The Gray Zone

Sugar Babies Before Corn Snakes

2011-10-10T09:55:00.001-04:00

My friend has had sugar babies for years. She adores them. Time has come though and traveling is not an option for her anymore. She felt they were not getting enough attention. So she thought our house with three dogs and three cats would be a good place for them. lol

Actually, it was quite a blessing and honour to have her ask us if we would take her babies. They arrived yesterday and came with EVERYTHING and more. :O

Including enough food for a month (live worms and all). lol

I have never received animals here that were all completely provided for already. So that was a real treat for me. There is absolutely nothing I have to do except enjoy them and make sure the kids feed them.

They are nocturnal and so were up through most of the night playing. The cats, though interested, seem to understand that they are pets (all the birds that we bring into the house here and there for tending probably)... but I think it's a good idea for them not to escape their cage. lol

I shared a bit of pear through the cage this morning with one and then the other two came over to beg for some bites of pear too. So cute!

So now we will make a worm colony in the basement to grow our own worms for them and maybe a cricket colony too. (What fun to watch them jump around an open tent chasing crickets! I know the chickens and duck think it's a real treat. They get crickets for Christmas.)

And so sugar babies, worms and crickets come before corn snakes, who were supposed to be our next animal project. As always though, Earth Lessons continue on in our household. Why? Because we don't live on this planet all by ourselves. ;)

What's So Important About Stickers?

2011-09-23T12:15:00.000-04:00

As I have gotten older and with each consecutive child, I have become lazier. I have confirmed with several friends that indeed, this 'syndrome' does occur amongst quite a few of us.

Now, with our third child, as with many third children, he lives life exuberantly. He follows two older siblings and so gets into more, experiences higher levels of achievements and takes greater risks.

And so we figure that if we feed him well, try to make sure he is reasonably safe and fairly well schooled, that we've done alright. We don't really use any motivational tools like we did with the other two. There just isn't the same focus on artificial rewards. No time? Maybe. Not as creative? Maybe. Allowing him to find his own internally useful values? Maybe. If I want to impress people with my parenting philosophies this third reason is the one I actually use in public.

Through this process, however, some things just don't have the same value for him that existed for the older two.

So, this morning, whilst sitting at the table doing math, my older son said to my younger son, "Finish your page and I'll give you a sticker."

To which the younger one shrugged and responded, "What's So Important About Stickers?"

And I thought, "Yeah."

Euthanasia

2011-03-02T13:45:00.002-05:00

Before reading this entry: Please be aware that it may be both too graphic and too controversial for some. Weak stomachs and hard liners will not enjoy it. Those who enjoy pedantic thoughts that wander all over the place without resulting in any specific decisions may enjoy it with a cup of tea.

*****

If you don't know what it means, it sounds like a wonderful, magical place that perhaps you could go to for your holidays.

"Where are you going for the holidays?"

"Oh! We've booked a trip to Euthanasia. I can hardly wait to relax, soak up the peacefulness and try all of the amazing, exotic food!"

The reality of it is, perhaps in the view of someone suffering from extreme clinical depression, not much different.

I say this because, in my late twenties, I suffered a very deep clinical depression and death actually equated itself with cookies baking in the kitchen. All I would have to do was walk through the door and I would have all the comfort and peace that I experienced with eating warm chocolate chip cookies and drinking hot cocoa.

If the choice of Euthanasia had been offered to me at the time, I would have taken it, with some caveats that I'll cover later.

Of course I didn't know my middle name and I didn't know how old I was... but I knew for certain, with the kind of faith many people have in God (and other higher beings) that death would absolutely be THAT comforting. In fact, it felt quite a bit like God was calling me, telling me it was my time to move on.

Honestly, I don't remember much about that time but I do remember how strong the pull was just to 'walk through that kitchen door' and bask in the gloriousness of warm cookies...

What has stayed with me from that experience is no fear of death. I do have fear of pain... just not death.

Perhaps, it created even a morbid curiosity about it. This curiosity has been such an integral part of me since then that, even though I don't speak about it much (quite frankly it freaks a lot of people out) my husband buys me books about it for Christmas, knowing I will immerse myself and enjoy them thoroughly from beginning to end. I find them THAT interesting, along with what we do in different cultures around the world with dead people. (Mary Roach's, "The Curious Lives of Human Cadavers" was one such book that explores Swedish experiments regarding composting the dead. It makes sense to me. The planet feeds us for so long, our bodies should feed the planet when we're done.)

But I digress, the reason I come to this topic today is George. If you haven't read the notes before, George is a dog who appears to be a rottweiler/doberman cross (a very tall rottie with long, long legs).

He came to us after living for his first three years in a garage. The people who owned him were not unkind and I don't believe they mistreated him. But I do believe he was tremendously lonely and though they thought he could live in our yard (they were moving to the city and couldn't take him with them because fenced yards were not allowed) he has absolutely basked in the experience for the last eight (nine) years of being a house dog.

Of course, if you do the math, that means George is eleven or twelve years old. Quite a decent age for a dog who, in his prime was just over a hundred pounds of pure muscle. And actually, if it weren't for the cancer in his face, I think he'd be just fine for another few years. (For those who don't know, life expectancy for a 70lb dog ie. Husky, is about 10 years. This bigger the dog, the less years they are expected to live.)

However, he does have cancer in his face. It grows daily.

At first, I thought he had and eye infection because his one eye was a little red. So I picked up some Polysporin. About a week later, he started sneezing. These were some of the most violent sneezing fits I've ever witnessed. It got so that if he was near a wall or piece of furniture, one of us would run over and move him away so that he didn't hit his head on anything whilst the sneeze blew its way out of his face. After a few more days, a lump appeared to be forming on the top of his muzzle. This brought forth my second thought was that he had sniffed a seed up his nose and got it lodged in there.

My third thought was that it was cancer.

One of the stories his previous owners told me when they dropped him off, was that to keep the flies from bothering his eyes, "just wipe some axle grease under there and he'll be just fine". Ugh. I say this without judgment because I know that they were doing something in the spirit of sparing him the discomfort of flies around his eyes and the threat of infection. But Ugh.

So yeah, since it started with his eye, I couldn't but help to think of three summers of axle grease and what that might mean for the possibility of cancer to exist for him now.

So I took him to the vet. The vet took one look at him and declared that he had a tooth abscess and this would be no big deal at all. Relief.

It didn't feel too good to feel like I was being accused of negligence where his teeth were concerned. Nevertheless, the alternative idea of cancer being so quickly eviscerated was quite a relief.

Since he has lived here, I have been the love of his life and he has been mine. My husband and children may get tired of me at times, and I of them, and we may need breaks from eachother. But not George and I. Of all the animals I've ever had, and we've had many as country life lends itself to the ability of keeping many animals, though I have loved them all to varying degrees, George is my one true love.

When George arrived I was scared to death of him. He was huge. He was all muscle. I had birds and small children about. But if they didn't find a home for him, they were considering Euthanasia. So, I tethered him to me with a fairly long leash every morning for the first two weeks he was here so that he HAD to follow me around while I did my daily chores and would get to see what was considered 'normal' (like chickens that wander around the yard freely during the nicer months of the year).

After the two weeks were over, I took off the leash but he has remained at my side ever since. He follows me from room to room. I can't even have a shower or go to the bathroom without the company of George. Even when I have left the house, my husband would always tell me how George would just sit by the door, or the gate (if everybody was outside) while I was gone, watching and waiting for my return.

It is the same for me. My husband has been on a special project for work for the last six months, far away from home. My daughter went with him because we thought it would be a cool experience for her (and it has been). The boys and I were supposed to go visit them in February but we got to talking and I said,

"Honey, I just can't leave him. If I'm gone for days and he dies, I will never be able to live with myself."

Thankfully my husband is a kind and understanding man. Perhaps he is hopeful that should he be near death, I will be as vigilant. It could happen.

Nevertheless, I'm sure you've guessed the end of the tale by now. Indeed, it was not a tooth abscess but the tumour, taking the easiest route available I suppose, began invading his gumline. His surgery was cancelled and the vet recommended Euthanasia.

All I could think was, "But he's loving life. He's not anywhere near wanting to die. And I know what wanting to die looks and feels like. He is just nowhere near that. Before we consider Euthanasia, he should WANT to go there."

I couldn't bring myself to do it. And here's why. Essentially, aside from some pain (not a lot but enough that I looked for ways to cope with it - definitely not more pain than a migraine sufferer and we don't practise euthanasia with them), his life was the same.

He enjoyed visiting Granny's house, he enjoyed visiting with Dakota (the dog from two doors over) when he wandered by, he enjoyed his food, he ran out the door, ecstatic, whenever I arrived home from an outing.

His spirit and his love of life was not yet over. Clearly.

And this is the dog who, at the expense of his own personal safety, saved my first born son from a severe wasp attack. I owe him more than I can say.

So I brought him home.

That was back in October/November I think.

Two weeks later, the tumour that could be seen when I lifted his lip was about the size of a field mouse. In four weeks, the size of two field mice, half of which he managed to chew off. Ew. But cool in a wierd way too.

As happens with cancer, his body has become quite emaciated while all energy seems to be pouring into this ever-growing tumour which has now almost doubled the size of his muzzle. He's actually quite frightening to see but the love is still all there if you can look past the tumour and his ever deepening eye pockets.

About a month ago, I said to one of my co-workers, "When his legs stop working, I'll know it's time."

I said this because I've seen so many of my old animals go and the pattern seems to stay the same. Their legs stop working, they stop eating, sleep almost all the time and pass away within 12-48 hours... Sometimes even less than that, as with our 18-year-old miniature wiener dog, Gershwin who only lived, perhaps, six hours after his legs stopped working.

So, you guessed it, George's legs gradually stopped working on Sunday.

He went out Sunday morning and then some time after that "had a mistake" in the sunroom, where he was lying beside my computer. But then he got up and moved from his cushion in the sun room to his cushion in the kitchen on his own while we had company. So I thought, "Okay, an anomally, perhaps he's fine and it was just a freak accident type of thing."

I was was going to go to my friend's house that day but asked her to come here as the few days previous to this, George was clearly becoming more and more challenged by the four steps down from the front door of the house. So I had an idea that, at some point during the next week, his legs would stop working completely. So I asked my girlfriend if they (she and her children) could come here instead.

This is a pretty big deal considering our house, no matter how much bleach or orange cleaner I use, since about Christmas, has smelled like death. This is another thing that is interesting to me about death. It has a very specific smell. Aside from infection and feces that may accompany it, it is a completely different odour unto itself.

I remember visiting my Dad, years ago, and though his one dog had some medical challenges, they weren't expecting her to die. However, after we left his house, I said to my husband, "That dog smells like death." Two weeks later, the dog passed away, taking my father completely by surprise. He was understandably devastated.

Perhaps when this smell pervades your living space slowly, you can't smell it so well. Or perhaps love overrides a bit of the stench. And it IS a 'stench'. And so I know what a true test of friendship it was that my friend came to our house. Either she is truly a fast friend, or she really wanted our sons to have a play date or she really wanted to have her nails done since I do gel nails and that was our grown up plan for our get-together that day.

From my years volunteering for hospice with aged cancer patients, I always knew when they were close to death because the smell of their room would change. It is not a pleasant smell to walk into. Do-able, in my view but not entirely pleasant. The only person I didn't sense that smell with was a man whose leg had been amputated but was so profoundly and chronically infected (this seems to be part of the cancer scenario - when it's external, anyway) that the hospital kept it packed with fresh coffee grounds. So all I could smell in his room were coffee grounds.

I do choose to believe in the fast-friendship idea though because we cannot pack George's mouth tumour with fresh coffee grounds. And therefore, the odour of infection (though I do rinse it with salt water), along with death is truly overwhelming enough that one would be quite inclined to making alternate plans elsewhere until the source of the odour exited the building previous to one's arrival. ;)

For this I will always be grateful as she is one of the few people who dares to listen to my pontifications about life and choices and philosophies that make other people's eyes roll into the backs of their heads. On top of that, I know she actually is listening because she gives me some pretty profound feedback. And at this time, I really needed to talk a bunch of stuff through with someone, including solidifying in my own mind, what the heck I was going to do with George.

George stayed awake the whole time and watched everyone coming and going through the kitchen and had another mistake I had to stop and clean up. Yet another stench for my friend to endure. Nevermind putting up with me do a complete-with-visuals-show-and-tell regarding the latest development of George's tumour. :D

But he did move from one spot to another in the kitchen again while we were visiting. Not much for the hours that we socializing but still some independent movement. When our company left, I thanked them for coming and waved their car off sans George. He made no effort to follow me outside, for the first time in eight/nine years.

Later that Sunday evening, I said to the boys, "George's body is emptying itself and his legs are not working well. By the end of the week they may have stopped working altogether. So take time to say goodbye and some prayers for his spirit's journey to be quick and kind."

Monday, he did not move from his spot. What puzzled me though, was that he stayed awake for most of the day and relished his meals and slurped his water throughout the day. And when I came in from feeding and watering the birds, his ears perked and his tail wagged violently as he seemed tremendously excited that I was "Home again, hooray!".

Hmm.

Before leaving for work the next day, I set him up with a water dish within reach and his bum in a corner, as he seems to shuffle himself backwards and ends up too far from his water dish.

This is another thing puzzling me. He is drinking quite normal quantities of water and busies himself often with cleaning his front legs. The entire drive to work (30 minutes) I puzzled over what was different with him that his legs would not be working but that he was still finding purpose, enjoyment and desire in life.

At work, one of my co-workers said, "Maybe he's waiting to be alone to die." I thought she might be right because he had started moving out of my room at night and sleeping in the kitchen a couple of weeks ago, even though his cushion in the bedroom is four times bigger than the one in the kitchen. And he has NEVER chosen to sleep away from me in all the years we've been together.

I came home from work to that ever wagging tail and ears perking up, down and all around. He was as excited as ever to see me and not looking anywhere near death or wishing for it. So, I cleaned him up, shifted him away from the corner and proceeded to make dinner wondering, "Does God send everyone these philosophical challenges or is it just me?"

After all, I had drawn my line in the sand. When his legs stopped working, I was going to give him 48 hours and then bring him in since I figured he would be ready for Euthanasia at that point.

As often happens, God has rained on my line in the sand and wreaked havoc with its definition. So now I'm back in the Gray Zone again.

