Hi Ho Mery Away

My parents let us choose any extracurricular activity we wanted if it was reasonable.  The only catch, we had to see it through until the session was over.  I was about 8 years old when I started horseback riding lessons. I bet Western riding would have been fun. Unfortunately,no spurs or cowboy hat for me. English riding meant I got to wear an ill-fitted black hard hat with a goofy chin strap, and I carried a crop that I used more on my little brother than I did on any horse. The riding pants were camel colored stirrup pants that felt like plastic.  I also wore riding boots that came up to my knees.  I suppose I would have looked cute, despite the fact that I was miserable.

My mother would chauffer me to my riding lesson every Tuesday. Each week I would beg her not to make me go.  “I already paid for the lessons, you’re going,” she would say.  I would have chosen water boarding over a weekly horseback riding lesson if given the choice.  I was not one with these animals like other students in my class.  I cannot remember how many years I took the lessons, but she could not have possibly paid that far in advance.

My riding instructor, Alice, looked a lot like the precious creatures she adored.  Her hair was long blonde and curly, pulled back in a pony tail. She had an overbite that could rip through an apple with two swipes. I swear she would neigh when she laughed.  She definitely cared more about those horses than she did me.  I never actually saw her ride, but she would find something wrong with everything I did.

In the beginning of each lesson, we would be assigned a horse. Prior to putting on the riding gear, we would need to first clean out their stable. The tall boots came in handy during the cleaning phase. Alice would scream at me that I wasn’t raking the hay correctly, or that I was putting the horse poop in the wrong place. Why was she complaining?  My parents were paying her to allow me to clean her barn.  Oh, and did I mention while this was happening the horse was in the stall with me?  This was not my idea of a good time.

I was in a group lesson with seven other kids, who all seemed to enjoy themselves.  I always wanted Melody, a slow, easy going girl who put up with my ineptness.  For some reason, more often than not, I would have the displeasure of getting Dottie, a pony whose mane was shaved off and the only way to hold on was using a leather strap that was placed around her neck. If I were her, I would be pissed off too, if a person was choking me every time they made me pick up a jog or canter.

The next phase in the “lesson” was brushing the horse.  There were different brushes needed based on the condition of the horse’s coat. Good ole Dottie was one of the animals who like to roll around in the mud.  Before I could even brush her, I had to use a curry comb that was like a plastic back massager which loosened up all the mud and dirt that was ground in on her coat.  If I got this treatment before every lesson I would role in the dirt too. Of course, Alice would always find something wrong with my technique. “Your circles aren’t small enough.” “Really get in there, and get her rear end near the backs of her legs.”  I hated Alice, and I hated Dottie.  They were conspiring against me.

Finally, after all the brushing, it wastime to put on the bridle and saddle. We would walk as a group to the area of the barn where all the bridles were hanging. Each one would be passed out based on the horse we would be riding. We would all then walk back and put the bridle on the horse. Except for me.  Gross.  I was NOT sticking my hand in that beast’s mouth, with her big dark golf ball eyes staring at me like she was ready to bite.  Alice came over, muttering something under her breath and placed the bit into the horse’s mouth, buckled what needed to be buckled, and then walked away. Neigh to you too, Alice.

The saddle and the blanket that went on the horse’s back were the next phase of my nightmare.  The students all marched back to the part of the barn where the saddles were hanging.  Alice and I had such a great relationship; she would give me a saddle that had just been used in a previous class which was saturated in horse sweat.  That saddle weighed more than I did, but there was no mercy with English riding.  I would find myself leaning against walls and stall doors to rest before actually making it all the way back to my horse.  There was no way I was hoisting that heavy thing over my head and onto the horse’s back.  Alice would make me try.  I would give it a couple good attempts, sometimes smacking myself in the face with the heavy metal stirrup. With a little whinny, Alice would yank the saddle out of my hands and place it gingerly on her buddy’s back.  She tightened the girth around Dottie.  I then would place my foot in a stirrup and she flung me up and over the saddle. With my boots in the stirrups, I was ready, or as close as I would come to being ready.

