Knockin' on the Attic

She Thinks My Tractor's Sexy

2014-06-04T12:03:00.001-04:00

Alright, gentlemen, the game’s up. I’m on to you. After years…years...of asking my husband to show me how to drive the lawn tractor so I could sometimes help him with the dreadful yard work, he finally showed me this morning. My first clue that something was amiss was when it took him exactly 93 seconds to tell me how everything worked. The rest became abundantly clear to me as I rode around my 2+ acres of yard, jamming to tunes on my iPod, soaking up the sunshine, smelling the sweet scent of newly mown grass, and oblivious to the rest of the world as I made straight line and circle patterns all around my property.

Mowing the yard is FUN!

It’s relaxing. It’s soothing. And with just a smidgen of imagination, you can pretend you’re driving a big Massey tractor, or a combine (which are both infinitely cooler and even more fun!!) and that you're tilling up the land. Yup, I get it. The tractor's sexy. And it just got a whole helluva lot sexier.

Mr. French Charming? You got some s’plaining to do.

But since now I know the gig and have been so rude as to share it with the rest of the unsuspecting wives out there that are feeling guilty for their men working so hard on those tractors, I’ll be gracious enough to share one of our feminine secrets with you.

You know when we bitch and complain about how hard evenings are…dealing with dinner and dishes, tomorrow’s lunches, helping the kids with their various homework projects and sorting through the massive mountains of paperwork sent from school, making sure the kids get bathed, refereeing their arguments, and yelling at them to get them to go to bed (and stay there)…all while fencing calls from your mother (father/brother/buddy)? Know how we complain about how exhausted we are and couldn’t possibly do another load of laundry, empty the dishwasher, or have sex?

The truth is, we actually LOVE our evenings when you’re out of the house doing man-stuff. We really enjoy helping our kids reach their highest potential so they can succeed in life, keeping open communication with the teachers that adore our input in our children’s education and how they could better help our kids. What we’re really doing is playing with the kids…you know, trying to get a firm grasp of the wonderful world of Minecraft, watching Dora and Diego, learning about shapes and riddles…in Spanish…and giggling as we make Barbie and Ken change clothes and kiss each other. Our lovely children really do skip off to the tub and then to bed, singing happy clean-up songs without a word of protest because they’re such well-behaved children (obviously due to your fabulous discipline, honey! Thanks for doing that Loud-Man-Voice thing that really gets their attention…it totally helps when we need to them to do something for us and you’re outside doing man-stuff). And how else would we know that your dad put up 500 posters with your uncle for your cousin’s campaign, that the hitch parts he ordered for our car are the wrong ones so the installation appointment has been changed again, that it’s your turn to bring beer for after your ballgame, that your monthly fishing and hunting meeting is tomorrow night in the mancave/shack, and let you know your buddy is making wings for the hockey game you’re watching at his house, if we didn’t get the opportunity to chat with your mom (father/brother/buddy)? The truth is, we love the chance to talk to your mother (father/brother/buddy), plus we need our own special relaxing, soothing time to do our lady-stuff.

So, to be fair, I want to make a proposition. Let’s trade chores for a bit. I know how left out you feel, missing out on all of the prime bonding time with the kids. I know how you feel like you really don’t know what’s going on with the kids’ lives and school activities (I am so sorry I forgot to tell you about that choir concert/bake sale we had to go to last Thursday night…I know it was quite a shock when you’d planned on mowing the lawn before the rain came.). I understand you have a real passion for cooking and that watching Master Chef is so inspiring for you…if only you had the time to embrace your love of creating delicious, healthy meals. I don’t want to be greedy or selfish anymore. That’s been very unkind of me. I want you to have the opportunities I am granted each night, and every weekend: time to enjoy your children, relax with a good show, tinker around the kitchen with those spices you bought and the fresh veggies from the enormous garden you put in (seriously, we could open a veggie stand to sell all of those lovely organic foods you have worked so hard to nurture and grow, but that our 5 appetites can’t possibly eat enough of!). So, I would love to take over that horrible lawn mowing nonsense you’ve put up with for years and years. You’ve given us so much of yourself and your time, taking care of your family…providing a beautiful yard and sumptuous garden to feed us. I want to let you enjoy some of the things us women have secretly coveted for years. So, you sit down, put up your feet, and negotiate Netflix choices with your children while I go mow the lawn.

But before you get comfy, dear, can you grab me a beer…hell, make it two, all those acres are gonna take awhile to get ‘er done…while I go fire up the tractor?!

What do you mean, why am I wearing my bikini? I just don’t want to get anymore clothes dirty with all of that grass…I wouldn't want to add to your laundry pile. I want you rested and in a good mood so when I get done and come in, I can take advantage of you. Heehee...wink, wink (slap on the ass).

You don’t have to thank me, luv. I just want to help. You’ve earned an evening without yard chores. You and the kids have fun...

I got this.

New Year = New Life

2014-01-01T02:47:00.001-05:00

Happy New Year!

Goodbye, 2013.

Hello 2014! It’s about freaking time.

Time to shake things up. Turn the world on its ear, give it a spin, then flop it onto its back for a good belly rub. Grumpy ol’ thing has been lying on the couch, licking wounds for too long, and it is past time to pull some new tricks out of the sleeves.

If you’re looking for resolutions about exercise, recommitting myself to my childhood religious upbringing, or giving up beer and belly dancing, you’ve got the wrong gal. I’m not here today to vow to stop speaking my mind, my truth, or about my feelings because it irritates someone else. No promises here to try harder to go with the flow and fit into this crowd or that. That shit goes against nature. My nature anyway. Besides, I’m starting to learn to accept the perfect mess I’ve spent 43 years becoming. It’s cool.

So, you may be asking what I’m here yapping about then, when you’re out there kissing your loved ones, and hugging the strangers next to you. Or what I could be doing at this late hour while you’re sleeping snug in your beds, oblivious to the parties the neighbors are having? I’ll tell ya. The truth is 2013 has not been my favorite year of them all. Don’t worry. I’m not going to dwell on last year’s news. It’s just been less than the most fun of all in the world forever. And that kinda sucked. So that brings us to this moment in time.

I’m prepping for a complete overhaul, folks. New year = new beginnings, and all that stuff, right? So, tonight—just moments ago—I took the first step in creating a new life for myself. New challenges, new people, new experiences. Out with the old, in with the new. Cliché? Perhaps. But true. I’m not messing around—anyone who knows me knows I don’t stick in a toe to test the water. I jump in and then see if I can figure out how to swim.

For example, I took a secret (read “unapproved by the parental unit”) vacation in my youth and ended up moving from Indiana to Florida 4 months later to go to college to become a zookeeper. I ended a marriage one month, and tackled open heart surgery in practically the next breath. I covered every possible angle of my lifelong dream to work with animals (zookeeping, wildlife rehabilitation, veterinary technician, and pets of course), and then walked away from it all 10 years later when I fell in love with a French Canadian 5 years my junior. I “built” a family of friends living in Florida for many years, and then packed everything I could into a U-Haul, quit my jobs, and with no promises between us, I moved to upstate New York just so I could date the Frenchman ‘properly’ and see if we had a shot at a “real relationship” instead of the long distance “fantasy of a romance” we’d been playing at. I put my stuff in a storage unit, and spent 6 weeks looking for a job and a place to live. I talked my way into a preschool teaching job on charm, desperate desire, and my experience cleaning animal poop, and ended up as a head teacher within a year. And when my love proposed three years later, I immigrated into Canada and got married to a man a lot of people had told me was too young to truly commit (we’ve been working our way through his so-called “commitment issues” – 17 years and 3 kids later. Lol). And when I realized I had limited options (read “no”) for jobs living in the nation’s capital, because a) there is no zoo, b) preschool teachers are actually required to be certified, and c) I don’t speak, read, or write French in a town built on bilingualism, I decided to skip the whole job search stress thing and started my own business. I now own and operate a home daycare.

Nope, I don’t mess around. And after a few rather shocking jolts to my circumstance in that nasty year of 2013, I’m finally ready to try something new.

So just a few moments ago, I registered to study to become…(drum roll please)….a Doula.

Please don’t make that disappointed “Is that even a real thing? Because I’ve certainly never heard of it” noise. It’s rude. Just ask me. “What, Kelly, praytell, is a doula?”

Thank you for asking, kind people. Doulas are birth assistants, or birth companions. They are not midwives who actually deliver babies. A Birth Doula, or Labor Doula, provides emotional, physical, and mental support to a mother and her partner during labor and the birth of their child(ren). She assists the couple in education about the birthing process (some are birth educators as well), the choices available, and the different things that can or might occur through the process of birthing. She may help write a birth plan. At the birth, she acts as a liaison between doctors, nurses, and/or midwives, and makes sure the couple knows and understands what is going on. This allows the mother to focus more on the birth, and the partner to focus more on the mother. It is known as “mothering the mother.” The idea is that having the extra support at the birth allows the experience to be positive, magical, and wonderful for the mother and/or couple, reducing the stress and increasing the joy. After the birth, the doula will usually stay around for a couple of hours to assist with breast or bottle feeding, make sure the mother’s needs are taken care of (that she’s brought food, is able to rest and recover, and mostly that she is allowed to bond with her baby). She will then visit a couple of times the first week or so postpartum.

Postpartum doulas assist the needs of the new family following the birth. They are there to make the transition to family life go a little smoother. They visit the family in the home, and can answer questions the family may have, provide a break (naptime!) for the parents, babysit older children, run errands, prepare meals, take care of pets, or take the mother and new baby to doctor check-ups. A lot of doulas act as both birth and postpartum doulas.

Which is what I intend to do on this new leap of faith.

I have been fortunate. I had three healthy pregnancies, three wonderful births and different experiences with each. I have the joy of those memories that will last a lifetime. It has always saddened me deeply to hear my friends or family members talk of their horrible birthing experiences. They shudder about things gone wrong, unexpected turns in plans, or trouble with the medical personnel they had to deal with. It’s heartbreaking to hear. But more than anything, I can’t bear to hear someone beret themselves for perceived failures about the choices they made, or the experiences they didn’t expect to happen (like emergency c-sections, or difficulty breastfeeding). I would love to help support people navigate those precious moments, and hopefully assist them to create the kind of memories they love to remember and share.

So, this is my new adventure. I don’t know for sure if there is enough demand for doulas in my area to make a good living of it. I don’t have a great grasp of how the whole “on call” schedule thing will work in my life. I don’t know any other doulas, or how willing they will be to partner up with me to act as back-ups. I’m not sure how long it will take to start getting “gigs” or how to set up a proper website, or what I’ll call my new business once I get the training off to a good start. And I don’t know how soon after a couple secures my services it would be appropriate to start cuddling the baby belly and whispering to the unborn child that it is Totally Uncool to start labor on a Beer Friday. I mean, will the mother freak out about that? There are some really strange people out there. Do I really want to work with someone who doesn’t understand the Sanctity of Beer Fridays?

As you can see, this will be quite the Leap for me. There are a lot of details to still work the kinks out of. I’ll need to take singing lessons, get over my repulsion of bad breath, and fight the urge to continuously offer all the baby names I still love but my husband refused. (I mean, seriously. What was so wrong with Sawyer? I mean, can’t you just see him? Little blond, blue-eyed Huckleberry Finn character with a fishing pole? Adorable, right?) The good news is that poop blow-outs will not faze me—if the years as a monkey keeper hadn’t prepared me sufficiently, countless years of diaper explosions and the one incident of a toddler girl finger painting the pack-n-go crib, and splatter painting the bedroom walls with her own shit certainly did the trick. Vomit? Check. No sweat. Blood curdling screams? No pregnant woman has anything on my first daughter’s shrieks from the age of 2 hours until well into her 5^th year of life. (No worries, she’s perfect now.)

The opportunity to share in the miracle of birth and being invited into the nest with the nestlings? Priceless. A gift. A blessing.

So, can you cross your fingers that I manage to make my way? Send up a wish, if you will, that I’ll get some calls soon. And if you know anyone in the Ottawa area looking for a doula, give them my name, will ya? I will need to assist two mothers and/or their families as part of my training. I'm ready as I'll ever be.

Creating a new life can be scary, I won’t lie. But there comes a time when there is really only one option left—to push onward and get 'er done. You don’t know what gifts you’ve been given until you get to the other side of the fear and pain.

Maybe understanding that, and practicing it as my lifestyle, makes me uniquely qualified to help others bring a dream come true of their own to new life.

Once Upon a Snow-Begotten Hump Day

2013-11-29T00:51:00.000-05:00

How does one cure a "getting stuck in the snow in your driveway, finally getting out, arriving at work really, really late, only to get stuck in the parking lot” day? How do you survive a horrible-bank-meeting, kids fighting because they're home from school and overexcited, power goes out, sump pump alarm sounds, and water pump stops working kind of day? What if the city snowplow shows up to plow the lane, but not until it’s a full 10 hours past the time it's actually useful? How does one cope when this comes on top of two weeks of mounting frustration with bosses who are oblivious to the value of the work you're doing, coworkers who are sabotaging your efforts, equipment failure after equipment failure—and you need the equipment in order to Make Your Living and answer the Money Gods? What happens when you’re searching all of the jobs available in the surrounding area, but realize you qualify for exactly none, mostly because you grew up in Small Town, Indiana, and never learned the french that is necessary to land a job in the capital of Canada? What do you do when you are Buried in Snow in NOVEMBER?

Worry not, friends, I have the answer to all of these problems.

W(h)ine Wednesday, folks.

Those of you already on board Kelly's Facebook Train, are well aware of the absolute SACREDNESS of BEER FRIDAYS in her world (and the worlds of those on board). Beer Fridays are the end of the week treat, the reward, if you will, for persevering against all odds. They are the Goal to Reach at the end of a hard week's work. The light that shines through all other lights, and any darkness that may descend. Beer Fridays are a ritual, a tradition, and, by God and all that's Holy, an international holiday-in-the-making. (We're working on it, folks. In between Fridays...and beers...and the random hangover. Be patient please...It is our intention to make it global. Please feel free to start your own grassroot local chapter of a Beer Friday tradition. We only ask you give us credit for the Trademark ‘Beer Friday’ title. It is dear to us, and organically born of two friends sneaking a beer (ok two) one evening from the back of an old pick-up truck.

But sometimes...SOMETIMES...we can't make it through an entire week. Monday sucks, Tuesday feels like it should be Friday already, and by the time Wednesday rolls around, the world just seems to crumple into a disaster of epic proportions. No one can reasonably expect a person—or people—to hold themselves up for another two days until the blessed relief that is Beer Friday. It is irrational. Perverse. Sick, I tell you.

It’s not like said people gave up, mind you. We woke up, as Canadians often do, and found the 30 centimeters of snow that were predicted by the local weatherman the previous day. In NOVEMBER. The school buses were cancelled, bringing on a litany of too-early-in-the-morning celebratory screams from the school children. Without a moment’s pause for breath, they began their epic battles for ownership of the Wii-U pad, and ipods and immediately entered the domain of Minecraft and some world or character known as Pikman (not to be confused with Pokemon or Pacman). The person that stayed up until 2am watching Glee reruns on Netflix the previous night moaned to herself, took a couple of extra vitamins, and braced herself for a day of negotiating electronic-device timeshares, babydoll apparel, and coloring book contracts. She did it with a smile.

It’s only 7:13 am.

The one who must go to school in spite of bus cancellations, because he must babysit the children whose parents have no regard for weather-infringing road hazards of staff, set himself into the seat of his Corolla…the snowtires already tucked neatly into the backseat for the appointment to put them on the vehicle—in three days. He pulls out of the garage...and gets stuck. Phenomenally stuck. In his own driveway. He perseveres, grinding gears, spinning tires, slipping and sliding this way and that, backwards in his long, snow-begotten driveway. He makes progress—maybe 20 feet out of about 100.

A daughter rushes to the rescue with a shovel. Her coat hanging open, no snow pants, the boots on, but untied. Toque eschew. She digs ferociously—relentlessly—at the snow beneath the tires and undercarriage of the car, flipping wet, heavy snow by the spoonful over her shoulder.

She is eight years old.

The Other Guy shows up and offers supervision, laughter, and the occasional suggestion for wheel angles to the Stuck Guy. He waves his arms around in the air, usefully pointing out the copious amounts of snow we all know is keeping Stuck Guy stuck in the driveway. Ultimately helpless in this moment, he gets back into his car with his Warm Wife who has been waiting patiently in the car, and steamrolls his way down the unplowed laneway, showing Stuck Guy why he should have purchased a vehicle with four-wheel-drive instead of the sensible family minvan.

In his defense, Stuck Guy did not cry. At least not visibly.

He said calm things into his cell phone, pulled his snowblower out of the garage, and blew snow all over himself and the eight-year-old Little Digger while clearing out the area around the car. He proceeded to blow tracks the length of the laneway…a full quarter mile…just so he could go to work. To babysit kids at school whose parents bring them to school rain or shine, blizzard or tornado, sleet or hell. Oops, hail. He gets it, though his wife is not so understanding as she watches her love leave in horrible conditions. Most adults don’t get snow days. Not even in Canada. Especially not in Canada. Snowshoe or die, folks. Canada is not for those weak in weather. Though this laneway is a city road, the city snowplow operators ignore it regularly.

The Other Guy rides off into the falling snowflakes with his Warm Wife. They go to the bank. Shit gets ugly. Someone cries. Dreams are lost and found. There are talks born of desperation, discussions of failures, possibilities, and faults. Numbers are thrown around like confetti, questions fired like an inquisition, and emotions squashed as if a plague. There is no room for sentimentality in this cut-throat business. Just another day in the livelihood of a small Canadian family-owned-and-operated farm. They wipe tears, take a deep breath, and consider their options. Then they discuss separating the family during the holidays and for several months beyond in order to make enough money to save the farm that’s been in the family for five generations.

The Warm Wife of The Other Guy settles into the century home that is in desperate need of renovation, and immediately returns to promoting her family business online, and working her full time government job from home because she had to take a personal day for the bank meeting. She tries to get it all done before she has to pick up her kids from daycare. She knows they need her to pay attention to them, to help them with homework, and to listen to them about their days, their concerns, their hopes, joys, and experiences. She is a good listener, a good mom, and loves to spend time with her family.