Are his legs not working due to a nutritional deficiency? What with the cancer taking everything and his body becoming so emaciated, his muscle mass is almost completely gone. So I have bumped up his vitamin regimen to therapeutic levels for a 100 lb dog, even though he is no longer anywhere near that weight. (100mg B complex, 25 mg zinc, 3000 mcg methylcobalamin - Do dogs have conversion issues the same as humans?- higher magnesium, C, etc.)

If this vitamin therapy should get him up and ambulatory again, I will be extremely relieved that I did not consider Euthanasia too soon!

Another question that crossed my mind: Are his legs not working due to pressure on a message centre in his brain? When I lift him, his toes point. And when I put him in a standing position, as when I drape him over the side of the tub to wash him off, I have to actually reach down and put the pads of his paws in the proper position, as though he has no sense of where his pads are located or what they are touching. I have seen this in one of my antique dogs whose breed is prone to myelin issues that stop the message centre in the brain from working effectively, thereby resulting in a loss of control of the legs, specifically leading to this 'pointed' or 'curled' toe position.

This could also explain why he is still enjoying life, though his legs are no longer cooperating. So do I wait until he seems to not have enjoyment in his life any longer? Is it misery to just lie there? Honestly, it really doesn't seem to be a misery for him. He seems to enjoy watching the day go by.

I remember, working for the Provincial Government (Property Management Division), doing rounds and coming across old men sitting on our benches. They had been dropped off by their families as this was where they chose to socialize. They would sit there, all day long, just watching people and the day go by. I would talk to them sometimes. They truly seemed to enjoy this lifestyle day after day.

I miss my Grandmother. She passed away last fall and because she was quite old (in my view), I used to always ask her perspective was on what I should do with my old animals. I think her advice was always well thought out and almost always followed it. Actually, I can't think of when I didn't follow it, since I figured she'd know better than I what it felt like to be old and exactly how much meds/surgery/illness was tolerable for old 'folks'.

And so this morning, here I sit, with a quadriplegic dog, who I draped over the side of the tub this morning to give his back end a good washing, who is now all clean and blow dried and smelling better than he has in months, who is not sleeping much, who is revelling in his breakfast, enjoying his water, washing his front legs and warning away any other animals who come near his food... Essentially, doing all the things that an animal waiting for death does not do.

You might remember that my philosophy about the pain was that for migraine sufferers and cancer sufferers, we don't euthanize them. We find pain therapies for them. And so at first, we decided we wouldn't euthanize George, we would look for pain therapies.

And so by extension, we don't euthanize quadriplegics, we take care of their physical needs for them and they continue on, finding enjoyment and a sense of purpose within their lives, sometimes, as with all humans, even achieving great things.

Of course this brings to issue the whole idea of human Euthanasia. I know there will be people out there who think... but it's a DOG. I quite realize this. However, I've always believed in the right of my family members to have a certain influence in the household decisions that are made that will affect their lives. He is a member of our family and his life choice does not appear to be that of one who is preparing to die.

And if you follow the Desmond Morris theory in "The Naked Ape", an animal's primary desire is to survive. This is what kept me alive in my late twenties. I knew there was something innately wrong with wanting to die. It had to be an anomally. And also, I couldn't leave my dog (my big bouvier-cross, Sonja, back then) and cat unprotected in what I viewed to be a big, bad, horrible, not-worth-being-in-world. I had to stay and suffer, even if only to protect them as best I could.

Also, I couldn't kill them first to put them out of their misery because I didn't want to take that choice away from them (life or death) and it was clear to me while I was not wanting to be alive at all, they seemed to be doing quite fine with it.

In fact, it was the dog who finally bugged me enough to get me up off the couch and running again (endorphins and transcendental meditation are powerful healing tools when combined with some pretty strong anti-depressants) albeit in the rain, at 3:30 in the morning to begin with, thereby reducing any chance meetings with other humans, who were clearly the scourge of all evil on this planet.

And so, since George is still seeming to enjoy watching the world go by and finding a sense of purpose for himself, how can I bring myself to think about Euthanasia? How can I bring myself to take that choice away from him?

This is why we don't have human Euthanasia and why the argument about it is so profound.

Who gets to decide if a person gets euthanized?

Doctors? If that were so, George would have missed out on some wonderful days that he has had since last fall. Though highly trained, they are, in the end, both human and fallible.

Relatives? Who may just want the life insurance policy to kick in? Or who are just sick of having you around because you're too much trouble?

Patients? How can we be sure that they are not just suffering from clinical depression that can be overcome?

Honestly, I'm not against Euthanasia altogether. In face, I'm all for it. I'm just puzzled about who gets to decide and when the time is right.

At 5:30 this morning when I heard George huffing and yuffing and wuffing (if you've ever heard Bill Cosby's imitation of a woman in labour, you'll know the sound of which I speak) I ran to the sunroom as these are the sounds he makes when he is in pain or uncomfortable. I thought perhaps he was calling me to be with him while he passed. In all honesty, I was hoping it was for that reason he was making those sounds. Then I would not have to do all these mental gymnastics anymore. The choice would have been made and the end result would not be any responsibility of mine.

Indeed, this was not the case. He had shuffled his way off his pillow and away from his water and he had gone to the bathroom. (Thank you Pergo for being so easily cleanable!) I shifted his front end onto his cushion and got him some fresh water. He had a big drink and then proceeded to clean his front paws, all sounds of discomfort ceasing to exist.

I proceeded to fold a large towel that could be bleached into eight layers, draped it over the edge of the tub and picked up George to drape him over the side of the tub to get him lovely and clean again. Once I finished, I turned him around and did his front legs, thinking perhaps he would enjoy having them well and truly clean (in my view).

I put him back in his spot in the kitchen, cleaned up the bathroom, the sunroom, put the towels in a bleach wash, blow dried his back legs while he was busy grooming/drying his front legs and proceeded to wash his face.

Oh! I forgot about washing his face. As the tumour pulls his eye sockets out of shape and since the infection in his sinuses has to go somewhere, it generally gunks up his eyes. So, I clean all that up. And he clearly looks forward to it. Not the cleaning itself, I think, so much as the rubbing. I'm not sure if it's itchy or what, since he doesn't appear to be in any pain at all anymore. But when I clean his face, he closes his eyes, makes mph-ing sounds and pushes into my hand when I clean his eyes and face. It appears to be quite heavenly for him.

It's kind of the same as it used to be, scratching his bum above his tail, as it is for many dogs. He would do his rottie-rumble and do a dance with his back legs that shifted his rear end back and forth while you gave him a vigorous scratching. Essentially, he is doing the same with his face now.

From start to finish cleaning up him and the rooms, took about an hour. Honestly, it was a lot of trouble. And one more hour-long chore is just not what I need as any full time/part time [remember I've got two at home and one living in another city who I track with her cell phone and Skype :)] Mom who also works inside and outside the home can tell you.

And all that bleach and hot water is going to ruin-my-nails-before-their-time that I just finished doing yesterday. Although again, gel nails are awesome so they're still fairly passable. But the skin on my hands is chapping from all the cleaners and though I wouldn't call it painful, I'm quite aware of some not-positive-sensation emanating around them. And even way back in grade one, my best friend Cathy told me my hands looked like old lady hands. This is really helping.

A bit fickle sounding, isn't it?

Which brings me back to the last part of my developing theory around death and Euthanasia. (I know, finally, is it really all coming to an end???)

What if part of the process of saying goodbye for both parties is the gradually increasing test of endurance that just becomes too overwhelming. So that at the very end, emotionally and perhaps chemically, something in the brain occurs that says, "Okay. We're just done. You're ready to go and I'm ready for you to go." Kind of like a team decides together whether they should forfeit the game.

Perhaps it's even a chemical synchronization, so-to-speak. Like how women in the same household will eventually have synchronized periods and how you can sub-consciously smell the difference between someone who is a compatible mate and someone who is not. What if part of the process is the synchronization of brain chemstry between the dying and those-who-are-caring-for-the-dying?

With my other old animals, this was the case. They were ready to go and honestly, it was more with relief than regret that I met with their end. It seemed the same for them too. It was not that they were in any kind of pain. It was just as though they were too tremendously tired to put up with any of this anymore.

And I don't have the same level of profound regret and sadness that I experience if an animal dies as a result of an accident. As an example, I can think of one animal in particular, a dog, almost ten years ago, who died too young. And though the feeling is fading, it is still, over ten years later, still quite profound.

So I worry about my decision-making abilities with regard to our 'team forfeiture'. I began to think. If I decide upon Euthanasia now, will it be for his sake? Or for mine?

Continuing with the greyness... in the Gray Zone.

*****

Links for further reading about composting, for those so inclined. ;)
Bring Out Your Dead and Compost Them
The Humanure Handbook (There are some very funny bits in this one.)
Overview of Mary Roach's book about human cadavers and what we do with them.
Composting: A Unique Solution to Animal Waste Management A rather nuts and bolts article about 'how to' with safety mechanisms and their reasoning.

The Beginning of a School Boy's Adventures

2010-11-01T09:26:00.002-04:00

This morning I'm sitting at my sunroom window at the computer watching my second child wait for the bus at the end of our long driveway.

After homeschooling him until the age of ten years, we've come to the conclusion that this year school might be a better option for us.

Last week, his first week, I asked him if he wanted me to wait at the end of the driveway with him. He did.

Today, the first day of his second week, he said, "No thanks, Mom."

Sigh.

I watch him wait as I click around my keyboard. On the odd occasion he looks back at the house. Mostly he doesn't though. Sometimes he hides behind a tree. I wonder what he's thinking or pretending.

Nevertheless, he's clearly busy thinking his own thoughts and anticipating his own day. When the bus arrives he gets on and goes quickly to his seat with no thought to look back at his home. I know that he is more concerned about whether his friend Mitchel will be on the bus this morning and what they will do at school today.

I could not have wished for a better First Teacher for him. She's not only the 5/6 teacher, she's also the theatre arts specialist in the school. My one kid who is tremendously shy one-on-one but loves stage performance landed the teacher of a lifetime. It carries the same feeling that I had when I was a little girl, reading Cinderella, finding out that the Fairy Godmother shows up to make sure all is well. Pure relief. As a matter fact when she was first talking to him about the class, I stood out in the hallway and almost wept with tears of relief and joy.

School has so much potential for him and so many opportunities. I really want it to be great and I really want him to love and revel in each and every experience. I know if anyone can help it be great, Mrs. Dumais can.

So, it's all as it should be. I feel like I've done what I've supposed to do. The time is right for him to go. He's secure enough not to worry about home anymore.

For a long time it wasn't that way. Sick kids like to be at home. It's their safe place. It was the place he wanted to be most of all.

It's been a long time since he's been 'a sick kid' though. (Knock on wood.)

As a result, his focus is going outward now. I am scared he will get sick out there again but I don't tell him that. I remind him to wash his hands lots and have fun. I'm guessing he doesn't need me to remind him to do the latter. Really, I keep telling myself, he'll be fine. If he was going to get sick, I think I would have seen whispers of it in his first week. But I didn't see anything. Really.

It all began this year because, at the age of ten, he's finally sleeping in his own bed. Honestly, I think it only happened because his five year old brother decided to sleep in the new bunkbed set I put together upstairs for them, and he didn't want to be overshot by a little kid. He's always had his own bed. He's just never wanted to sleep in it. It's the 'safe' thing again, I think. And it was for me too.

When he was sick, if his temperature suddenly skyrocketed in the middle of the night, the heat coming off him would wake me and I could make sure to wipe him down with a damp cloth, at least keeping him in the 'safe' range. If he was in another room, I was always afraid I wouldn't know, he would skyrocket, begin seizing and die alone. These are the thoughts that go through the head of a mother with a 'sick kid'.

For the last eight years on his special diet he hasn't had a fever. But his first three years of life, it was a case of being constantly vigilant, and performing our 'wiping ceremony', sometimes several nights a week. It makes fear sit in a mother's gut like slab of concrete with spikes sticking out of it. It does erode with time... but it takes a while. Apparently it's the same for 'sick kids' so I didn't want to force him to be alone at night if he wasn't emotionally 'ready'.

So all of a sudden he's ready, to conquer the whole world, it seems to me. I know I have to let him go.

He's bright, clever, witty, good at school and the kind of kid who, despite a couple of minor ticks, other kids think is really cool and want to be around.

My final, almost overwhelming feeling as I watch the bus disappear beyond the treeline is that my chest will explode with pride and excitement. He is on his way toward a new adventure and loving every minute of it. After years of feeling like I didn't have a clue, it brings tears to my eyes to see I've done right by him.

The Idi-Odyssey: Stage Left!

2010-06-28T10:58:00.003-04:00

One of the parents in our homeschool group decided to get an acting class/troupe together for our kids. It was a lot of work for her and my hat's off. I don't think I could've done it. I'm sure I'd have been spitting nails half way through. It's not easy to co-ordinate classes, a show, multiple families and more PLUS she works full time. So yup, I've got a new source of inspiration. ;)

It was a great experience for us but as with all experiences, not without its rough spots. As usual, I'm glad we did it. After all, nothing prepares us for life, like life experience. :)

My son can tend to stutter a bit and my daughter was hating the experience.

The instructor, who is a professional director, gave us some good information/advice and we put it to use when we were practising at home and helped to psychologically prepare the kids.

And what an invaluable experience it has been!

Here's the overview of the play:

Homer’s epic poem, The Odyssey, is the basis for this fun, yet educational play packed with nothing but silliness! Set off on an entirely new journey with four students of assorted personalities — jock, nerd, cheerleader and Goth — as they experience the strangest review session led by a mysterious and strict tutor, Dr. Hamilton. Odyssey characters come alive onstage in the wackiest of ways — the poet Homer is compared to Homer Simpson, Hermes is an air-head UPS delivery person and the Lotus Eaters are now the Lettuce Eaters! The God of the Sea blows a fierce wind that wreaks havoc on Odysseus’s ship... and also just plain reeks (his niece Athena gives him a few Tic Tacs for the fish breath). This romp still stays true to the original journeys but in a comedic, contemporary way, with the students even becoming intertwined in some of the episodes. After Odysseus’s return home, Dr. Hamilton retires for the day, leaving the students engrossed in their reading. One thing’s for sure, this unforgettable retelling will help your students forever remember elements of this timeless classic while also evoking epic laughter!