Our class would ride around the ring practicing our forms for walking, trotting, and the dreaded canter.  I would hang on to that leather strap for dear life.  Every so often, Dottie would grow tired of the human on her back and stop dead in her tracks and put her head all the way down to the dirt, and I would roll down her neck onto the ground, and then cry.  What made matters worse, Alice would yell at me, not Dottie.  Evidently it was a control thing, and I lacked any bit of it over the horse.  Alice would come over, screaming at me to get back on the horse and hike me back into the saddle.  I would still be sobbing walking in the circle of seven, while the other students were enjoying the luxury of dry clean pants.  I knew Dottie was laughing on the inside, evil filly that she was.

My lessons went on for a couple years and I never graduated from cross jumping.  I’m thinking the reason could be because at every attempt, the horse would be in a full canter as we approached the jump and would then dead stop like my old pal Dottie.  I once rolled down a stallion’s neck into a pile of horse crap.  That was the last straw.  I got into my mom’s car without rinsing off when the lesson was over.  It was that afternoon I told my mom I was through with riding lessons and she no longer got a vote.

The Things We Do for Love

In the beginning of any relationship, it seems easier to convince your partner to do whatever it is you want them to do.  The first Halloween that Dave and I were together, I persuaded him to dress as a woman, using all the essentials needed to pull it off.  Since I enjoy my marriage for the most part, I will not go into the details of this story, but will tell you, he blended in at the bars and was even mistaken for a female.  I will, however, tell you about the first thing I did for love.

Winter in Potsdam is bone chilling.  The North Country of New York State can reach some of the country’s lowest of the lows in temperature.  It was not uncommon for the wind chill to be negative 20 degrees.  There would be warning signs posted in the Student Union, “Cover all exposed skin” and “Remove earrings to avoid frostbite.”  Potsdam, NY was named the “coldest town” on the Weather Channel on more than one occasion.   What better time would there be to go camping?

Back in the day, Dave was an avid backpacker and camper.  Primitive camping was one of his favorite pastimes, and he wanted to share that experience with me.  Mery, the one who hates nature for the most part.  The way Dave spun it, we would just slap on our cross country skis and head up the Racquette River to find a nice spot to camp on the ice.  He had all the necessities to be comfortable, or so he said.  “I have two mummy bags.  One is a twenty degree and the other is a zero degree bag.  You can have that one and you will stay toasty.”   Right.  Toasty… with just a Therm-a-rest pad and a sleeping bag between me and a block of ice.

Somehow, one of Dave’s fraternity brothers, aka the future Best Man in our wedding, managed to convince his girlfriend, aka one of my BFFs, to go on the adventure too.   Around 4pm we packed up our 50lb packs and headed out.  Unfortunately Julie did not have cross country skis at school, so she had to hike it up river to our campsite while the rest of us glided along the top of the snow.  I had to admit, it was beautiful.  The entire river was covered in white powder snow, and you could not tell where water ended and the mini islands peppered throughout began.  The snow covering the tree limbs were like winter leaves.  The air was crisp and the only sound was the whoosh whoosh of our skis.  Well, and the sound of Julie clomping through the foot and a half of snow.   It was quite a workout and warmth was not an issue yet.

We reached what seemed to be a good spot and started to set up camp.  We must have traveled at least a mile up river, completely secluded from any and all other signs of life, except for nature.  Since we were so close to the North Pole in the dead of winter, it was already starting to get dark.  I took off my pack and while Dave and Adam set up the tents, Julie and I went foraging for dead sticks and twigs for our toasty fire.  We gathered as much dead stuff as we could and made a nice little pile.  We are women, hear us roar.

The tents were set up and we threw all of our belongings inside to protect them from the elements.  It has started to snow as the sun was setting.  The sweat from our skiing workout had started to freeze and the umpteen layers I was wearing were not keeping me the least bit warm.  Next step was starting the camp fire.  This is the part of the story where Jack London’s To Build a Fire comes to mind.  The only difference was he was fighting to survive in sub zero weather and we were there by choice, like idiots.  For one reason or another ( I think I may have blocked this part out) we could not get the fire started.  The guys tried every trick in the book with no success.  We did have one other heat source, sort of.  

Dave broke out his camping stove, which looked  more like a Bunsen Burner with a piece of tin foil attached, and a tube going from a canister to the bottom of the contraption.  Time for dinner.  Our appetizer was corn beef hash out of the can.  Don’t get me wrong, I like corn beef hash as much as the next person, but there is something about eating it straight from the can it is stored in.  No crispy fried edges, just mush.   As the main course we ate baked beans in a can.  Our dessert was potato chips.  Not one of the more nutritious meals I ever had in my lifetime, but it worked.