The Other Guy, unable to crop his livelihood because of snow and farm equipment that is broken still and again, uses his machinery for good. He drives his new bobcat tractor several kilometers down the road, stopping at driveways in the countryside to plow out his neighbors. He moves from one to the other, not stopping or asking for pay. He’s just being neighborly—because he can. He returns home to plow his own driveway only after helping out his neighbors. He thinks nothing of this.

Meanwhile, Stuck Guy is on a roll. He manages to make the treacherous drive all the way into town and gets to the school for duty. But he gets stuck in the school parking lot. This is not a joke, nor is it taken as such. Still, he does not complain. Instead, he reports for duty, apologizes for being late, and takes on his responsibilities for the day—caring for special needs kids, as well as assisting teachers throughout the school with tedious tasks. He does this with great cheer and pride. The school kids love him, the special needs kids adore him, and the teachers can’t live without him. However, he is not valued for his role by his superiors. His role is not rewarded by the school system, the school board, or the province. In fact, his pay—an hourly rate, not salary as teachers get—will be docked for being late, in spite of the weather. He does not care. He will continue to do what he does, and give more than 100%, because he believes in serving those who need him. He approaches his job as he approaches his family and his friends—he is devout. This is his lifestyle. There is right, and there is wrong, and he always chooses right, no matter what.

Back on the homefront, children are playing, as children do on snowdays home from school. There are five. Three of my own, and my other two. These started as daycare kids, but have become so much more. I realized that when talking to my sister who lives far away in Indiana. I talked about each child – their accomplishments and challenges, funny stories, and our collective thoughts, hopes, and concerns. I seamlessly went from the children I birthed to the children I've loved into my life without a moment’s thought or hesitation. They are like siblings, they are all mine, no matter the technicalities.

The power went out. This happens a lot in the country. And we had a nice fire going in the woodstove downstairs, so warmth was not a problem. But the Sump Pump had a real problem with it. It began to beep. Repeatedly. Relentlessly.

I opened the door, pushed some buttons with flashing lights. It stopped beeping. For a moment. And then began to beep faster.

I grabbed my phone and texted The Stuck Guy as well as The Other Guy. I am not comfortable with machines talking back to me. They are so difficult to discipline. Like toddlers. Or puppies. But less cute.

Suggestions were made from both sources. Push the buttons. One button. Then the other. Push them both together. I pushed the buttons at will to no avail.

I bent into the closet on my knees, cleaning cobwebs out of the shadows with the red locks of my hair, and leaned over the pit laden with pipes and floating balls. I dipped my hands into the slimy, ice cold water and lifted first one ball, then the other, and finally cupped both balls in my hands, gingerly holding them above water level.

While such a gentle gesture may be appreciated in certain circles, this angered the Sump Pump Lord.

He began to screech and whistle at me, beeping maniacally. Lights flashed—green, orange, red, and yellow lights spelling out words in too rapid a succession for me to decipher. The screaming filled my ears, the vibrations of rage tore through my soul. I just knew I had committed some irrevocable crime against machinery.

But I was a trained zookeeper. I knew that no matter what happened, no matter how dire the situation, no matter how much it struggles and fights…once you have caught up your animal and have a good grip on it, you must Never under Any circumstance Let Go Of That Animal. It will only put you in grave danger. Because now, it is PISSED OFF.

There was no doubt in my mind in that moment that the Sump Pump Lord was Pissed Off. I could not let go of its balls. With tears slipping down my cheeks, and the buzz of screaming ricocheting my brain against the sides of my skull, I leaned deeper into the pit of slimy water and gently transferred the left ball against the inside of my right forearm, freeing my left hand. When I was sure both balls were secure above water level, I used my left hand to again text The Stuck Guy, and to explain that I was, well, stuck.

He texted suggestions to me, all of which I’d already tried repeatedly, and all of which had failed. I begged him to tell me where the hatchet was, desperate to put the suffering Sump Pump Lord out of his misery. I couldn't stand to watch and listen to him in such torment. That’s when The Stuck Guy left me.

I’ll never know if it was because a child needed his attention at school, or his boss caught him helping someone other than Her Royal Self. Maybe the school had a surprise fire drill, or his car suddenly and mysteriously disengaged itself from the snow ruts of the parking lot as he watched through a classroom window. I like to think the phone simply lost its charge and died…as we all claim happens but never really does because who would actually let their cell phone DIE?! No one. It’s unfathomable.

Nonetheless, I was stuck at home cradling a pair of balls over a vat of smelly water in a dark closet of my basement. The Sump Pump Lord screamed obscenities at me in a language I couldn’t understand, and frankly, didn’t want to. I could only assume he was in agony and begging for his motherboard, mercy, or both.

It was time to let go. I dropped his balls.

They landed with a gentle splash in the stagnant water, and the screaming continued. My nerves were shot, my emotions raw, and I had no plausible options. So, I reared up to the full height of myself on my knees, leaned over the Sump Pump Lord, and pushed both buttons simultaneously as hard as I could. I leaned the full weight of myself into my fingers, ignoring the cobwebs stretching across my nose, up to my earlobe, and I didn’t let go.

It wailed one last bloodcurdling oath, and fell silent.

The quiet filled my head much the same as the screaming had…a steady pulse, a rhythmic hum of its own. The lights were gone too. My chin dropped out of respect and I honored the moment of silence with reverence and a little regret. I knew it had been for the best, the Sump Pump Lord was no longer suffering. I had done what I had to do.

And then it beeped. One soft, gentle beep. I glanced up. The glow of a green light beckoned my gaze. Steady and sure of itself, it spoke to me. I finally understood. “System Ready,” the light said. “System Ready.”

And it was.

I gently closed the door, offering the Sump Pump Lord privacy for his rehabilitation, and went upstairs. I scrubbed my hands up to my elbows as my mother, the nurse, had taught me. I took a deep breath, and pulled out my cell phone. It was time to pull more than a pair of floating balls out of a pit of despair.

I punched in some messages, and began to cook.

By 4:30, some mellow music was playing via Songsa on my ipod, a vat of chili was simmering on the stove, and a loaf of Harvest Beer Bread was baking in the oven (from my Sunset Gourmet side business,; warning, shameless self-promotion plug here: see http://www.mysunsetgourmet.ca/3097/). Candles were lit on the dining room table. The rest of the broken-by-Wednesday spirits began to drift into the house.

W(h)ine Wednesday, folks.

We gathered, my hubby, friends, and I around the long, simple dining room table. We shared the details of our rotten days, listening and talking in turn. We ate like gluttons. We partook of wine and local brewery beers, and a shameful amount of 5-minute microwave fudge (another Sunset Gourmet treat. Mmm…Just saying, check it out. LOL). One of us started nodding off at the table. It’s not the first time this has happened among us. I think we’ve each had a turn. It’s become an endearing habit between us. When the reality of our Hump Day Blues were worked out between conversation and relaxation, we turned to topics to lift ourselves and each other back up off the floor. We admired our children—their individual traits and talents—and how our parenting ideas were so similar. We discussed possible futures for the lot of us, and daydreamed a little about the Great What If. And then, the icing on the shitcake of the day—we laughed. Because, together, we Always do.

And that’s the point of it all, isn’t it? There are songs written about it. Lean on Me. You’re Not Alone. You’ve Got a Friend. Etc. When life’s kicking you, you need to gather round and talk it out with people who give a shit. Don’t save time with loved ones, your family and friends, just for celebrations. Those are great, but the truly great stuff comes of the time spent lifting someone up, and/or supporting each other. And after you talk about the downs, make sure you include some Ups. Smile. Toast. Laugh. Really laugh. And then remember…sometimes you can’t…you shouldn’t…wait until the next holiday. Sometimes you can’t even wait until Beer Friday.

Every once in awhile you’re going to need a W(h)ine Wednesday. And that’s okay.

The Shenanigan

2013-06-26T07:50:00.000-04:00

Hi, my name is Kelly and I’m a Shenanigan-aholic. I’ve been shenanigan-free for 12 hours. To be honest, I’m not comfortable in this new persona. It doesn’t seem to suit me. I’ve been a lifelong shenaniganist. Oh, like any other shenanigan addict, I’ve had my time on the wagon—days, months, even years at one point early in motherhood. But I always find my way back to my addiction.

Before hitting bottom this morning, I’d been on the wagon for 17 days. That last shenanigan was with friends of my husband Seb and I in northern Ontario. The Birnies had invited us to spend the weekend at their lakeside cottage. Everything was going well. Stories were shared and the wine flowed, but I managed to avoid any true shenanigans. At least until the second morning. The guys decided to go into the ice cold lake for a swim on a cold, cloudy day. I watched them work their way into the water inch by inch, hollering about the cold and hugging themselves but sporting huge grins and pride. Darren was first—it was his “thing” to swim in the cold lake since he was from northern Ontario. Sebastien followed him slowly. I put my feet in and felt the blood in my ankles turn to ice. The guys told me to join them. I stepped back out of the water, shaking my head, and explained there was no way in hell I was putting on a bikini in 8 degree weather to swim in ice water. But as they continued to congratulate themselves and each other, I could feel the shenanigan coming on. It started knocking for release from the inside of my skull—the sound of it like a pounding drum, drowning out Annik as she came to my aide in the Sisterhood of Support for Sane People. Shenanigan-free people. I loved her in that moment, in spite of my need. Perhaps even more so because of it. I fought it for a moment, grasping at The Sisterhood like a lifeline, but when Darren said he was impressed with Seb because not too many people would go into a lake that he himself found too damned cold, I turned on my heel and raced to the house. Darren said, “What’s this? She’s going to get her suit, she’s coming in,” and I shook my head, still fighting the powerful urge, when Seb said there was no way I would ever get into that lake.

So I schooled them.

I put on my bikini in record time, pounded across that deck, and before they even realized I was really going in, I hit the shoreline, and then was in the water. Though it had taken each of them several minutes to get out to chin-deep water, it took me mere seconds to reach them.

Heady with the high of the shenanigan (I’m not gonna lie to you, the whoops and cheers are still ringing in my ears and fluffing my ego), no matter how much I tried to come down, I continued the evening with a lot of banana liqueur, red wine, and unsavory comments and suggestions. It was, at least, a high-quality shenanigan, and worth every insult and giggle.

But the next morning, I made sure my friendships and marriage were still intact, and breathing a sigh of relief to find they were, I promised myself there would be no more shenanigans for me. I would behave. I would be a stand-up citizen. No more shenanigan hangovers.

We addicts know how that goes, don’t we? I managed to remain straight for 17 more days. Even through my birthday celebrations, I remained uncharacteristically tame. I told myself life could be enjoyed without shenanigans. There could be good ol’ wholesome fun among friends and family, and I vowed to embrace such a lifestyle.

I like to blame others for my falls. Heh, heh. Don’t we all? I’ve blamed my friends, my family, and my job. I’ve even blamed my pets. Yes, I know. I’m not proud of it. Lately I’ve been blaming society. You know what I mean? There is a constant pressure to perform, to earn and succeed in every aspect of life. Careers. Marriage. Sex. Health. Looks. Parenting. Being a housewife as well as running a home business. I threw myself into conquering it all—getting it all right once and for all. I found myself running to meetings to learn about new legislation that will affect my daycare business. I began to feel like a bad parent for missing meetings with my kids’ teachers and choir concerts. I even attended church and dreaded family functions a few times in order to please other people. These were the things I needed to do in order to avoid shenanigans. This is what mothers, wives, home business owners are supposed to be doing. This is what keeps them respectable, humble, and straight. But these expectations from society that make up our culture just build and build. Sure, one can stay off the shenanigans when you’re focused on doing everything right. It even feels good sometimes—sort of comforting. But after awhile, it’s like being in a pressure cooker, and I find myself looking for the little knob that will release some steam. That’s when I turn to my addiction. That’s when the urge for shenanigans is at its strongest.

You can’t blame society. I understand that now. My shenaniganism is my doing. My responsibility. I am the only one accountable for my choices.

My low point came just hours ago, early this morning. It had been a rough day yesterday, followed by a late night. The kids—all 8 of them (3 of my own and 5 daycare)—were driving me crazy and I couldn’t think or eat or calm down. They were screaming at each other, running through my house, and jumping on the furniture. The baby fell—the cop’s daughter—for the third time that day while trying to keep up with the hyper big kids. No one seemed to be getting along. We had a birthday party for one of the boys. I knew that the chocolate cupcakes would just make it all worse, but cupcakes are an essential part of birthdays, and the consequence of feeding several children that much sugar is a foregone conclusion—added chaos. Other mothers can handle this. Other parents and daycare providers do these things with grace and a smile. They snap pictures, organize games, and hand out loot bags. When do they find time to shop for and put together loot bags? But even more so—why would they do that to other parents? Why give them cheap toys that we all despise and throw in the trash the first chance we get? But that is what Good Parents do, so it was on my agenda of personal challenges. I will eventually produce loot bags to hand out at my kids’ birthdays, but not today. Today, cupcakes and balloons were all I could handle. But it was also a full moon, week #874 of dreary, rainy weather, and the last week of school. My patience was lost, and I was shaking with the need for a full-on shenanigan. I took some deep breaths, and controlled myself. I handed the kids over to their parents with a quiver in my voice, but other than the bruised cheek on the cop’s baby, they were safe. Shortly after, the power went off, and my own kids kicked up the tension about sixteen levels. Still, I held it together and let my husband handle it. I remained shenanigan-free. And then he left to play baseball and drink beer.

My husband is one of Those People. You know the ones…the kind that can control their fun and mischief, and not let it go as far as a full-throttle shenanigan. I know. I don’t understand how he does it either. I mean, I even catch myself sometimes thinking that can’t be any fun at all, and what’s the point? If you can’t have the whole shenanigan, why even taste it? I guess that’s what makes me an addict. Seb can be a lot of fun, trust me. When I’m thinking clearly—when I’m not in the throes of my addiction—I really do admire him. But I’ve never been able to just taste the fun—or trouble—without going all-in.

Well, he went to play in his baseball game and then to drink some beer with the guys. Trying to stifle my jealousy that he was able to let off some steam, I sat at home, lonely once the kids were in bed, scanning Netflix to distract me from the need for another fix. I waited for him, hoping his gossip and stories of the evening would be enough to feed me, or at least stop my trembling need for a hit of fun. But it got late, and later. And later. He finally came in at 12:45am on a work night. Normally this would make him rant about how tired he would be at work the next day, but this time he was happy, relaxed, and decidedly carefree.

It was too much.

I couldn’t take it. I’d been fighting my dire need for a shenanigan of my own all day—hell, for 17 full days—and seeing him sated and satisfied by his own fun was too much for me. I looked around, searching desperately for something to give me a little release. Just a tiny hit was all I needed. But it was too late for a good movie. I’d already written a new blog post—ready for posting today—and there were no more words to play with. It was too late to start drinking beer, and Seb was in too good a mood to sport me a decent fight. I’m ashamed to admit, I tried. Quivering with need, I grumped and pouted. I prodded him about our plans for the weekend, thinking I could delay the need until it passed. He wouldn’t bite. There was no fun to be had, no tomfoolery to instigate, no trouble to start, and nothing obnoxious to do. While of course I prefer the shenanigans bought with good times and fun, I was desperate, and would have settled for the cheap high of the more inexcusable variety. But there was simply no stash to pull off a decent shenanigan anywhere. All I could do was go to sleep, so I did.

I hit rock bottom on the other side of that long day and night—this morning. My kids are the ones who found me initially, and then others became involved. The kids saw me taping thank you notes on end-of-the-year presents for their teachers, drawing smiley faces on my handwritten cards. Some of the gifts were for teachers I’d never met, and one was even for a teacher I had despised all year because she didn’t want to help my daughter with her reading struggles. But I loaded those gifts into plastic bags for my daughters to carry, yelled for them to get in the van and we shot up the drive. I could see the bus at the end of our lane, as well as the neighbor who had put his son on the bus. But about halfway in my race down the laneway, with dirt billowing and gravel flying behind my spinning tires, the bus pulled away. I had missed it. It was the first time all year. In a year of meeting 6 buses a day, it was the first miss—with just 3 school days left.

I hit the brakes at the end of the lane, jumped out of the van, and slapped my hands against the sides of my head. The kids opened the side door and hopped out, and the neighbor climbed out of his car, pointing out the obvious—that the bus had left without my kids. He looked at me, grinned and said, “It wasn’t my kid that missed it this time.”

“FUCK!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” I screamed. “Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck!!!!”

I kicked at the dirt road, yelled at the kids to get back into the van, and then turned to the astonished neighbor—who also happens to be one of my best friends. The friend who had brought me coffee and cold beer on other days I’d found myself in need of a shenanigan-fix. Wayne, my fellow Gemini, a friend who totally gets me.

I could feel it coming on, and was helpless against the force of it. Even I knew my eyes must look too wild—like my screws had finally come loose for good. “I don’t know what the hell to do! I don’t know when Seb has to be at work, so I don’t know if he can even take the kids. Maybe it’s too early, and he won’t be able to drop them off. Stupid teacher gifts. Fuck!”

Wayne looked at the bags of gifts my girls held as they cowered in the safety of the van. “Teacher gifts? Teacher gifts?” he asked. “But why?”

“I always give teacher gifts at the end of the school year!!!” I screeched. “And now we missed the fucking bus because I was getting the stupid teacher gifts ready and the kids’ sunscreen on and their lunches out and their backpacks packed and make sure they ate breakfast and the daycare parents were arriving and nothing was going right. Fuck! And now I have to take the kids to school, but first I have to meet Keidrick’s bus in half an hour and then Gibson’s fucking bus doesn’t come until 8:25 and the girls are supposed to be at school by 8:00. Shit. Shitshitshitshitshit!!! Well, Seb is just going to have to take them. I don’t know what else to do. They can just sit outside the school and wait for a teacher to show up if it’s too early. Goddamnitalltohell!!!”

Wayne’s eyes opened wide and he backed slowly away from me towards his car. He never took his eyes off my face as he reached for the door handle. He was supposed to also be dropping off his daughter at my house for daycare, so I got into the van, slammed the door and started backing down the laneway so he could follow me.