I must say, it really is quite a good play. I enjoyed it enormously and of course, saw it several times. I think I blew over $100 on tickets. No, parents don't get in free. It just wouldn't be professional. :D

The children began building their team and skills in September. They began practising the play itself around January. In the last two weeks, they put on six performances during the London, Ontario Fringe Festival. No, this was no one show deal. It was like being a real actor on a real stage performing multiple times for multiple audiences. Cool.

My 12 year old daughter played one of the main roles, the cheerleader... and hated almost every minute of it. There was nothing she liked about it. The process, the social activity, the fun... None of it created the least spark of interest for her.

Still, she sucked it up and did a good-job-no-matter-what.

I'm always preaching to the kids, "No matter what you do, even if you hate it, make it the best experience for yourself that you can. Learn EVERYTHING you can from it. Keep in mind, once it's over, it over.

I never think they're listening when I say that. It must have sunk in though because she did a FABULOUS job and I'm tremendously proud of her.

The compliments were still coming in an hour after the last show. People could not believe that she hated it. And with a main role that was on stage for the whole play, it was no mean feat to expect of a 12 year old.

"But you were so GOOD??!! How could you have hated it and still been so good?!! How old are you? etc." is how they would respond.

So kudos to her. The confidence and skill she has built is amazing. Let's face it, it's easy to do a good job if you like something. It's really tough to do a good job... over and over... when you hate it. We're really, really proud of her!

My ten year old son loved every minute of it and is feeling very mixed now that it's over. He loved his role, loved the process, loved everything. He doesn't care to talk to people one-on-one but we've known he likes stage performing since he was four when he had to do a couple of solo dance performances. He doesn't care a whit about the compliments afterward. He generally puts up with the compliments them BUT really for him it's all about the process and the show. Being on stage seems to feed something in him. He, of course, can hardly wait to get back up there again.

Usually, as I said, he doesn't like talking to people after the show. He gets very self-conscious and appears somewhat embarrassed. However, after these shows were over, one of his favourite things was talking to strangers and telling them that he was "The Nanny". He absolutely *adored* the astonished looks on
their faces... since he's normally in army fatigues after the show.

"I'd never have known she was a BOY!" is what they would usually shriek... and then laugh madly and say, "You were AWESOME! You were one of my favourites! You were SO FUNNY!"

There was a little bit of luck involved there, as he was privileged enough to land a bit of a cameo role.

One of my favourite parts was near the end, sitting at the kitchen table rehearsing, when he said, "Mom! It's like I'm really turning into Eurycleia when we do this!" See what I mean? He internalized this stuff on some level... and enjoys going through the process to get there.

A couple of times, people said to me, "So this is a homeschool group, eh?" And would nod in a way that made me think... Aha... they're processing good things about homeschoolers/ing. So that was pretty cool too.

As always, there were some rough spots. You can't put a group of humans together every week for months and not have someone's feelings get hurt. They managed to get through it, which may have been one of the more important lessons for some of them.

Our big lesson was not to attend any social events for at least two weeks or maybe the month before a show. We almost got glutened twice. Both times were completely unforeseen.

First, we went to a party and I thought bringing cake would be enough. But there was candy at the party too. So my 12-year-old, as anyone with a pubescent-food-sensitive-kid knows, has hit that stage where she almost HATES being different. And will punish her body for it when she hits those irrational moments. Usually, those moments occur when she's psychologically unprepared to be strong about her food choices.

So as she stood with the other kids around the table watching them shovel this stuff into their mouths, she suddenly grabbed one, unwrapped it and shoved it into her mouth.

Of course I ran over and told her to take it out of her mouth and about how she has responsibilities to meet with an upcoming set of performances, nevermind the upcoming trip to Canada's Wonderland for our family and our visiting guest from France. We sweated it out for the next 48 hours waiting for gut pain or something to set in. We got lucky. She was fine.

Then, just before the third of the six shows began, one of the cast member's Mom's decided to bring a 'nice surprise' for the kids.

Cupcakes.

Ugh.

First of all. Gluten. The potential hospitalizer.

Second of all. Sugar. The sleep disturber cum brain fart contributor.

And we *really* don't want those happening when there are no back up actors.

Let me add that there was an after-party scheduled after the last show. One of the parents was kind enough to invite everyone to her house after the last show. The kids knew that the treats would eventually come. So I really hadn't expected any junk food to show up before the end of the last show.

I was completely unprepared. And of course, so were the kids.

Back when I was competing in sports. For at least a week before the event, I made sure to eat clean. No junk. No nothing that wasn't absolutely healthy. DEFINITELY not during competition. When you've been training all year for a three day event, you just didn't screw it up by eating wrong. So now, in adulthood, this way of thinking about 'performance periods' is second nature. Sometimes I forget that other people don't really know how much the chemistry of this stuff can bring a body/brain down. What can I say? I'm an idiot.

Worse, the kids were completely unprepared psychologically. All I could think of was the candy incident that occured recently. A cupcake mistake, even if only one bite that was immediately spit out, would end up with a missed performance for sure due to pain. We'd be lucky to avoid the hospital. So of course, I was in an absolute tizzy!

I was tempted to run out and buy them some kind of equivalent junk but then thought, "What? And possibly ruin their chance of the best performance ever because their sleep has been messed up with sugar... knowing they have three more performances to get through?

No, I thought, I want my kids to learn that when they have to be in top form, they don't fill their bodies with junk half way through. No matter what anyone else does.

You know... that whole 'If somebody else jumps off a bridge...' scenario that all of our mothers taught us. ;D That day I relayed the message down through the ranks to the next generation.

Luckily, one of the kids in the cast walked by. I grabbed him and asked him to send my two out so I could talk to them. They came. We talked. I gave the the bridge message. They were prepared to have to watch the other kids eat cake while they had none. Phew.

By the skin of our teeth, the fourth show was not placed at risk.

One of the saving graces for us was that there were possibly three other kids in the cast who couldn't eat them either. And my kids, if nothing else, will not leave anyone out to founder. They'll stand beside them and go without, even if it's something they can have, so the other child won't have to suffer alone. They do it quite bravely and willingly actually. I think maybe it's because they've been left out so often that they know how crummy it feels. And how much worse it is when you're suffering alone.

So after that, we had an extra long talk about how, whenever people gather, there's probably someone who's going to want to bring junk food into the picture, and how they're getting old enough now that they're going to have to just remember to be psychologically prepared for it to happen at any moment.

As usual, we talked about how people just don't get it. None of the other parents, I'm sure, realized that those cupcakes might have meant the loss of one, for sure, and possibly two of their cast members for at least one of the performances.

Shrug. What can I do? I talk about healthy diet until I'm blue in the face. Some people love me for it, some people hate me for it. No cupcakes for kids is not exactly going to win me any popularity votes with most people, I know. But then I'm not in this parenting or the health game to be popular. I'm just there to do the job and do it right. Anyone can tell you, I can unsell something as fast as I can sell it if someone gives me the least bit of an idea that they shouldn't be consuming it.

So lots of great skills and lessons learned. I'd do it all again if I could. My son would too, of course. My daughter... well...

She said, "The show's over." And proceeded to take a bite out of her long-awaited gluten free cupcake. ;)

Photographic credits: Robin Saylor (Homeschooling Mom and Photographer Extraordinaire)

Try Again

2009-09-04T14:45:00.010-04:00

Try Again Video

Please do click on the link above and watch this video on YouTube BEFORE reading this entry. It is well worth it and what I write after this won't be anything at all without first witnessing the 3 minute video.

This video was going around Facebook today. I was touched to the point of tears and inspired to the point of wanting to share this man's message with everyone I care about.

Of course, the two people who I wanted to show it to the most were my, largely unschooled, (almost) 10 and (almost) 12 year olds.

Since I'm always harping on the value of EFFORT as being of far greater consequence than SUCCESS, I thought this the perfect opportunity to show how one begets the other, eventually, in real life... from a real life inspiration.

Expecting something to the effect of:

"Yeah.... that's what you're always telling us Mom!"

"Wow... I know you're always talking to us about effort... but after listening to him, I really get it now!"

Instead, what I got was:

"I wonder what the toilet looks like at his house?"...

Then began all the pontifications on accessible toilets for a person without legs:

"No, I think it's probably just a hole in the floor like Asian toilets..."

"Yeah or toilets from the 1700s."

"Yeah, why should he have to work so hard just to get onto the toilet? Nobody else has to work that hard to go to the bathroom..."

After they had come to the end of this particular discussion journey, I asked them,

"So, do you know what his message was?"

"Uh... yeah...(like, didn't you get it Mom? It was pretty simple)... It was try again."

As they left my office, they once again picked up on their conversation about different toilet design possibilities for people with physical challenges.

I must admit to being torn... Sigh... I should be happy about this...

After working in the Human Rights field before being a SAHM, I should be proud that they think along these lines at such an early age without my guidance. But somehow, it just feels like the power of his message was lost in the midst of all the toilet ethics.

I have to wonder, have I wronged my children somewhere in my teachings and guidance?!

"The world may never know..."
(Tootsie Pop Owl)

That's unschooling at work for you.

***

You never really know what they're learning... here in the Gray Zone... or anywhere else, for that matter. ;)

Quitting Smoking

2009-08-25T13:46:00.001-04:00

I quit smoking 13 years ago. I was at a pack a day and was 30 years old, so I had been in-that-place for a long time.

I remember starting in December because my goal was to be 'clean' by January 2.

I moved to a lighter cigarette and started decreasing until I was down to my one in the morning and one in the night. January 1, just after midnight was my last one. I truly turned it into a good-bye-forever-my-love kind of thing. :D

It had to be that way though because I did really like it... but like a bad relationship, it was very one-sided and so Cig(arette) had to go.

That was the year we decided to start a family too and I couldn't expose a baby to that kind of bad relationship.

I missed Cig quite a bit for a while (a couple of weeks) but then I got pregnant and focused on that. There certainly were times that I was lonely for Cig. Every time I would start to think about how nice I felt when Cig was around I would have to remind myself that when he wasn't around, and I was desperately needing to be with him, that he couldn't really care less. He would only come around in exchange for money.

I had to stop my relationship with anyone who still had a relationship with Cig. Why? Because he has a way of really making you want him when he's around. He can be very sexy to some people, as I'm sure you are well aware. ;)

So, even my relationship with Coffee ended for while too, though now we have a nice casual relationship on the weekends and I look forward to long weekends when I get an extra day to spend with Coffee.

And now, at 43, I'm relieved that I did end my relationship with Cig. He really was everything to me at one time and now looking back, I realize that there were some great things that I missed out on because of his 'draw'.

Heck, I remember at the very beginning, sometimes all I could focus on was making it to the next minute without breaking down and going to Cig. Then I focused on the next minute... and the next minute... and the next. Then I focused on days, then weeks, then months.

Sometimes, I would go to a restaurant or party and Cig would be there. I would say to my partner, "We can't stay here. Cig. is here and I can't deal with that right now." It was worth it though because I stayed strong that way. Eventually, the 'draw' of Cig went away and now I don't like him at all, even though I still remember how much I used to like him...

In the end though, like with any past relationship gone bad, I learned a lot about myself through the process. Most importantly, I learned that I am strong and do not have to put up with one-sided relationships in my life. I can move on and though I will experience loss for a little while, I know that eventually those feelings will pass and my life will be better than it ever was before.

So keep it up. I know it can be a minute-by-minute struggle. When you finally decide to end your relationship for-once-and-for-all, you only have to make it to the next minute... and then the next... and then the next.

It will get easier as time passes.

A Gentleman's Passing

2009-08-19T10:15:00.018-04:00

Czar has finally passed on.

We got Czar, a beautiful GSD (German Shepherd Dog) from the Sarnia Humane Society in October 2001. He was to be a partner for our big old Bouvier, who had lost her partner the week before.

He was 66 lbs, about 20 lbs too light for a Shepherd of his height and mostly blind due to the brown clouds floating over his pupils. He didn't really seem that interested in people... or me.

Anyway, a big German Shepherd was not my first choice. But one of the techs at the Humane Society urged me to have another look at him and give him a chance. Then he met my daughter and bent his head down to brush it on her 4 year old chest. We knew we couldn't leave without him. He was claimed to be 6-7 years old, already grey around his muzzle and had heartworm. Being the deal-maker I am, we got him for half price.

His first night home, he was outside while I was making dinner, when my husband came home from work. The car headlights spooked him. Not yet knowing this was his home, he jumped the four foot high fence and was gone. We called all the area Humane Societies and Dog Pounds, we searched and searched, and we took notices around to the neighbours letting them know that we had a GSD, still wearing a seatbelt harness, wandering around. What a mess!

We would put a dish of food out each night. Each morning it would be gone but we never knew if it was Czar eating it, or some other animal. Then the farmers around us began taking down the corn. We were in a panic but still could not find him anywhere and no one had seen him.

One day, I was holding my one year old son, looking out the front window and saw Czar crossing the neighbours driveway. I threw my son on my back, grabbed my daughter, grabbed a piece of leftover steak out of the fridge and ran out to get him.

As I approached him quickly, he began to hurry in the other direction. I panicked, knowing that if he disappeared into the corn field, I wouldn't be able to find him or track him, having the two children with me.

I quickly realized the problem was that he still didn't know me, didn't know his new name, didn't trust strange people and had no idea where he was. Top all of that with the heartworm infection that made it hard for him to breathe properly and of course he was afraid.

So I sat on my haunches, holding the steak out toward him, coaxing him gently to come get the steak, praying that he would get close enough for me to grab his seat belt harness. Well, it took a while but eventually he did. Then I was praying that he wouldn't bite me when I grabbed the harness. He didn't... thankfully.

And so this was where life really began with Czar.

Because of the heartworm infection, he did not run, he did not play. After about a week at our house, he realized this was home and no longer had any desire to wander off. So, we began the heartworm treatment which he just barely survived. Then his recovery really began... and boy did he recover.

After the heartworm was gone, if he knew he was in an open space, he would run like the wind. Over time, we managed to pack about another 20 lbs onto his lithe frame, bringing him to around the 85lb range, which was book-weight for his height. He still ran like the wind and with his back floating above the ground, you could barely see his feet touch the earth.

Finally, when our house went gluten free, the brown clouds in his eyes (pannus) receded to the outer rims, leaving his pupils clear for him to run anywhere, as he wished... And run he did.

Pannus

Most documentation of pannus notes that it is common in GSDs and no known cure exists. A lot of documents claim some relation to the sun. When his pannus cleared via diet, I posted his/our story on the internet at a place called "BrainTalk" where both medical and lay people talked science stuff about the brain, challenges and how it all related to every day living. Sad to say, this site is no longer in existence.

