From a very young age my son, Ethan, has had a knack for creeping me out. I cannot prove it, but I am pretty sure he has a heightened sixth sense. In other words, he sees dead people. At first I thought his imagination was cute and I would find it entertaining to ask questions to see what kind of imagination the boy had. He would describe things like his "other family" who lived in a parallel dimension. His mommy's name was Choo and he said she lived far away in North Carolina. I didn't have the heart to tell him he lives in NC too. His imaginary daddy's name would change on occasion, but it was usually Uncle. Ew. He had a big black dog (ours is white) and a baby sister (he has an older brother). The details he provided would be enough to give me goose bumps. I know it's normal for children to have imaginary friends; I had a giraffe named Frisky.
On a night like most other in our house, our family had played a round of musical beds. Zach and Ethan were fast asleep in my bed, Dave was in Zach's bed, and I was in Ethan's bed. At 3:30am our dog Kody started his single bark every 20-30 seconds, letting us know he had to go outside. The potty bark is different from all others. If there were some kind of a threat, he would bark in his low repetitive, "Get the heck out of here or I'll rip your throat out" bark. His middle of the night potty bark is his way of not waking up the kids, in my expert in canine behavior opinion. If we didn't let him out in time there would be consequences. BIG consequences. After all, he is 150lbs.
I stumbled down the stairs with my eyes still closed and opened the back door for him to go out to do his deed. I then plopped down on our over-sized chair in the TV room, put my feet up on the ottoman and covered myself up with a blue and white striped Mexican blanket. As I started to doze off, I heard little feet coming down the stairs. "Mommy, I want to lay with you." Ethan climbed up onto the chair with me and cuddled under the blanket.
His eyelids were as heavy as mine. A moment later, Ethan sat straight up, opened his eyes wide, and pointed to the dining room which is two rooms away on the other side of the kitchen. "What are they doing here?" Gulp. I was almost paralyzed. In a sing song voice I asked, "What are who doing here, Ethan?" Ethan pointed again and said, "That guy." He said it so matter-of-fact, like "There's a potato" or "Look at that bird." Not at all scared, just calling it like he saw it. "W-what guy, Ethan?" My whole body was tensing up. "Come with me, I show you."
At that moment, I scooped Ethan up into my arms and ran up the steps and then ran into Zach's room where Dave was snoring like an ogre. In a whisper yell I said, "Dave! Wake up! Someone is downstairs!" I was laughing at myself and how ridiculous the whole scenario sounded. Dave popped up and looked at me and Ethan with a confused stare. "Huh?" I told him how Ethan claimed he saw someone in the dining room and I freaked out, leaving Kody outside. He was going to have to go let the dog in because I had no plans of returning to the first floor of the house until daylight. Dave mumbled something then went downstairs to let the dog in.
I saw this as a good opportunity to grill Ethan for more information. We were laying in Zach's bed and I asked him, "Ethan, do you know the man standing in the dining room downstairs?" Again, very matter of factly, Ethan responded, "Mommy, he wasn't standing, he was hanging." The paralysis was back. "Honey, what do you mean he was hanging?" Obviously a 2 year old does not know the term "hanging" like I do. "You know, up close to the ceiling." I chose not to ask anymore questions about the position of this mystery man and moved on to other questions. I thought if I didn't get them all in now, he might forget by morning.
"Ethan, how old is the man? Like Daddy or like Pop Pop?" He was an older Daddy. "Was he happy or sad?" Evidently the man looked mad. "What was he wearing?" A white shirt. "Any pants?" Did we have a pervert in our dining room? "No pants, his shirt was long." Hmm. "What was he wearing on his feet?" I figured if he was hanging, maybe Ethan saw his shoes. Ethan started to giggle and said, "Oh Mommy, he no have feet like me and you." OK, I was done and completely wigged out at this point. I decided to stop asking questions that I really did not want the answers to. Within a few moments, Ethan was off in dreamland, and I was in my own personal horror movie.
The next morning I told Dave what had happened and he wrote me off as a crackpot, knowing what an imagination Ethan had. I called Ethan into the living room which is connected to the dining room. "Ethan, do you remember what you told me last night?" Ethan pointed toward the dining room hutch and said, "Yes, the man hanging right there. Well, he not there now, it's not dark out." Phew. I asked him to tell Dave the whole story; Dave rolled his eyes at me and walked out of the room. I was laughing again.