He jumped into his car, threw it into gear and shot forward out of the drive and skidded down the street without a backward glance.

I haven’t heard from him since.

His wife Alison dropped the daughter a little later, slipping into the house quietly and kissing her child goodbye. She was halfway out the door when I came down the stairs to greet her. Her hand tightened on the doorknob and her eyes kept darting to the window of the door, doubtlessly hoping for backup to suddenly appear in the driveway. She left as quickly as her husband had departed, but with less squealing of tires on pavement.

And that was my rock bottom. It was an ugly, shameful shenanigan, and it wasn’t worth it. It frightened my children, put my husband on the defensive, and could have cost me treasured friendships. There’s a chance I’ll see The Seays again. They’ve experienced my shenanigans before. Wayne is a bit of a shenanigan addict himself—truth be told, we tend to egg each other on, but we understand that about each other. It’s good to have friends who understand you.

But now I’m making a vow to get my life on track—to get it right this time. I’m going to control my temper, plan and organize the lives of my family better, and stick to a schedule. I’m going to make those loot bags for the kids’ birthdays this year, damn it, and find a way to handle sugar-highs and full moon behavior of all the children in my care. I’ll stop staying up until all hours of the night writing ridiculously silly blog posts, wake up earlier to meet buses, and take ballroom dancing instead of pole. I’ll stop cursing, engaging in belching contests, and giggling at crude conversations. I’m going to write a literary novel nobody will want to read and take the Canadian oath, and I’m going to do all of it with the grace and elegance of the Duchess of Cambridge. I know that I cannot continue to chase the next shenanigan-high and expect to live a respectable, responsible life. There is no real reward at the end of a summer full of drinking and tomfoolery with friends, laughing raucously, and dancing wildly at any given moment. The only way to get straight and stay shenanigan-free is to embrace a controlled lifestyle and create a whole new me. Just because the addiction is part of who I am doesn’t mean I have to give into it and indulge in hilarity and spirit whenever the desire hits me. So here’s my new creed:

I, Kelly Shannonhouse Lalonde, pledge to commit to a life of respect, responsibility, and reasonable fun. I want to earn the trust of my loved ones, the 6-weeks-straight beer coaster-of-honor, and the…

Wait. Did someone say BEER coaster?!

Oh hell. Screw it. I’m out.

Is it Friday yet? Are you serious? It’s only Tuesday? WTF? Where the hell did my music go? Child, you better give that ipod back to me if you know what’s good for you!

Wayne? Where are you, buddy? Help a friend out, will ya? Seb took the beer out of the fridge again to make room for stupid vegetables and to discourage middle-of-the-week shenanigans. The man has his priorities all wrong. Bring a cold 2-4, ok? I’ll share…promise. We know it’s more fun with company. We’ll get The Birnies to stay for a beer or three too when they come to pick up the baby. Yeah, that’s it…crank up the tunes, and we can sing along with Mr. Shelton. “If you’ve got a problem with that...you can kiss my country ass…” Oh yeah, now that's what I’m talking about. Sing it Blake!!

Now that’s more like it!

Kelly's Potty Training Boot Camp (Part 2) - The Recipe

2013-06-25T08:32:00.000-04:00

KELLY'S POTTY TRAINING BOOT CAMP RECIPE

Here’s Kelly’s recipe for Potty Training success. You will need:

1 week (mostly in-home)

1 potty seat

1 toilet

1 lg. sippy cup

Water or fruit juice

1 baggie of your choice of M&Ms, Skittles, or Jellybeans, OR one special toy

1 ready toddler of your choice, stirred, not shaken*

1 glut Patience, to taste

[*Note: Readiness is determined by consistency. If you often find the toddler of your choice retreating to a certain corner to complete their business, if they tell you their wrapping is soiled, and/or the wrapping has been stripped from the bum without your assistance, you may have overdone the diapers, and need to remove the toddler from its wrap. If your diapered child pops up in the bathroom while others are completing their business, or place their dollies and stuffies on the potty, this also indicates your diaper days are nearly done. Proceed to the following steps.]

As Miss Birnie is the most recent of my successes, I used her as my toddler of choice for this recipe, so will use the term she/her. Obviously, this also applies to all he/his options as well.

Immediately remove absorbent wrap from bum of the toddler. Set aside wrap for bedtime use only. Fill the large sippy cup with your choice of water or fruit juice (I like water, but fruit juice is good for a thicker potty filler. You can also choose to alternate the two to get both fillings for your potty.). Begin to saturate your toddler with liquids, refilling the sippy as often as necessary. You do not want your toddler to dry out, or your recipe will not turn out properly.

Introduce your toddler to her potty. Make sure that they remain in the vicinity of each other at all times this early in the process. It is important that they are properly bonded to each other. Explain to your toddler that the potty is her new best friend, and that her friend loves pee and poo more than anything in the world. Her job is to keep her friend happy, by feeding it all the pee and poo she can.

Go about her play. Assist her in her endeavors. Watch her for signs that her filling is getting ready to overflow. If she stops taking on liquids, and sets the sippy aside, joyfully, enthusiastically return the sippy to her hands, and encourage her to ingest more. Praise her when she does (I find that first cheering her with a coffee/beer mug-against-sippy cup tap, followed by chanting, “Chug! Chug! Chug!” is a very effective way to infuse your toddler with liquids. Some of you may have used this method in the pre-baby days with some good music and friends, a funnel, er, um, or so I’ve heard…Anyway, I digress…).

At some point in the morning, your toddler will start refusing the liquid refills. This is an excellent indicator that her filling is about done. Check your toddler often. At this point, you will want to place her on the potty, and sit with her. Tell her, “Put the pee-pee (or poo-poo) in the potty. The potty wants the pee (or poo). Feed your friend the potty, it’s thirsty and hungry.” Leave the toddler on the potty for a few moments. If nothing happens, the filling is not ready, so release the toddler to play. About every 5 minutes, return the toddler to the potty and repeat previous encouragement. Eventually, your toddler’s filling should overflow into the bowl.

[*Note: The first couple of times this happens, the toddler may become very upset and scream or cry. THIS IS NORMAL behavior! Do not worry. Simply reassure the toddler that this is EXACTLY what she is supposed to do and that it is a GOOD THING, a MOST EXCELLENT THING to do! Then move immediately onto the following step.]

REWARD your toddler IMMEDIATELY! Congratulate her. Celebrate her success. Give her 1 candy treat for a pee-pee, 2 for a poo-poo. Absolutely no more sugar treats than that at any time. While working the bladder so intensely, the excess sugar can and will become detrimental to the outcome of the product. You want a toddler that connects the treat to the release of fluids into the potty in her mind, and does not mistake the treat for any other thing. (I also like to sing songs, clap, and dance for EVERY, SINGLE potty success. If there are other people in the house, this is a great time to do a celebratory parade through the house, singing the praises of the toddler-who-went-potty-and-just-became-a-big-girl (or boy). You can NEVER make too big a deal out of this. It NEVER grows old for them, and many respond more to the praise than the treat. This is THE BIGGEST DEAL OF THEIR LIVES SO FAR. Don’t forget that.

[*Note: Some people prefer to give the toddler a special toy to play with as the reward instead of a candy treat. This is also effective. The way to use this method is to have a special Potty-Success-Only toy in a place the child can see, but not reach it. Once they have successfully released the fluids into the potty, set a timer for 10-15 minutes, and allow the child to play with that toy without having to share it with any friends or siblings. When time is up, return the toy to the special spot until the next success. No other child is allowed to touch that toy at any time, so that the toddler understands this is ONLY for HER successes.]

As soon as the treat and parade celebration are complete, refill the sippy and begin infusing your toddler with liquids again. You will complete the above steps repeatedly for the next several days. Only wrap your toddler for sleeps, for going out of the home, and for long distance travel. (I suggest pull-ups for out-of-home excursions only, so that you can place toddler on available toilets more easily. You want to make sure that toddler understands that using a potty is for ALL times and places, not just at home.)

[Hints: As soon as your toddler has had a day with some successes, you’ll want to start placing her on a Big People Toilet once in awhile. This is VERY important because she must become comfortable releasing the fluids and solids into a larger bowl, as most public and private restrooms do not offer potty seats. Allowing your toddler to flush the big toilets after they've made their contribution is another effective reward.

The big toilet may be frightening at first for your toddler, so be reassuring and NEVER leave a frightened toddler alone on a big toilet. There are available “toppers” for toddlers that can be placed on big toilets, but again, I prefer not to use them, as they are not available in restrooms in the world-at-large. Though there are some people who will carry such a device with them, I am not of that temperament. I prefer to get the toddler comfortable with real-life options as soon as possible.]

Another important note to make is that after a few successes, the toddler will catch on to what is happening, and may resist. This is the point where your toddler will actively refuse to sit on the potty. This is the time of the watery eyes and pouty lips. YOU MUST RESIST CAVING IN TO SUCH DRAMAS AT ALL COSTS. Understand that your toddler has simply become bored with the process, and finds diapers more convenient for her busy agenda. Though you may agree with her, this is where you will need to start peppering your toddler from the glut of Patience. You MUST remain consistent, and become even more devout in your toddler-to-potty administrations. Place the child (regardless of watery or pouty consistency) upon the potty every half-hour and encourage them to fill it. If you must, park the potty in front of a television, the lunch table, or give the toddler books to look at. Often the distraction is enough to release the necessary filling into the potty. It is okay to ask your toddler to stay on the potty for several minutes at a time, once they understand you want them to feed the potty pee or poo. Their boredom with this will not last long and they will learn to release the ingredients quickly after a couple of long sits.

The flip side to the toddler resisting the potty, is that they may quickly learn to turn it into a game for their advantage. Once they learn they will receive a candy per pee, they will learn to squirt the liquids in increasingly smaller amounts, more often. For the first week, and even for a couple of weeks after, you WILL COOPERATE with your very clever toddler! You will continue to praise and reward your toddler, both for her self-control and cleverness, but also because if the game ends too quickly, they may chose not to play anymore because it is no longer fun or interesting. Trust me, a couple of weeks down the road, you may run out of potty treats and your toddler may not notice, or will give you leave to purchase more at your earliest convenience. The treats will disappear naturally and with less fanfare than you may expect, so continue to reward your toddler as long as necessary.

That, my friends and devout readers, is my recipe for Potty Training Success. I find that usually by the end of the first week, you can place your child in those coveted undies, and continue with the same steps of the recipe with similar success, simply decreasing the infusion of liquids and extending the periods of mandatory potty-sits as you see the toddler has caught on to the process. The first couple of times your child wears undies (and again, I recommend you start this at home, not out in public), she may mistake it for an absorbent wrap and allow the filling to overflow into it. This may be devastating to your toddler, which is actually a positive sign (Believe me, devastation is preferable to the toddler who doesn’t seem to mind a thoroughly soaked wrap, for those are much more difficult to bring to readiness and present to the world at large.). Gently remove your toddler from the saturated wrap and remind her that the pee and poo go IN THE POTTY now that she’s a Big Girl. It’s not a big deal, she simply forgot to feed her best friend its favorite thing, and assure her you know she’ll remember next time.

To be honest, every experience with Potty Training will be slightly different. While I firmly believe most toddlers can and will be trained during the day hours within a week or two (nights can take months, or years longer, I've found, depending on how deep your toddler/child sleeps…I find most kids give up their own pull-ups for nights without much interference or suggestion from you), I will admit there is an occasional glitch in the system. For instance, I realized that I had a boy at one point that I believed had been fully trained for about a year and a half. He went to the bathroom every time I suggested it (I had incorporated it into our daily routine), and never had accidents on my watch. What I didn't realize until he was 4 ½ was that he’d had regular accidents with his parents once he was out of my care at night, because they were not on a schedule that included “Go to the bathroom” as part of their routine (i.e. before leaving the house, going to bed, when returning from a car trip, etc.). I had so thoroughly incorporated bathroom usage into our routine, I didn't realize I’d simply trained him to go on command, rather than pay attention to the needs of his body. That was early in my training days, and I have rectified that by not insisting on potty-sits after those first few weeks, and less suggestion to try at the same times each day. I also had the toddler (Oh, Miss Birnie, you are so full of surprises, you little imp!!) who refused to be infused with liquids after that first day. She is, at 21 months, smarter than me (and I say that with immense pride, and just a bit of shame!). She very quickly figured out the cause and effect of my methods, and simply refused to make herself so uncomfortable. When I began to drink more water (“lead by example!”), and chant more heartily (“Don’t stop now! Chug! Chug!”), she’d simply look me in the eye, tip her sippy, and take the tiniest sip of water to get me off her case, and go about her play. She would set her sippy aside as soon as I made (yet another) run to the bathroom to relieve my own bladder. The good news is, I've become very well hydrated and my skin has taken on a very nice, healthy glow. The bad news is, I've needed to tweak my recipe for success, but at least I always appreciate a good challenge!

I think the important things to remember with any Potty Training recipe is that you need to Know Your Toddler, be Present and Tuned In, and not to be afraid to get creative with your recipe. It’s a lot of work, but always worth the effort. And the other important note is that as much as you want your toddler trained, She is the one who decides. This can become a great power struggle, or this can be a great Empowering opportunity.

I mean, you can (TRY to!) fill your toddler with liquids, and you can lead her to a potty, butt…

P.S. As I said in Part 1 of Potty Training Boot Camp, I’d be happy to answer questions/give feedback on my boot camp methods and/or potty training via this blog, or Twitter @Kellsyjean. I look forward to hearing from you!

Kelly's Potty Training Boot Camp (Part 1)

2013-06-24T09:04:00.000-04:00

It was a cold, wet Monday, dreary and miserable as spring days in Canada often are. Just before 7am the cars start pulling into my driveway—a parade of parents dropping off their kids at my home daycare in their rush to conquer morning traffic, tackle their own personal and professional challenges, and fight the battles the crappy weather brings into their lives and livelihoods.

“Good morning, my lovely Seays.” I say to the first family to arrive. These good people have become some of our best friends. I patted the 9-year-old boy on the head as he zooms by, intent to get in 10 minutes of battle on the Wii before I shuffle him and my daughters off to the school bus. I squeezed the 4-year-old Miss Seay who has wrapped herself around my waist in the day’s first bear hug. My girl. Even if she wasn’t technically mine, she was practically a twin to my youngest daughter, and they both look like mini-versions of my older one. I adore this sweet child who has been with me for three years now. Her mother and I grunt at each other in the mutual understanding that we are not morning people and respect that about one another, neither of us expecting conversation before coffee, tea, and well, noon to hit.

The next car. The 5-year-old boy runs into the house first, slamming the door behind him so his 3-year-old brother has to struggle to open it himself. The mommy-person gets the shoes and jackets off, organizes the backpack, and reminds the school child to remember his hat. She performs the 3-year-old’s necessary ritual of verbal reassurances before closing the door behind her, doubtlessly thankful for completing one more morning chore. Kids delivered. Check. Now off to work.

And the final family arrives. The mommy and the adorable toddler girl cross the patio hand-in-hand, matching grins and sparkling eyes, the daddy just a step behind. More of my special peeps. I have grown tremendously fond of this family as well as My Seays. These are The Birnies.

“Good morning, good people of mine! How is everyone this fine gray morning?” We chat for a few moments about our weekends, the mommy presents the bag of goodies I’ll need for the week, and all the bigger kids come down to fuss and fight over hugging the toddler. She’s not spoiled at all. Being Queen of Kelly’s House at 21 months of age is all part of the charm, rights, and passages of my home daycare. Every child gets a chance to command the minions. This child has a particular talent for it—a mere grin will bring several older children offering a choice of toys, a smile will start a scramble for hugs and cuddles, and a full-out giggle induces infectious hilarity among all the children in the house. This is heady power for a toddler, and it grows into a sense of personal power as the relationships develop over the weeks, months, and years. I always foster that confidence to the best of my ability. Therefore, it was time for this little queen to take on a new personal challenge. I wished her parents a good day and kneeled in front of little Miss Birnie.

“Please drop your drawers and surrender your diaper at this time. These items will be placed in safekeeping for the remainder of the day. May I offer you a Grande Sippy of our finest tap water? There are free refills, so drink freely, but responsibly. We insist on a buddy system, so if you’ll follow me, I’ll introduce you to your new best friend—this special little chair. Please get acquainted with your chair and how it works. You will be a team for the remainder of this week, and into the foreseeable future. I wish you the very best of luck. Welcome to…KELLY’S POTTY TRAINING BOOT CAMP. Go forth in confidence and determination, and use that inherent stubbornness to your advantage. May your aim be true, my furniture remain dry, and your bum bond quickly with the seat. And remember what Kelly always tells you—you can do anything you set your mind to.”

Yes, ladies and gentlemen, Boot Camp for Potty Training. If you’re gonna do it, go all in, or not at all, I always say. Whether it’s because I’m a Gemini and patience is the very last item on the list of my virtues, or because I’m simply restless and too easily bored in general, I tend to be more of a jump-in-and-go-for-it-regardless-the-consequence kind of gal, than the take-your-time-with-a-well-documented-method type. That includes the biggest professional challenge of any childcare provider (or parent!)—potty training.

