Black spray thing? “Okay… And?”

“It was horrible—you can’t even breathe in the garage.”

I noticed that the girls, who were down the hallway, were now coughing. And I was particularly bothered, due to my asthma. I went to get my inhaler, opening windows along the way, and it suddenly dawned on me what had happened. I yelled back to Yohannes, “Oh no! The bear spray!”

I ran back to look at him and stared intently. He looked as he always looked, hair slightly disheveled, sheepish grin, dancing brown eyes. “Where did it spray?” I asked, gripping his shoulders.

“All over the place,” he answered.

He struggled to speak—coughing and gagging uncontrollably. Panic was setting in, and not really knowing what to do, I set up my inhaler for him to take a puff. I quickly explained that I would release the medicine into a clear spacer, and then he would take a slow breath and hold. He tried. Then, I told him to change all of his clothes. While he did that, I ran to the car and got the canister of Wet Wipes. My own irritated airways continued to wheeze, and I took another puff of ventolin. I carried the wipes upstairs and gave him two, and told him to wipe down all of his skin. I gave him another puff of ventolin, with a Benadryl chaser. 

Then, I left him standing in the bathroom with the wipes and ran downstairs to the computer. “My eye hurts,” he croaked. Worry sent me into hyper-speed. I quickly typed the following words into my search engine: I got sprayed with pepper spray, (624,000 matches, clearly we were not the first!). I immediately had a list of first aid options. I chose one randomly, and began to yell commands to him upstairs.  “Yohannes, do not touch the area that feels like it is burning….it can make it worse.”

“Okay,” he mumbled.

I scanned the rest of the document and ran back upstairs. I filled the sink with cold water, and put in some dish detergent. I got a cloth and told him to wipe down all of his skin with the cold dish soap water. Of course, he refused, because he had just wiped everything down with wet wipes. With gritted teeth, I told him he had to do it again. Ever curious, he wanted to know why we were using dish soap. “Because that is what the computer said to do to get the oil off your skin.”

“I didn’t put oil on my skin Mom,” he said.

“There is oil in the pepper spray.”

“Oh.” He started washing. “It feels like my skin is falling off.”

“Let me see… I don’t see anything. Where?”

“Right above my eye. It feels like it is burning.”

“Oh. I guess that is the pepper,” I said, “Did you get it in your eyes?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Okay, that is good.”

“Why?”

“Well, I think if it was in your eyes, we would have to go to the hospital and get your eyes flushed out  with saline.”

“What’s that?”

“Just salt and water.”

“Oh”… “Mom, what is wrong with my voice?”

“Well, it has gone into spasm.”

“What is that?”

“It just means that the muscles around your voice box are contracting…squeezing, and that makes it hard to talk.”

“Will it go away?”

“Yes it will.”

“What should I do now?”

“How about you just go sit outside in the front, and get some fresh air?”

He went outside and Faven came in and asked, “Is he going to die?”

“No, he is not going to die.”

“Is he going to be okay?”

“Yes, he is.”

As I cleaned up the bathroom, I tried to imagine how this had happened. Yohannes has insatiable curiosity, and a need to know NOW, kind of manner. When he was three years old, he had finished changing from his indoor shoes to his outdoor shoes in the coatroom at preschool. He started to follow me out the door and then at the last moment, he spied a bright red square on the wall, adjacent to the door. Right in the middle of that red square was a white handle that said, “Pull Down”. He couldn’t yet read, so at the same moment that he pulled he said, “Mom, what’s th…”

RINGGGG!!

He ran over to me, scared by the loud sound, as everyone in the area stared at us.

I kneeled down in front of him, the noise unbearably loud, and said, “That is the fire alarm. You only pull that when there is a fire. Come on.” I grabbed his hand as we headed down the hallway to the office to let them know that this was a false alarm. At the office they told us that the fire trucks were already on their way. As we were ushered outside, we could hear the high-pitched siren making it’s way toward us. Yohannes began to cry. I scooped him up, “It’s okay buddy; it was just a mistake.”

He sobbed, “Am I going to go to jail?”

“No, you are not going to go to jail." (Smile) "I think the fireman will just come and talk to you about what happened.”

Well, now he had discharged the pepper spray, which incidentally is a lot harder than the fire alarm. There is pepper spray from one end of our garage cupboard to the other—covering everything in its path with red-streaked oil. (It looks like a failed art project.) It is a waste of time for me to even ponder why he would have done it. My time would be much better spent pondering the parental decision to put it anywhere near to our sports gear. Sigh….

Curiosity did kill the cat, but I am very curious. Brittany Murphy