When you've loved a dog

I watched the Dog Whisperer every day the September we moved into our first house. Sometimes I’d devour two or three episodes in a row without taking a bathroom or snack break for fear of missing something. The way Cesar could calm any dog, get it to walk beside him; I was transfixed. I loved everything about the show: how they presented the problem behaviour, the video demonstration of it and then Cesar teaching the owner how to help the dog be its best self.  It was inspiring.  And I knew I could put Cesar’s teachings to practice.

Only one problem: I didn’t own a dog. I was seven months pregnant and grieving.

I cried every day for the first few months after we put Judge down. But when there were no tears left, I watched Cesar Millan train the problem behaviours right out of all the dogs he met.  It was a welcome distraction, like the baby boy growing inside me. Like the new house with its unfamiliar streets.  

A relief because I could no longer bear those old streets.

They reminded me of the tugging of the leash, the feel of him heavy and sure, next to me as we walked. The old streets ached in me to feel his breath hard on my face when he wanted me to wake; made me weep that he’d never nudge my hand again to force my touch if I dared stop stroking his long back. He was our first baby and the one who gave us a taste of the family we could be.

We loved him desperately for 11 years.

He’s been gone ten years tomorrow. Cancer riddled his sweet gentle body and there was nothing to be done.

The kids feel sure they knew him. They know the stories; the ones Shaune and I tell shaking our heads, laughing and I sometimes hear them retell these to their friends as if they really did know him. And today, the pine box that holds what’s left of him sits on Deaglan’s dresser next to a picture of 22 year old Shaune kneeling beside a big yellow happy dog.

We’ve had other pets since then. Crash the cat, some fish who’s names I don’t remember and most recently two hamsters named Skibby and Stephen. We lost Deaglan’s beloved Stephen a few weeks ago and knew for certain that it was time to add to our family. 

We picked Myrtle, a one year old Jack Russel Schnauzer, up two weeks ago from the farm she was living on. She was making it very hard for the free range chickens to feel free. 

She stole our hearts that first day. My words can't do justice to the the kind of delight she has brought to the boys. They are simply smitten. There's so much goodness on this parenting journey but it's a special kind of joy to watch your kids love an animal. 

I'm no authority

I’m not sure I like being the authority on things.

Lately I find myself defining things I’d rather not. Naveen is full of questions all the time. Like last week he asked, “Mommy what does “part” mean?”

Huh?? Really? I wanted to ask. Right now? While I’m trying to hurry your brother into the school to sign him in so I can get you to the daycare and get to work? After I had to bargain with chocolate to get your shoes on? I have to now define the word “part” to a three year old with no other context?

It’s part of the parenting gig, I know.

And I enjoy it most of the time. I really do. But last week when I caught wind of Deaglan humming to himself I was sorry I asked what he was singing.

“Heyyyyyyyy,sexy lady!”he repeated louder, zooming Lightning McQueen up a couch cushion ramp. Then as if it was the most natural thing in the world, “Heyyyyyyy sexy Mommmmy!”

Gulp.

“You know what honey? Sexy is an adult word. Let’s not say that word.”

“That’s the song Sara plays for us at school in the program (the after-school program). Why can’t we say it? What does it mean?”

“Well, it’s just a word adults sometimes use to describe each other.”

Naveen suddenly interested: “Heyyyy sexwee Mommmy!!!, hahahaha.”

I was thinking about this on the drive this morning when Tom Power told the story about a time when he ducked into the Ship Inn Pub, in St. John’s Newfoundland for a pint and found the patrons eerily quiet, eyes fixed on the stage. He said when he scanned the bar he noticed that almost every person was mouthing the words to the song the band up front was singing.

The band was the Skydiggers. They were singing Fire engine (Red explosion). He then played the song.

A small thrill ran through me. I love the Skydiggers. I first saw them at the pub at Brock University in my second year and instantly became a fan. I had their album Restless within arm’s reach for the next 15 years.

To this day, track 12 still slays me every time I hear it.

Maybe when they’re old enough I’ll explain to the boys that that song is the definition of sexy. Come to think of it, by that point they probably won't want to hear me say the word sexy.

Totally unrelated but if you have two minutes watch this video I got of Naveen at bedtime tonight. He's explaining why he's angry at Deaglan. He has a lot to say on almost everything all the time these days.

 

 

 

Assume nothing

Earlier this evening a young woman came to the front door. She had good news for me she announced. She would take care of the installation charges if I agreed to switch from my cable and internet provider to her company. She was bright and hopeful, young and pretty.

I cut her spiel off at the knees. It felt bad to do it. It’s a tough thing; going from door-to-door during the dinner hour, in the cold.