You parents just shivered, didn’t you? I know it. Been there myself many times. Potty training is the stuff of horror stories around the grocery cart in the diaper—vs .—pull-up aisle, and wide-eyed gasps in bathroom-barren local playgrounds in the snowless months. It’s okay, nothing to be ashamed of. We’ve all been that parent or caregiver who packs the picnic lunch, fills the water bottles, sunscreens the kids, throws the blanket in the trunk, buckles the kids into the car seats, and drives joyfully the twenty-odd minutes to the park singing happy songs in rounds with the kids about sunshine and row boats, only to get out of the car, and have a toddler proudly proclaim they have to go potty as they cross their legs tightly and bounce up and down, hands clenched in front of their privates . I shudder myself as I remember that sweeping search across the park full of swings, slides, and fireman poles and come to rest briefly—desperately—on the sandbox before returning to the bouncing toddler whose eyes are now decidedly yellow. Then there’s the quick headcount of the 136 (or four…whatever!) kids you just unbuckled from car seats and released to the wilds of the playground, and the humiliating moment you think it might be okay to leave the 9-year-old in charge as you just run down the road with the toddler to the bathroom at the nearest Tim Horton’s. You’re not going to get any judgment from me, and I promise to look away as you sneak the little boy to the other side of the skinny tree to let him do his business. I’ll even glare in your behalf at the woman who looks on in outrage and disbelief. But the little girls still wringing their hands and trying not to cry while they bravely hold the pee-pee in are not so easy, are they? Yup. We’ve all been there at least once, and most of us more than that. (A little hint…don’t throw your potty to the curb as soon as potty training is complete. Store it in the trunk of the family vehicle until your youngest has a driver’s license and can drive herself to the local Tim’s in a urine-related emergency. I’ve even been known to crouch in the back of the van balancing over that seat in the middle of a breathtakingly close soccer match that my 7-year-old is starring in. Mock me if you will, but I won’t be the one making my child skip the popsickle-eating celebration after the game to rush to the nearest bathroom and relieve my bladder in the comfort of a filthy stall. I’ll be bouncing her on my shoulders and chanting free root beer for all at my house.)

Now, there are traditional methods of potty training. The very first thing these gurus will tell you is that, “Potty training takes time and patience.” I know people who follow these methods, and have found success on the other side. My fellow daycare providers—God bless them and give them a special place among the angels when their time comes—and some parents I’ve met along the way. These are soldiers of the highest caliber, bravely—resolutely—endlessly trudging through trenches of shit-laden underpants and urine-soaked socks fighting on the front lines of The War on Wet Pants, following the proper chain-of-command creed issued by the Pampers Society of North America: “Diapers to Pull-ups, then Pull-ups to Underwear. We’ll help you grow up, and make more money than you want to share.” But I’m cheap. And impatient, but I think we’ve covered that.

Hence, Potty Training Boot Camp. It sounds military-tough, and I’m not gonna lie to you, it is. One week. One focus. And the only way out of it is to pee to get off the pot. This is not for the faint of heart, or those weakened by watery toddler eyes and trembling pouty lips. Nor, as I’ve recently experienced, is it for those easily confused by the difference between toddler drama and toddler trauma. (Oh, Miss Birnie, you certainly kicked it up a notch!) You must commit, and make no mistake, it is a huge, time-and-energy-draining commitment.

Here’s how it went with Miss Birnie:

We spent the morning playing as usual. There were only two main differences. She was of the Bare Bum Status, and I was pressuring her to drink water on a minute-to-minute basis. All was jolly, as per usual. We were having fun. Cheering. Sipping.

And then she set her cup down, refusing to accept it when I offered it back to her. This was a good sign. Her bladder was full, and she knew it.

“Miss Birnie, do you need to use the potty?”

She glanced at me. “No!”

I waited a couple of minutes, watching her closely. She couldn’t stand still to complete the block tower she was making, so she moved on to the kitchen set and began taking out plastic food and placing it on a tray. Step to the sink. Step back to the bucket. Step to the sink. Step to the bucket.

“Why don’t you come and sit on the potty for a few minutes? Let’s try to pee-pee in the potty.” I picked her up and placed her on the potty, and then sat down on the floor in front of her. The other two kids joined us in a circle of support. “Pee-pee, Miss Birnie, pee-pee!” we chanted.

Miss Birnie began to cry. Oh no.

“It’s ok, sweetie. Just put the pee in the potty. The potty wants the pee, remember? It’s the potty’s favorite thing! Give it to your friend the potty.”

She began to cry harder and pointed to the play kitchen.

Ok, we’re going to have to have an accident first. Sometimes, that’s the best way to jump-start success. There were two possible outcomes for this method. One, the trainee becomes horribly upset by the sudden expulsion of pee that soaks her legs and the floor around her, and becomes more open to suggestion the next time she finds herself with a full bladder. Or two, the sudden gush of pee landing on the floor is solution enough for her and the relief so great, she will happily plod out of the new floor river, and go about her play undaunted. (Yes, I just shivered. Been there. Done that. No thank you.)

I crossed my fingers and lifted her from the toilet. “Ok, honey. Go play. Let Kelly know if you need to pee-pee.”

I handed her the sippy, encouraged her to take another long drink, and sat back to watch. It didn’t take long.

The screams started while I was attending the 3-year-old boy’s sock issues—tucking his pants leg back into his sock while he cried hysterically and swiped tears from his cheeks. Miss Birnie’s shrieks blared over his cries. She was standing in a yellow lake of her own making.

I rushed over, swept her out of the raging river and placed her on the potty. “Oh, honey, you just had an accident. It’s ok. Put the rest of the pee into the potty, and Kelly will clean up the accident. It’s ok. You’re learning.” But it was too late. All the pee had hit the floor. No worries, I had expected that.

I cleaned up the mess, gave her the sippy back, and sat back to continue the watch. It usually only takes 10 minutes or less for the second wave to hit once they’ve had a couple sippy cups full of water.

Miss Birnie, now fresh and clean, went back to the play kitchen, offering plastic eggplant and hot dog buns to Miss Seay and the little mister. And then she grabbed a tray full of plastic donuts and teacups and began to run.

The first round I didn’t pay much attention. She ran around the circumference of the playroom at a moderate speed, easily balancing her tray of goodies. The little mister immediately took up the chase. They do love to chase.

By round three, donuts were flying off the tray willy-nilly as she picked up speed. Little mister couldn’t catch her, so Miss Seay joined the merry chase.

“Ok, you sillyheads, stop running now before somebody gets hurt,” I said. “Somebody is going to trip on a toy and fall.”

Miss Birnie shot-put the tray into a pile of teddy bears as she passed by, and took on a look of concentration I’d only seen on the faces of Olympic athletes ready to go for the medal. Uh-oh.

“Miss Birnie, do you need to pee?”

She tucked her chin toward her chest, and kicked into full gear—the last laps for the gold—and screamed, “Noooooo!” as she zoomed past.

I couldn’t help myself, I started to laugh. Little mister and Miss Seay, oblivious to the problem, continued their chase of her, giggling hysterically by their game. Only Miss Birnie remained serious. She was utterly and completely focused. Without the cumbersome tray, her elbows tucked to her side, and her fists were pumping with each stride.

“You know you can’t outrun a full bladder, don’t you, sweetie? The bladder goes with you,” I said as she ran past me, bare feet slapping on the floor. “Why don’t you come over here and sit on the potty. You’re going to feel so much better. I promise!”

She was having none of it. Eyes boring a path into the laminate floor beneath her, she continued her trek around the playroom at breakneck speed. Nothing was going to catch her—not a 3-year-old boy, not her favorite 4-year-old girl, not Kelly, and certainly NOT some stupid, annoying, yucky feeling in her belly-parts.

I’ve never seen a 1-year-old run that fast.

I finally snagged her mid-lap. She started to kick, struggling to get loose of me, but I set her onto the potty. As soon as her bum connected with the seat, the gush started, and she screamed as if in agony. She tried to jump up off the potty, spraying pee in every direction—all over herself, me, the floor, and Miss Seay, who had come close to watch this first success. We couldn’t avoid the geyser but it ended quickly, and there was some in the potty.

“Look! You made pee-pee in the potty,” I squealed. “You did it, honey! You put pee-pee in the potty!!” Dripping with piss and pride, we all began to dance and cheer, clapping our hands, and trying not to slip in the yellow river surrounding the potty. We congratulated the newest addition to The Big Kids Club.

She stopped screaming, and looked into the potty, pointing at the yellow pool inside. “Pee-pee?”

“Yes, baby. You did it! You’re Such a Big Girl!! Good job!”

Oh, if I had the camera when I saw that face. The recognition. The acknowledgment of a deed well-done. Her eyes lit up, the eyebrows shooting up to her wispy bangs. And then the smile. Ah, that smile! Her entire face glowed with the force of that grin. She started clapping and chanting, “Pee-pee! Pee-pee!” We joined her, dancing around her and her tiny bare bum. And then Miss Seay remembered.

“Her treat! Can I give her the potty treat, Kelly? Can I?”

“Yes, ma’am you can,” I said, getting the Skittle out of the cup, and handing it to her.

Miss Seay, with as much ceremony and joy as she remembers receiving in her own potty-training successes, handed the Skittle to Miss Birnie. “Good job!” she said, and petted her little friend on the head. “You did a good job. And only you gets a treat, cause you goed pee-pee on the potty. I’m a big kid now, so I don’t get one. Now you’re getting to be a big kid too. Good job!”

I turn away to wipe a tear, or three. She remembers. It’s been more than 2 years since she went through these ceremonies, and now she has the opportunity to deliver the grand prize and does it with such pride in her little friend. It’s priceless—every single aspect of it all. The support of the troops, the self-pride, and the joy I feel in these moments.

It’s easy to focus on how difficult and frustrating potty training can be. I do it myself, I’m not going to lie to you. Potty training is extremely challenging. It’s inconvenient. It’s time and energy consuming. And it’s downright messy. But try to remember. This is your child’s first real chance to tackle self-mastery, to learn that no matter what, their body is THEIRS ALONE to control. They learn that they are IN CHARGE of themselves, and this should be made a GLORIOUS EXPERIENCE for them! So, encourage them with celebration and praise all you can. Help them to learn as gently as possible (and forgive yourself when you lose it, because we all do). And remember that this is NOT about keeping pants dry and saving money on diapers.

This is ALL about your child learning that they have power in their world, are capable of developing self-mastery, and have a say in what is happening with their bodies.

These are The Moments, people. Use them to the best of your ability.

And I wish you the best of luck.

P.S. I'll be happy to answer questions and/or offer feedback on my boot camp methods/potty training in general via this blog or Twitter @Kellsyjean. I look forward to hearing from you!

Stalker Overtakes 42-year-old Woman

2013-06-11T09:42:00.000-04:00

That’s it. I am So over 42. I have "sucked out all the marrow of life" from this one, my friends. So I must bid it farewell. Adieu, 42! Adieu!

It’s official. I am trying on 43. Let’s see if another year manages to slow me down. In fact, I dare it to try. Watch out world. I’m coming to get some more of ya…gathering wisdom, experience, friends, and memories as I charge into my future, weilding my sword. Chasing dreams, disrupting things, and laughing all the way. It’s what I do. In fact, let me share an excerpt from a book I once wrote, the beginning of an early version of my memoir:

"I was pushed out of my momma ass backwards and screaming, three and a half weeks late. I've been giving Momma trouble ever since. I didn't mean to, most of the time anyway. I suppose I just got right down to the business of stampeding my way through life. Some might say that's the natural order of things, a girl giving her mother worry. Looking back at my life, I'm not so sure. It seems my little sister never gave Momma a moment's cause for concern. Nope. The first meeting of Momma and me seemed a pretty good indication of the dynamics our relationship would entail. I don't mean to imply that our relationship was difficult or problematic. Momma would certainly never complain or suggest such turmoil between us. I just know that I challenged her, I frightened her, and I wore down her immense patience. Like any self-important child, I took my momma's presence for granted. I fully expected her compassion, forgiveness, and total devotion as simple extensions of who I am.

Momma would be the first to tell you that I have screamed my way through life. It's one of her favorite stories about the kind of child I was. "She always screamed, never cried," Momma would say to people..."

Yup. I think that sums me up pretty well...still.

While 42 was a blast, I've outgrown it. It’s faded, stained in spots, and to be honest, a little tattered around the edges. I admit it was cozy, a comfortable place to settle for awhile. But I’m a Gemini, and comfortable is usually about the time I start getting nervous. Jittery, ya know? Lately, I have started fidgeting and wondering and daydreaming. The truth is, I’m getting bored, and that is the Worst Kind of State to find one’s self in. Ask any Gemini.

So, it’s goodbye to the weight I lost, the bad habits I picked up, and that people that didn't stick around to see what I might come up with next. See ya in the next life, Sleep-I-missed-while-having-Fun and the smooth cheeks my wrinkles have landed on. I’ll catch you soon enough, Mischievous Words that eluded me and then I’ll trap you in a pretty sentence. And you sneaky Gray Hairs that keep popping up on my scalp? There’s always another box of red dye on the nearest Walmart shelf to take care of the likes of you!

I’m on to other things. New Things. Of course, I’ll keep some of the stuff 42-and-under introduced me to. Everyone must keep their loveys about. It’s important to surround yourself with the things and people that make you feel good, challenge you in positive ways, and keep life interesting. So, I’m packing up things like the words that fell into place, the moments that inspired me, Beer Fridays, those shoulders that supported me, and my gigantic basket of vitamins. (Go ahead and laugh, young ‘uns. Your day will come.) I’ll continue to cavort with wine, the neighbors, the children that show up on my doorstep each morning, and the beautiful people who home-deliver me coffee on a rough day. I’ll continue to send out my manuscript and hope to agents, drink my fiber twice a day, and eat maple syrup on eggs. And of course, I can’t move forward without my Peeps. I love my People. The journey is only worth it when shared with them.

But I’ll also find new dreams to chase, words to tame, and ideas to consider. I’ll accept invitations that come my way, throw parties of my own, and celebrate the important moments of the people I care about. I will apply for Canadian citizenship, meet people, and do whatever I can to help others and/or lighten their loads in any way I am able. I will continue to take Pole Dance Level 4 (and move on to levels 5+), not because I think it makes me look sexy (trust me, I do NOT!), but because it makes me feel sexy, vibrant, and more alive, plus it challenges me to step outside of my comfort zone. And who cares if everyone else in the class is 23 years and under? They may have youth, flexibility, and flat stomachs, but I have hardheadedness, nothing to lose, and the ability to laugh my ass off—even at myself. I will conquer that combination move and split spin!

This year I will write another book, drive more tractors, wear a hot pink bikini, chill out in my swing, and travel to a new frontier. There will be banana liqueur. There will be lots of laughter.

And damn it, 43, there will be dancing!!!

Bed Bugs Bite

2013-05-24T11:42:00.000-04:00

A few nights ago, in the dark, late hours past midnight, I was stretched out on the couch reading a book, when I heard from my son’s room a screech and a bumbling scramble. I ran to the room. Keid stood near his dresser, stuffed alligator in hand, gesturing towards his bed.
“What happened?” I asked, accustomed to the nightmares of this sensitive child of mine.

“Mommy, it was a giant bug! I felt it on my shoulder, and when I jumped, it ran all the way down my arm!”

“And?”
“I swung my arm and it flew off me.” He shuddered.

“Do you know what it was?”

“I think it was a giant ant. Probably the queen of an ant colony,” he said. “Yes, I’m sure it was the queen.”

We checked his room, at half past midnight on a school’s night, shaking blankets, checking under pillows and the bed. Nothing. No signs of an insect of any variety.

“I see nothing, hon.” I was disappointed I couldn't relieve him of this stress. Of my three children (the other two girls, ages 7 and 4), my 9-year-old son is the most positive in spirit, yet the most easily crushed when the world does not adhere to his expectations. And I knew he’d expect the ant-in-his-room situation resolved before he'd be able to relax enough to go back to dreams.

Experience has taught me it was doomed to be a no-sleep-night for both of us.
A couple of years earlier, my son had declared he wants to be a scientist and travel the world to study animals. I would have to appeal to his love of creatures and seize this as a teaching moment. “Well, Keid, you know that if it was a queen ant that surprised you tonight, you are in no danger. She was probably dealing with the business of her colony and used your arm as a shortcut to get where she needed to go. She won’t hurt you and will be too busy to bother you again.”

Keid agreed to get back in bed. He asked me to perform the sleep-well ritual we began when he was a toddler (I circle my hands over his head and chant 3 times: “Bad dreams, go away. Good dreams here to stay”). Much to my relief, he fell asleep quickly.

Deep in my own dreams some hours later, I awoke with a start to find my son staring down at me. I glanced at the clock. It was 3:15 am.

“What, Keid?”” I grumbled.

“I got up to get a drink of water and now I can't go back to sleep,” he said. "I think I saw the giant ant again."

I threw off the covers. “Get in bed. I’m coming.”

After another thorough search of the covers, walls, and floor, I re-tucked him under his duvet and performed the necessary sleep-well ceremony over his head. I waited with him, as I always do with my kids after a sleep disturbance, until I saw the calm and gentle rhythm of his breathing that indicated he was sleeping. I climbed back into my bed at just after 4 am.

The next day, after kids were shuffled off to school, the husband off to work, and all the daycare kids delivered to me, I stood in the kitchen, preparing mid-morning snacks for my “littles." I finished filling the bowls, and was wiping the counter with a paper towel when I spotted it.

The ant.
It could only be the Queen of All Ants that had so mysteriously and resolutely disturbed my son (and therefore me) the previous night. She marched across my kitchen floor like a woman who belonged there. Like a woman with a mission.

It was inexcusable-even for an ant.

And there was a paper towel at hand.

I thought of how the alarm clock had sounded hours earlier than I had felt was really necessary. The struggle of getting my tired son out of bed, ready for school, and onto the bus—fully clothed, brushed, and fed—raced through my mind. The morning chaos of making lunches, loading backpacks, greeting daycare parents, and accepting six extra children into my home, all while getting two of the daycare kids, my own three children and my husband off to school (my husband works as a special needs educator), weighed heavily on my mind as I watched that enormous, armored insect cross the crumb-littered tiles of my kitchen.

I glared at her accusingly, and she lifted her antennaed head, glaring back at me before dismissing me and continuing her journey.

Yes, we understood each other. This was to be a territorial war.

While she may have held the power of surprise and fear in the dark of night, I held the power of my foot and the willing paper towel in the bright light of day.

I frowned down at The Queen and considered her fate, exhausted both from the disrupted night’s sleep and the knowledge of the demanding day ahead of me.

Perhaps it wasn't long enough—the considering. Perhaps the implications of such murderous thoughts didn't cross my mind when they should have. I admit it. I don't usually kill bugs that aren't sucking my blood, aiming their stingers at me, or moving towards me with teeth bared and fists raised. But in that moment, I was more temper than compassion. More impulse than caution. It had been a long night, and I was exhausted already-a mere two hours into what I knew would be an even longer day. But that should not have colored my decisions. I like to think I’m better than that. Calmer. Gentler. More forward-thinking.