Eventually, a vet from the U.S. saw one of my postings about Czar and contacted me to compare notes. He had resolved a pannus issue in a much younger GSD and believed the removal of all corn to be the deciding factor.

In reality we had both put the dogs on diets where only minimal amounts of rice was allowed, so there is no way of knowing if it was actually gluten, corn or some other grain related item. For more information, contact Dogtor J, he's very good about responding and happy to tell great recovery stories. Though we have lost contact over the years, I know he is still working full force to help people understand food intolerance in animals: http://www.linkedin.com/in/dogtorj

Czar spent time on soccer fields watching his kids play and enjoyed sitting nicely while the other kids made a fuss of him. He enjoyed visits from various canine friends. He liked to wander out to the road to say hello to the lady around the corner who always stopped to pet him as she passed our house during her evening walks. He loved making visits to Granny's house to get special treats and hang out with his friend Molly. His last visit was just five days ago. When he knew we were going for a visit, he was pacing behind the van, waiting to be lifted in.

The last two years, he really began to show his age. At night, he would sometimes wander out into a field next door and seem to forget where he was. We would have to go out with a flashlight to search for him in the dark. We would find him just sitting quietly. It was like he was waiting for someone to come fetch him because once he saw us or the flashlight, he would come quickly and happily.

This was also around the time he developed a brain (myelin) disorder that began to render his back legs difficult to manipulate. This didn't seem to cause him any pain but created difficulties doing stairs and eventually, because of the loss of sensation creeping up his back, we knew it was only a matter of time.

For more info. about GSD and peripheral neuropathy: http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed/1452810

When he was 10 or 11 years, he had more time under his belt than many GSDs see, so of course we began to expect his passing.

Well, he continued on for another 4 years. Even though is back legs were not cooperating the way he would've liked, he could still go in and out but no longer slept upstairs in our bedroom. For several years, he didn't get better but he didn't get worse either. Then in the last week or two, I noticed his back end seemed to suddenly lose a drastic amount of control.

No matter, even a couple of days ago, he was very excited to see his friend Dakota from two doors over, who comes to visit our guys every once in a while. We all look forward to Dakota's visits because the three dogs (and any visiting canines we may have) are always so excited to see each other.

They all say hello in their doggie way, then George (our 9 year old rottieX) and Dakota run and play for a bit and then all three dogs sniff around together like they are in search of something crucial to the very continuance of our planet... until Dakota hears his Mom calling for him out their window.

Another dear friend who he always enjoyed seeing was Peter. Peter is a retired school teacher and one of the neighbours we met when my husband was delivering notes, all those years ago, about our lost GSD. Whenever we went away overnight, if Granny couldn't come to stay with our animals, it was Peter who would come to take care of everyone for us.

Just two days ago, Czar was lying in the yard when Peter came to visit. Peter went to where Czar was lying to stroke his head and talk to him and I wondered, at the time, how many more times I would see that familiar scene.

Last night, I took the kids out to the drive-in while my husband stayed in to do some work. My husband, this morning, told me that when it was time to go to bed, Czar wouldn't come in. He was pacing the yard slowly.

When I got home, I found him lying in the grass looking fairly comfortable but a little too close to a ladder. When I called him, he didn't get up. I figured his back legs needed some help getting into the standing position, which was becoming a common scenario. But as it turned out, his back legs could no longer stand even when I placed them in position under him.

I was able to carry him to his usual spot in the yard but the pressure on his chest from being carried took his breathe away. He has never, in the eight years he's been with us, spent the night outside. I was caught. It was a beautiful night... but would he feel like I'd left him? I was pretty sure he wouldn't make it until morning and to carry him all the way inside might be too hard on his breathing.

My daughter, almost 12 years old now, was still awake so I brought her down to say good-bye. As we went outside, we found his breathing had calmed. He tried to get up. So, I managed to get hold of him again, and carried him into the house, putting him in his favourite sleeping spot in the living room, near the bottom of the stairs. We made sure he had water nearby and that he was as comfortable as possible, lying on his side. Then I sent my daughter to bed.

He did struggle through part of the night with his breathing and getting comfortable. I kept bringing him water and rubbing his ears the way that always calmed him. Finally, his breathing calmed substantially and eventually, I couldn't stay awake any longer.

Before I slept, I prayed that he wouldn't make it through the night because it did now seem he was in pain or at the very least, very uncomfortable. In the morning I would have to make the difficult decision of taking him in to be put down. I really didn't want to do that because he would've hated going to the vet.

The vet terrified him to the point that we always joked around, even in his younger days, that after all he'd been through, he'd die from a heart attack just going to the vet. Through the years, home was always his favourite place.

Thankfully he passed sometime between 2 a.m. and 6 a.m right there in his favourite sleeping spot after eight wonderful years with us, at the generous age of 14 or 15 years old.

A special thanks to all who have acknowledged Czar to be the special gentleman that he was through all the years he spent with us.

Kim

Yes, that is a chicken riding on his back in the attached photo. Her name is Blackie. It was taken last year.

Please excuse any typos or grammatical errors. I've not proofed this yet and had some difficulty when to use the past tense and when to use the present tense.

Adopting senior animals can be a truly wonderful and rewarding experience.

Czar was a bird hunter when he came to us and still learned to live with chickens and ducks shortly after his arrival without the use of any corporal punishment.

Do Or Die

2009-03-18T12:53:00.035-04:00

It's tax season. Yes, there is an element of "do or die" when it comes to taxes... Death and taxes, eh?

Need I say more? Well of course!

To say that trying to implement a new accounting program during tax season isn't bothering me would be a lie. I'm in an absolute panic to get it done on time so I don't get thrown in jail. And of course there is NOT enough time to get it done. There is never enough time to get taxes done in the day to dayness of running a business and raising children.

But it's not the reason I'm writing today. As always, I like to be a little 'gray' with my introductions and let the reader's mind wander a bit. ;)

***

I'm writing because last night something happened that is distracting me, on and off, to the point of tears. I can't focus properly on inputting my 400+ inventory items, which turns tax season into a do or die thing for me. But this 'do or die' by paper, is nothing compared to the images rolling around, heedlessly, in my brain.

So, perhaps if I get it all down, I will be able to let it go and get on with my paperwork in a more focused manner.

***

Now, it begins with me being pretty hard-nosed about my kids learning how to defend themselves. I guess it comes from a lifetime of being female... and a fairly small female at that. (I didn't break the 100lb mark until I was in my early twenties.)

And let's face it, just being female who reaches the age of 20, means that, at some point in your life, you've had a big, smelly, unpredictable man attempt to attach himself to you in ways that do more than make me shiver.

Fortunately, there are more gallant men out there than not who will come to your aid. But you can't always count on them being around... or being tougher than the guy with his big grubby paws on you.

Working in a couple of bars for a while in my late teens and twenties didn't do much to reduce these unpleasant occurrences. But you can't live your life being too afraid to do new things. And when a good paying job comes along... you take it, worms and all.

These experiences made me realize that I wanted to learn how to defend myself in a constructive way. I just never knew where to go to learn what I needed to know.

And I think, since so much of my life, I've depended upon my wits to get me out of uncomfortable situations, combined with a difficulty believing that I really would be able to effectively defend myself no matter what PHYSICAL skills I developed, I've never pursued self-defence classes.

Add to that being carjacked in 1998 in front of a courthouse and barely managing to get my 13 month old daughter out of the car before the very large, six foot (+) tall man could zoom away with her, and you've got a good recipe for a somewhat paranoid, 5'4", 120lb human-wandering-the-planet-till-death-do-us-part-thank-you-very-much.

It also creates a mother who is determined that her children not feel the same helplessness in their lives, that she has felt in hers.

I am pragmatic, if nothing else, and completely aware that most of these situations are simply a part of the life experience. The difference in the impact upon the psyche is more about YOU than about the person offending you.

***

So, it' s been really bothering me that the kids are still not learning how to defend themselves.

I've been contemplating calling up a man, locally, who I know teaches self-defence classes. I know he keeps the classes extremely affordable. It's not too far to drive. And after some socialization time with his family a few years back, I found them to be a wonderfully dedicated family unit.

So what stopped me from calling? Doubt.

There's a part of me that just doesn't believe that any amount of physical skill is going to help in a truly (or even somewhat) frightening situation.

Wits (and a good dollop of street smarts) work. That's what I've learned.

Besides, the kids have taken Aikido before and it didn't really seem all that effective. Eventually, it was so far away and so expensive that we stopped going.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, I ran into this local-self-defence-instructor-man's wife at the library.

"What the heck?" I thought. "Maybe the universe is sending me a sign."

So I asked her about his classes, fully expecting her to give me their phone number, and tell me to call for details from her husband.

I knew that I would take the phone number politely and probably never get around to calling.

Guess again...

She knew ALL the details.

She said NOW would be the PERFECT time to join because there are other new people who just started. She told me we could JUST SHOW UP and try a class. She told me the next class was tomorrow night. And she told me more...

Now aside from being in awe that she knew all the details (as many spouces/spice have no idea what goes on in their mate's point of self-employment), I also considered it to be a slap in the face from the universe.

I was being spoonfed all the information I'd been wishing for.

When this kind of thing happens, I worry that if I don't sit up, pay attention, and take advantage of what end's up in my lap... the universe will punish me for being stupid, unaware and COMPLETELY unmotivated.

And I become especially motivated regarding messages from the universe when my children's future safety may be at risk.

So, it was time to get off my butt and focus on getting the task of self-defence in order.

"What the heck." I thought, "If nothing else, the children can at least become more familiar with how their own bodies work. And it's so affordable, it seems silly not to sign them up."

***

So the next night, I packed all the kids into the van so the older kids could try a class and I could watch. Ho hum. I really still wasn't thrilled about two evening classes a week. Life is so busy...

But I was resigned to it. After all, we mustn't ignore messages from the universe.

All I can say is... AMAZING!

I could not avoid signing up the children.

The "master", really is a "Master". That about sums it up.

***

Now, fortunately or unfortunately, my eldest child is going through a phase of not wanting to join in on anything. Even if I make her join and go, she will just stand in the middle of the floor, like a lump, bringing the whole class down about 500 notches.

She doesn't get that from me, those are her father's genes coming through. And you better believe he 'got it' that night when we arrived home after I had to pull her out of the class for being a lump.

Nevertheless, onward and upward, I decided if she wasn't going to take the class with her brother, then I would. For over ten years, if we had any extra money, it always went to something for the kids... no matter how much I wanted something for myself... as is the way with motherhood... as it should be.

But this time, the instruction of that class, moved me enough to not want to miss out on this rather rare opportunity for self-development... So, I have taken her place in the class.

And I am not just taking-her-place-la-dee-da.

I'm TAKING-HER-PLACE-HOORAY!

I feel like I'm doing something that I should've done a lifetime ago!... Two lifetimes ago!

I feel like another piece of my life puzzle has dropped into place.

Somehow... I feel the universe is at work again.

***

The "master" not only shows the moves in slow motion, he shows what will come next and explains all the physics behind why the moves work.

THIS is why I am moved enough to put the money out to take this class. He has won my faith. I now believe that, indeed, perhaps I CAN physically defend myself effectively! I GET it!

***

Which brings us to last night... my third class... and the reason for my focal undoing today...

We were doing wrist hold escapes. Of course, always the cynic, I wanted to really see if they worked. The Master saw my need to see 'proof' and came over to let me experience, first hand, the receiving hand of the defensive technique.

Granted, he is much taller than I, and it goes without saying, much stronger. But what he did, was go through the move in slow motion, with me as the attacker.

He showed me that I was doing a lot of things wrong as a defender.

He showed me that being far away from the attacker was not very effective. He couldn't get away from me.

Then he showed me that getting close to my attacker was more effective.

So again, I grabbed his wrist as tightly as I could.

And, as the defender, he swung around me (again, in slow motion) and his chest actually brushed past my shoulder. As he did that, I could smell him.

Don't get me wrong, he didn't smell bad. He smelled like soap, actually... but I'll get back to that.

Then, though I could not see it, he followed through with the next move, using his free arm, which was, at that point, behind me, to reach around and lock my head (giving him the ability to also snap my neck).

What was so unnerving was that I could not see his arm come around but I felt it.

The air moved... and I felt it.

It was astounding in a creepy kind of way.

The next thing I knew, I was completely under his control with no way out.

And this is why I cannot focus today. All I can think about is how helpless I truly am.

I'm in a sheer state of panic.

Why? After all, I'm learning the techniques. I'm obviously being taught by an effective teacher and master.

The Master is a kind and thoughtful man who cares enough about people to help them avoid getting hurt. He is an excellent instructor, a good husband (I see his happy, involved wife, so I know he is a good husband), a great father (I see him out and about with his happy kids) and a man who is predictable to the point of explaining the "where's and why's" of everything he does... and he does not smell bad.

Well, something clicked, being touched by a man who is not my husband... and feeling the air move... and knowing how much bigger and stronger than me he was...

I was slammed by the dichotomy of the Master in relation to a few old, previously forgotten, unpleasant memories of bigger, stronger men who were not so predictable and did not smell like soap (who all seem to be looming over me while I sit at my desk today)...

***

Of course, what happens from the point of view of a somewhat creative, somewhat paranoid person, such as myself?

I then lie in bed thinking about how helpless I am. How most (if not all) men are bigger and stronger than me. How many of them are unpredictable. How a lot of them smell like alcohol or worse. It's about remembering having to 'wit' myself out of situations and the smells of those situations like it was only yesterday...

And I think about how, if those old smells get behind me, I won't be able to see them coming either...

And I think about how I'd like a few less 'old memories' looming over my children when they are sitting at their desks doing taxes when they're all grown up.

I cannot get a blackbelt or learn these techniques fast enough.

I am committed.

And all my children WILL learn to defend themselves... like it or not.

For once, there's nothing gray about it... in what is usually
"The Gray Zone".

Nail Crucifiction

2008-11-30T16:27:00.037-05:00

When I was in my early twenties I decided that climbing the corporate ladder entailed looking 'finished'. Being female, this meant having my nails done.

My favourite finish was a painted French manicure because, while looking fairly natural, it hid an assortment of imperfections.

Unfortunately, these French manicures would last only a week, sometimes less. And so I began to have my nails wrapped in acrylic or silk. This made the polish last for about a month. Time-wise and convenience-wise, I loved it!