But still.

We have that sign on the door prohibiting exactly this kind of thing. And besides, she’d come in the middle of a presentation I was giving to an audience of two. Two small boys were refusing to eat their dinners.

Again.

And until that loud knocking at the front door, I’d been on somewhat of a roll. I was saying things like, “there will absolutely be no more dessert or treats (dramatically tapping at the treat cupboard) if you don’t eat your meal,” and “you have no idea how lucky you are to have so much food, some kids (pointing meaningfully out the back door) aren’t so lucky.”

I was perfectly aware that my beautifully delivered oration was being met with complete disregard by Naveen who was busy wrapping noodles around the wheels of a mobile cow. And Deaglan had only one question he kept interrupting with, “How much do I have to eat to get a chocolate pudding?”

I’ve learned one very disappointing truth on my parenting journey so far: Assume nothing.

Shaune and I are hearty, willing eaters. And we excel at sleeping.  Our favourite things are to eat and sleep. In fact, a long-time dream of mine is to be allowed to only eat and sleep for days at a time. Give me food. Give me a bed. I’m happy.

Our boys?

Failures on both counts.

I was discussing this very thing with a mom friend of mine a while back. She wasn’t as good at commiserating as I’d hoped she would be. She admitted that her son was a very good eater and he’d slept practically 12 hours straight since the day he was born. When she saw me wincing she kindly pointed out some of his failings. “He’s two and he hardly says a word. I mean, didn’t you say Naveen can practically read from the Encyclopedia?”   

“And” she added, “my little brother was a really picky eater. My mom had the worst time ever making meals and packing his lunches.”

“Oh yeah?” I perked up a little. “Did he grow out of it?”

“You know what? He did. Two years ago when he moved to Toronto for work, he started hanging out with a more sophisticated crowd of people. Now he eats sushi and all kinds of vegetables.”

So basically she was saying that I might have to wait till Deaglan’s almost thirty to see a change in his eating habits. He won’t even be my problem at meal times then!

Hopefully.

I love a good story

Today on the way home, the DJ played Bruce Springsteen’s Glory Days. He might as well have dedicated it to me. It’s just what I needed after the day I’d had. That song is the right amount of rock and vocals if you ask me. If I was a different kind of person, I might have slapped the steering wheel to the rhythm of the drums, nodded my head to the beat as I sang along.  I didn’t do that. I’m just saying.

Excellent. Song.

My high school boyfriend John flashed through my mind. He introduced me to Springsteen when I was 15, a love he’d inherited from his Dad I think. He took me to the Tunnel of Love concert at the Joe Louis Arena in Detroit, where I got to witness firsthand the Boss’s stamina and amazing stage presence.

I thought back, too, on earlier times with Shaune before we had the kids. Times when after getting home from the bars we’d play our favourite music and take turns singing along, loudly  and as close to the original as possible– a sort of karaoke off.

Glory Days was often in the queue on those nights. Of course so was plenty of red wine.

I listen to CBC Radio 2 on my drive home. You never know what Rich Terfry will play. He always has interesting little tidbits about some of the songs, which for me is just as good as the music. Like the other day before he played this Mowglis song he told us that when Lindsay Lohan tweeted that people should listen to it, the Mowglis’ album sales went  through the roof and their website practically exploded  from the sheer number of people trying to access it. Lindsay Lohan.

I love a good story.

My favourite thing recently is to eavesdrop on the boys. I can’t get enough of their little conversations especially when they like each other. I feel well within my rights in doing this. I guess I look at it as auditing for supervision purposes. And if I'm going to be perfectly honest with myself. I’m also mining for blogging gold.

I know there will be a day when this will be considered high crimes. A time when they won’t speak so freely in my presence.

I have to tell you. I dread that day.  

A few mornings ago before work, while I was ironing my clothes, I heard Deaglan tell Naveen that Mommy was sick. (I pulled my groin muscle and had been laid up on the couch over the weekend.) I can’t remember Naveen’s response but Deaglan continued saying,

“I hope Mommy gets better soon so she can go to her job and raise enough money to keep our house for a little longer.”

A) I hadn’t missed a single day of work for this injury I swear! And B) How devastating that my five year old thinks we’re barely hanging on by a financial thread, one step away from living on the streets!

Not a public service announcement

I used to smoke.

In fact I smoked for over ten years. And it’s not popular to say but I loved it and if it wasn’t such a health hazard I would easily take smoking up again. It helped relieve my anxiety. That’s not a medical conclusion, simply my own very unprofessional experience of it. Deep down I am very, very shy and socially awkward. This showed itself flagrantly up until the end of my teen years, but once I was away, in a different city, alone at university, and finally able to dabble in a bit of rebellion without the stresses of home, I began to find ways to hide it.