With no fire or light, we all sat around in the dark with our headlamps on laughing at how ridiculous our situation was.  After about twenty minutes, or maybe 7pm, we decided to turn in for the night.  My thought was, at least if I was going to die of frost bite or hypothermia, it would be while sleeping.  I jumped into my sleeping bag and waited for the zero degree bag to do its magic.  Stupid sleeping bag did nothing of the sort.  The only way I was generating any heat was from shivering to the point of convulsions.  I was not going to quit.  Dave would see how tough I was, even if it killed me.

I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I heard was Julie calling my name.  It was around midnight and she and Adam were calling it quits and heading back to civilization.  She asked if she could borrow my skis and she would leave her hiking boots for me.  In a semi comma, I agreed to the trade.  Adam and Julie were off and the two lone crazies were out on the frozen river.

I woke up at first light, as did Dave.  As we started rolling up the sleeping bags, I remembered Julie had taken my skis and I was going to have to hoof it back a mile or so through the knee high snow.  What my brain did not remind me of in my sleeping agreement was Julie’s feet were at least a size and a half smaller than mine.   I crammed my feet into her boots and finished packing up all the gear.  We started back to town.  Again, the only sound was Dave’s whoosh whoosh and my clomp clomp “Ouch”.  It took what seemed like hours to get back to the house.  The first thing I did when we got inside was take off the foot-binding hiking boots.   I then crawled into my bed hibernated for the remainder of the weekend. 

As much as I love Dave, I have never gone winter camping with him since.  Come to think of it, Dave has not gone either.   He definitely got his payback from Halloween.  Well played, Sir.

Sticks and Stones and Ride-on Toys

It is amazing, the lengths a younger sibling will go just to impress the older sibling.  Ethan follows his big brother, Zach, around like a shadow.  Most of the time, Zach enjoys the attention, as well as the role of demigod.  The power does get to his head at times and accidents tend to happen.

It was just another Sunday morning.  Dave and I were watching CBS Sunday Morning and the boys were playing outside on their plasma cars or bikes as usual.  The two little boys across the street were over as well.  With everyone on some sort of toy with wheels, riding in a circle, they look a lot like Shriners, minus the burgundy hat with the gold tassel.   To be honest, our house regularly resembles a 3-ring circus anyways.   All we need is an elephant and a midget (I’m sorry, little person) clown, and we can take our show on the road.

All of a sudden, we heard Ethan screaming outside and it was getting louder as he approached the door.   He is usually the first one in when something goes awry between the four boys.  This happens more often than Dave and I like, because that means someone is going to be tattling on someone else, and we want them to handle their issues on their own.   This particular scream sounded different, and Dave and I were both on our feet before Ethan even got through the door.  “I hurt myself!!!!  I hurt myself, " Ethan whimpered as he ran toward me while grabbing his left arm.  Keep in mind, Ethan hurts himself a lot so I take these situations with a grain of salt.  He always a bruise or a gash of some kind. 

Semi concerned I asked him, “How did you hurt yourself?”  I couldn’t see any sign of an injury.  “I fell.”  That’s all I could get out of him.  “I fell.”  I asked him how he fell.  I got nothing but, “I just did,” as I wipe the tears from his cheeks.   I knew who to ask next.  “ZAAAAAACH!”     Zachary came running in breathless and sweaty, “I don’t know how it happened.  He just fell!”  I could tell I was not going to get the full story now, maybe ever.  Dave and I were frustrated because we were not getting any information, as usual, and Ethan showed no signs of being hurt, other than the crying.  We wrote it off as Ethan staying up too late the night before and had him lay on the couch with me to calm down.  We went about our day.  Ethan fell asleep on the coach watching a movie.  Zach was back outside playing with the neighbor kids.

Sometime in the afternoon, just before dinner, Dave thought it would be a good idea to play soccer in the front yard as a family.  Flashback to the circus reference.   We were all laughing and kicking the ball around for a while.  Just as Dave was about to go in to cook dinner, Ethan fell, again.  He started to howl and was grabbing his same arm again.  “It hurts, it really hurts!”  I asked him to put his hand above his head, remembering back to the day I broke my wrist, and my inability to raise up my hand.  He did it, but only kept it up for a matter of seconds.  Uh-oh.  He broke it.  I was looking at his arm and still, no sign of an injury.

