No SAD in SoCal

Remember “Alexander, whose not (Do you hear me? I mean it!) going”? In that children’s book (by Judith Viorst) Alexander’s family is moving a thousand miles away, and there is no way that Alexander is going to leave, so he refuses to pack. That is how I felt all day long. It is my last day  in sunny Southern California. We spent the morning walking on the beach, with the sun warming our backs, and the soothing pulse of the surf pushing us on. I am not leaving. We spent the afternoon having a picnic on the beach at La Jolla Cove, along with dozens of seals and flocks of majestic yet cumbersome-looking California Brown Pelicans. There is no snow here. I am not leaving. It is warm (although the locals are wearing ski jackets and beanie’s). I have no responsibilities here. I am not leaving. I have time, for a few days on this trip, to be…a wife.

I am away from my kids, but that is not the whole story behind my yearly trips.

It is difficult for me to leave my kids. The volume of their need for me—as a stable base for their emotional expression—is so high that when I am not with them, I worry for them. Of course (you might say), it is good for them. And you would be right. But more importantly, it is good for me. My mothering roles and responsibilities are emotional and intense. I am highly sought out and in demand whenever my children are home. This is both a blessing and a burden.

Therefore, the break is rejuvenating for me, but draining for my kids. Life has a little less predictability when I am away. Surprisingly, not everyone knows the way that Mom does it! When I am away, my tank fills a little each day, and within days it is full, and I am able to gloriously march to a beat all my own. As soon as I tune into this rhythmic and peaceful melody, I am also aware of the chorus cutting in (every day) when I pause.

I miss you Mom.

When are you coming home?

Soon.

Seven more sleeps.

Four more sleeps.

Though my family does not usually accompany me on this annual trip they are never far away. I talk to and see each of them daily on FaceTime. With Faven, I deal with moods and emotions and her general dislike of school. I help Laurèn out with school projects and the occasional overwhelm that creeps under her skin. Facetime with Yohannes is a whole different experience. He makes me laugh, and laugh, and laugh (and then cry). As you know, on Facetime, both Yohannes and I can see him—so he tends to try different things, until something ends up being funny. It is kind of like making shadow puppets with your hands, you have to keep on experimenting. One day he turned his head sideways, and in true Pac-Man-style he went across the screen and “gobbled” up all of the lights. Another time, he put the camera right up to his nostril--and then stuck his finger in! And the grossest one: he created balls of spit at the edges of his lips, and then came close to the camera so that I could study it, like it was under a microscope. Yum. When Ward was still home, watching him on Facetime, he said (somewhat exasperated), “Yohannes, why don’t you just talk to your mom?” He confidently answered, “Because Mom likes this!”

So I am not really alone. Besides that, I have these gremlin voices that seem to follow me wherever I go. I am often halted by these disagreeable gremlins, who say things like: How could you leave them, and What is wrong with you anyway?

What is wrong with me? Being affected by seasonal affective disorder makes it more difficult in the winter for me to parent. I simply manage better when I take this seasonal break. The dark season wears me down. And all of those people who love me, are dragged down with me. I don’t like that. I am, in all seasons, the emotional barometer of my family; there is no way around it. I need to take care of that barometer.

Yes, there is much that I can—and do—do for myself during this season of darkness, but nothing charges my battery and fills my veins with happy-go-lucky, like day after day of blessed sunshine.

I am not leaving.

But please send the kids.

Ready, Set, Go

I could hear them breathing as they rolled to a stop behind me. I glanced over my shoulder. We were lined up at the red light, 1-2-3-4. My husband up front on his dark red Classic Comfort Cruiser, me bumping up to his rear tire, on my bright orange City Commuter, and them—one, two—bona fide racers. They were sporting aerodynamically designed helmets, bright cycling apparel and ergonomic clip in shoes. On their faces - pure determination. They weren’t out sightseeing.