But at the bottom of the corporate ladder, I didn't have the time or money to have my nails done by a professional every week. And I definitely didn't have $100 a month for the nail wraps, which is what it cost way back then.

So, I began to buy my own acrylic, silk and paints. This resolved all my problems with the exception of not being very good at doing nails.

But like everything, time, practise and experience were the perfect remedies.

Eventually, I got good enough at it that people started asking me to do their nails.

Making hands look beautiful was something I actually found quite enjoyable. I was happy to oblige anyone who was so inclined as to sit at my theoretical nail bench... And of course I'm being quite literal when I talk about my "theoretical" nail bench. Even back then, I was waxing rhetoric. And doing someone's nails just meant that I had a captive audience. I was in my glory!

Over the years, especially with impending pregnancies, I was persuaded to let go of my 'finished hands' because of the chemical exposure all this 'stuff' entailed. And so I have had a fifteen year hiatus from my own personal, beloved connection with art (if you can call it that) and theory.

Now, with my baby-making years behind me, our worst family toxin identified as gluten (not nail polish) and an eleven-year-old daughter (that didn't come out the way I meant it); not to mention her bzillion girlfriends who all love pretty things; not to mention their mothers, who are now my bzillion girlfriends who all love pretty things; and another impending Christmas that begs for 'special things', I find myself yearning to paint nails once again.

Colour me surprised at this! I had convinced myself so well that I would never paint again, I had given away my brushes.

And so my daughter and I went out to an art store this weekend to pick up the brushes I would need to reinstate nail art back into our lives.

Well, honestly, $70 later, I'm thinking that there had better be a lot more Christmas Nail Joy to spread around to more than just two people! And so I began e-mailing everyone we know...

Lucky for me, there is no shortage of volunteers and at least three out of the five days before Christmas have been allocated just for Nail Painting Tea Parties.

My daughter and I (and our nails) spent the morning revelling in practising up on our painting techniques.

And though we've had, and will have, a wonderful time with nails this Christmas, I have issues.

Anyone surprised?!?

***************

The first of my concerns, having a young daughter, entails sending a message that what she is, without fake toppings, is not good enough. I worry, immensely, about the slippery slope of false perfection. Am I opening the door to silicon breast implants?!!

Let's face it, plastic nails are only a hop, skip and $5000 from plastic breasts. And with the Bratz having taken over from where Barbie left off, I think we all need to be a little afraid. Let's face it, Barbie looks pretty tame in comparison to a Bratz doll and Milee Sirius!

And so one of the ways I hope to tame it all down, is to show people that two (or nine) inch nails are not required in order to do something special for Christmas (or whatever).

Another problem I have is that, over the years, I've become a bit of an Earth Nut. So, all these chemicals are getting me down a bit. I've reconciled this a couple of ways: I've purchased only crystal stones (not plastic) and am refusing to do acrylic or silk overlays, thereby reducing our contribution to plastic particles roaming around the planet.

And the beads I use are all glass. Again, I'm refusing to use plastic.

Alas, if only I could find an answer for chemical free nail polish!

Ah well, at least there is some improvement. But I remain unconvinced that we have done enough, considering the way we crucify our planet all year long with chemicals and plastics.

Can I convince myself that this chemical and plastics binge, succumbed to only at Christmas, is acceptable?

We'll see how I feel, after I finish waxing nostalgic about the plight of our planet to every nail bearing visitor, the week before Christmas.

I use the excuse that I am filling people's lives with Christmas joy and cheer; wonderful colours and sparkling visions.

But, I know what words are also coming to you, dear reader... "hypocrisy" and "illusion".

As usual, nothing is black and white, here in The Gray Zone.

Here are a few more of the end results of my first attempt after a 15 year sabbatical:

The Beauty of New Mothers

2008-09-25T08:47:00.005-04:00

After having my first beautiful baby... and viewing the after-birth photos where I sporting that after-birth-hit-by-a-truck-look, I decided that for my second, I wanted to look *nice* right after...

Not perfect, not model-like, not Renoir-painting-like... just *nice*.

So, at 11:00 p.m., after my water broke, I went and had a shower and put on a full face of makeup.

The whole time I was 'getting ready', my mother and husband were pacing the kitchen saying "We think you should get to the hospital... NOW dear!"

It was supposed to be a homebirth but the midwife was delivering her 3rd baby of the night at the hospital. So, we had to go to her. Honestly, I was probably delaying a little, in hopes that the baby would come before we left... so that I wouldn't have to go to the hospital at all.

Nevertheless, I could delay no longer and we eventually got to the hospital, an hour away (well, not the way my husband was driving that night).

After an entire night of labour (with no sleep to speak of), at about 6:30 a.m., it was deemed that the baby was in distress.

An immediate emergency c-section was scheduled. I was lucky that the o.b. was kind enough to let me keep my contact lenses in so my first vision of the baby wouldn't be all fuzzy and vague...Thank goodness for her!... But the makeup all had to come off.

Needless to say, no makeup, no colour, an entire night of labour... The hit-by-a-truck-look was once again mine to claim. :D

I claimed it with honour though!

Since the baby was in distress, we were quite worried about his welfare. Our worries were completely unfounded. He was long, skinny, robust with attitude! (The o.b.'s first words about him, before she could even pull him out were, "Hey, this kid's fighting me!" It turned out that the cord was making a figure-8-loop around his neck and under his arm).

I happily sported my hit-by-a-truck-look in exchange for his health and safety... but still looked, with amazement, at the post-birth photos of other women who do appear rather Renoir-like.

For the third baby, I had given up the idea of ever looking good after giving birth... And so I simply became completely self-righteous about the whole hit-by-a-truck-look that I was sporting! ;)

What brought this up now, at this late date? Yet another after-birth photo of an everyday woman... a photo that is beautiful enough that it took my breathe away... sigh...

Pppphththt!

You Can Smile...

2008-01-13T11:18:00.001-05:00

On the way home from Aikido, as he sipped from his juicebox straw, my seven-year-old Samuel said to me,

"You know Mom, when you lose a tooth... you can smile while you drink from your juicebox." :)

***********

So, though he can't whistle, he can smile.

It always works out... in The Gray Zone...

This actually happened September 28, 2007. I had posted it on my Facebook Wall... but decided to delete The Wall today and didn't want to lose the note. :)

Holiday Video Games

2007-12-10T11:33:00.000-05:00

My son loves looking around the net for free games.

This one is a free holiday game that I have found to be both completely frustrating and addictive.

Thin Ice

Cut holes in the ice to trap the monsters in the water!

Play this free game now!!

Have fun everyone! :)

I'll DO It MYSELF!!

2007-11-03T14:51:00.000-04:00

Now you might think that I'm speaking of one of my children... particularly my two year old.

I'm not. I'm talking about myself.

So, here I am, a forty-one year old.... wanting to do *everything* myself. And if I don't know how to do something... give some time... I'll figure it out.

Well, I haven't had a real hairstyle for about ten years. I did actually schedule a few hair appointments after my eldest child was born but it got cancelled for some need of hers... and then got cancelled because of the house... and then some other reason... and now I forget why.

So, I guess I haven't had a hair cut for ten years mostly because I was busy with other stuff; a little bit because I'm too cheap to pay for a hair cut; and then once it got long enough... because I wouldn't trust any hair dresser with a pair of scissors in their hand near me.

Anyone with waist length hair knows that hair dressers get really freaked out by any hair that's too long and have the insatiable desire to cut it. And over the years I had become quite attached to my fairly long braid.

Until... a little girl asked me if I was my one-year-old son's Granny.---!

Then, my ten-year-old daughter started telling me that my hair that was beginning to go salt and pepper, really wasn't doing me any favours.

I wasn't insulted. Kids think stuff and say stuff. They don't mean to hurt your feelings... and so my feelings weren't hurt. But it got me to thinking back when my Mom was about 40 and didn't colour her hair... and I thought the same thing about her. I was making an accurate account of my mother's 'appearance status' back then, and I'm pretty sure my daughter was giving an accurate account of my own appearance status also.

So, I went out and matched some hair colour to my dark-underneath hairs.

Big mistake. There was nothing wrong with the colour. It was beautiful. But it looked awful with my skin colour. It was almost too rich. So, I called the hair colour company and asked them what to do. They told me that because some of my original hair was blonde, I needed to see a professional or I might just end up burning the hair off if I tried to fix it myself.

Well, I've had more hair-tastrophes in a salon chair than I ever had at home. So, I picked up a 'streaking kit' put on the cap and had my darling husband pull the hairs out the back holes that I couldn't reach.

I kept a close eye on it and said a lot of prayers. It came out a lot less dark, a little more red but closer to the natural colour of my 'top' hair. So, I called it a day and considered myself successful.

Nevertheless, I was still plagued with feeling like I wasn't quite where I should be. My braid, that I was now so attached to, always seemed to get really messy around the nape of my neck.

I feel too old to walk around looking so 'unfinished'... and too young to have earned the messy, fly-away, waist-length hair that I'll be able to sport as an eccentric sixty year old, whose mind is just filled with too many thoughts and too much wisdom to be bothered with the inannities of hair.

I continued thinking about the 'why's of my looking older. I finally decided that having no bangs just meant that people could see the 'surprise lines' on my forehead... and with three children, two big dogs, fourteen chickens, two ducks, a husband and a solar gate, there are a lot of surprises around here!

Also, several weeks ago, my daughter got a burr caught in her hair. Her hair reached below her bum at the time. The burr was up, just above her waist. And so we cut her hair all the way up to armpit level. I just cut it straight across. Now, her really long hair always looked good and healthy and had nice edges. But this shorter, long hair has edges that are just, comparatively speaking, *much* nicer. And I've been thinking about that every time I catch a glimpse of her from the back.

I've also been thinking about how easy my 'layered' hair was when I was in my teens... and it always seemed to manage to just fall-in-place. I need that again. I want that again!

And so through this last week I began collecting my tools, and my thoughts, in the upstairs bathroom. One day, I put the hair straightener up there. Another day I brought up the hair scissors... another, the haircutting comb.

I didn't actually know I was going to do it *today*... but it turned out that today would be "The Day".

And though I'm sure to a practised eye, it looks awful... I have to tell you, I'm every bit as satisfied with it as I would be from a salon cut. And I *really* like the colour now too! This strikes me as being quite interesting because the hair colour was not changed at all today. It is exactly the same... but the cut really changed my whole perception of exactly how nice this 'new' (month old) colour is. (Consequently, my bio. Dad's wife, who is the *only* hairdresser I've ever trusted to give me my once-a-year trim, has been urging me for years to go a bit red. Now, that I've done it, I'm glad to admit that I think she was absolutely right! Thanks Fran!!)

Actually, truth be told, I'm probably more satisfied because I've still got two hundred dollars in my pocket.

Honestly, there are things I don't like about it. The bangs are a little too short... especially near my temples... but I've had plenty of hairdressers do to that to me anyway... So, no biggie. Besides, by Christmas they'll have grown enough for me to give them a trim back to where I want them.

All in all... not too bad, if I do say so myself. :)

But like everything in The Gray Zone, mixed feelings abound. Because though I like my updated look, I'm still looking forward to being that eccentric Granny with my somewhat dishevelled, salt and pepper, waist-length braid.

It's not all good and it's not all bad... here in... The Gray Zone.

****************************************

How I Did It

Now remember, this story could have easily come out with a horrifying ending. So, if anyone decides to give themselves a makeover the way I did... understand that you are taking your own risks and it's probably a 50/50 shot of really liking the outcome... or less...!

I certainly wouldn't have had anyone else to blame if I had really messed up my hair and I absolutely do not want to be blamed for anyone else's fiasco... So, as always, I must put in my usual disclaimer not to try this yourself at home.

I'm only listing the events for sake of the interest of the interested.

****************************************
I did the whole hair cut dry. One thing I did do before cutting it though was straighten my hair quite well.

So I cut my bangs first thinking that it might be all I needed to do. Still unsatisfied with my look, I moved to the next step of cutting about ten inches off the back length using the ponytail method. Still.... Bor-r-r-ring...

I still wasn't satisfied with the result and had to really think about how I could go about giving myself a 'long-layered' look which is something I've been thinking about for quite a long time.

Once I realized my direction, I figured this was probably going to be a pretty drastic change and so it became a family event.

Everyone took their share of photos so that I could post what I did step-by-step. So mind, the photos were all taken by a ten year old, a seven year old and a forty-one year old who enjoys cutting off the tops of people's heads.

Third, I used the comb to draw up the circle of hair, just above my ears, and put it into a pony tail on my forehead. I made sure, especially with the front hairs, that they were pulled quite tightly into the ponytail so that they would cut fairly evenly. This was when I realized that it might be worth a few photographs because it wasn't something I'd be able to go back and 're-stage' later. As you can see, it takes off almost another ten inches from some of the 'top' hair.

My husband says that the photo above is my 'Flock of Seagulls' look....
Or my "I Killed The Seagulls" look.

Consequently, the third photo above was taken by my seven-year-old son. He had to get up on the toilet to take it because the photo from his normal point of view was so scary!

Boy, I didn't realize how old, tired and scary(!) I look to him... even when I'm in a good mood!

BOO! MwaaaHaaaaHaaaa!!!

He has since reassurred me that I don't look like this to him all the time... "only sometimes, Mom"... Thank you, my darling boy. :D :/

And here are the two sections of hair that I'll send in to a cancer clinic for wig making:

Note: Even though you can see that the cuts the scissors made were fairly crooked, I did not do any touch-up cutting after the fact. I shook the hair out, finger combed it and it looked like this:

And finally: Front and back shots after shooting a bit of hairspray at the roots on the top of my head and applying my contacts and some makeup.

I must admit, it feels a lot the same as when, years ago, I went from shoulder-length hair to a brush cut. Which I also loved... but brush cuts have to be tidied up every week... and who's got the time for that with all the surprises going on around here. :)

Maybe I'll try something with henna, around Christmas time...

Getting Chicks to Get Along

2007-07-18T11:26:00.001-04:00

Chicks can make life difficult, that's for sure.

Now don't get your nose all out of joint. :D

I'm talking about poultry.

The first batch really is quite easy... but the subsequent, newer flocks are more difficult. Why?

In real chicken life this is not such an issue because the little chicks usually have a Mother around to defend them all the time. However, bringing home a bunch of chicks from a breeder, breeds a whole new set of problems because the bigger chicks will peck the tiny chicks to death if they're allowed access.