But alas, being human in my weaknesses, yet animal in nature, the combination of these traits in such a time as this was foreboding.

Instinct won out over forethought.

I dropped the paper towel over her armored body, lifted my foot and stamped it down, snuffing the life out of her.

My son would sleep well tonight! And damn it, so would I!

The day took up its busy pace, as days tend to do. I met the buses (3 in the morning, 3 in the afternoon), cooked the lunch, potty trained the toddler, cuddled the baby, and snuggled the preschoolers. I read books, picked up toys, and played Barbies and trains, blocks and games. I supervised the outdoor play, negotiated turns, talked the big kids into leaving the wii for the great outdoors. I picked up the toys again, changed the diapers, cleaned up the potty accidents, and cheered for the successes. Daycare ended, dinner was gobbled, homework was done, as well as the dishes. We even managed to squeeze in a little family playtime. Through it all, I looked forward to the hour I could retire and catch up on the much-needed zzz’s.

Finally, time came to tuck in my children. As I stood next to Keid’s bed, I remembered the morning's ant drama. I looked forward to a good night’s sleep for both of us, and was happy to have such good news to report.

“Keid, guess what?”

“What?” he asked, as he pulled up his covers.

“I found your ant today. She was in the kitchen this morning. And you’re right, she was huge! She had to be the queen.”

“Cool.”

“So, I just wanted you to know you don’t have to worry about her anymore. She won’t be bothering you again. I killed her.” I grinned at him—the proud mama taking care of her child. The Great Problem-Solver.

He frowned.

Uh-oh.

“What’s the matter?” I asked.

He sighed in the heavily exaggerated way 9-year-old boys do. “You didn't have to kill her, Mom.”

“Well, I thought you’d be happy she wouldn't be crawling through your bed in the middle of the night.”

He went all future-scientist on me. “It’s just that she’s The Queen! She has a whole colony depending on her, Mom. Maybe she even had eggs. I'm so sad she's dead. You should have just scooped her up and moved her outside.” He turned over, his back to me, and sighed again. “Goodnight, Mom. I hope you sleep well.”

Well, damn.

The Memoir Critter

2012-06-27T10:25:00.000-04:00

I knew I could never bond with a memoir, but I underestimated how determined it was to have me.

I’ll never forget the moment I first met it. I was deep in the snores of a good night’s sleep when I felt that initial nudge. Holding tight to the soft-foggy dream I was rather committed to, I opened one eye to glance at the clock.

2:39a.m.

Satisfied that it was still the middle-of-the-night, I retucked Teddy the Bear under my chin and pushed my face deeper into the feathers of the pillow.

The next nudge was more of a shove.

Sleep bolted and I groaned. I sat upright in the pitch darkness, looking for the sad, lost child that must have woken me, but there was none. I shook my head, and leaned back on one elbow, more than ready to be prone again, when it whispered the first phrase to me.

I nodded. It was a good phrase. I would remember it in the morning.

But no! It repeated the phrase, louder this time.

Sigh. I reached blindly for the pen and small notebook I keep bedside and scribbled down the words that were now running mantra through my mind.

There! I had captured the critter! Now penned, it was safe until morning—the real morning where the sun is up and the children are begging for breakfast. I reached over to set the mischievous prowler down and beckoned for sleep to return to me when the sneaky varmint crawled back into the bed beside me, knocking Teddy the Bear to the floor. Thoughtful moonbeams slanted through the window, improving my vision, and I glanced at my nocturnal visitor. That was when I saw it in its entirety.

The Story bounced up and down on the edge of the bed, grinning at me.

Apprehension filled me, but I reached out cautiously and patted the little Story gently on the head.

It quivered as I stroked it onto the notepad in tight scribbles I couldn’t see. And as it pushed closer to me, I jotted it down faster. The lines squiggled in crooked lines all over the page, but I knew that I would be able to recognize what I needed when I looked it over in the morning.

I finished up and The Story curled up against me, finally nodding off to its own dreams, breathing slow, but deep and steady at last.

My life hasn’t been the same since.

I didn’t like it. In fact, I ignored The Story when it was still there—sitting on the bedside shelf—the next morning. It followed me to the kitchen and begged with wide eyes. I stepped around it. And when it chased me down the drive later that day, I shooed it away with grand gestures and threatening shouts.

I wasn’t having it. I couldn’t.

I knew how it worked with strays. If you let them in and feed them, they never leave. It happens all the time. A career in zookeeping, and my ever-bleeding heart had taught me that over the years.

But why were these strays always so damned desperate? They never show up on your door stoop well-fed, potty-trained and full grown. They are always starving orphans that appear in the dead of winter, on the coldest night of the year. This is exactly how we’d acquired our last cat. It was a sub-zero Canadian night just past Christmas when the skinny little kitten started scratching on our sliding glass door, meowing pitifully. When we opened it, she marched right in, rubbed against our 80-pound hound (adopted from the humane society 10 years previous), let our three kids cuddle her, and immediately set straight our tomcat (found abandoned in the forest, small enough to fit in the palm of my hand...) about who would be in charge from then on.

I knew better than to let The Story stay.

This was the one Story I could never keep. I would never be able to nurture such an idea—never be able to give it the love, attention, and exercise it deserved. It would starve with me. I couldn’t afford the doctor’s visits it would require, nor the vaccinations necessary to protect The Story—as well as my friends and family—once it was exposed to social expectations and criticism.

But only the truly heartless would leave it out in the cold to die a slow and painful death. So, like the kitten two years ago, I took it in—just until someone else claimed it, I swear. I’d call the neighbors, post signs around town. But under no circumstances would I name it. That’s when you get attached and this was only temporary.

I allowed it to wander through my mind, hanging on my every spare moment, trying to distract me from the ins and outs of my safe and predictable life. I ignored it the best I could, giving it a bit of food—and just the cheap stuff, nothing fancy—a phrase here, and a sentence there. It was really just enough to keep it alive, you know. And when days strung into a week, and then two, well that paragraph didn’t cost me too much, now did it? Besides, I couldn’t have the little critter bored and making ambiguous sentences, could I? It was a baby and all babies needed something to play with. I wasn’t a cruel person. A paragraph or two just made good, plain sense.

To be honest, I’d waited most of my life meet a good Story. In fact, I’d begged for one for years. Although I’d met an Idea or two over the years, it had never been more than a passing acquaintance. I would spend time with the playful creatures, but never seemed to bond with any of them, nor they with me. It had to be the right one—a perfect match.

You see, I never wanted any part of the Nonfiction species. My real love was Fiction. I’d love to get a Novel, or a Short Story—maybe even breed a pair and sell their litters. And my secret desire? A fairy tale. Now that would be a dream come true! I’ve always had a weakness for such magical little fantasies. But Creative Nonfiction? No thank you. Never! They were too messy, and rather ugly, if you want the truth. Plus, I’d heard enough tales about how much trouble they can cause—chewing up families, digging up secrets, and whatnot. Smart little creatures, to be sure, but quite destructive. Nope. That was not for me.

But I am only human, and The Story was kind of cute following me around with big, sad eyes and those tousled adjectives. When it thought I wasn’t looking, it would strut around boldly until one memory or another would startle it back into a trembling mass of nerves hiding under the bed. And I couldn’t help but giggle over the unexpected turns of phrase that would sometimes slip out of it.

Well, the neighbors never did admit to knowing who The Story belonged to, and I never got any calls about a lost Story, so I figured it was up to me to find a good home for it. I decided to feed it a little longer while I asked around if anyone wanted The Story before I had to take it to the trash. I mean, it was a pretty good little Story, with potential to turn into a full-grown manuscript with the right care. I wouldn’t want it to get in the wrong hands and be mistreated. And since I’d gotten better acquainted, I knew its quirks and idiosyncrasies. That face that was so ugly when I first met it? Now it just seems interesting—unique. A face the right mother could truly love. It’s really a rather charming Story when it comes down to it.

That was four years ago, and the Story is full grown and fat now—sitting on my desk as I tap away on the computer. We’ve had our struggles, The Story and I, fighting over who was truly in charge. (The Story won more battles than I, and I grudgingly had to admit it was always right.)

It took me many weeks after that first meeting to finally cave in and give The Story a name. In fact, it was months before I could even say it out loud. As much as I tried to deny it, or change what it was (by making it prettier, easier to handle), The Story had become mine, and I belonged to it. I gave it the only name that fit—my Memoir.

I am proud of my Memoir, the nocturnal little Story that came to me in the throes of my dreams, bouncing with excitement and quivering with fear in turn. We’ve grown together, the two of us, and come to a point where we accept one another and all that makes us unique in this world. I know there will be times in the future that we will face hard times still—for Memoir is ready to go out into the great, wide world alone now—but now I trust that we have each other’s best interests at heart, as well as that of our family and friends. Together we’ve been able to define our goals for the greater good of others, so the struggle has been worth the effort. As my beloved Memoir makes its own way out into society, I will do my best to introduce it to good people, the kind that will be friends for a lifetime and that, like me, only want the very best for my Memoir. I want it to meet people who are in a place to help make that happen. I will protect it to the best of my ability, but also give it space to grow and blossom under the influence of others. I look forward to seeing who it can become, the lives it may touch, and the hearts it may capture, just as it captured mine one night so long ago.

Go forth, little Memoir. Go get your life!

May I Introduce Myself?

2012-06-22T13:47:00.000-04:00

I'm sorry. I don't believe we've met. My name is Kelly, and though you may have read some of my earlier posts (and thank you very much for taking the time to do so, Kind Readers!), I realized I haven't taken a moment (or hour) to tell those of you not yet "in the know" about myself.

I grew up in Greentown, Indiana, a small town hidden among corn and soy fields. Restless and yearning for something—anything—more exciting than I could find in the one-cop town, I discovered a Teaching Zoo program in Gainesville, Florida, and made a break for it. After (barely) surviving college, I started my zookeeping career as a Bat Keeper for The Lubee Foundation, a private facility owned by Ron Bacardi (of the rum, yes. Ever wonder why there's a bat on the label?!). No, I never met him, and much to my dismay, free rum was not part of my benefits package. So I left.

Okay, so of course that's not the reason, but a few cases of free rum might have gone a long way towards convincing me to stay. Just saying...

After bats (flying foxes), the natural progression is...killer whales, right? I became a conservation educator for Sea World...where I did get free beer, thank you very much. Did you know Sea World - at least back in my day - was owned and operated by Anheuser-Busch? (Budweiser, Bud Light, Michelob...Are the bells all ringing now?) Um, even as I write it, I'm starting to see a pattern emerge: I often seem to be gainfully employed by major distributors of alcohol products.

Perhaps it's an instinct...

Once the Anheuser-Busch bartenders realized I’d figured out their shift changes in the beer tasting booths and had clocked my breaks accordingly, they banned me. (Kidding! I’m better at disguises than that!) But, when I started introducing myself to people at parties or bars by shouting over the noise, “Can I have your attention please? (*clap! clap!*) Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. My name is Kelly and I’m going to be your tour guide this evening! If everyone will please line up and follow me, I’m going to throw you to the sharks in Terrors of the Deep...” (*evil laugh*) Well, I knew it was time for a new adventure.

I surrendered my free theme park pass, tearfully kissed the bartenders goodbye, and off to the Central Florida Zoo I skipped. I started in the Bird department, cajoled my way into Primates, and pestered my curator (The Boss!) until he let me train in felines, bear-care, crested porcupines, and the occasional foray into large mammal care (that’s hoof stock in zoo talk...See? I’m teaching you already! And you thought all I got out of the Sea World job was free beer!). Since animal care by day wasn’t enough, I volunteered to be a wildlife rehabilitator for the injured/orphaned critters people found and brought to the zoo. I had a veritable zoo of my own at home to prepare for life in the wild.

You may by now, Kind Reader, be catching on to me.

I bore far too easily.

Now that the secret’s out, I can admit that in addition to sticking my nose into most departments of the zoo (with a healthy respect for the boundary at the threshold of the Reptile House...) I also took on the role of veterinary assistant. I managed the hospital and supplies, but the real reason I took it on was the opportunity to assist the Veterinarians and their students from the University of Florida during vet rounds. I donned a thinking cap and camouflaged myself amid the vet students during procedures, exams, and surgeries, in order to learn what the vets were teaching. Plus, I got to do things like strong-arm an adult male mandrill, and cuddle clouded leopards. So what if the mandrill was strung out on tranquilizers and the leopards were bottle-fed cubs? It’s still more fun than sitting at a desk, crunching numbers and stapling papers, or whatever it is that some of you have to do for a living. (Poor you! But seriously, thank you for doing all of that...um, really important stuff that makes the world spin round. I appreciate that you do it, so I don’t have to!)

So, I spent my days off at the beach (and, let's admit it, I landed there on the occasional hooky day too. Er, I mean "mental health" day, Boss!), many a night in the clubs, and I hobnobbed with Mickey Mouse and “Jungle Jack” Hanna (previous director of CFZ/current animal expert celebrity!). Living in Florida was a dream for this small town girl hell-bent on adventure.

And then, while minding my own business (and that of anyone daring enough to be near me...), I was knocked over the noggin' by a Frenchman and dragged by the hair to the frozen tundra of The Great White North. Or Canada, if you prefer. No matter what you call it, the result is still the same. I spend nine months a year shivering, and the other three defrosting. Twice I made a run for the border and got all the way to the sunny shores of my youth, when the Frenchman came after me and brought me back. So what if it was to pack my belongings for the move the first time, and to vacation the second? What I remember most are the sunbeams...and the final desperate flings I had with the Krispy Kreme donuts I'd cavorted with on the beach for 10 years before French Charming found me.

Ok, to be fair, I was in love. You would have fallen for those smiling eyes, the French accent, and the promise of pet penguins too! I didn't stand a chance and you know it. And yes, yes, he's the best thing that ever happened to me - yadee, yada, yada. I said I was in love, didn’t I?! Fine, I’ll admit it—the man’s a saint. Can we leave it at that? In the summer month - and okay, yes, the three beautiful weeks in autumn - I love living in Ottawa. It's beautiful, there's a lot of history, great architecture and culture, and the people here are So Nice! In those blessedly warm days, I am forced to admit how happy I am to live in the great country that is Canada. I'm living inside the dream of that 360-degree panoramic film at the Epcot Center. Oh, and the beer is even better here than home! Sorry, my fellow Americans, but it’s true.

But the days I'm shivering through temperatures that I’m now forced to use the metric system to measure, when I'm gritting my teeth and looking puffy in pictures wearing a coat (Only born and bred Canadians look adorable in those snowflake-infused snapshots they use to sell Canadian Winters...I can never get my bangs right with the tuque on, and don’t get me started on how many pounds a winter coat adds to you on film...)...on those days, French Charming must suffer endless tales of my reminiscences of warm white sand, frolicking in the ocean, and of course the glorious battles with sunburns at work after my hooky days on the beach. He has it coming, no? And when he suggests I learn to downhill ski, snow shoe, or ice skate in order to enjoy winter more, I ask him to bring me a cup of cocoa and to throw another log on the fire before he heads outside. I might even wish him luck in the snowball fight before I open another book, or pull my laptop closer for a snuggle.

There are no zoos in Ottawa, and even if there were, I would not make a good zookeeper here. I am certain it would be frowned upon if I pushed animals aside to keep warm in their hay. There’s the language barrier as well. Although I’ve managed to train The Charmings and associated friends to speak English to me, I’m finding other French Canadians less accommodating in meeting these needs (They’re so funny about the language!! You know there is an actual Language Patrol that measures the height of letters in French signs?! They’ve made laws about this stuff—business owners can get fines for posting small letters!). I would need to be bilingual in order to communicate with the other keepers/vets/curators/zoo guests. I was surprised to learn that asking people to sleep with me and cursing the Catholic Church in French (the first things that my darling, saintly French Charming taught me to say...) does not make me bilingual after all. Now my 6-year-old is teaching me my “Ah-Bay-Says” and colours.

I’ve given Mr. Charming three heirs...at the time of this writing, the firstborn prince is almost 9, the middle child, and future Queen of the Universe, is almost 7, and the baby princess is almost 4. It’s important to include the almost (or the “...and a half,” or the “just turned...”). Trust me, I know. It’s what I do now.

I run a daycare. In my home. You’re not the first (or second, third, or even fourth...) to make the immediate leap to how I’ve gone from taking care of one kind of monkey to taking care of another, but it still makes me giggle. Truthfully, it’s not all that much of a stretch. Poop? Check! Senseless chatter? Check! Playing with ill-advised objects? Check! Sticking everything in their mouths? Check! Wall-climbing/furniture shredding/mess making? Check, check, check. Pissing on countertops? You bet. I could go on, but you get the picture. Every day is filled with intrigue, potty runs, giggles, and, sometimes, tears (but when the kids pet my hair, hug me, and tell me it’s okay, I can usually stop crying...). As long as everybody uses their words, takes turns being first, and refrains from singing Barney songs, we get along just fine. (Yes, Barney is STILL popular among the 1 to 4-year-old sector! WHY haven’t we passed legislation to ban this purple varmit yet?! The Rascals are gone, Yosemite Sam is an official outlaw, and the Flintstones have been turned into gummy vitamins, but This Guy we still have to find in every book and video store?! It’s sick, I tell you.)

You may think my life is pretty full—what with the attentive French Charming and three Little Charmings by my side, the influx of spare children dropped at my doorstep most mornings a week, and all that delicious Canadian beer to drink—but remember, Kind Reader:

I bore far too easily.

Therefore, I write. I dance. I read. I cuddle and wander and drink and love. I talk—A Lot—chasing friends as they back out of the driveway, babbling away, and yammering on the phone past midnight with the Far, Far Aways. Embracing the magic of Facebook, Twitter, email, and IMing, I talk. But through it all (and about it all), I write.

And I share. Here. So, ask me no question and tell me no lie, for what we share is a story in my eye!! Unless of course, you’ve asked me not to tell or threatened to revoke my laptopping licence...then your secrets are safe with me! (*wink, wink*)

No! No! Come back, please! There’s nothing you’ve said that a pseudo name or eye color change can’t cure! How about a location move? Fine! You’ve tested me, and won. I’ll only tell the part about the shackles, but not the rest. Promise!!