I faced the light and smirked to myself. We got this, I mused. My husband didn’t even know they were there, so when the light turned green, he smoothly glided away, without a backward glance. I fell in behind him. About twenty seconds into this leg of our ride, I wondered how far back our competitors were. I glanced over my left shoulder, and they were right there—drafting me! The nerve. A moment later, as we entered the bike lane on the side of the highway, they geared up, and passed us both within three pedal strokes. They flew by us as if…well…as if we didn’t have throttles. How could they? They disappeared down the highway faster than invisible ink. I was dumfounded. But, it wasn’t really a fair competition because they had big, undulating muscles, while we had big, battery-laden bikes.

I stared after them in complete and utter awe. The equipment, could only take you so far!

Ride On

The weather in Southern California turned windy and rainy, so I did what any self-respecting Canadian would do, and went to rent a bike. I layered up, and headed out with my purple gloves, green anorak, black studio crops, knee-high polka dot socks, and pink Sketchers. I walked into the bike rental store and it turned out that their specialty was electric bikes. Their catch line was: “The Electric Bike: Both Eco-Friendly & Fashionable”. My kind of store!

They pulled out a dazzler for me: a pumpkin-orange frame, with shapely silver handlebars and black grips, a large wire basket, and a wide-bottom seat, just perfect for my derriére.  The tires were a hybrid between a bike tire and a motorcycle tire. And with the electric assist device mounted onto the rear wheel carrier, the bike weighed a ton. I was neither sleek, nor aerodynamic, but I had done that before.

When I was in my early twenties, I cycled innumerable miles across the coast of Oregon and into California. Sporting brightly colored and ridiculously coordinated cycling gear; I rode my 18-speed Diamondback a minimum of 110 km every day, for 25 days. That trip, taken with five guys and one other girl, was many things, not the least of which was illuminating. I found the edges of my reserve, and vacillated between melting down (or “hitting the wall”, as athletes like to say) and pushing through to a deeper reserve I didn’t know existed.

I am now South of San Diego, getting some solar-assist—my own motor sputtering, chugging, and hitting the wall, during this seasonal darkness. It only seemed natural that my bike ride today should include a little assistance. I eagerly signed on.  During my brief orientation at Pedago Bikes, I was told that with full throttle the bike could go over twenty. I was initially reluctant to use the throttle as it seemed so wrong—for wimps really, not finely tuned athletes like myself. But, after about eight minutes of pedaling that Goliath of bikes, I was exhausted, and I had only made it around the block!

As I made my way toward the Coastal Highway, I started to play with the throttle. I felt like a kid with a new toy. Once on the highway, I put the bike in its highest gear (six) and then nudged the throttle. I kept my legs going, and even shifted my body weight side-to-side, so it would look as if I was working really hard. I was starting to understand this pedal-assist thing, you could maintain some work, and give some away. Brilliant!

Now, comfortable on the highway, and feeling a bit like a glorified loser, I opened up the throttle, and sailed up a hill. In that moment I knew what it felt like to be Wonder Woman. It was thrilling! Sure, Wonder Woman had an invisible plane, but me, I could reach speeds of 20 mph on this electric bike—taking crime catching to a whole new level!

Prior to this, I had only used the power of my own body to move a bicycle through space; moreover I had spent a significant period of my early adult years on my bike, so I knew what the real cyclists were going through. Therefore, there was a line that I wasn’t willing to cross. I wouldn’t pass a real cyclist, who was bearing down on a hill, on my electric bike. That would be like the turtle passing the hare in an electric scooter. Not kosher. Also, I couldn’t bring myself to give the traditional four-fingers-off-the-handlebar wave to the cyclists who were going the other way. I felt like a fraud, but I was also afraid to lift my fingers off the handlebars, lest they lurch and deposit me (and my finery) on the roadside (in a heap of embarrassment).