Later that evening, we went over to our friends' house for a small gathering. Of course, I was not going to keep this story to myself. I told anyone who was willing to listen about Ethan's close encounter. Some scoffed, others were completely creeped out. I just laughed at how silly the entire thing was, now that I was removed and looking back. It started getting late and someone needed to go home to let Kody out so we didn't get any unwanted presents. Zach and Ethan asked to spend the night, and Dave wasn't ready to leave either. Since we had taken two cars (this happens a lot), I went home to care for the pooch. I knew Dave and the boys would be home first thing in the morning.
While driving the twenty minutes home, I started thinking about the angry floating pantless man with no feet who may or may not be in my dining room when I got home. I almost turned around to go back to our friends' house but I mustered up the courage and went home. When I got there, I let Kody out, and stood on the back deck while he did his business in the backyard. I was not going to stay in the house alone. Kody came back up onto the deck and we both went inside. Him first, of course. I locked up the house and ran upstairs.
Like clockwork, Kody started his single bark every 20-30 seconds indicating his need to go outside. The time was exactly 3:30am again. There was no way I was going down there. From my bed I yelled, "It's ok Kody! You can go poopy in the house! Mommy won't be mad!" He must have taken me up on the offer because the poop siren stopped.
The next morning, bright and early, Dave came into our bedroom and the first thing out of his mouth was not Good Morning. "Kody sh*t all over the dining room carpet. It smells really bad. I'm not touching it." I whipped off my covers and sat up in bed. I put on my slippers, started walking toward the bedroom door and said, "Totally worth it."
The number of "sightings" have lessened as Ethan gets older. I cannot say I am disappointed. Some people call it a paranormal sensitivity. Others may call it the shining. I call it panic attack inducing.
Tuesday, November 1, 2011
Tuesday, October 25, 2011
My Furry Boy
The summer of 2005 was a hot one. My husband put up a split-rail fence around our entire back yard which must be about ½ acre. He did it all on his own, despite the half-hearted commitments a couple neighbors had made. Dave did everything from digging the post holes to concreting the posts to putting up the chicken wire. He did a professional job, in my humble opinion. The fact that he did not keel over from heat exhaustion or a heart attack was the added bonus.
Dave and I had discussions about getting a dog, now that Zach was a little older. We were by no means going to get one anytime soon because we could not agree on an age, let alone a breed or where we would look to get one. I knew that when the time was right, our canine would come into our lives, one way or another. Now that the fence was done, we would be ready, right?
Back in the days of a larger financial cushion, Dave, Zach and I would go out to dinner at least once per week, and usually go to the same place each time. We would go to Lupie’s in Huntersville. Dave could get his Bongo Burger (super huge slab of ground beef with everything on it) along with a G-Whiz (Busch in a can) for $1 each. I could get a piece of the quiche-of-the-day with a side salad and fruit. Zach would get his usual as well, a hot dog. Zach loved going there because he had a crush on the owner, and we loved going for the food.
After splitting the best banana pudding this side of the Appalachians and paying the check, we made our way out to the car. Parked next to us was a Suburban with 2 Great Danes peeking out of the windows, while their owners were getting out of the car for their turn to eat at Lupie’s. As the passenger shut his car door, I saw “The Great Dane Rescue” magnet sign on his door. I had been meaning to look into volunteer opportunities there so I took advantage of the situation and introduced myself.
The man was very friendly and told me his wife was actually the owner of the rescue. They were always looking for volunteers. He joked that I could even take one of the dogs home with me. I laughed it off and he proceeded to say, “We have more than just Danes, you know. We got Sheppards, Poodles, Boxers, a couple Labs.” He then turned to his wife walking towards us and said, “Honey, what kind of dog came in yesterday?” His wife replied, “A Great Pyrenees.” My eyes got as wide as saucers, and I gasped.
What were the odds? Growing up, my parents owned and showed, and sometimes bred Great Pyrenees. Our family pet, Paco, won Best of Breed at the Westminster Dog Show one year. I always vowed I would someday have my own. Unfortunately, pure bred Pyrenees sell for anywhere from $800 -$2000 a piece, and there was no way I would ever convince Dave to spend that kind of money. The fact the Great Dane Rescue had a Pyr who just arrived and I just happened to run into the owners was my sign. Dave knew it was my sign too. “Looks like we’re getting a dog.” I laughed. “Dave, can’t we just go meet him?” The Great Dane Rescue holds an open house every other Sunday afternoon for the public to come in and look at all their tenants available for adoption. The next open house was in 4 days.