Whew! I thought I’d scared you off for real that time. Now, have a seat here next to me, let me get you a refreshing Canadian beer, and you can tell me about your day. Put your feet up, silly, and relax. That’s better. Now tell me, did you check out that festival you were talking about? How was the graduation ceremony yesterday? Did you cry? Did he? So what did your sister want when she called yesterday? It’s a long story? That’s okay...I have all the time in the world.

Here, have another beer.

Now, start at the beginning and tell me everything...

Hungry Transient Fatally Wounded in Trashcan Showdown in Rural Ontario

2012-06-08T09:04:00.000-04:00

photograph provided by Kelly Shannonhouse Lalonde

of KKIA (Kelly Knows It All) News

6 June, 2012 – An unidentified male raccoon was fatally wounded as the result of a gunshot in a rural area just east of Orleans, Ontario late Wednesday evening. Though only one raccoon was seen at the scene, it is believed the incident may be gang related. Several raccoons have been known to frequent the area in years past, and have had multiple run-ins with the town’s residents that have ended in violence. Experts say that The Coons, as they are known locally, are aggressively pursuing territorial rights in a historically established area.

“This is a quiet community. It always has been,” says one man whose family and ancestors have lived there for close to one hundred years. “But these Coons are a menace. We can’t just stand by and let them continue to wreak havoc in our fields.”

At the residence where the tragic events unfolded, several people were gathered inside the house for a birthday celebration when they claim to have seen the raccoon dart past their window. Some of them raced outside to discourage the Coon from instigating any trouble, while one man grabbed his gun. By the time they’d gone outside, the Coon was nowhere to be seen. Awhile later, back inside the home, they heard rattling and clanging sounds outside the house, near the trashcans. One man opened the door and yelled at the Coon. The Coon looked at him, but ignored the man’s demand and continued to rifle through the garbage. The other people at the scene confirmed that they could also see the Coon licking remnants of tuna out of a can and looking directly at the man when he shouted. The Coon stood his ground.

“It was clear that Coon wasn’t going anywhere, no matter how loud [the man] shouted,” said one woman, the owner of the home. “I knew [her husband] had his gun and I yelled at him to get him!” She said she was not sure if she would have been able to shoot something herself, but that next time she might try.

The man in possession of the gun had gone outside. When the Coon saw the man come around the corner of the house, he made a sudden movement. The man claims his territory been threatened and took a shot at the Coon. He missed, hitting the ground close to the prowler instead.

“That scared him and he started to run, so I knew I didn’t have much time. I shot again and hit him that time. He exploded—blood sprayed everywhere—and then he ran off into the bush,” the man said.

“I heard this sound outside. It was like [the man] had thrown a glass against something and shattered it,” said an 8-year-old boy who was at the scene. “And then I realized he had shot his gun. That he had shot the raccoon.”

One 6-year-old girl close to the family told reporters what she’d heard about the events. “Yesterday, it was [the man’s] birthday...and he was so happy, he shot a raccoon!”

The Coon’s body has not yet been found, and a search is not expected to recommence. Investigators of the scene report a large amount of blood pooled near the trashcan where the Coon was shot, along with dismembered flesh, hair, and blood strewn across the ground and stuck to the vehicles that were close by.

“With that much blood loss, there is no way that Coon can still be alive,” says an expert upon examining the remains. “He probably hid in the bush and died pretty quick.”

Gang experts say a search most likely would not turn up any of the other members associated with the unidentified murder victim. Though The Coons are known to gather in small groups of 2-4 males, the ties of these groups are quite loose, and members change regularly. They do attend larger gatherings, usually at the local watering holes, where they will meet up with other males as well as females working in the sex trade. However, during violent confrontations, the gangs will scatter and disappear. Since most of the petty crimes they are involved in are nocturnal, it is very difficult to locate and identify individuals of a gang once it has dissolved. The members will find new gangs to join. Experts in raccoon gangs believe the prowler was on the property in search of food and may not have had any ill intent.

“There is no evidence there were any more gang members present, and no signs of violence against the people in the house. It was likely a case of one member suffering nutritional withdrawal symptoms that couldn’t get to his food source. He might have been in an altered frame of mind—we’ll never know for sure unless the body turns up and we can conduct an autopsy. At this time, it appears to be a case of breaking and entering and theft. It’s fortunate that no one else was seriously harmed.”

“The streets are a tough place for these kits to grow up,” says a former wildlife rehabilitator. “Many of these raccoons grow up with absent fathers, and their mothers kick them out of the home when they’re just a few months old. Some of the fortunate kits will be allowed to stay in the home their first winter, but that tends to be more the adolescent females than the males. That’s why these young raccoons join gangs. They see the gang as a form of protection, and think that the only way for them to survive the streets riddled with other gangs and predators is to establish and defend territories. What else do we, as a society, expect them to do? When they're older, they can establish their own territories. But as adolescents, they’ve nowhere to live and have to scavenge for food in order to survive in an overpopulated world. People like to blame the local wildlife, but we’re just as violent. We’re just as defensive of our territories—plus, we are constantly expanding ours. We need to find a way to feed these poor creatures, house them. Violence is not the answer. It only perpetuates the problem.”

Studies have shown that in areas of high mortality rates among raccoons, the animals will get pregnant at younger ages, and produce more offspring per pregnancy than their counterparts living in more tolerable conditions, cites the rehabilitator, formerly of Florida, U.S.A.

When questioned why he shot the Coon, the resident said, “Those Coons cost me close to $8000.00 a year in crop. They destroy several of the outside rows of corn on my property.”

He stated he has no remorse for his actions. Authorities say based on the evidence, it appears he was within his rights to fire his weapon when the raccoon did not heed the warning shouts and promptly leave the property. There will be no charges laid.

Photographs provided by the local chapter of RHU (Raccoon Huggers United). "We'd like to share these personal photos of raccoons we've known in memory of the unidentified raccoon that was gunned down in the prime of his scavenging earlier this week. It was a senseless tragedy. At some time in his life, that raccoon was someone's kit, someone's friend. Our thoughts are with those who are missing him today," says the represenative of the chapter.

Of Sins and Friends

2012-06-04T08:29:00.014-04:00

For those of you not yet privy to the rants and babblings of my Facebook posts, I shall recap briefly the debacle of Saturday morning’s horrors. Complete to my husband’s knowledge, understanding, and supposed support, I have been dieting for many moons in effort to shed
twenty pounds that snuck up and adhered to my unwitting self over the last two years. I had, of recent weeks, begun to succeed in my quest. But upon waking this Saturday morn, I found a large display case of croissants set next to the 7 bottles of vitamins and supplements I habitually partake of at the start of my day. The temptation was excruciating and deepened by the call of orange marmalade I heard echoing from the confines of the fridge not 3 feet away.

I ranted, and received back-up support in the form of FB friends suggesting alternate scenarios that both inflamed my desire for the croissant (one suggestion of pairing it with wine was especially delectable...) and encouraged me to refrain from indulging.

Somewhere in the depths of my shaken soul, I found the courage to walk away from the sinful croissants. I ate my supplements, drank my protein, and then – just to laugh in the face of the terror brought on by those buttery delights- I did a workout. I even skipped my Saturday beer lunch in favor of a healthier sandwich and green tea. That should bring everyone up-to-date.

But then...THEN I accepted a dinner invitation from friends Wayne and Alison Seay, which was to be my undoing. Full of the heady confidence of a diet-gone-right for a change, I pulled my husband out of the doghouse I’d sent him to and herded my already-birthday-partied, fully-sugared children into our rickety vehicle and drove down the country road to the lovely couple’s very clean home.

Entering the home, my hackles immediately rose when I smelled something divine wafting from the kitchen. Upon investigation, I found the source of the aroma, and was much relieved to discover it was a ham roasting in the oven. Ham is protein. Good! Mrs. Seay proceeded to place a salad-bar-sized buffet of fresh fruits and vegetables on the table and suggested we dig in. I smiled. Excellent! I could certainly do that! I ate. And was, in fact, enjoying my carrot sticks when the first of two things happened.

Mr. Seay offered me a beer.

Worry not, kind-hearted readers! I had prepared for this encounter, and in fact, delighted in accepting the proffered treat. It had already been written into the calorie-intake expectations of my day. A frosty beer goes quite well with crunchy vegetables and nature’s sweet fruits, thank you very much. They are the very tastes of summer. And as if God Himself approved, the gray clouds parted and sunshine dappled the newly-sown fields of the quaint, historic farm that surrounded us. I nodded. Yes! It is as God intended. We were there to celebrate The Seays’ successful completion of the rituals and traditions of working the land. I lifted my beer to the heavens in salutation, and tapped it to my husband’s and Mr. Seay’s in commemoration of a job well done.

We chatted merrily, the way good friends do in such gatherings of like minds and simple pleasures. As testament to our jolly good cheer, the five children we had between us were handed beverages laced with more sugar than they should have in a month’s allotment and then sent them forth to the yards to play while we conversed of all things that tickled our fancies.

And then the second thing happened.

Mrs. Seay ducked into the kitchen and returned with a steaming pot clasped between her heavily mittened hands. She set it upon the table and lifted the lid. Like a dog that has happened upon a coiled rattlesnake, I jumped back with a yelp. The cheesy dip oozed over the edges of the little pot, crisped brown where it had slipped down the porcelain side. I watched from across the table as Mr. and Mrs. Seay and my husband in turn dipped chips into the gooey mess and devoured it. In abject horror, I could feel my body moving closer...closer still...to the wicked pot, until—without a coherent thought—I snatched a chip from the bowl, dug it deep into the sinful
glop, and stuffed into my mouth. A halleluiah chorus erupted in the confines of my skull, drowning out the clanging of the bells that might have warned me of what was about to happen.

I reached for another.

And then another.

It was completely beyond my control at this point. From the moment it had first slid past my teeth and made love to my tongue, I knew that cheese dip and I were meant to be together – no matter how wrong it was. I was hopelessly in lust. There would be no turning back.

I wasn’t sure of who was responsible for my reckless stroll to the dark side. Was it Mrs. Seay, who had placed the temptation before me with a suggestion and a wink? Or could it be Mr. Seay who was said to be the night’s chef, and by a reasonable leap in logic, the probable concoctor of the evils that befell me yesterday eve? I could not say. All I knew for certain was that I could not
possibly be held accountable for my actions from that point forward. I had been thoroughly and masterfully seduced. Anything was now possible. Helpless in the face of such unholy persuasion,
I could only hope to make it through the evening unpounded, or in the very least, only lightly pounded.

I was beginning to sense a conspiracy—a plot against me and my dreams of reacquiring a fit and youthful body. My husband was certainly out to get me (let us not too quickly forget the debacle of the croissants earlier in the day...), and now I feared the beloved Seays were party to the task of unhinging me.

I would need a plan.

So, I accepted, with an award-winning smile, the delicious dinner set before me—the aforementioned ham (so tender it fell apart with a touch of my fork), a fresh and crunchy salad (which was certainly there as a decoy to their true intent...), and a mound of cheesy hash brown
casserole (prompting yet another mouth-watering, irresistible affair for my tongue)—and I drank thirstily of the endless deluge of screwdrivers meant to unarm me of my common sense.

And I schemed.

I used their own tools against them, I did. My tongue, now weakened with their liquors and longing with insatiable passion for more trysts with the cheesy outlaws lurking in the ancient
appliances of the nearby kitchen, began to wag.

I had a plan.

The plan was not without dire risks to my person, but I was willing to throw myself at the mercy of the Lord of Weightloss, in order to fulfill my destiny, if it must be so. I said a prayer to the fat-burning supplements held within me, tossed down a few extra vitamins, and carried out my own devious plot. I was forced to use the last weapon in my arsenal.

I would talk them to death.

They would be begging for leniency by the time I was through with them, mark my words. But alas! They had ruthlessly delivered alluring enticements upon my unsuspecting naivety, so there could be no mercy for such formidable opponents.

I drank, ate, and be-merried long into the night. Shadows fell, and then full darkness. More guests came and after sussing out their innocence in the plot against me, I allowed myself to enjoy their company. I used their good will to my own gains, furthering the longishness of
the conversation by propagating topics interesting to the newcomers and then watched in great pleasure as they turned it as stealthy weapons upon the proprietors of the household.

The children, some in the naked splendor of their choosing, were tucked—all five—into the bed spaces available, and the merriment of the adults continued uninterrupted beyond the reaches of their dreams.

Did we get louder as the night progressed? Yes, I believe we did. Did the cheer reach new levels of hilarity as moments became minutes and minutes morphed into hours? Indeed, it did. And when the yawns became more frequent and the eyelids got heavy, I cranked my conversation skills to new heights. Was I sorry it was necessary? Perhaps. But they had brought it upon themselves, this wily couple and my own Mr. Lalonde. Sabotaging my weight loss efforts—when I’d so recently begun to succeed—was almost completely unforgiveable. One day I may be able to forgive them their evil deeds, but only after they’d suffered.

We talked—of family and friends, vacations, music and games...of our silly children and our funnish daydreams. Oh, how I was enjoying myself—and they too, it seems. These were good friends for us, and I did sincerely hope, perchance, they would feel the same.

But as night became morning, and the hours became wee, my husband got sleepy, and I sensed The Seays also wished for dreams.

Mr. Seay’s eyelids kept slamming rock bottom and ricocheting back up again in an ever-slowing pattern, but Mrs. Seay kept up with me, giggle-for-giggle, tale-for-tale. I admired greatly her wit, her charm...her endurance. It was as intoxicating as the blubber-inducing delicacies she had spent an eve foisting upon me.

My own husband impressed me much as well. I came to the realization that in 15 years of knowing him, the only time I had seen him standing erect in the dewy hours before dawn would have been the night I woke him in the throes of labor for our firstborn, and again the night the
third of our progeny had decided to make our acquaintance. (Incidentally, these are two of the very 3 culprits that sent me spiraling into the 9-year fat-bearing sentence I have currently been in the process of appealing...) My husband, Mr. Lalonde, appeared cheerful enough—in fact, he contributed regularly to the conversation of remembrance at hand—but I knew by the shade of red rimming his eyes and the blinky rapport his eyelids were now syncing with Mr. Seay’s that it was only a matter of time before he’d paid his due.

I suppressed the desire to cackle maniacally and rub my hands in glee.

I had successfully exacted my revenge.

As the lovely couple—whom I hoped would one day understand why I had to do it, and find it within themselves to grant my pardon—lit the way and held the doors, Mr. Lalonde and myself transferred our offspring from the little house on the farm to the rusty contraption we affectionately called our vehicle.

We waved a final goodnight as The Seays slipped into comas before our very eyes, and as we bumped along the beaten road we’d come in on, I knew that they had experienced a lesson of their own.

I think it’s safe to assume they won’t make the same mistake again for a very, very long time.

And about five minutes later, at just past 4am, as I tucked Mr. Lalonde and the children snug in their beds, I had another glorious epiphany about the hard-fought conflicts of my evening—a spoil to keep from the battles, if you will.

In a matter of days (on June 11th, in fact), I will be a wizened 42 years of age. That’s...

...5 years older than Mr. Lalonde, the romantically gifted and soulfully devoted French Charming I robbed from the cradle once upon a time in a land far, far away...

...7 years older than Mrs. Seay, the ethereal and gorgeous hostess of the moveable home (the canvas upon which she expresses her art...) and conspiring kitchen sidekick whose charm and reciprocal love of a giggle will endear her to me forevermore...

...and a full 9 years older than Mr. Seay, the mischievous, youthful sprite and chief diet-undoer whose vast knowledge of all things intriguing shall enrapture me until the end of time along the path of my own quest for Knowing-It-All –and-trying-most-too.

My spoils?

I....I had outlasted them all!!! (and without a hangover in sight!)

It had all been worth it in the end.

So, my body may engage me in the timeless battles of hormones and belly fat, and the years may stalk me until I am spewed from the forbidden Forest of Youth.

But my sense of adventure is intact and my love of a life fully lived has been utterly unconquerable.

My Spirit of Youth prevails!!

I remain undefeated in the face of adversity.

Countertop Culprit in Custody

2012-05-30T11:15:00.003-04:00

By Kelly Lalonde

29 May 2012 -- Authorities have apprehended C. Lalonde, alleged
perpetrator in the recent countertop urination case. (reference article:
Knockin’ on the Attic blog, 2012 edition 1, 28 May) This ends a 5-day-long
crime spree where puddles of piss have been left in random locations throughout
the household area. Authorities had been on the lookout for a suspect approximately
3 to 3½ feet in height and approximately 32-40 pounds when the final scene was
discovered. Three crime scenes had been tampered with and efforts had been made
to conceal evidence of the wrongdoing.

The arrest was made following a
report to the authorities by an eyewitness. The witness is a known associate of
the suspect and admits to have been in the company of the suspect at the time
of this morning’s crime, but insists she did not take part in the events that
unfolded.

“We were downstairs, playing with
animals! It was wet. Very, very wet. [Suspect] peed! She peed on a floor!” reported the witness who cannot be named,
pending a trial involving the case.

The witness, a female who just
turned 3 years old, immediately went to the authorities for help, but when she
led them back to the scene of the crime, the suspect was no longer there.

After examining the crime scene
and recognizing the MO from previous locations over the last several days,
authorities conducted a split-level girlhunt, leading a high speed race through
3 levels of the house and across several room lines. They finally caught up to
her in the main bathroom at approximately 9:15am.

At that time, the suspect,
almost-4-year-old C. Lalonde, held a stand-off for several minutes. The
authorities blocked her passage from the room while she waved wet underpants
around her kneecaps and threatened to throw the witness’s birthday party
invitation in the trash. She screamed at authorities that she would never clean
up the puddle downstairs and then climbed onto the step stool with the
piss-colored underpants dangling from one finger, and one leg precariously
balanced on the very edge of the slippery surface. While an authority
experienced in negotiations attempted to talk the girl away from the dangerous
stool, the witness, a long-time friend of Lalonde, arrived on the scene. Authorities
believed the friend might be able to assist in procuring a safe descent and
allowed her to speak to Lalonde.