Then, you've got to deal with 'gentle introductions as the newer chicks become teenagers, so that the older chickens don't assault them continually.

Here's a method that worked well for us:

At first, we just put the little day old chicks in a kiddie swimming pool during the day. And we kept them in a rubbermaid bin at night in our back entryway to keep them warm enough.

As they got older, they needed more room, so we built a covered pen to protect them during the day from rats, hawks and the other chickens. The older chickens free-ranged around the little chicks though, which I believe, is part of the process. It's just a bunch of 2x2s covered with chicken wire and a tarp on one end for sun/wind/rain protection. The bin that's located on its side in the pen, gives really good wind protection for the chicks that feel they want more coverage. We keep a towel on the 'floor' of it.Once the chicks became teens, we simply let them free-range in the yard with the older chickens. No one seemed to really notice that the barrier was gone. However, we still kept the younger ones in our back entryway at night.

Now, the teens have graduated to the large chicken pen where we keep the chickens when we leave the house. It gives them a fair bit of room to roam while covered with wire, while still being protected from the neighbourhood cats and hawks (they're too big for rats now).

Don't get me wrong, someone still gets pecked every once in a while... but they're not so small that one good peck will kill them. They're big enough to run away... and the older chickens just couldn't be bothered to chase them.

You can see that Cutie, our old girl who is more than 5 years old now, couldn't really be bothered with the teens that are right beside her.

Right now we've got a third batch of Barred Rock chicks, so the pen is still being put to good use because the 'teens' are really on a bit of a power trip and cannot be allowed any access to the very tiny chicks at all.

Later on, we'll disassemble the 'chick pen' and use the panels to keep the rabbits out of the vegetable garden. :/

2007-03-20T14:14:00.000-04:00

Here Am I
Under the blue sky
Crisp and clean
Slight and mean.

I leave a trail
Of wispy fog
In a hair of night
On a small green frog.

I planted seeds
Some years ago
A few grow fast
Most grow slow.

So here I sit
To learn a bit
Under the blue sky
Here Am I.

Kim
Tuesday March 20, 2007

Hello all. Greetings to everyone.

I must admit that many times in my life, I've felt like my name should be different considering the phase I was in... or to help me belong where I am at the time... I am still tempted...

But now at 40, I'm just me... and all I've sat and learned over the years has culminated and resonated in my life and made me... me... and I am Kim. So I suppose I shall keep it as it has done well enough by me up to now... as I sit and learn some more.

I came to love the earth as a small child. My favourite place was my Grandparents homes where strawberries grew and lightening bugs hovered. With no running water or electricity, everyone was busy every day and fulfilled in the evenings.

Then I forgot about them and became 'driven' in my twenties. I forgot about the earth and focussed on humans, their rights and plights in the working world.

Then I had my first child and came back to the earth. The longer I am a mother, the stronger the pull to be closer and closer to her and the more I feel part of her. It seems that she is rewarding me for my return... as life is only get better as time passes. She whispers secrets to me now.

My question for her this year is: Why won't she let me grow my food on her?

Kim

Rottweiller? Rottweiller! Rottweiller.

2007-02-11T20:32:00.005-05:00

Our Bouvier-cross, Sonja, adopted full-grown and with us 10 years, had just passed. It was horribly sad for us. I, in particular, still miss her as she was with me before I was either married or had children. It seemed, she was with me for my entire adult life. I guess she kind of was...

We wanted a mature dog because Czar, our GSD was 8 years old and a rescue who had recovered from heartworm. And honestly, I prefer the ease of training an older dog. They 'get it' so much quicker than a pup ever does. So, I did my searching on the net using the animal love foundation.

This 5 year old guy looked like a big couch potato in the photo. Perfect for us, I thought.

The previous owners drove almost two hours to bring him to us. It was important to them that he have a good home... that was obvious.

They had said that if they couldn't find him a home, they would put him to sleep, rather than risk him being adopted by the 'wrong person'. I appreciated their passion about his being safe and having a good quality of life. I empathized with their desire to ensure their dog's well-being, and sympathized with their position of being unable to keep their dog because of having to move to the city with a small lot and no fences.

Then when this big bag of muscle jumped out of the vehicle in our driveway, I felt my face do a twitch. :rolleyes:

This was a big rottie. Nothing I would ever think of wishing for in a dog.

He had mostly lived in a garage for three years. (Turns out he was two years younger than they remembered.) He had no manners. He fell up the stairs. He fell down the stairs. He chased my 18 year old, cancer-filled cat. :(

His name was Rush. (For Mount Rushmore - they said.) He didn't answer to it. They didn't take him off the leash for fear that he wouldn't come when called. Uggh! What had I gotten myself into? :eek:

I leashed him to me both inside and out, granted him privileges with appropriate behaviour, and he went from sleeping in the sunroom to sleeping in our bedroom within the first two weeks. He was soon following me from room to room without the leash. He still does, even though he's been with us for three years and doesn't have to so much anymore.

He didn't seem to know his name anyway and I didn't want a dog that looked tough to have to tough name too... So we sat around the table and made a long list of names. We got down to the last two... Fred and George. Between two 37 year olds, a 6 year old and a 4 year old, we couldn't decide. The dog just lay there, enjoying his bone near the kitchen table.

So, I told everyone to be very quiet and said 'Fred'... nothing. Then I said, 'George'... and he looked up at me. We all laughed and figured he had chosen. He has answered well to that name ever since he chose it. (My Grandfather's name - could he be a reincarnation? :D) And it didn't take long for him to come easily when called, even when he's got half an acre on me chasing the birds or a rabbit... or the neighbour's cat. :eek:

The previous owners said that he wouldn't like it inside but I leave our kitchen door open and he only wants to go out when nature calls or if I'm outside. He really doesn't go outside just to sit by himself or even with Czar.

When he is lying down and being petted, he makes a growling sound. This made me very nervous. Soon, we realized that it was really his, very loud, version of a 'purr'. Later, I found out that this is common in rotties. It is referred to as 'the rottie rumble'. (Though I warn people that it must be assumed to be a warning growl until you are very sure it's a rumble... to be on the safe side. Even living with him, it took several weeks... a couple of months even, to establish that this dog is not a big 'growler' but is indeed a big 'rumbler'.)

He's not allowed on the furniture but does have a very big, thick cushion in the living room, a blanket in the kitchen and several blankets in the bedroom. He sleeps right next to my bed so that I can just reach out and give him a stroke through the night.

He also MUST do a sit/stay every time he gets food and he MUST go into a 'down' position if a visiting child goes near him (a 'sit' for adults). He doesn't mind doing this because he loves children and knows that if he goes into the 'down' position, the child will be allowed to pet him. We have 3 children from 9 yrs to 1 yr in the house and he gets loads of regular strokes from them... But there's just never enough love for George!

We've had him for three years and every person who comes to our house is, at first, taken aback by his size, and then reassured by his well controlled behaviour.

George, we found, also had hidden talents. He duck sits the chicks and ducklings, staying ever vigilant. It seems that he takes extra special care of the babies with extra challenges.

After some training so that he knew not to kill our yard chickens, I found that he would help me 'round them up' at night when it was time to put them back in their coop. Chicken rassling for rotties 101 was, apparently, not a required course for him... it just came naturally.

We've got one nasty chicken. Blooie-the-wicked-chicken will wait until your back is turned and then sneak up behind you to peck you hard. Well, when George is on watch, he will chase that Blooie right back to the coop if he notices her taking her 'attack' stance.

And though the chickens will run from him, if he is in between them and a bucket of tasty kitchen scraps I've brought out, they will not think twice about using George-The-Great-Launching-Pad to get to the food post-haste.

This is the same dog who (with us only a year at the time), when my 5 year old upset a wasp nest, knew immediately that my son was in danger and went to the rescue.

George was snapping at all of those wasps, flying in the air, all around my curled up boy, until I finally clicked onto what was going on, raced over to them and pulled my son out. Then we all ran away together.

That dog took at least 20 stings in his mouth and around his face that day... on purpose. I just shake my head when I think of how George knew my son was in danger long before I did... and that he knew just what to do without being told. - You don't hear THOSE stories in the news too often. :frown: George will always be our hero!

We've also found out that rotties are the kind of dog whose world will stop when their person is away. George waits for me by the door, by the gate or at the end of the driveway. He never tires of waiting for me and he really has turned into the biggest baby I have.

I believe it is important to show people that this is a breed that is well worth saving.

I never would've wished for a rottie because I never knew one. Now, I'm glad they got his age wrong, because that means I get two extra years with him :)... and I just can't imagine my life without my George. :wink:

Please contact the Animal Love Foundation or Humane Society and ask about adopting a 'senior' in your area! We've had three and loved them all!

The Blooming Period

2007-01-21T10:02:00.000-05:00

What an artsy/philosophical title. That was my first thought. People will want to know what it is. They will be intrigued. It sounds wonderful. It sounds 'zen'ish.

And it is... kinda...

The other titles that came to me were 'Buddha and The Banshee' and 'On Being Buddha'. Any guesses? Anyone?...

It's my bloomin' period. It's finally started up again now that the baby is about 14 months old.

I can sense the readers groaning... Oh, just give me a minute! I'm sure I can twist this subject into something thoughtful, a little funny, somewhat educational and hopefully a bit different than anything you've read on the subject before. Just give me a chance!

*******

Blooming is hard work for a brain. Waves of patience and impatience sometimes drift and sometimes crash back and forth.

On one hand, I have the patience of Buddha, which is highly unusual for me as I'm almost constantly stressed about how much I can get done in a day. The patience of Buddha, for a person like me is absolutely wonderful but also a sign of things to come.

...the pendulum swings...

On the other hand, I have to practically put myself in a straight-jacket and muzzle to stop from flying (on my broomstick) to the nearest mountain-top and sending out a deafening SHRIEK to the entire world (and a few space aliens who are in close enough proximity) to "BEHAVE!" and "LEAVE ME ALONE!!!"

Prestigious universities are doing many studies about brains and meditation and exercise and vitamins. These studies make me wonder what is going on in my brain during a bloom.

They make me wonder if my Anti-Banshee-Potion results are all in my head. Perhaps, later on when I can think straight, I will look and see if another doctor has done any studies of the female brain in bloom.

Nevertheless, in one respect, my family benefits because on the surface I mostly look like Buddha. Why is this? Because I have become painfully conscious that I could blow my top at any moment and I would feel awful if I turned the children into 'victims of the bloom'. And of course there's the Anti-Banshee-Magic-Potion...

It's helpful to have, not only a good potion but a good husband at this time too. He makes it possible for me to manage the Buddha facade even through the Banshee period(pun intended - as always).

It all started a couple of weeks ago. My body chemistry changed... again...

When I get pregnant (as I have been seven times now - so it's definitely a pattern), I don't need deoderant. Other bodily fluids also cease to be produced (but not spit and tears)... I'll let you mull that one over...

Then blam, almost like a lightswitch being flicked on and off, it all comes back in a way that my body is making up for all the 'non-smelly' days I've had for the last two years. I told my partner that I suspected my vacation from blooming would shortly be over. I think it's important to warn people in my immediate vicinity of this... especially him as he becomes a prime target.

Then, last week I started waking in the middle of the night and craving chocolate badly enough to get up and come all the way downstairs to sneak some. The second night this happened, I quickly ingested some Anti-Banshee-Potion (B50 vitamin, a good dose of zinc and a fairly big dose of Evening Primrose Oil) and tried to get some more good sleep. Two more nights of the same schedule and then... Voila! The Blooming Period.

And I could not follow through on anything! I frustrated myself beyond all comprehension! Time becomes irresolute. I cannot keep track of anything. And so I have two choices...

One, become an army sergeant, bellowing orders to everyone around, of the tasks that need to be performed.

Two, let everything go and let everyone do whatever they want to do. As long as they demand nothing of me, I can focus on Being Buddha.

The Anti-Banshee Potion allows me to make this choice. With it, I have learned that my tides lull back and forth, gently, the way petals open in the morning and close up at night, so that I can hang on to the Buddha surf even as the Banshee wave drifts toward me. Without my magical potion, enormous waves of Buddha and the Banshee come crashing down upon me with such speed and force that it is unnerving and I cannot brace myself... and the damage done spreads to all things near.

Okay, it's a little over-the-top, poetically... but it gives a good picture. The other thing the Anti-Banshee Magic Potion lets me do, is call my loving partner at work and let him know what he's coming home to so that he has plenty of time to get into his "Yes dear. Why don't I take care of the children and let you have some quiet time."-mode.

Now, I know that I'll probably publish this today and so it will look like I do nothing but worship my Love. This is truly not the case. I have, at least, 5 other essays in my drafts, that are not yet ready for public consumption. Not one of them has anything to do with him but they're just not finished yet. And so, dear readers, you get to read, once again, about my wonderful Darling.

On Friday, I called him at work to let him know that...

"The other day I was right... I'm in the midst of Blooming and my petals are feeling a touch bruised... And the children are not dressed... And the living room is a mess... And all I've fed everyone all day long is taco meat because I just can't seem to muster up enough emotional strength to do anything but heat up stuff-to-consume-that's-already-made.... And the only thing I've managed to do, somehow, is make sure that the things-that-eat-stuff got to eat stuff... And the things-that-need-to-do-math-and-music got their mathwork and music done for the day... And I'm disappointed in myself to the point of wanting to have a good cry, not just because I can't get anything done today (except sitting and reading) but because I'm refering to all the cat, chickens, dogs and children as 'things', which I'm sure makes me the worst mother on the planet. Waaaaaah."

He came home with 3 sunflowers (we have 3 children), did not say a word about having a bowl of taco meat for dinner and took the children out to their Friday night social, thereby letting me have some quiet time - alone - with me, myself and I, all in attendance.

And when he got home, he made me a lovely gin and tonic (which we only treat ourselves to on Friday nights) because half an hour alone was no where near long enough for me to get such a task done.

Finally, when I suggested that we had not seen our lovely neighbours (adopted local grandparents for our children) in a while and should have them over for breakfast on Sunday, He did not invite them. (I can hear the huge sigh of relief from all the way over at their house. And they also are thinking of Him in capitals now.)

Can you imagine a blooming brain on gluten?!

And though I may be a bit more smelly, my nursing babe and I have lovely, creamy, flawless, glowing skin to show for it.

Life is good and messy and crazy and calm and flaw/less... here in The Gray Zone.