At home that evening after putting Zach to sleep, Dave said to me, “Mery, you know if we go meet him, you are going to want him.” What did he know. It was completely possible that I would meet this animal and not connect with it. Just because he was a Pyrenees, a male, and already house broken? Please.
Sunday came and we were at the gates of the Rescue promptly at 1pm when they opened. I even had a friend meet us there to be an objective observer. We parked and walked over to where all the dogs were playfully meeting perspective parents. I looked all around, but no sign of a Pyrenees. I caught the attention of the man we had met a few days prior. He told me “Chuckie” was in a run and he would go get him and asked that we wait where we were.
I was so nervous. To meet a dog. What was the matter with me? I then saw the man as he was cresting the hill. Then I saw the leash. Then I saw him. A gawky, underweight, limping, shaved white dog. Were they sure he was a Pyrenees? They came over to us and I got down to the dog’s level. He jumped on me and we fell to the ground. I laughed out loud and at that moment Dave said to our friend, “Take a look at our new dog.” Why would someone let this fella get so undernourished and dirty and bald? I asked a lot of questions.
“My wife got a call that there was a Great Dane up in Statesville, NC who got picked up by Animal Control so we went up to get him because they are a kill shelter for animals under the age of 2. When we got there the guy asked if we wanted to take the Pyrenees too, since he was so sweet and his owner gave him up. After he escaped so many times from his home the owner decided he wasn’t worth the hassle. They guy at Animal Control didn’t have the heart to put him down.”
No question in my mind. Chuckie was ours. First order of business was going to be to change his name though. Chuckie? I think not. We changed his name to Kody, and I think he liked his new name too. He was our little bear and an instant member of our family.
Once we got Kody home, we set up an appointment with the veterinarian to make sure he was in tip top shape. Turns out “Chuckie” must have spent a lot of time on his own. Most of his teeth were broken from chewing on rocks. He had a nasty cyst on the pad of one of his front paws, and three (yes three) types of worms. Hookworms, ringworms, and roundworms. He was a mess. Thank goodness for doggie drugs. He was in much better condition after a couple weeks.
Here’s where the fence comes back into the picture. After Kody had been treated for his ailments, he felt much stronger. He felt so strong, in fact, that he was able to climb our fancy new fence and escape. So this is what he would do to his previous owner. No worries, the Blanks are smarter than the average Pyrenees. Dave went out and bought an electric fence wire to go around the top of the fence. After Dave installed the wire, he felt the need to test it out. “I am not going to subject the dog to anything that I wouldn’t be able to handle.” He tested the wire by touching it. Nothing. He then grabbed the wire and…ZZZAAAAAP! Dave was knocked to his knees. “It works.”
It only took one good shock for Kody never to try to jump the fence again. After a few months we turned it off all together. As most Pyrs do, he continues to walk the entire perimeter of the fence as a way to protect, or maybe e is just looking for flaws so he can escape. I like to think it is the former. That isn’t to say that he doesn’t still escape. Anytime a door is left ajar, Kody sees it as an opportunity to go explore. I cannot tell you how many times Dave and I have screamed at the boys for leaving a door open.
More than a handful of strangers have pulled into our driveway, opened their back door, and Kody came out grinning from ear to ear. One Saturday afternoon, a white Ford Explorer pulled into the driveway. I was watching Zach ride his bike so I happened to be in the driveway. A woman stepped out of the SUV and said, “You missing your dog?” Oh great, he got out and I didn’t even notice this time. “I am so sorry! Thank you so much for returning him.” The woman was laughing and said, “Actually, I was out helping my friend look for her dog. My back door was open and Kody hopped right in. He is such a sweet boy!” I couldn’t argue. Kody does like to keep us on our toes.
Tuesday, October 11, 2011
Count the Ways
I wish I could say I was the quintessential older sister growing up. You know, the protector, the confidant, the good example. It is a miracle my siblings turned out so well, despite my constant harassing and torment. I could write a novel about the ways I used to torture my brother and sister, but who has the time? We grew up in a house with 3 children, all 2 ½ years apart in age. I was the oldest. Our brother, Grant, was stuck in between two girls. Our youngest sister, Nikki, came along and I think Grant breathed a sigh of relief that I would someday unleash my wrath on her and focus less on him. It was almost prophetic.