Later, on the way home, I had several lights to stop and start for, which gave me a chance to perfect a “standing throttle start”, which I can only imagine is like a water skiing entry from the dock. Timing and body position are everything! The “highlight” of the trip occurred while I was stopped at a red light. As I waited for the light to change, I heard a “beep-beep”. I looked around, wondering if I was blocking the right-hand turn lane. There was a silver Honda Element two lanes over; the passenger window was down. The driver was intently checking us out. I wondered if the giant RENT ME sign attached to the bike had caught his attention. He called out to me, “Nice tires”. I moved my head, as if in slow motion, toward the front tire, and simply nodded. “Awesome bike!” he yelled”. Like the glorified loser that I was, I just gave him the thumbs up, and a stupid grin. The light changed, and he drove away waving. Clearly we had made his day, if not the other way around.

Ride on!

Food for fodder

This week, I sealed my bid for “worst mother of the year” (I know it’s only the 10^th day of the new year, but I have always been an over-achiever). An old friend called out of the blue to offer her help. I was confused. She said something like, “I am not sure what your schedule is like these days, but I could help drive your kids to school.” Huh? My mind raced, trying to figure out why she would be offering her help. What had I done? What had she heard? She filled the momentary silence with this explanation, “It’s just that I’ve seen Yohannes walking to school alone, I gave him a ride a few days ago. I know how busy it is in the mornings trying to get everyone out the door.” 

Ohhhhh…… I thought—my wayward son.

Yohannes is in grade five; he is capable, strong and independent in many ways. However, hovering on the inner edge of puberty, he has lost his capacity to function in the morning, manage time (or even tell time), and his distractibility has morphed through his entire being, and into every moment of his life.

Living in a house where AD/HD prevails is part hilarity and part absurdity. We have had in-the-field training with more-than-our-share of children; we see them leave a room, with a purpose, and then—never return. When the search ensues to see what happened, they are usually engaged in some other task, having completely forgotten their original mission. (Your mission, should you choose to accept it is…PAY ATTENTION!)

We had a rather impromptu family dinner party this week, which was prompted by our older daughter changing her flight by a day, and an impulse-buy on my part. I had bought a Swiss Raclette, and was so excited to gather around it and create a meal together. Our raclette consists of a cast-iron grill that hovers overtop of an electric heating element, and small removable pans that tuck in, beneath the grill. You can simultaneously grill meat/veggies/seafood, while cooking sumptuous side dishes of veggies, herbs, spices and cheese.

The only way that we could have dinner on the table (literally) at a reasonable hour was to get everyone to pitch in. Everyone was assigned a job. Yohannes’ job was to get an extension cord and plug it into the raclette, and then tape down the cords. Easy: walk to the garage, get the extension cord, stop at the office on the way back and get the tape, plug everything in, and tape it down. Done.

Not so much.

Yohannes walked through the quiet room, where all the accouterments of yoga and fitness live. He picked up the foam roller, and started using it as a sword against invisible enemies. Earlier, he had dropped his coat and lunch bag on the kitchen floor. I called him back to put those things away. He picked up his lunch bag and put it on the counter, and then he saw me putting the raclette together, and after a flurry of questions, he remembered his task and strode off to the garage. He came back with a yellow, fifty-foot cord. I stared at it. “Was that the shortest one?” I asked. He looked at it, shrugged his shoulders, dropped it, and walked away. I called out to him, “Take your coat with you.” He kept going. When he came back, he had an orange, fifty-foot cord. Great, we now had enough extension cord to run it out to our table on the lower deck—if only it wasn’t covered in two feet of snow! Resigned, I asked him to plug it in, and tape it down.

I returned to peeling potatoes. Kristin and Raad chopped vegetables. Faven prepared a salad. Laurèn had retreated to the quiet of her bedroom. Yohannes drifted once more to my fitness equipment and then re-entered the kitchen with his arm forced into a tightly wrapped foam mat.

“Yohannes, what about the tape?” I asked.

“Oh yeah, where is it?”

“Okay, I need you to listen.”

“Okay.”

“Put my fitness stuff away and don’t touch it! Okay?? The tape is in the office, in the drawers right under the window. There is a drawer that is marked ‘tape’ on the left hand side—you will find it in there.”