I ran inside and called Urgent Care, to get their opinion on whether I should take him there or to the Emergency Room.  They recommended taking him to the Emergency Room since they had not only the X-ray, but also the capability to set his arm if needed.  I hung up the phone, and this is where my nomination for Mother of the Year was revoked for 2011.  Ethan is a grubby boy.  I compare him to Pigpen from the Peanuts often.  He had been playing all weekend and I was not going to take him in public until he was clean, especially if they were going to be putting a cast on his arm.

“Ethan, we need to take a bath.  Your arm will feel better.”  So I lied, but at least he’d be clean.  My poor little boy went upstairs, left arm dangling, and I drew the bath for him.   While moaning, he jumped in the tub and I scrubbed him as fast as I could.  I even tried to touch his arm a couple times to see if I could feel anything, but still nothing, except a scream each time I tried to touch him.  I got him out of the tub, got him dressed, and into the car.  Off to the ER we went.  The entire time Ethan was crying, “I don’t want a shot.  I don’t want to go.  They’re going to give me a shot!”  For the 6 minutes it took to get to the hospital I told Ethan he was not getting a shot at least 50 times.  He wasn't buying it.

I parked in the lot outside the ER and pried Ethan from his booster seat.  We got inside and fortunately, the Emergency Room was not crowded.  Still carrying Ethan, I walked up to the desk and set him down to get out my insurance card.  It was buried deep in my wallet, and I had to take out everything.  An identity thief's dream, all spread out on the counter.  Just then, Ethan bolted for the door.  I looked at him, looked at all my credit cards on the counter, then looked at the nurse behind the desk as if I were waiting for her instructions.  "GO!" she said to me and I left my purse and all of it's contents right there to chase my terrified boy out of the electric sliding glass door.

I suppose Ethan didn't think any further ahead than running out of the doors, because when I got to him, he was stopped right outside, too afraid to cross the street without holding an adult's hand.  Phew.  We walked back inside and he sat on my lap while the triage nurse took all of our information and completed my forms for me.  Within minutes we were in the back in a room.  He looked so little in that big bed,  I was on the verge of tears.  When we were alone in the room, he would start to cry, but as soon as a nurse or doctor walked in the room he would man up, and act like a tough little trooper.  I was seeing my 4 year old as a little man.  My big boy followed the nurse to the room where he was getting his x-rays, and followed directions like a champ.

After we were back in the room for about 10 minutes, the ER doctor came in to give us the news.  Ethan had a buckle fracture on his left arm.  Evidently, when children are young, their bones don't necessarily break.  They bend.  Gross, I know.  By this time, there was bruising, but I swear there wasn't any until now or we would have been there so much faster!  Again, Mother of the Year would have to wait until 2012.  They splinted him up and gave him the cutest little sling.  We had an appointment set up for us the next morning at the orthopedic doctor's office.

Ethan was smiling for the first time since that morning, still sitting in the hospital bed, wearing his sling.  I asked why he was so happy after finding out he broke is arm and he said, "No shots!"

The next morning we went to get his cast.  I didn't even make him change his shirt for fear of injuring him more, so he got to wear his favorite Sponge Bob shirt two days in a row.  He was in Heaven...except for the broken arm thing, of course.  As far as the cast went, he had his pick of the rainbow for a color.  Back in my day, you didn't have your choice of fancy colors. You got white, which turned dingy in a few days.  When the doctor asked him what his favorite color was, I cringed knowing what his answer would be.

After the doctor visit, I took Ethan straight to daycare where he was greeted like a rockstar.  All the little girls were swooning and the boys were jealous of the new accessory.  "What happened, Ethan?" My toughy little guy said, "Fell playin' soccer."  

  

At the end of the day when we were all home and finished dinner, I heard Zach talking to Ethan in the other room.  "Ethan, I am so sorry.  I am really really sorry.  I didn't mean for you to hurt yourself."  I then heard Ethan say, "It's ok Zach, my cast is really cool AND orange."  I was finally getting the whole story.  The boys had tied all of their ride-on toys together to make a "train" and had Ethan "go first" as all little brothers do.  He fell, and broke his arm.  I never reprimanded Zach for what he coerced his brother into doing, because he had enough guilt on his own.  Just hearing their dialogue from the other room made me realize, I may not be mother of the year, but I must have been doing something right.