I Wrote A Letter To My-Love-in-Capitals

2006-12-26T10:15:00.000-05:00

I did it. Then I crumpled it up and threw it out. I have been struggling with this letter for six months. It plagues me.

We have been married for ten years, this Christmas Eve, and I cannot, for the life of me, come up with the words to express how much I cherish HIM... every day... More now than when we first met.

Part of the reason is because, of the two of us, HE is the romantic. I am the one who said, and I quote, "No anniversary gifts. No Valentine's Day gifts". Don't get me wrong, I like having a special dinner and calling it A Day. But HE is the type who still couldn't resist bringing me a beautiful, single rose on our first anniversary. (A wonderful sentiment without the expense of a dozen roses - which would have definitely had me blowing my top about wasting money.)

And I do realize that reading the words 'HE' and 'HIM' makes one usually think that the words indicate the Christian God... but I could not resist capitalizing the words because this is how I always think of MY PARTNER... in capitals.

I wonder about this very thing all the time. Every time I hear a person complain about their mate, I am thankful that The Fates have brought us together... Every time we pull into our driveway to see his car there and the children screech, "Daddeee's Ho-o-o-o-m-m-me!", I pay homage again to The Fates. Every time I'm craving chocolate and he pulls 'something special' out of the trunk of his car for me, I thank The Fates... It goes on and on... it really does!

This could, potentially, be the longest essay I have ever written. And so I have decided to go with point form on only a few of the reasons why I wanted to write a letter, on this auspicious occassion, to MY LOVE:

1. HE often knows me, better than I know myself. HE always goes into 'listening mode' after we leave a family gathering. HE realized, long before I ever did, that those things are just a formal invitation for me to go deep into self-contemplation. Also, see the 'rose' situation, above.

2. HE half-expects to, and accepts, doing things over... because I've changed-my-mind. HE's started putting our kitchen cupboards up on wheels. And never complains when I've decided to move our bedroom closet, which is now in its third position... And yes, it is the regular built-in kind. (And no, he is not a carpenter-by-trade.)

3. & 4. HE always tells me the truth AND often knows what to do with me better than I know myself. Like the time a couple came to visit and the woman didn't like me even though I was doing my very best to be likeable (as most people do when they receive company).

After they left I was upset by the firm impression that someone on the planet didn't like me and HIS response was, "No, I don't think she does like you... BUT Don't worry - She's obviously just jealous because you are everything she wishes she could be." I didn't even know those words could 'make-it-better'... but they did. One would think that HIS words might not have been true. However I have a talent for pre-supposing that people (including HIM) are lying to me and so, HE always tells me the truth (I have come to trust this over the years because I constantly test him on it)- But even suppose that that woman doesn't actually wish to be like me (go figure) - Perhaps the words were comforting in that HE thinks I am so wonderful that other women wish to be like me.

5. For 24 hours after I have done-wrong, HE lets me blame HIM for it. I can't even state one example because there are so many of them.

6. & 7. Though I blather-on with my Suppositions-of-life-in-general so much that, as one would expect, it all eventually comes across as 'white noise', HE still went, in good humour, and got his hearing checked, twice, at my insistence, only to find that his hearing was perfect... just selective. And in so-doing, gave us a funny short story to tell for the rest of our lives.

8. & 9. HE still thinks I'm sexy, even after seeing my intestines during a C-section and even now with all my 'baby skin'(after having gone from 125 lbs to 175 during a couple of my pregnancies and back down to 110). I don't claim to understand it but I appreciate it.

10. HE is the most supportive father, ever! And one who willingly went on a special-diet-for-life, without complaint, to show his children that a special diet is no big deal. At the time, a gluten free diet meant 'no beer' (and other gluten grain alcohols). HIS response was, "I will - eventually - figure out a way to make homemade gluten free beer." I have seen and known a lot of men in my time but have yet to meet another one who would be equal to this task.

11. HE accepts the fact that I am an 'experiencer'. This means that I have tried, and continue to try, all kinds of things in life, often expecting to fail and try again until I get it right and then move on. Generally speaking, this means I have done things that are hazardous to most men's egos, but not MY LOVE. In fact, somehow, I think HIS ego grows because of the things I have done and continue to do. Or perhaps it is because I feel that HE is so perfect for me, that HE and HIS ego are so rock-like...

12. HE has always insisted that I-am-the-one-for-HIM. When we first dated, I, who had dated hundreds... even thousands, refused to believe that he could know this because he had only dated two other people... ever. We broke up for five years because I did not trust or believe that he could know that I-was-the-one under these circumstances. He dated one other person during that time... maybe two... and still insisted that I-was-the-one-for-HIM. How's that for stick-to-it-iveness?

I could go on and on. Really, this is just an example of me warming up to the heavier examples of how wonderful HE is. So is it any surprise that I, of a million words in a mundane situation, cannot find enough words with which to express my love for MY LOVE?

Actually, I feel lucky that I am so verbose. I can't imagine the angst of a person who is generally plagued by the inability to put words to their thoughts...

Oh yeah, HIS one drawback... HE, despite being nothing short of a genious, has great difficulty in putting thoughts into words. This means that sometimes I have to work pretty hard to draw the words out of him...

...Although it also means that I'm pretty much the constant winner in all of our disagreements...

...Maybe it's not such a flaw after-all... here in the Gray Zone.

Honour Thy Dead, Wave to Your Ghosts and Awaken Your Pagan

2006-10-30T11:52:00.000-05:00

Halloween is one of my favourite holidays of the year, mostly because it makes the most sense to me.

It is, doubtless, an important 'mark of transition' in our year. It connects us with all that is in the past (the season of growing, the sun, the dead) and that which comes to us in the future (the rebirth of the earth, the sun and when we will be spirits of the dead, ourselves). It reminds me to honour those that came before and that one day I will, indeed, be the past... And in so being, will feed the future.

It is a celebration of the season of sleep, death and the spirit of the earth and people around us. It is the one night of the year that I allow the issue of 'time' to become inconsequential just for a little bit. It is the time that I think of myself in terms of being in all of the past, present and future.

I enjoy celebrating the death of the old year (and how wonderful it was) and looking forward to the 'sleepy time' that comes before the awakening of our part of the earth in the spring. I cannot figure out why New Year's Eve is at the end of December. (If someone knows, I would gladly learn something new.) Anyway, I thought I would write something here for anyone who might want to learn more about the CELEBRATION of Halloween... and it is, indeed most worthy of celebration!

In a more simple aspect, Halloween is, in our home, a celebration of the harvest and the subsequent 'great sleep' of the earth... which is absolutely necessary for the 'rebirth' or 'awakening' of the earth in the spring.

This is why it is important to have a day to honour death and the dead, because without them there would be no renewal (new babies, new food, new everything). Nothing grows in soil that is not fed. What feeds soil? Dead plants, animals, people.

Also, on a lighter note, this planet is way too small for everything to just continue on existing forever... And on a science note, if an area becomes over-populated, fertility drops, the whole population ages too much to reproduce, no food is left, disease runs rampant and everything dies, leaving a big blank, yucky space. (Think of that fruit fly experiment in highschool. By the time all the fruit flies died, that jar was absolutely disgusting!)

Also, Halloween is a time to honour the wisdom passed to us by our predecessors. After all, without their wisdom, where would we be today? In kind, without a past, there is no future... and it is important to celebrate the lessons learned in the past so that we may live a better, brighter future.

This is the time of year that I enjoy taking special time out to meditate upon the memories/ideas of those who came before me. Here are a few small examples:

I think of my Grandfather, in South Africa, who passed many years ago. I remember how he taught me to play chess and poker dice and how we would play every day when I would visit him in the summer (winter - over there). I remember how he taught me that it is never acceptable to resort to violence (a rather embarrassing but important memory for me, after having slapped my sister - for the last time). I remember what a good man/male role model he was to me.

I think of my down-to-earth Granny who taught me to love to cook from scratch and filled my mind with the wonder of how to live off the land without the support of a city.

I think of Joan of Arc and how she gave her life and what it means to us today.

I think of our neighbour, who passed in his house next to ours and pray that his spirit is at peace.

I think about how all of our spirits are connected without the barrier of time and space.

And of course, yes, it is also about passing tales of the dead (so as not to forget them) and a few true ghost stories onto my children. Here is one of my favourites:

When my daughter was very young, less than two years old, my husband's work transferred him to a city far from us. And so, until we could find a new home, we spent our mornings at my (adoptive-paternal) Grandparent's apartment.

My Grandmother (Great Meme), my daughter and I, listened to my Grandfather (Great Pepe), read the newspaper aloud as he sat in his recliner, with extra emphasis on the obituaries. (He liked to see who he knew in there.)

While he did this, he would also keep up an, almost constant, dialogue with my daughter who would toddle all around him, trying to steal sips of his coffee. They absolutely adored each other! And so, every day, my daughter and I visited with them just so, for about four months, until we finally moved a couple of hours away and could no longer visit as we used to.

Soon after we moved, Great Pepe was put into the hospital for cancer. He was not doing well enough to be at home but was not expected to die very quickly. Life continued on as best it could in these circumstances.

Then, in the wee hours of one morning, my, now-two-year-old daughter, who was positioned between her father and myself in the bed, awoke, sat up, waved at the unlit ceiling lights and returned to sleep. My husband and I looked at eachother, shrugged and also went back to sleep.

At 8:30 in the morning, the phone rang, it was my Mom. I said to her, "Great Pepe died last night, didn't he?" She said, "Yes. How did you know?" I responded, "He came to say good-bye to the baby in the early morning, she sat up, waved and then went back to sleep."

I asked how he had passed so suddenly. Apparently, he got out of bed for some reason, slipped on the concrete floor and hit his head. They said, he died instantly and did not suffer at all.

And even though all of our children have slept with us, none of them has ever done anything like that again.

******************

Ahhh, I love a good ghost story... I do! And though I have no patience for the ridiculous, creepy, gruesome, evil-spirit type Halloween movies, I do, like a Christian parent who allows Santa into their celebration, allow for some of the celebration to be based on pure fun.

My children bear witness to this as I only bring forth but once a year, my horizontally-striped, purple and black stockings and black dress. And I do try to honestly praise my children for their wonderful creativity... when they come to me, brimming with pride, telling me of their idea to cover styrofoam heads with toothpicks.

All the while I repeat to myself, in the form of a mantra, that there must be some artistic creative puff of smoke involved in there... somewhere...

And my ever dutiful husband may still insist that, in our house, it is really the celebration of many candies and chocolates... sigh...

All is not cut and dried, so to speak, during Halloween, here in.... the Gray zone...

For anyone who'd like to do some more reading up on Halloween. I've listed a couple of good sites and quotes below:

University College Cork of Ireland: explains the historical origin of Halloween and how it is linked into Christianity:

http://www.ucc.ie/fecc/samhain.html

Not only is Samhain (pronounced "sow-in") the end of autumn; it is also, more importantly, the end of the old year and the beginning of the new. ...These two themes, celebrating the dead and divining the future, are inexorably intertwined in Samhain...

Samhain, which means “summer’s end”, according to their ancient twofold division of the year, when summer ran from Beltane to Samhain and winter ran from Samhain to Beltane...

...with its emphasis on the “historical” Christ and his act of Redemption 2000 years ago, is forced into a linear view of time, where seeing the future is an illogical proposition. In fact, from the Christian perspective, any attempt to do so is seen as inherently evil. This did not keep the medieval church from co-opting Samhain’s other motif, commemoration of the dead. To the church, however, it could never be a feast for all the dead, but only the blessed dead, all those hallowed (made holy) by obedience to God—thus, All Hallow’s, or Hallowmas, later All Saints and All Souls...

http://landscaping.about.com/cs/landscapecolor/a/halloweenOrigin.htm

Cri-i-i-ck: Saved Your Life

2006-09-22T08:59:00.000-04:00

My husband threw out his back. All I can say is, "Unbelievable!"

And you may not believe it now but read on, and you will realize that it's the truth I'm telling you, when I say that this, seemingly inconsequential event, may have saved the lives of his entire family.

I know what you're thinking... "No way!"... "People cannot save lives by throwing out their backs. There's no way THAT is possible... "

Oh, but I assure you it is... because as you know... nothing is simply what it seems... here in the Gray Zone.

***********************************

What makes it even more unbelievable is the fact that he spent the summer demolishing half a roof with no adverse reactions. And then he threw it out picking up our 20 pound baby off the bed to give him a kiss bye-bye on his way out to work. What are the odds? :/

Now my husband may be a lot of things, but when it comes to pain he never complains. When he could hardly walk the next day, I knew he had to be sufferring horribly. And so, I put a call in to the chiropractor who was able to do an adjustment within a couple of hours.

We had to go back in the next morning, again. Happy 40th birthday, honey!

Yes, on top of it all, my poor husband was confined to spending his birthday flat on his back after his second adjustment. Things were looking better... He had more motion but was still in a lot of pain.

At least he had the house to himself.

You see, homeschoolers have all their 'outside' events that begin to take place toward the end of September. This gives you a couple of weeks to get the 'home' schedule back on track before you add in the extra-curriculars.

So, Daddy's birthday is generally a busy, busy time for us. The first day of gymnastics, the first day of dance class (two separate classes - one for each older child) and Mama's night out for the first annual homeschooling Mama's social (so that we don't go completely insane).

Did I mention that we live in the country and generally it takes half an hour of highway driving to get... well... just about everywhere? ... And this is our pivotal point...

Because we had to go out to the Chiropractor's (who happens to be a mere 3 minutes from our house) twice, before going anywhere else, the brakes on the van did not SUDDENLY fail on the highway on our way to gymnastics at the speed of 100 km/hr. They failed in the driveway, going 5 km/hr... after the second visit to the chiropractor.

And so, for his 40th birthday, this man may possibly have saved the lives of his wife and 3 children.

Suddenly... a thrown-out back seems like a really great gift.

Thanks honey. I luv ya.

The Girl, The Ego and The First Grocery Shop

2006-05-31T09:08:00.000-04:00

Grocery shopping.

It even sounds mundane. It's that thing we all have to do every few days or so if we want to maintain our stash of fresh fruits and veggies. And so it was to be our 'event', last Tuesday. As usual, nothing here is ever just what it seems on the surface or even at second glance.

This grocery event actually harkens back to last weekend. At the time, we would never have realized that... days before actually arriving at the grocery store, we began our journey...

It was the annual town-wide yard sale. We've lived here for seven years now, in this small community. Having grown up in the big city, it is a whole new way of life for me and this yard sale extravaganza is no exception.