Social drinking and smoking transformed my personality. I felt more confident with a cigarette in hand, a bit of a buzz in my head. Holding that cigarette gave me something to do, masked the feeling that I was completely vulnerable, allowed me to make small talk, and shut out the voices in my head that taunted me otherwise: You don’t know what you’re talking about. Nobody cares what you have to say. Shut up.

And besides, all my friends smoked.

But I knew I was not destined to be a long-time smoker. It’s not something I wanted to continue into my “responsible” adult years; because you see, it didn’t fit with the image of parenthood I’d been nursing. I’m sure had I felt the freedom to be more of a typical teenager back when I was the age to do so, when my friends were going to parties, experimenting with pot and alcohol, I might have gotten smoking out of my system in say, my mid twenties. But my teen years were taxing in ways that made me feel I had to stay in complete control, keep order, take on grown-up tendencies.

The spring of my 34^th  year seemed like as good time as any to think about quitting. I used a nicotine patch for the first few weeks. But it was expensive and I felt persistently light headed from the almost constant release of nicotine into my system. By the time I’d decided to quit, I’d been only smoking after work and in the evenings. This steady flow of nicotine was too much.

I decided to go cold turkey after a while.

Because we lived together, Shaune and I knew we wouldn’t be successful unless we both quit. We forced ourselves to bow out of social events, stayed home for a few months, miserable and isolated in our withdrawal. But neither of us could imagine ordering a drink and not lighting up. It was a torturous, unnatural-seeming time those first few months. I remember feeling deeply resentful of my friends who were still smoking. I missed the smell when it suddenly snuck up on me in the street and having a glass of wine was no longer exciting and joyful as it once had been.

But I stuck it out.

Eventually I found comfort in knowing I had done something wonderful for my body. Food’s flavour blossomed. It felt good and right not to be spending ten bucks a day on something so insidious.  And I was very glad for the discounted rates on my life insurance policy once I officially qualified for non-smoker status. Most satisfying though, I’m growing into who I am, not fighting my natural shyness when it shows up.

I’ve been thinking a lot about how hard it is to quit something.

We’re trying to get Naveen to lose interest in his pacifier, his beloved choo-choo. When we fought this battle with Deaglan, and I’m not exaggerating when I say this; it was like negotiating with an unyielding heroine junkie. For a full week he slept in our bed, crying out every hour or so throughout the night, begging us for it. It was frightening for Shaune and me, to hear our three year old desperately beseeching us and having to deny him consistently for the greater good.

Only cold turkey worked.

I know this. And yet here I am again, fooling myself into thinking that I can take it away from Naveen in increments. Friends give me all sorts of great ideas – cut the tips off, plan to make a gift to a new baby, etc, etc. They also tell me that someday this will be a distant memory; I won’t even remember the agony of it. 

I know it’s true, I know it must be, but it’s very very real right now. And in my effort to be gentle, offer him the room he needs to perhaps give it up on his own, it feels ominous, even impossible. I'll keep at it and let you know how it goes.

This is Scrappy, our friends Jenn and Mario's dog. I was looking through our pictures and forgot about this one from last summer. Fitting I think.

How we celebrate

Friday night when we were out for dinner, I wrote in crayon on a napkin, “It’s my husband’s birthday. One piece of Tuxedo cake please,” and handed it to our server when Shaune was distracted with the kids. I cringed a little knowing she would now likely change her mind about how nice I’d initially seemed.

I knew this to be true based on my own experience in the restaurant business for far too long. There is very little more humbling in life than to have to clap and sing some obnoxious birthday jingle while crowds of people look on.

Yet I’m certain it’s part of the contract;  written in the fine print, when you become a parent: When celebrating birthdays in public, you must create a scene. Sing loudly along for all to hear.

I brought play dough to keep the kids focused. It works about 78% of the time. However, YouTube cartoons on our smart phones work beautifully when you want to be able to eat your meal in peace. In a recent development Naveen has begun shouting in most conversations. I’m assuming it’s a function of being the younger less articulate brother. A table of retirees were directly beside us thank goodness – grandparent types. And I’m not pointing this out to make some hearing-impaired crack, they just happened to think our two disobedient and loud-talking little nincompoops were adorable.

We spent Saturday in Camlachie at Shaune’s folks’ partying again. There was ice cream cake this time. The kids were in fine “We’re at Gramma and Grampa’s house” form. Which is to say they didn’t listen to a word I said, forcing me to repeat things like “what do you say?” and “Get your shoes on we’re leaving,” so many times that I likely seemed a bit crazy and controlling to the childless side of the room.