“Okay.”

He took the foam mat with him. His coat was still on the floor next to the table. Both extension cords lay abandoned near the table leg. Moments later he rolled himself back into the kitchen on top of a large, grey exercise ball. I didn’t notice him at first, because my back was turned as I prepared the meat. But, as I turned around and saw him performing his circus feats across the kitchen, I walked over, put my hand on the ball, and touched my boy on his shoulder.

“Did you get the tape?” I asked.

“Uhhh…. no,” he quietly answered.

“How is it that you have my exercise ball?”

“I found it in the office under your desk.”

“Please. Put. It. Back. Get. The. Tape.”

He started rolling back toward the office, and his older sister Kristin, who had already offered to buy me a ringmaster hat and whip, could take no more. “Yohannes, didn’t you hear your mom tell you to leave the exercise equipment alone?”  He paused, looked at her, and then went back to exactly what he was doing. She abandoned her orderly vegetables, and went over to “help” him out.

Finally, he came into the kitchen carrying a roll of green painters tape. That will do. He started to tape down the cords. He ran out of tape. He put the empty cardboard tape roll onto his arm. He looked at it. He said, “I’m going to paint it red.” He left. His coat still lay on the floor; the cord still lay snaked across the table and floor.  It had been fourty-five minutes since the original request was made for him to find the extension cord and tape.

He then returned to the table with a painting palette, a paintbrush, several paints and a container of glitter. He began to paint his cardboard armband with zest—ensuring that the raclette grill was now sprinkled in pink glitter and the rosewood table smeared in paint. I watched him for a long moment, and then as my shoulders sank over my collarbones, I went and plugged the cords in and taped them down myself.

When my budding artist was done, I asked him to clean up. He brought the palette over to the kitchen sink and then turned the water on full blast, and the paint took to the air splattering the dish drying rack, both sinks, and a good portion of the countertops. I could have screamed. At this point, Kristin simply burst into laughter. I slid in beside Yohannes to mitigate the damage.

So, as I paused on the phone that morning with the concerned friend, knowing that Yohannes wasn’t walking to school because I was too busy, I was sharply reminded of the unwritten contract we have as mothers. Somewhere in the fine print, written in invisible ink, it says, “Meet them where they are. Delight in the uniqueness of being. Guide them toward their goals. Love them through the mess. And take frequent breaks.”

Amen to that!

Flyer Karaoke - Unzipped

Here is another look at the post from December 19th. All of the song lyrics are highlighted in green. There are 21 songs! At the bottom, you will see the name and artist for each song. 

Here I am, dancing in Ethiopia - I like to dance just as much as I like to sing. I am equally talented at both. :(

Happy New Year!

_________________________________________________________________

My bags are packed, I’m ready to go—I’m covered in gortex from head to toe. Once outside I see skies of blue and clouds of white, and the brightness of the day, and I think to myself, what a wonderful world. And then, as I am walking along humming a tune, drinking in sunshine, out of that orange-colored view—wham, bam, alakazam, I got too much to do! With the dog and the sleigh, and me in my winter best, singing and dancing and taking no rest, I pull and I heave, and I hear voices say, “Isn’t she lovely… isn’t she wonderful.”

The smile spreads across my face and through my body, like a shiver in the sun.

It seems that flyer walkin’ is something shockin’, when your feet just can’t keep still, I never knew me a better time and I guess I never will. But, as I walk and I walk and I walk, I find that walking gets too boring, when you learn how to fly. I spin around, and take off. I danced in the morning when the world was begun, I danced in the moon and the stars and the sun, I came down from heaven and I danced on earth, I delivered my flyers even though they had no worth!

If the kids saw me dancing amidst snow and sun, they would be embarrassed instead of seeing the fun. Baby, I was born this way! And I’m the same old girl that I used to be, I haven’t changed at all—got the same old walk, the same old talk, only I stumble now and fall. You know, I throw my hands up in the air sometimes, saying A-YO! Gotta let go! I wanna celebrate and live my life, saying A-YO! Baby, let’s go! What?! Did you think I’d crumble; did you think I’d lay down and die? Oh no, not I—I will survive!