From a very young age, Nikki was our little guinea pig. It started around the time she learned to walk. I would get her to do things for my entertainment. A puppet or circus monkey, if you will. I remember putting the Didee Diaper Service pail over her head; empty of course (I’m not a monster…). The pail went down to her ankles. I would then spin her around and around then let go and watch her walk into walls or go crashing to the ground. It was hours of entertainment, and she loved it. Grant and I would fall to the ground at the same time from laughing so hard. She would wiggle out of the diaper pail and start to try to put it back over her head. Of course, I was there to help.
When Nikki was around the same age, I once dared her to put an entire unpeeled orange in her mouth. By golly, she did it. It was very impressive. My mom walked into the kitchen to find Grant and me gawking at Nikki, who was so proud. I bet she was smiling, but the orange was in the way. Our mom freaked out, justifiably so, and had to perform an orange-ectomy. Using a small knife, she sectioned the orange to remove it from Nikki’s mouth, all the while, Nikki was gagging. Yep, we got in trouble for that one.
As Nikki got a little older, say 4 or 5 years old, it was not as easy to convince her to do silly or foolish acts. It was at that time the psychological warfare began. Think back to the early to mid ‘80s. Remember the “Save the Children” commercial with Sally Strothers? It was a very depressing advertisement soliciting money for dying children in Africa. One day, as the commercial was showing a sad bloated little boy with a fly landing on his eyeball, it hit me. “Nikki, that’s where Mom and Dad got you.” Of course Nikki was not buying it. “Really, Nikki. Look at me and Grant. We have freckles and light skin. What do you have?” She was blessed with olive skin like our father. Grant chimed in, “Yeah, Nikki. Mom and Dad got you from Africa. That’s why you don’t look like us.” Nikki was starting to buy it. “Mom and Dad sent a check to that lady on the TV to adopt you and the lady sent you here to live with us.” OK, she was now convinced. Nikki burst into tears and went running screaming into the other room looking for my mom. “I’m adopted from Africa?! Why didn’t you tell me, I’M ADOPTED???” My poor mother. She had a heck of a time trying to undo what I had done. No matter what my mom said, Nikki was NOT buying it. She even broke out the photos of my parents bringing Nikki home from the hospital. Not one of my finer moments.
The next year Nikki was so excited to be like the big kids when she started Kindergarten. She had her Care Bear Trapper Keeper and everything. Each morning she would go out to the front of the house and wait for her bus. Her bus driver’s name was Mr. Minnow. He was a stout, friendly man and the kids all made a song about him to the tune of “Where is Thumbkin”. Nikki adored Mr. Minnow and always talked about him after school. How was I not supposed to exploit this situation. I made up a little verse of my own and it went a little something like this:
Mr Minnow, Mr Minnow
Where are you, Where are you
You are nice and plumpy
I am going to eat you
Drive away, Drive away
Even thought the tune was “Where is Thumbkin”, I used the voice of Phil Anselmo, lead singer for Pantera. It would scare the daylights out of her. To this day, if I sing it, she calls me one of the many explicatives in her repertoire.
I had always had a knack for passing blame as well. Fast forward to the early ‘90s. My parents would go out of town over night and leave me as guardian over my siblings. As any responsible teenager would, I threw parties. Big parties. So much so, that at my wedding, 10 years later, we, the 3 Pollock children all asked our next door neighbors who had the craziest parties. They looked at each other, and at the same time said, “Mery.” At one party in particular, I broke the ½ inch glass top of my parents’ coffee table. I had jumped on the couch and when I landed, my foot hit the glass, breaking it in two. I convinced my sister to take the fall for me by saying she and I were wrestling and she broke the table. I knew she would be in far less trouble than I would have been. Years later, after a couple libations, I finally confessed, and told my parents what I had done. I needed to clear Nikki’s name, and my conscience.
The next year I went away to college and the relationship between my sister and me changed dramatically. I’m not sure if it’s because I grew up a little being away from home, but something definitely transformed our relationship. Today she is my best friend. More often than not, I cannot even make a decision without first consulting her. I am not saying I always take her advice, but I do always ask. I’d like to think Nikki has forgiven me for most of my abusive acts in the past, and I am so grateful to have her. Thank you, Sally Strothers, for bringing her into my life. I love you, Seester!