Here's the deal: We live just outside of town and so we turn this into a full day outing. We load up the bikes, trikes and buggies and a picnic lunch before heading out. Once in town, we park the van (of course with all of our 'gear' it has to be a full-sized eight-seater) and then we walk and walk and walk...

It's a wonderful walk because the gardens are all blooming and it seems almost everyone in a small town really tries their best to have a wonderful looking yard. It inspires me. (It doesn't make me a successful gardner, but it does inspire me to keep trying to be one.) And every third house seems to have their driveway filled with wonderful magical goodies that will somehow make our lives better.

And so, to provide lessons in economics, negotiating and budgeting, each child was given five dollars to spend as they desired.

Of course, the first thing my son saw was an enormous dinky car track/digger toy that he just had to have. I told him not to pay more than two dollars for it but, at six years old, he was too shy to make the deal. So, I went with him to talk to the lady. She was asking $5. I offerred $2. She kindly accepted. And then I made my mistake. (Pay attention parents-of-young-children...)

I grabbed a toonie out of my purse, thinking that my son's $5 should go toward his own negotiations. Feeling strangely rewarded and satisfied with our deal, we balanced the toy on top of the double stroller and moved on.

We then came across another house that was selling cloth diapers and infant summer clothing that I enjoyed perusing for about half an hour. During that time, the children went to the home two doors over. Though my son was still feeling too shy to negotiate, he stood witness as my eight year old daughter did the haggling. She managed to master the technique in about five seconds and scored a $3 Bionicle for $2, a 50 cent slinky for half price and other unnamed treasures.

All this time the children were running back and forth, between the neighbour's house and our buggy. I was thinking that they were putting their 'deals' directly into the buggy. This was not the case. They were using up the change in my purse before 'breaking' their own five dollar bills.

By the time I finished making my own, extremely satisfying, deals. I realized that I had indeed made a gross miscalculation. I had promoted the idea of making one's money last longer by using someone else's money first. And so the change purse bank was immediately closed for business and the children were left to their own devices and five dollar bills.

It didn't do much good though. They already had pretty much everything they wanted.

My son declared, "I'm going to put mine in my money jar at home to save for something really big. Maybe even for my Smart Car!" (To my chagrine, he has recently stated that he's not going to have children when he grows up because he's getting a Smart Car. Therefore, there won't be any room for children. .. DARN that Smart Car!)

My daughter, in her usual subdued manner, refused to comment in any way, on the future of her own five dollar bill.

Then, several days later, at the grocery store, she confidently announced that she would be using her money to do her very own "First Grocery Shop".

Believe me when I say that I had some difficulty with this. I had all kinds of dreams about what creative thing she would do with her money. Buying food was not on that list of possibilities. My first reaction was that she would have to spend her money on groceries when she grew up. She should get other things now. However, I curbed my tongue because I had made the commitment that they could spend their money however they please and I would not interfere.

I am glad that I did not interfere... and I know that there is another parenting lesson in there but I will have to give it some time to let it sink in.

Her excitement was almost palpable as she placed the marker on the checkout belt to keep her items separate from mine.

On the way home, every time I looked in my 'kiddie' rearview mirror, she had a big grin on her face whilst looking out the window. Finally, she exclaimed, "I love buying my own groceries!"

Usually when her father comes home, he has to search her out to say hello. And when he asks what she did, the usual response is, "I forget." (The bane of all homeschooling parents, worldwide.)

But this day she ran to the door and blurted out that she had, indeed, done The First Grocery Shop of her Life. She then proceeded to list her carefully and wisely chosen items: "...6 kiwi for $1!... a package of radishes... some Fruit-To-Go travel snacks... and some moneyplant seeds!" (Perhaps she thinks that she can grow some money?)

And even now, her thrill is as palpable as if she's just disembarked the biggest roller coaster on the planet, as she replays the events of her "First Grocery Shop".

This is the beginning of something BIG... here in The Gray Zone...

The-Best-Frisbee-Ever

2006-05-14T09:29:00.000-04:00

Today is Mother's Day.

I received a small and inexpensive gift.

My six-year-old son made me a frisbee out of a coffee can lid. He decorated it with special drawings and added pinwheel stripes, and an edge, made of golden star stickers.

Now I know that to some, who may not be parents or who are more inclined towards gifts that cost more financial dollars, this may seem like a simple, somewhat benign child's gift to his mother.

And to others, it would hold more weight simply because of the extra effort a homemade gift requires.

Neither of the above frames of mind apply to my way of thinking because I've never really put much value on these 'extra holidays', and actually don't care much for the value placed on gift-giving.

However, in my Mother's Heart, Today, I just know that this is absolutely The-Best-Frisbee-Ever!

I know this because, unbeknownst to my small boy, it is not the only gift that he gave me. This frisbee is simply the vehicle/respresentation of many other gifts with which my son bequeathed me today. And the true gift, again, unbeknownst to him, was actually in his declaration to me upon presentation of said-homemade-toy.

You see, the truth of the matter is that he made this frisbee completely of his own volition. effort. time. and creativity. (Not because of school, as we homeschool. And not due to television, as I asked if he had watched a craft show that made one.)

So, yes, this is a very small gift. However, It is also infinite in size and importance. It is a combined thing being: inexpensive, expensive and expansive. It is enormously simple and simply enormous. It is both intro- and intra- spective. Because of this best-frisbee-ever, he has given me the wonderful realization that he has the abilities (completely on his own) to:

1) Think critically;
2) Build on a penchant for creating something constructive by making it pretty too; and
3) Place importance and value on his relationships; followed by the implementation of a plan that will foster continued growth in relationships-that-he-values, by showing his appreciation in terms of both time and effort. (Big inhale after saying that last one.)

And as he held his small, inexpensive, seemingly benign, physical gift out to me, he most formally and quietly said, "I made this frisbee so you and I can have lots more play time together."

Things are not always as simple as they seem... here in... The Gray Zone...

A Glass Sink In A Dance Studio Bathroom

2006-05-08T07:44:00.000-04:00

Everybody's seen just one of them. You know... those renovation shows where they finish some glorious project in a weekend? In two days they perform miracles on houses that need far fewer miracles than my 100 year old farm house does.

That's not to say I don't like my farm house. On the contrary, I love it... But it needs some work. We knew that when we bought it. My husband and I are both fairly handy and have a love for older architecture. That's what made the house attractive to us in the first place... We could make it our own.

We've been wanting to renovate the downstairs bathroom for quite some time but I could just never find 'the perfect sink'.

Well, I finally found one! It looks like a square-ish glass salad bowl.

Now I realize that there's no overflow and we have three children. I know... I'm asking for a tidal wave in my house... But it really is such a beautiful sink!

*************************************

So last month we got the sink and tap (I already had the antique table to put it on) and got started.

We've decided to make it up like a dance studio, wall mirror and ballet bar included. I was so excited. The first step is gutting the place. That took two days (and we didn't have to replace the tub). End of show.

Filling and sanding and installation of toilet and sink... another two days... End of show.

We have three children, two dance recitals, a couple of playgroups and no project time. End of third show.

I managed to find a narrow, antique wooden door. So now I am in the process of putting in a new doorway to connect, said bathroom, to the laundry room. I have to cut out an old hand-hewn beam to do it. RATS! If I can figure out a way to keep it, I will... but it's not looking good. Then I'll try to finish up sanding and painting. End of fourth show.

Oh, and did I mention that when we installed the sink, I went around the mulberry bush with the store because they didn't have the proper plug (the one without the overflow holes in the pipe)? No one ordered them because they didn't realize they needed them..... Sheesh, it was a hardware shop not a department store! You think they'd know that if they sell sinks without overflows that they're going to be selling drain pipes to accomodate the lack of overflow. I didn't fail to order it, they failed to tell me that they didn't order it... until I called to find out if it had arrived. "Oh, we're very sorry, the warehouse should be receiving the shipment in approximately two weeks."

"Oh." Shows 5 and 6.

Now, I'm not saying it's not worth it but it's just not happening in one show... here in... The Gray Zone.

Gluten: You had to know I'd get to it!

2006-05-07T10:15:00.000-04:00

For those who don't know, my son (who was born very healthy), from the age of two weeks to three years, was very ill and not growing as quickly as he should have been. He also seemed to cry a lot and could not be consoled. It seemed he was exhausted but could not sleep properly. He also seemed to have some vague type of seizure disorder where, when he cried, he would get 'stuck' in an exhale and couldn't inhale again until he passed out, which of course put him under constant threat of a concussion because he was crying so often. He had heart tests, lung tests, blood tests, cystic fibrosis testing, etc. Yet no specialist could figure out what to do with him.

Finally after two years, our pediatrician came back from a convention and said, "I think he has celiac disease." She promptly sent us to the local pediatric gastroenterologist who looked at him and after a cursory visual check deemed him not to have celiac disease. I did not know, at the time, that it is not possible to tell if a person has cd just by looking at them... and so I went home, relieved that cd had been ruled out.

So another year passed and he just seemed to be getting worse and worse. However, after the suggestion of cd, a bug had been put in my brain that maybe we should eliminate all food as an issue. I did not act on it until I came across a book in the library called "Breaking the Vicious Cycle", by Elaine Gottschall. The book was in the wrong section of the library which leads me to believe that God, the Goddess, our angels, Buddha... or some higher entity, made sure that I found the information to improve, not just my son's life, but the lives of every individual in my family! Anyway, finding this book was the motivator that brought us to the decision to try an elimination diet to rule out food as an issue.

Honestly we did not expect any improvement at all. We just wanted to be able to say that we had done it, and done it well. Well, in four days we had a brand new child who was happy and carefree and without bowel issues for the first time in three years. Our pediatrician subsequently sent us 3 hours away to a pediatric gastroenterologist who specializes in celiac disease who has since deemed my son as Celiac based on the outcome of the diet.

What's more? Well, I lost my lifetime worth of daily headaches (sometimes very brutal), and my daughter and my partner were no longer fatigued (among other more private functions that I don't have permission to divulge). None of us wanted to go back to eating gluten because we liked feeling better and didn't want to go back to feeling so crumby (hah).

Well, after watching my son get so much better (No more doctor/hospital visits for 3 years!), our diet is becoming more strict all the time (no gluten, limited grain, no cow dairy, etc.). The dichotomy is that it is also expanding at the same time. (Hooray!)

Now we eat squash, all kinds of squash. Squash was something I never cared for before but now I have found that you don't just eat it plain, you actually do stuff with it and it tastes good! I use it to make pizza dough and tea bread (among other things).

The same goes for goat dairy (all kinds), buckwheat (not really 'wheat'), eggplant, beets, avocado, parsnips, turnips, cabbage, berries, apples, pears, and on and on.

These things have all increased in our diets so that we are eating a more varied diet than we were when we could take the easy way out and just bulk ourselves up with grain.

So when someone tells you their diet is extremely limited... you should really take it with a grain of sea salt... here in... The Gray Zone.

The "Far Apart" Children

2006-05-06T06:03:00.000-04:00

The “Far Apart” Children

As a young girl, I remember my friends and I all wanting our future children to be close in age so that they could grow together and play together. Some wanted the boys to be older to protect the girls and some wanted the girls to be older so that they could babysit the boys. (As if boys are not capable of this task…And as if you’d ever leave a 13-year-old in charge of an 11-year-old…Hah!)

Now, as life would have it, the greatest teacher about the truths of our existence, is experience...

My first two are close together. Whether they know it or not, they are truly each other’s best friends. They keep each other constant company. My daughter, the older child, teaches the younger one to strive to keep up. And my son, the younger of the two, forces my older child to put into practise, lessons of patience and endurance. It is a thrill to watch them build on each other’s creativity when they concoct all kinds of stories, plays and dramas.

When my son was born, however, it was not as ‘easy’ as it is now that they are both walking, talking and independent. My daughter, at two years of age, was truly remarkable in her desire to help in the care for her younger sibling. But let’s face it, caring for an infant and even the most cooperative toddler is extremely time-challenging and those ‘special moments’ with the younger infant were fewer and farther between than they were when I only had one infant and no toddler distracting my focus.

With a miscarriage following our son’s birth and several years of unexplained infertility, I found myself pregnant after suffering a cold. Why it is, that a husband can still find his wife to be sexually appealing when she has a runny nose, cough and is all the while ingesting as much over-the-counter cold remedies as she can, is beyond me. However, I am convinced that the particular cold remedy I was taking has some magical ingredient in it that ended our bout of infertility… but that is another article.

And so our third child, Ben, was born into our family with siblings, six and eight years older than he. He is also the child who has more helping hands at his beck and call than any child should probably bear witness to on this planet. At 5 months of age he has no worry of any toy dropped, as someone is there to pick it up for him within 5 seconds. He gets more kisses than the other two did because there are two more sets of lips in the house. And because my daughter thinks of him as her own personal, living doll, he is almost constantly carried which is, of course, one of the things in life that babies love most. He wants for nothing that a baby wants. And now, I can witness all the joys of having a small baby in the house, yet enjoy my very own, unaccompanied, visits to the bathroom... at least for the time being.

I’ve noticed that the older children also have tolerances for the baby, that they do not afford eachother. For example, they find eachother’s spit disgusting and/or offensive. And they seldom say ‘please’ and ‘thank you’ to eachother without some kind of prompting from my partner, or myself.

However, Ben’s ears, according to them should only be encumbered with sweet, almost melodic tones and they never miss a ‘thank you’ for his gobby, spitty, stringy, baby-kisses. In return, my older two children are learning some wonderful care-giving recipes that they would not have without their much younger sibling.

My six-year-old son will spend half an hour making funny faces that make the baby laugh and squeal. When that same six-year-old was 6 months old, there was not an adult within 50 kilometres that would spend half an hour making faces… no matter how cute and adorable those fits of giggles were. Adults just don’t have that kind of time. And a two and a half year old is just too busy doing... well... all that self-absorbed, two-and-half-year-old-stuff, that two and a half year old is supposed to be doing.

So there are some wonderful benefits for all of our children in this scenario. And yes, the ‘close together’ children are wonderful to have…but so are the ‘far apart’ children...here in... The Gray Zone...

The Gray Zone

2006-05-06T05:55:00.000-04:00

I’ve been thinking about writing a series lately that has a lot to do about nothing, yet everything. Things that are black and white, yet not black and white. Things that have a lot to do with life and living… with death and dying… with existence and existentialism...

And so, you have now entered... The Gray Zone...