But, since the route is new, and I don’t know what to do, let this be my prayer: when we lose our way, lead us to a place, guide us with your grace, to a place where we’ll be safe. And deep in December, it’s nice to remember, the fire of September that made us mellow. But, it’s also hard because the cold freezes my toes, and I find that the feeling is gone, and I can’t get it back. Lost and cold and alone I mumble, country roads, take me home to the place I belong.

And to think, I left a good job in the city, workin’ for the man every night and day, and I never lost one minute of sleepin’ worrying about the way things might have been. ‘Cause I don’t care too much for money, money can’t buy me love. But now, the route is so long, the roads are so slippery that the pressure is on—I feel it, but I’ve got it all—believe it…

When you fall - get up (oh, oh),

If you fall-  get up (eh, eh).

Slipping and stumbling along my route, and I gotta stop and pick up dog poop! It ain’t all fine. The day is long—and the night has come and the land is dark, and the moon is the only light I’ll see. NO, I won’t be afraid. Oh, I won’t be afraid, just as long as you stand—stand by me. But the flyers must be done with the setting of the sun, because when evening comes around, and it’s time to go to town, where do I go…to rock and roll! Where do I go…to rock and roll.

So when you hear that I am frolicking playfully as I bring the junk that clogs your mail, you may say I’m a dreamer, but I’m not the only one. I hope someday you’ll join us, and the world will be as one.

In order: (21 Songs!)

Leaving on a Jet Plane – Chantal Kreviazuk (original - John Denver)

What a Wonderful World – Louis Armstrong

Orange Colored Sky – Natalie Cole

Isn’t She Lovely – Stevie Wonder

Crocodile Rock – Elton John

Gypsy – Shakira

Lord of the Dance - Michael Flatley

Born This Way – Lady Gaga

Rhumba Girl – Nicolette Larson

Dynamite – Taio Cruz

I Will Survive – Gloria Gaynor

The Prayer – Andrea Bocelli & Celine Dion

Try to Remember – John McDermott (I bet only my father-in-law got that one!)

If you Could Read my Mind –

Country Roads – John Denver

Proud Mary – Glee Cast (original - Creedence Clearwater Revival)

Can’t Buy Me Love – The Beatles

Waka Waka – Shakira

Stand By Me – Ben E. King

Your Momma Don’t Dance – Veronica Martell (original - Loggins and Messina)

Imagine – John Lennon

A hidden jewel

Her skin, the colour of honeyed bark, is marked by scars from early life. She attempts to hide behind a thick layer of foundation, liberally re-applied throughout the day. The tight curls of her coarse brown hair are pulled and seared into a stiff Barbie-like coif, or twisted tightly into a lengthy weave. With near-perfect teeth, her smile is a delight when it is spontaneously revealed. Her almond-shaped eyes, a beacon of mood, light up when she’s pleased, and cut through another like butter when she is angry, hurt or confused.

She speaks with a melodic yet stumbling accent that is indiscernible to most. A delightful lilt and tumble that at once can become so shrill with excitement that it vibrates the eardrum of another with such frequency as to instill insanity. There is no mystery in her articulation for she is expressive across all ranges of the auditory (and indeed—emotional) scale.

Long and lithe are her legs, and yet she is only a smidge taller than five feet. Round blossoming muscles accent her slender arms, and she is apt to flex and reveal her burgeoning strength when challenged. However, stick-like she is not, as her once boyish figure has sprouted and swelled to create eye-catching, mood-enhancing curves.

With clothing, she speaks another language altogether. It comes second, in importance, only to hair and make-up—all of which come before trivial matters such as breakfast and showering. With limbs and lobes bedazzled with bangles and beads, she jingles with a rhythm inherent in her expressive nature.