The witness stepped up to the
doorway and yelled up at Lalonde. “You peed all over the floor! You make a BIG
MESS!!”

At that point, Lalonde lost control.
She flung the wet panties towards authorities and screamed again before
climbing on top of the bathroom counter and turning on the hot-water faucet.

When she turned her back to reach
for a bottle of soap that she had concealed behind her, the negotiator was able
to move in and grab her. After a brief struggle over hand washing, the
negotiator was able to bring the girl safely to the ground. Lalonde was then
taken into custody and placed on a 4-minute watch for her own safety.

At her bail hearing, Lalonde
claims she did not act alone, citing that [known associate] kept her from using
the proper facilities.

“I was playing with the polar
bear. He was painting the house. And then [known associate] came over to make
her elephant help paint the house. To make it pretty. I had to go pee, but then
the elephant wanted to play family and go to sleep. So my polar bear went to
sleep. Just a little bit. Right? Just a little bit.”

When questioned what happened
next in the chain of events, Lalonde admitted to pissing on the floor of the
playroom, but insists, “It was all [known associate]’s fault. She wouldn’t let
me go potty. Her elephant made my polar bear go to sleep. See? She wouldn’t let
me go. It’s all her fault.”

The known associate, who witnessed
the final crime, has been questioned and cleared of all charges.
She is cooperating with
authorities to provide information about previous events allegedly involving
Lalonde.

Crime scene investigators have
been able to link three separate crimes that have taken place in the
surrounding area over the last five days. Though they weren’t certain at first
that an earlier incident was related to the recent piss crimes, they have now
been able to link them all. Each incident involved concealing piss, hiding wet
underpants in the dirty laundry, and providing false alibis.

Lalonde became the lead suspect in the crime
spree once authorities uncovered dripping wet evidence in her bedroom and an
excess of clean clothes strewn about the residence. They are confident they
will be able to convict her of all 3 crimes.

Spokesperson for the team leading
the pissicide investigation, a veteran in the childcare field for 25 years,
says, “It’s been a long time since we’ve seen this kind of a pissing spree. I
knew at that first crime scene that this was going to be a really difficult
case. No eyewitnesses were coming forward, and the evidence was contaminated.
In all my years in the field, I’ve never seen anything so disturbing as that
hidden puddle of piss on the bathroom countertop. I’m really happy that we’ve
been able to hunt down this devious pisser. She’ll serve time for what she’s
done, and also get the help she needs so that she will never commit such
atrocious crimes again.”

Lalonde is charged with perjury, odorizing
private property, rude and unacceptable behavior in a private home, evidence
tampering, and leaving the scene of a crime. Other charges may be placed
pending a thorough investigation. If convicted, she faces a lengthy bedroom
stint with scheduled and supervised trips to the potty, potty-training
rehabilitation, and a possible return to diapers. She would not be eligible for
parole for another 14 years.

The Smell of Trouble

2012-05-28T02:03:00.004-04:00

It’s Friday night when, sniffing, I stepped into my little-used half-bathroom to look for a Kleenex. I wrinkled my nose. The small room reeked of urine. The lid on the toilet was open. Yep. Yellow water.

I sighed. “Boys.”

I have two of my own: the husband and the 8 ½ year old. I also have a few spares: some daycare kids and the occasional wandering farmer and/or government employee.

I like having boys around. I really, truly do. But sometimes, they’re messy.

I flushed the toilet, and went to get the Lysol and a wad of paper towels. I cleaned the toilet the way my mother, the germ-a-phobic nurse, had taught me when I was a young girl. I sprayed everything down, then started to wipe from the top, working my way down. It gets dirtier as you descend, you see – especially with boys of a certain age in the house. I cleaned the seat, top and bottom, and the spot where the hinges attach it to the base. Then I squatted down and cleaned the bowl and base all the way to the floor – careful to get the knob covers over the bolts, the tubes and valve, and the floor just surrounding the toilet. Once the outside was cleaned, I used the brush and scrubbed the inside, making sure to scrub the underside of the rim and jammed the bristles as far down the hole as it would go without getting stuck. I flushed again.

There. Clean.

So why was there still the overwhelming stench of urine?

I shrugged, put the cleaning supplies away, and returned to the bathroom to wash my hands. It’s a very small bathroom—with not much more than a square of counter to hold the sink really—but we keep the little heart-shaped wooden toilet paper holder balanced on the corner, within easy reach of the seat. I turned on the tap, and almost knocked the TP holder into the open toilet.

Oops!

I caught the holder and started to set it on the top of the toilet.

It had been covering a pool of fluid. Yellow liquid dripped from the heart-shaped base.

Stinky, foul, smelly yellow fluid.

You guessed it.

Pee.

Just when I thought I could no longer be surprised by the minutiae of my job, I find a hidden puddle of piss on my bathroom countertop.

Husband, wandering farmers and/or government employees, you are excused from scrutiny. This is clearly the work of someone far more devious than the likes of you.

Furthermore, I must now add to my list of suspects. And I know just the culprits that are capable of such devious deeds: the stepstool-carrying, cabinet-climbing, tapwater-slurping, babydoll-shampooing, soapbubble-obsessed short people that frequent the watering holes of this household.

The Girls.

I have two of my own: the 6 ½ year old and the 3 ½ year old. I also keep spares of these: more daycare kids, and a regular convoy of friendly working mommies.

Friendly, working mommies, you are exempt from the aforementioned suspect list. I will, however, need you to stay in town in order to remind me that one day I’ll laugh about things like piss-on-the-counters. It might get funnier faster if there were some form of “adult juice” involved in those discussions.

The darkened yellow puddle now dripped off the holder of the-very-thing-that-should-be-used-to-clean-it-up and spilled over the edge of the counter, slid down the cabinet, and created a pool on the floor.

I rolled my eyes, sighed, and went back to collect my cleaning supplies.

And I’d thought I’d “clocked out” at 8:00pm when I’d finally – gratefully, blessedly, necessarily—tucked my kids into bed.

As I wiped pee off the bottom of the holder, I fully realized the culprit had intentionally covered the evidence. The only way to get the pee Up There would be to climb up the toilet seat and perch on the edge of the counter—as A Little would have to do in order to reach the soap on the other side of the sink, or to lean over to slurp water from the spicket. In order to do either of those things on the four inches of counter space, they would have had to move the TP holder out of the way first.

Having done just that, and then perched precariously on the edge of the crime scene, the peeing would have thus commenced. Most likely, this was the direct result of a full-to-bursting bladder, an overly occupied mind, and the gurgling of tapwater running down the drain suddenly crashing into one another.

We can discuss intent later.

I can almost picture it—the moment of backing up to climb down, when The Little’s mouth rounds into a perfect “O,” and he or she glances rapidly around to see who has witnessed their crime. No one comes, so their eyes fall to the TP holder and light up with the realization that they needed to return it to its original spot! Exactly in the spot where the evidence was!

It was the perfect crime.

Until the time-honored search for a Kleenex and a nose with a talent for sniffing out trouble inadvertently led me to the buried pool of piss.

The crime scene has been discovered. There is proof of a cover-up (tampering with evidence). There is a list of suspects, all of whom have connections to the crime scene and weak alibis (opportunity). But the time of the crime could not be determined due to the inactivity and isolation of the area in this spring month, and motive cannot yet be pinpointed for any of the suspects.

Of course, they have all entered “not guilty” pleas.

The D.H. (District Husband) probably won’t grant me a warrant to collect DNA samples from the suspects because my case is circumstantial at best, and inconclusive in the least.

Besides, the suspects have parented up and been released on their own recognizance for the weekend.

Even now, my lead suspect sleeps soundly in the next room, her pink cheeks pressed against the babydoll she named after me, and her little fingers caught in golden curls that spill across her Dora-printed pillow.

Yeah, sure they all look innocent when they sleep. But mark my words, I’ll find out whodunit the next time I find pee on my countertop.

(Now there’s a sentence you don’t get to say everyday...)

Coffee and Murder

2009-04-03T23:17:00.006-04:00

There's nothing like taking a life to ruin an otherwise perfectly nice evening.

I murdered tonight. I've done it before, and I suspect I'll do it again. But tonight murder was not in the plan. Tonight was about freedom. It was a night to treat myself, to be alone with the thoughts and voices in my head. The murder that followed the treasure hunting, coffee sipping, and escape into the alternate reality of books put a real nasty kink in my mood.

The dark night enveloped me with warm, spring air that dissolved into rain and slid down the windshield. I was alright with the rain. Early April in Canada has too often been bitterly cold and altogether too attached to its winter-long stock of snow. So rain, especially in combination with plus-zero temperatures, is an old friend to be welcomed home. I pressed the corner of the chocolate expresso brownie I'd saved for the ride home to my tongue and savored the rich, melting sugar. I set it aside, and focused on rounding the curve. The machine in front of me seemed unsure of itself in the wet blackness, and crept over the dotted center line. Apparently that driver didn't have a daddy that taught them the trick of using the white side lines to guide oneself in case of visibility problems. Fortunately, I did have one, and steered easily through the curve (letting up on the accelerator just before the start of the curve, gently pressing on it again at the middle of the arc, and then pushing forward with careful speed to finish out the round; Daddy's voice echoed from memory in my mind, just as if he were sitting in the van seat beside me, white knuckled, but calmly coaching me with the intricate details that he'd always used to navigate our lives). I then shifted lanes to move around the nervous, slow-moving vehicle in front of me, relieved to leave it behind. I relaxed again.

And just like that, I was no longer a woman enjoying a first evening away from my nine month old daughter, but a slaughtering she-beast in a killing machine slashing its way through a sanctuary that did not belong to me.

The creature darted from the natural, grassy environment onto a strange, hard substance that he had never experienced before. The ground felt rough beneath his feet, and offered none of the safe shadows he was accustomed to using for his nightly scavenging. He ran on the unfamiliar surface, sure only that it must end and give way to the nourishing, hidden feasts he required of the land to sustain him. But the bizarre, ungiving earth did not end, and worse, the moon began to move rapidly in different directions above him. It confused the creature, and he hesitated only briefly before instinct assured him he was in imminent danger. He turned to run back to the brushing softness of the safety he'd unwittingly left behind.

The black and white form flashed clearly in my headlights as a recognizable, wild delight for a fraction of a second before the inevitable crucifixion. I mowed the skunk down. It disappeared beneath the killing machine I operated; the sickening thump under the back seat confirmed the murder. I screamed, and then moans slipped down my cheeks in tears.

The very haste and pathways that I deemed necessary as a modern-day human were the very things that had transformed me into a barbaric killer.

Like I said, I've killed before. Sometimes even on purpose. As a zookeeper, I often played my hand in the great circle of life. It is something of a paradox that one called an animal caretaker actually needs to kill some animals in order to feed others. In addition to assisting the captive food chain, I participated in mercy killings, more gently referred to as euthanasia. Sometimes it was necessary to bid farewell to an aging animal whose quality of life gave way to suffering. Other times it was an animal with life-threatening injuries or an illness that no treatment could improve. One way to look at it might be that part of a keeper's job is to sign the Do Not Resuscitate forms for the animals in their care. I can attest that causing death for any reason is not a pleasant part of the job. Fortunately, there were more often cases of assisting in the recovery and rehabilitation of wildlife than that of the life-ending type.

How many times have we heard people say with absolute surprise, "That deer (raccoon/cat...) came out of Nowhere!"?

Now try this: Imagine yourself stepping out your back door one early, fresh, spring evening. You've fired up the barbeque for the season's first juicy, grilled burgers. You've already got the tomatoes sliced, the lettuce separated, and the ketchup, mustard, mayonaise, and pickles are set out on the picnic table. Your loved ones might be sitting at that table waiting for you to join them for conversation and fun. You walk across the yard towards the cooler that holds that ice cold beer you've been looking forward to all afternoon. You know that it's going to taste so much better sipped outside by the firepit than it ever could sitting at the kitchen counter looking at a view of snowdrifts out the window. The scent of sizzling charcoal, new grass, and fallen rain underline the song of frogs croaking in the fields. The hanging laterns stretch cozy light across the patio and enhance the moonlight. "Ah!" you say, breathing in the deep pleasure of being alive in this moment, because you feel more fully energized right now than you have in months. You've taken several steps forward when suddenly everything goes wrong.

You're blinded by what you can only guess is the lanterns exploding, even though you know there's no logic in that because the lamps are electric, not kerosene. A roaring noise blocks out the comforting sounds of the voices across the patio, the gentle croaking of the hidden frogs, and the hiss of fire under the barbeque hood. You swing your head left and right, trying to figure out where you are in this confusing new reality. An instinctual fear for your life thumps like a jackhammer in your heart, though you don't understand why your home is suddenly the most frightening place on earth. You don't know if you should run towards your loved ones; you aren't even sure you know what direction that is anymore. You think it might be wiser to return to the house you just left, but can't be sure that's the better choice either. What you do know for sure is that you can't just stand there because Something BAD is happening! You hesitate, just for a second, while all sense of contentment, appetite, and the utter peace you were feeling is wiped clear with terror. You turn to go back to the moment before the bad feelings, blindness and deafness assaulted you, and there's a shape, bigger than you've ever seen, looming over you. All you can think is...

"It just came out of Nowhere!"

Yeah, so I cry, even when I hit a skunk in his home. It just reminds me of how inconsiderate I can be, what with my big feet, my map, and the fumes that I sputter about in my quest for, well, overindulgent calories, well-versed wisdom, and witless freedom.

So, am I the only person on earth who weeps over slaughtering a skunk? Is there anyone else out there who feels we're truly the ones who are "coming out of nowhere," and not so much the other way around? I'm listening...

Brother-in-Shining-Armor

2009-03-10T00:37:00.005-04:00

You never forget your first. Hero, that is.

My first hero came galloping up the beach when I was only two years old.

OK, so I'm not positive he was actually galloping. I mean, I was only two, so how could I really know? Besides, I was busy being about to die, so I can hardly be responsible for noticing how my knight approached me for the big event. So, just because I enjoy the idea of it, let's just say he was, indeed, galloping...

I toddled along the hot, white sand of Ocracoke Island, oblivious to the lurking dangers before me, probably picking up seashells, or digging in the heavy, wet sand. It was a family vacation, and we were tent-camping on the beach like some misplaced gypsy nomads. Mommie was tending to Baby Lori, Daddy was firing up the Coleman for burgers and sipping a beer, and the relatives were staking their own tents into the shifting sands. I must have been fast. Or quiet (though that's not all that likely, or so I've always been led to believe). Most likely, I was just plain naughty, and had wandered off in spite of dire warnings to the contrary.

But there I was, enjoying the feel of the warm saltwater licking my ankles and listening to the crashing slush of the ocean rolling over itself in its rush to get to shore. Since the water felt so good on my ankles, I figured my knees might like it too. And then my toes could really squish through the sand. When the water ran back off the beach, it stole the sand from under my feet. I landed on my batoot. That's when the sneaky wave jumped over my head, hit the shore, and invited me (none too gently) to join it at sea. It scooped me up, and rolled me outside-in, off the shoreline and into the green. I might have screamed, but for the burning water taking up all the space in my mouth.

And then he came. Galloping along the beach, feet pounding through the fettering sand, sun scorching his golden head. He dove into the water, unafraid, unwavering in his determination, and without a single care for his own safety. He plucked my fat, tumbled body out of the certain clench Death had on me, and plonked me back onto the beach where I belonged.

My brother-in-shining-armor. My hero.

Having saved my life, he was doomed to be my hero for eternity. Lucky for me. Busy for him.

He came to my rescue countless times throughout my life. None quite so daggers-n-death as the first turn, but all necessary in their own right. There was the time I got myself into a pinch in the eighth grade: The Night of the Tainted Kisses. I'd lied to my parents about going to a county basketball play-off game with a girlfriend, when actually I was there meeting an older boy. After we'd snuck off to make out (my very first kisses....), I missed my ride home with said cover, my girlfriend. Oops! It was my brother who answered the phone (praise be), and told me not to move an inch until he got there. I'd never seen his face quite that shade of purple before. I think it may have been worse than if I had actually gotten Mommie to come to the rescue. To use a favorite word of hers, Big Brother was livid. He threatened me through the tight spaces of his teeth to Never, Ever, Ever try such a stupid-ass thing again. He explained how I couldn't possibly know what I had been messing with. Although initially I'd hoped I'd actually gotten away with my escapade without getting into trouble, I soon learned I was sadly mistaken. It was months before I could meet my hero's eyes without quivering in shame, and actual years before I ever let a boy kiss me again. My first kisses were tainted by shame and the disapproval of the boy I loved above all others, my brother.

There was a price to pay for being saved. I had to be worthy. I wanted to make it worth his while to keep sticking out his neck for me. He was not without demands of his own....

I stared through the clear, turquoise water to the tiles barely visible below, chemicals already assaulting my nose from the hot, heavy air. My bony knees were knocking against each other in stark fear, yet determination kept me on my feet. I waited my turn on the poolside, watching my group jump in turn. My instructor stood before us, calling out names as sharp and staccato as the shot of a starting gun. "Michelle! Go!" Splash. "Good! Chris, go!" Splash. "Great job. Stacey, go!" Splash. "Good. Kelly, go!" I bent my knees and my eyes swept the pool to see my brother instructing another one of the groups at the other side of the pool. He wasn't looking. My sister was in a group at the shallow end. Not looking. I looked at my instructor again. My toes curled over the edge of the pool with a grip as tight as an eagle's talons clutching its dinner. "Kelly?" I nodded, puffed my cheeks and sealed my lips and then, like I'd seen everyone else do, I reached up and pinched my nose tight and leapt from the wall. The fledgling had left the nest, ladies and gentlemen. It seems I soared high for a brief second before I lost gravity and sliced into the pool with all the gracefulness of a buffalo. But! There was no burning in my face. I hadn't drowned, smashed into the tiles below, crumbling my legs like matchsticks, and I had floated back to the surface of the water just like my groupmates had. Once I paddled down to the shallow end to exit, I looked around to see if my brother had seen me. He was still busy. Too bad. He'd missed my big jumping debut. Now all I'd have to talk about after swim lessons would be how many of my female classmates thought my brother was 'Soooo cute!' Same old story.