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Fire Drill
I remember my mom saying that I would have made a perfect only child. She said this because in the first 2 ½ years of my life I was a sweet little thing. I was not one of the brats in the grocery store, throwing myself on the floor, screaming for a toy or candy, having tantrums in public. Then my brother Grant was born. Something in my sweet little head switched, and I became what my mom called, “The Queen of Negative Attention.” I never really understood what she meant, negative attention, until I became pregnant with my second child.
Zach was such an easy baby. He didn’t really cry for the first 6 months of his life, and I would joke that he knew his mommy would tweak out and not be able to deal with the added stress. He would just go with the flow, happy in any environment. Even in his infant stage, he was a rock star. Everywhere we went, people were drawn to him. Heck, even Chuck Norris’ ex-wife touched his little toes in St. Maarten! Ok, we do not know for sure it was Chuck Norris’ ex-wife, but we were confident enough to tell people it was her when we got home from vacation. At two years old, he made the local 5 o’clock news, just for being adorable and boogieing to a Big Band on stage at a community 4th of July event. His daycare adored him and always had amazing things to say about his progress and how bright he was.
In the early spring of 2006, I had the strong urge to take a pregnancy test while at work. Probably not the most opportune time, but it needed to be done. I was having difficulty interpreting the results, while pacing the floor of the 4th floor women’s room and felt I needed a second opinion. Who better to ask to read my pee stick than my boss? I restlessly walked into her office and shut the door behind me. “Can you please look at this and tell me what you see?” With a bewildered look on her face, she took the stick and looked at it. Evidently the results were much clearer now. “Honey, you are pregnant.”
I picked up Zach from daycare and drove home with two used pregnancy sticks in tow. We pulled into the driveway, and walked in the door. I had Zach carry one of the positive sticks over to Dave and he handed it to him. With a dazed and confused look, Dave stared at it for a moment and said, “Whose is this?” I giggled and said, “I found it in the street and thought you’d like it as a drink stirrer.” “Huh?” I laughed. “It’s mine!” Dave was now grinning, but still confounded. “Really, are you sure?” I then handed him the second test. I was sure.
After the shock wore off, Dave and I were overjoyed to learn that I was pregnant. In our minds, the timing was perfect. Our children would be 3 ½ years apart in age, which gave Zach the opportunity to be the baby all on his own without being overshadowed by a new addition to the family. Zach would be a big brother, and we were so excited to share the news. At first Zachary was very excited. Then, gradually, his behavior started to change.
By the time summer rolled around, I was definitely showing the baby bump. People started focusing more on me and less on Zach. This was not something Zach was used to at all. Until this point in his life, he was center stage. When we would walk into daycare, all the teachers would ask how I was feeling, how I was doing and Zach would be the second in line for questioning. Something in his sneaky smart brain was not going to tolerate this any longer. He started acting out in school and misbehaving more at home.
I was at work when I got the phone call. “Mrs. Blank, its Diana at Zach’s daycare. There has been an incident. Everyone is fine, but we need to let you know what happened. Zachary pulled the fire alarm at school today.” What? “How could he reach the fire alarm? What do you mean it’s within reach of a 3 year old? What happened??” She proceeded with entire story of how Zachary was walking with his class from the gym back to their classroom. While they were in line, Zach reached up and pulled the alarm. The entire child development center had to evacuate, including the infant rooms, where all the babies were put into a couple cribs and were rolled outside like freight on an assembly line. The police and fire departments came. They had to clear the building before anyone was allowed back in. Zach was excited because he got a “talking to” by the police and firefighters that had responded. It was almost a reward in his eyes.
I shut down my computer at work while calling Dave, telling him what happened. He agreed to meet me at the school and we were both there within 15 minutes. Zach was sitting behind the front desk in the lobby, hands in his lap. He looked so innocent peering up at Dave and me. So little. His eyes were puffy and red from crying. “Zach, what did you do?” I asked. In his tiny voice he said, “I just pulled the fire drill.” Dave asked him, “Why?” Zachary’s reply? “I don’t know. I wanted to see what would happen.” He got the attention he was looking for, that’s for sure.
After we got home, Zach was playing with his fire truck and police car reenacting the chaos from earlier in the day. Dave and I were starting to see the humor in the situation. Dave said, “I can’t blame him, I’ve wanted to pull a fire alarm my whole life. I am kind of proud of the kid.”
Monday, September 26, 2011
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.
Tuesday, September 13, 2011
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.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
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.
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