See earlier comment about fine print.

And on Sunday I was relieved when the birthday boy wanted to hang out around the house. I bought our favourite birthday cake from Costco and we sang to Shaune right after lunch so we could dig in – Deaglan went practically catatonic when I at first suggested we’d be having it after dinner.

I wished I’d thought to take pictures of Naveen shovelling the cake in.

While at Costco, I also grabbed a giant case of raw chicken wings, I don’t even want to guess how many chickens had to contribute. I believe this to be a show of how cool and uncontrolling I can really be. Shaune was thrilled. Even if he had to cook his own birthday meal. He made the wings Cajun dusted, deep fried with honey garlic and medium on the side. It’s how we used to eat them at Stokes Inland back when we were dating.

Shaune said it was a good birthday. He thanked me for "letting" him have wings for dinner. 

When we were courting

My first real date with Shaune over 15 years ago was when he cooked dinner for me in his parents’ kitchen while they were vacationing.

He made fresh caught trout with a beurre blanc sauce, grilled tender vegetables and saffron rice.  I remember distinctly wondering why the hell he was so excited about taking shrimp shells and boiling them for several hours in a broth of water, vegetables and seasonings just to create a gleaming white mixture he’d eventually pour on top of the delicately grilled whole trout.

I’d never been around sophisticated cooking except to be on the receiving end in the fancy (to me) restaurants I’d eaten in so far; the likes of which included places like The Keg and a few of the nicer Mediterranean eateries I’d waitressed in up until then.

Which is to say – I’d really not been in many fancy places at all.

So when he said he was going to make me a lovely dinner, I’d expected my idea of lovely, a simple pasta with some red wine, maybe a steak cooked close to right, sautéed mushrooms and mashed potatoes. I had no idea what I was in for. We certainly had different ideas of what a good meal was – him with his intense culinary training at Humber College and some of the best restaurants in Toronto.  Little did I know, that first evening would change my notion of good eating, push me to more refined hankerings so that I never took a good meal for granted ever again.

Over the years we’ve spent a small fortune on food.

During our childless years, we found restaurants we liked, and dined in them again and again. We were like the French, slow and deliberate in our eating. We often started with dry vodka martinis, tiny swords full of Spanish Manzilla olives or buttery apple chardonnays, plates of light crispy fried calamari before moving onto our main courses. Rarely did we end a meal without sipping Frangelico and shots of hot strong espresso.   

In the late nineties, when we lived there together, Sarnia had some wonderful little places.

 We thought of them as our places back then. Two in particular were owned by the same woman, a vivacious red-head who knew outstanding food and combined it with wonderful wine pairings, just enough kitsch and twinkling lights to allure us back time and again. She came to a no good end back then. We often think of her fondly and hope she found her feet to start over.

Sometimes I miss those times with the kind of ache only someone who knows better can. Those days when we were just us two and a dog.

It’s rare for us to eat anywhere fancy these days. Our criteria has changed slightly.

Is it loud enough to drown out our kids?

Do they have chicken nuggets on the menu or, better yet, a buffet to address the picky eaters in our party?

Colouring books and crayons?

Servers who have the patience to deal with rascally little boys?

Something decent on tap?

Yes??

Well then, we’re in!

Shaune’s been waiting for supply teaching work. Lately he’s revealed a new set of skills equally impressive.  He’s been busy re-doing our floors, cleaning the house regularly and having dinner on the table when I get home every night. And his first love - wonderful food - well it's still a part of who he is and lately I’m coming home to some of the best meals. 

It's not the same; as you can imagine. 

In between bites we're either bribing the kids with the promise of dessert or threatening them with discipline if they get up from the table one more time. There's no candle light or thought to atmosphere - except to ensure it's safe. I'm usually in kid-proof shorts and a T-shirt and we're done eating within minutes. 

Still, it sometimes takes me back to those old days.

This is what we ate last night - a crispy skinned salmon fillet over wilted spinach topped with a sweet and spicy chili garlic sauce, served with roasted pepper-squash and green zuchinni.
Recipe to follow.

For Shaune

I was thinking about how since the kids came along we’ve had about two hours alone. For one of those hours we took turns picking lice out of each other’s hair, remember?

I was thinking about how no matter what, the kids come first now. How before they took over, I used to iron your shirts for work every morning. Back then, we wouldn’t dream of sitting on separate couches to watch a show on TV.

I was thinking about all those apartments we shared; just me, you and the dog. How we used to sleep in on Sundays and always went out for breakfast. How you used to be the only person I worried about back then.