After showering and meeting my siblings in front of the school, I looked up at my brother, ready to brag. Before I had a chance, he looked down, right into my eyes and said, "Don't you Ever, Ever let me catch you jumping into the pool holding your nose like that again. Holding noses is for babies and no sister of mine is going to jump like a baby."

And there you have it. There are high demands for pleasing one's hero. It seems that whether I was rolling into water, or jumping in it, my technique needed work. Needless to say, I quickly got used to the singe of chlorine in my nose. Whatever he told me to do, I did in the throes of maniacal devotion, set on making him proud of me. Whatever he told me not to do, I avoided (at least until I was old enough to suffer the consequences without requiring his imminent rescue, or until I lived far enough away he wouldn't find out about it).

Though I might have started out camping under his pedastal in a state of reverence born of him saving my life, it wasn't the only reason I came to adore my big brother. He didn't always rescue me by galloping up with a swooping sword, cutting back the enemies. Much of my life I've simply followed his example. I stand up for what I believe in. Don't cave in to peer pressures. Work hard. Take responsibility for my actions. Know what I want, and then do what is necessary to get it. Decide it's okay to change my mind too. Marry the man I love. Devote myself to him. Create a family of my own that encompasses openness, sharing, laughter, rules, respect, trust, and love. These are some of the gifts my brother has given me by lighting the way. So...

Once upon a time, a misplaced gypsy band happened upon a land where the soil wrapped around their feet and followed them to the edge of the earth. At the edge of the earth, the sky and the soil melted together into a playful, endless fluid. It was here that the wee gypsy lass wandered in a mischievous adventure. She didn't know that the fluid was hungry and impolite. She had found pretties and wanted more. She wasn't missed, but for one...

He saw her at the end of it all and noticed he was the only one who noticed. Though the fluid was foreign to him, he heard it's hunger as a pleasant hum, accentuated with the smashing bites it took of the earth. He somehow understood that the lass wouldn't be meal enough for it, but that it would take her just the same. It was already tasting her. His legs began the fight with the gripping soil even as the fluid swallowed her whole.

He flew through the air and sliced into the water in a single movement. It enveloped him, chewing him as it had the lass. Blind, he reached out a frantic hand in the mouth of this unfamiliar beast, and he felt her plump flesh against his palm. He grabbed her slippery, heavy body, pushed with all his might against the hold of the fluid, and they erupted together into the sky. His feet found purchase in the migrating soil, and he carried her limp, beaten body away from the reach of the furious fluid. They collapsed into a coughing heap at the feet of the astonished clan.

And as the wee gypsy lass opened her eyes to see the sun again, she saw first the face of her beloved brother, and in that moment she knew that the sun was now because of him.

The End.

The Littlest

2009-03-06T00:14:00.008-05:00

I don't know when she started following me. I only know that she did. Like the fool that I am, I walked away with my back turned, and kept moving. I only slowed down enough occasionally to make sure she was still there. She always was.

"Wait up, Kelly," would come the whine. I'd move faster, challenging her to earn her right to stay with me. She always did. I still wouldn't let her know that I liked it: her need. In fact, I needed her to need me. It fed me. It gave me purpose. It handed me who I was: her big sister.

"Come on, brat," I would spit at her in a Great Show of Disgust (because what other kind of show was worth putting on?). I'd grab her little wrist in a grip that would make red marks in the shape of my fingers and pull her so fast her own toes would act like hurdles that tripped her up and over herself ('trip, trap, trip, trap went the littlest's feet...'). She never complained. She was just glad to be connected to me, even if it hurt.

It seems I made sure it did, more often than not. I didn't punish her for being littler, or because she wanted to be with me. I didn't even punish her because Mommy and Daddy made me take her with me. I punished her because I so often failed at my job as The Big Sister. It was my first and most important job. As far as I could tell, I wasn't much good at it and figured somebody had to pay for that.

"Why can't you be nicer to your little sister, Kelly?" my parents would ask, or tell me, "You need to forgive her. She's littler and she doesn't understand why she shouldn't do that (hurt you/take your toys/break your crayons/etc.)." Yet I couldn't understand why I got so many spankings while she never seemed to. I just couldn't seem to forgive her for being better than me. Her goodness made me feel mean and ugly, and I didn't like that feeling, not one bit. So I would unleash upon her tender skin and psyche the bubbling furies that coursed through my monstrous soul.

I had plenty of guidelines to help me in my sisterly responsibilities. "Share your toys/books/clothes with her. Hold her hand and take her with you, she's too scared to go alone. Show her how to do it. Give her a turn. Be gentle with her. Don't hit her. Help her with that, she can't do it herself yet," my parents directed. Even my big brother (eight years my senior) had instructions for the job. "You need to look out for her, take care of her when things get crazy," he'd say. Being a Big Sister was a Big Deal. I wanted to do it well, but I found it incredibly difficult to live up to such high expectations. I screwed up on a regular basis.

For one thing, my little sister was nothing like me. I loved danger and intrigue, such as our big brother's challenging games ("Come on! Attack the pillow! Run and hit it as hard as you can! Now wrestle it to the ground! You're weak, weak!" he'd scream, using the pillow to pummel us into the ground with one strong arm; or "Shut up! Shut up! Shut up, stupid!" he'd yell, slamming our faces into the bed every time we'd lift our heads, all of us laughing ourselves limp; and then the favorite: he'd make chainsaw noises, yell, "Timber!" and then, stiff as a board, fall on us as we lay on the bed, using only our feet to try to keep him from crushing us.). She complained about getting hurt or tattled when we pinned her down to tickle her. I loved Daddy's ghost and pirate stories, but he often stopped halfway through because she was too scared to listen. ("I don't want to give her nightmares, Kelly. You understand," Daddy would explain, but I was too selfish to care.) I didn't mind getting into trouble once in awhile if it meant I got to experience something forbidden (like finding and eating the hidden cookies before dinner or hiding in the garage with our friends, ignoring our parents' screams to come inside for dinner). She preferred to obey our parents and steer clear of spankings and groundings. I was also good at holding a grudge, getting revenge, and acting out my frustrations with an insult, sharp slap, or denial of the privilege of my enthralling company. She would forgive, forget, and continue to love, in spite of how thoughtless or mean I was to her. I never understood it, but I certainly took it for granted. One could see how difficult it might be for me to perform my duties in 'taking her with me' when she couldn't or wouldn't keep up with my agendas.

I spent a good deal of my youth trying to teach her to be more like me. Naturally, it was for her own good. I was concerned about how boring her life would turn out to be without me to help her color it in properly. She wanted to grow up to get married, be a good wife, be a mommy, and possibly become a teacher. I couldn't imagine a more droll existence. Not that I didn't want a husband and family too, I just knew it would never be enough for me. I always wanted more, demanded more from life, so I couldn't fathom how the life she dreamed would be enough. I tried to lead her by example. I knew she looked up to me, even idolized me at times, and I was very proud of that. I took it very seriously. Too seriously. And that's how I failed her. Though she followed behind me, faithful as a beaten dog, she managed to do my life better than I could. She shared my activities, my friends, and many of my interests and talents, yet she was content to stay out of the limelight, while I would seek it in whatever manner necessary, regardless of consequence. I simply kept moving forward, my hand yanking on hers as tightly into adulthood as I had as a child, rarely stopping long enough to notice who she was becoming. I was still intent on inspiring her to be more, well, me.

And then one day I did: notice. She wasn't me. And for the first time ever, I thought, "Oh, thank God!" My little sister was a wife and a mother, a homemaker who cared for her children and others in her beautiful home. She was content, happy. Her biggest dreams had been fulfilled, and I was still chasing the fantasies of my childhood, running circles in my dramas, and not learning fast enough what it was I really wanted in life. Once I really stopped to look at her, The Little Sister, I realized that, like I've done so much in my life, I'd been doing everything with her inside-out and ass-backwards.

All the time I was charging forward, dragging her along, I should have been walking beside her, swinging our intertwined hands. The times I was teaching her how to find excitement in her life, I should have been learning from her how to find contentment and peace in mine. When I wouldn't forgive her for being so good (and therefore making me look bad), I should have realized how I was the one, above all, who benefitted from her gift of forgiveness, and stopped making my own destructive choices. My time would have been much better spent all those years learning from her how to love. How to forgive. How to listen, not just to the words, but with the heart. All the while I was pulling her, I rather should have been the one following.

We're separated by now by an international border, a twelve hour drive, and about fifty weeks a year we can't be together. Yet, we've never been closer. I've realized that while other people like to think of their mates as their other half, I believe it of my sister. She's nothing like me, and that's the blessing in this. She teaches me how to be a better me because she knows me so well, and loves me in spite of it. She can guide me back to myself when I get lost and scared and unsure along the way. She always takes time for me, she's gentle with me, and she shares her toys, her home, her family, her ideas, her dreams and stories. She makes me feel safe, able, and most importantly, relevant.

Now I'm still looking forward as I move along, but from an entirely different place. I call out "Lori! Wait for me!" I run along, hoping to one day catch up and earn my right to stay with her.

When I Grow Up, I Want to be a Granny

2009-03-04T22:26:00.004-05:00

I wrote this little blurb for my sister to read at my granny's funeral. I was unfortunately unable to attend. I thought I'd post it now, as this week would have been Granny's birthday, and I'm missing her...

When I grow up, I want to be a granny.

Being a granny takes more, you see, than collecting grandchildren to gather at my knees in my rocking chair. In fact, there may never be a rocking chair. There simply won't be time for sitting that still. There's too much to do. For being a granny is something of a job, and if there's one thing my mother taught me, it's that if you're going to do a job, you should do it right. Give it 100%. I'll need to be the best granny I can be. So, much of the time, my rocker will sit empty while I'm dancing to Lawrence Welk in front of the living room telly. I might wiggle so much my shorts will slip off my skinny batoot and slide to my ankles, and make my granddaughters dissolve into hysterical laughter. I'll be busy winding up the infinite stash of bath toys I'll keep in the bathtub. Though Grampa may complain about constantly stepping on them when he showers, it'll be worth it to take my grandkids to the imaginary ocean in my bathtub. I'll spend lots of time teaching them how to play checkers on a handmade barrel checker board I keep in the spare room, or how to dress and undress their dollies. I'll jingle all the bells of my three-shelf collection to see which ones are their favorites each visit. Of course, sometimes the grandchildren won't come to me, so Grampa and I will whisk them away from our own kids for a night here and there. We'll tuck the grandkids' warm, jammied bodies past their bedtime into our heated backseat and take the long way home, driving endless star-speckled country roads to lull them into sweet dreams. If that doesn't work, I'll slip them some "magic" brandy into a glass of milk to do the trick. As a granny, I'llbe all about family time. I'll relish gatherings around a Thanksgiving table, and know that the gratitude prayers of my heart will be the music of the voices of the children and grandchildren that surround me. They will be the rewards of the harvest I will have sowed so many years past. I'll giggle and clap at the antics of my talented grandkids as they dress up, sing, and dance for me. Their laughter will be the fuel for my happiness.

Should life dole out any bittersweet trips to hospital beds or funeral homes, I'll gather all those children and grandchildren close to me because their bodies will bring me comfort and that happiness they've fostered, along with our shared history will give us all strength. I'll take times like that as an opportunity to teach my grandkids that family is the heartbeat that gives us life and sustains us, even after our last breath has left our bodies. In teaching them, I'll learn this lesson again myself.

Naturally, my grandchildren will have lives of their own, like their parents did before them. So, I'll have to occupy myself in between visits. I'll be sure to meet with my girlfriends each week at McDonald's for cheap coffee and delicious gossip. We'll trade kids' pictures and stories of their accomplishments with pride and passion beyond what any Olympic gold medalitst's grandmother could cook up.

I'll take time to have my girlfriends color my hair a nice shade of pink or off-lavender in their cracked kitchen sinks, wearing one of Grampa's old work shirts over the new blouse and britches I found at the thrift store the previous day. The girls and I will gripe about the ridiculous prices they're charging nowadays down at the beauty parlour while we nibble on Elizabeth's homemade loaf cake and sip coffee sugared with the packets McDonald's wanted us to take. Perhaps once in awhile I'll be lucky enough to have a grandchild tag along for these appointments. I'll tell Elizabeth that the child would like another piece of cake or candy, then take a second one myself so the poor child doesn't have to eat alone.

When I'm a granny, I'll sip Grasshoppers just because they taste so good, even if they make me swoon at mass the next morning. I'll collect beautiful porceline dolls, but even at age 90, the old Raggedy Ann that sleeps on my bed will still be my favorite. I'll snowbird to Florida if I want to escape the miserable snow and cold, and then complain about the unbearable heat and humidity. But I'll get up at the crack of dawn to comb the beach for seashells, which I will glue artfully onto mirror gifts for the relatives back home I'm counting the days to see.

Now, as a granny I may bitch a lot about the state of the world (which, by the way, will certainly be going to hell in a handbasket), and the politics of a conspiring government (which wasn't like this in my day), but that will only be because I'll finally be old and wise enough to understand how it all works, but too damned old to do anything much about it. I may grump from time to time, or tell tall tales, but really, who cares? No one listens to an old lady anyway. No one respects their elders the way we respected our elders. Besides, I will certainly be entitled to complain in cases like where the damn doctor, who won't know anything, won't give me something for the pneumonia I've caught which he's diagnosed as a common cold.

But mostly, as a granny I intend to laugh. I will want my children and grandchildren to know that no matter how hard life has been, no matter what obstacles have stood in the way of dreams, no matter what heartaches, heartbreaks, or tragedies have brought you to your knees, there is still laughter to be had, still happiness to be found. I'll embrace second or third chances at love because I'll want to teach them that you're never too old for new beginnings, and that love comes in many different packages.

Someday, if I'm blessed enough to become a granny, I will take some time to rest in that rocking chair for a few moments, with all my grandchildren quilted on my lap. I'll take some time to tally all the names I've acquired, the honored titles I've achieved: Mommy, Mom, Mother. Grandma, Granny, Nana. Great Grandma. Sister, Aunt, Wife. Friend. These will be my badges of honor. I'll count all the dreams I did have come true in my life in the faces of my children, my grandchildren, my greatgrandchildren. For this will be my legacy. They will be the reason I'll stay around so long: to watch my wishes grow wings and take flight, to pack a suitcase full of memories and stories of those beautiful butterflies to take with me on that next mystery tour. I'll want to share the good days with those loved ones who weren't around to appreciate the moments with me.

Yes, when I grow up, I want to be a granny. Not to count the children at my knees, but to look backwards and see just how big the love inside me could grow to be.

We love you, Granny Schleeter-Sackett, our own Grandma Root Beer, our Idabelle. Thank you for making us your wishes come true. We will always miss you.

Why the attic?

2009-02-27T23:50:00.001-05:00

We sat at the handcarved maple table, pressed between the backdoor and the washer and dryer that serve as extra counter space, my little sister and I. The smell of snap beans and ham mingle with the pine breeze coming through the screen as we await one of our two treats. The first must be earned by a supper well-eaten, and it sits hidden in a beaten silver tin on top of the refrigerator: Grandma's pound cake. My sister, motivated without reserve, has done her part to bring down the tin, but awaits me to diminish the lingering pile of greens I'm grimacing at on my plate. I get the final forkful down at last, and as we indulge in the sweet, yellow loaf Grandma's shivery hands set before us, I'm already fantasizing about the next treat.

"Can we go after supper, Grandma? Please?" I beg. My legs swing in anticipation just above the cracked linoleum floor.

"I have to finish washing the dishes first," she replies. "I wonder if there might be two girls who would help move this chore along?"

I inhale the cake and jump to duty. It was a fourteen hour trip from Indiana to North Carolina, to visit a small town made up primarily (as far as I could ever tell) of senior citizens who were either related to my daddy, grew up next door to him, or taught him everything he ever knew. It would be worth it though, once Grandma let down that ladder and allowed me to enter the stories tucked above it.

Dishes done, we walked into the tiny hallway of the humid house, where Daddy pulled on the dangling rope that let down the creaky wooden ladder leading up to Grandma's attic. Up we went, my sister cautious of the dark and skittering noises, myself in hot pursuit of them. Grandma, slower on the ladder, but more sure in the musty slants of space under the eaves, joined us, motioning to a large box to one side.

"Watch your heads, and sit down over there," she said. And then the storytelling began....

Grandma's attic was a place of mysteries to unravel, history to unfold, and questions to be asked. There were toys that my daddy and aunt played with, dollclothes that Grandma herself had sewn, scraps of fabrics saved from the ancient times of my daddy's youth, and even a pair of pantyhose Grandma kept that had been rationed once in a time of war. There were endless letters, documents, and books. Pictures on worn cardboard, cracked and curly-edged black and white portraits, even some imprints on tins or canvas. Antiques all, folded into dusty trunks and boxes, their significance unlabelled but for Grandma's remembering tales. Grandma had a good head for family history, not only of her own, but detailed accounts of Granddaddy's family that he himself had forgotten to care about long before. She delighted in the tellings that fed my appetite for knowing it all. Of course, the details have been lost through time and experiences more immediate to my growth, but the senses that attic had always opened in me live on.

The eternal quest for stories told and untold was my calling. I answer it still. Grandma's attic was the place where history was stored, tucked over the daily life that must go on in order to make futures, but still lovingly coveted under the same eaves that protected the family begotten of it. Musty smells and mothballs will take me there again, sitting on a box in my memory, enraptured with the stories of the ancestors that created me, the keepers of their lost treasures, and the damp, dark haven where it all came together.

I hear knockin' on the attic as voices in my head, whispery phrases that need a turn, stories aching to be told, or just memories wanting another moment of my time. An attic is where we store our stuff, not necessarily in the creaky, dank crawlspaces of our homes, but within the intricate and poignant workings of our minds. When I hear knockin' on my attic, I know there's a voice to be heard and a story to be told. So, be careful on the ladder, watch your head on that beam, and have a seat on that trunk over there. Lean in, for I have some tales to share...