I was thinking about all those dinners in restaurants, some fancy, some not. How we ate slower, talked about stuff, drank wine. I was thinking about how we never discussed getting married all those years. That we sort of rolled along, best friends, partners with ups and downs.

And I was thinking about our no-frills backyard wedding. Wondering if I would do it differently if I had the chance. How nice it was that when it was over, it was over. No debt, no fuss. I was thinking about how we saw eye-to-eye on it. No squabbling. One of those important things we quietly agreed on.

I like that about us, you know.

We’re not the same as we used to be. In some ways we’re better. This family we’ve created is everything to me.

I was thinking about how odd it is to tell people we're celebrating our third wedding anniversary. When we’ve been working on this for 14 years.

I was thinking about us and all of this today.

And I wanted to say happy anniversary.

Profiling

"Citizenshep?"
I handed the customs officer my driver's license and health card.

"Canadian." He shuffled the two pieces of ID and then looked at me.

"Where're you goin Miss?"

"I'm going to a baby shower. Uh, my sister's baby shower." I said, unable to recall where the shower was, my mind a blank suddenly.

"Where's your sister live?"

"Well she lives in Harper Woods, but the shower isn't there. It's at her friend's house. I mean it's at her sister-in-law's." I sat up straight hoping this would stop my voice from shaking. "I have the directions in my purse."

"Where're you bohn Miss?" He sounded just like my brother-in-law, same Michigan accent.

"Uh, Bangladesh but I've been a Canadian citizen for over twenty years."

"Where's your proof of citizenshep ehat?"

I'd been crossing this border since I was a kid and couldn't remember the last time they'd asked for my citizenship card.

"I'm waiting for a new one in the mail. I lost mine." It sounded lame even to me.

"MmmHmm." he said and without pausing, pointed toward the building in front of me. "Okaay please pull through and paark up under that paavilion. Do nat git out of your caar. An ahficer will cahm to you."

Shit. This was the first time I'd needed to cross since it had happened.    

I pulled into the parking lot of the Customs and Immigration Building. I badly needed a cigarette but was too scared to light one up. Within a few minutes a stern-faced officer was standing next to my door, signalling me with two gloved fingers to step out the car.

I pulled my lips into a tight smile. "Hi," I said.

He nodded his head. "Please stay on this side of the yellow line ma'am."

I don't know why I hadn't considered the ramifications to security at the bridge. It was June 2002, not even a full year after 9/11, the day which had altered our world. A terrible, terrible day which ignited a new kind of fear, a new kind of racism.

"What's going on?" My nervousness was slowly heating into anger. "Are you searching my car?" No warning. Nothing.

"Yes I am Ma'am. Please stay behind the yellow line." His voice was rigid and unapologetic. He then popped my trunk and with a wand like stick began sifting through my belongings. Books, a towel, an extra dog leash, some half-empty water bottles and some loose papers.


I could hear my mother's voice in my head.
"You have to know which way to go at the bottom of the bridge. The wrong direction - pick the wrong line and you could be there for hours." I most certainly had gone the wrong direction.

It was not a good day to be a lone traveller with no documented proof of belonging. It definitely was not a good day to be a brown skinned Arabic-looking woman without proof of Canadian citizenship.

After two more searches of my car  this time by two different officers in army outfits, and two 15 minute interviews by these officers I was released. (I later learned these officers belonged to the National Guard).

Weary and shaken I drove to the baby shower, four hours late, and arrived just as the party was packing up.

This is my entry for the Red Writing Hood meme - detour.

Friday night

I just finished bathing, reading to and tucking in two small boys. While I was nursing Naveen, I was trying to remember what I used to do on Friday nights before the kids. Flashes of recall came to me. In my twenties, Friday nights were filled with the appeal of anything can happen. There was usually the panic of figuring out what to wear, where to go, and what to drink. In my early thirties, it became more about nice dinners out, affordable but good wine and figuring out what to wear.

Now here I am on the cusp of my forties, and it entails, figuring out what the toddler will eat for dinner, how I can tweak the bedtime routine to encourage the infant to sleep longer than two hours and the countdown to me-time on the couch with maybe a glass of wine and a turn on the laptop. And what I wear? Well that's the easy part.

It's not exciting in the same way but it's so good in a different way. There's something solid and satisfying in getting kids bathed and settled in. It feels right to provide the comfort of a routine, to indulge them when they ask for one more story. And that glass of wine?

It feels earned.

What are you doing on this Friday night?

This post is also inspired by The Red Dress Club who asked us to write a little something about feeling grateful.