HB, DD

Twenty-two years ago today, during the dinner hour, Darling Daughter made her entry into the world. So far, it’s been the only time in her life that she’s arrived anywhere early – several weeks early, in fact. It was also the only time in her life that she had baggy knees and ankles, and I had high hopes that my new daughter would not have my thick-ish ankles. That didn’t pan out (genetics are stronger than wishes), but at least they aren’t baggy any more.

I have to say that I have loved almost (ALMOST!) every moment of being a mom. DD was a pretty easy baby and a lovely little girl, though she was – and is – extremely strong-willed and had more than one temper tantrum. As she grew into a teenager, she really didn’t give us many difficult times, and over and over again, she proved how mature and intelligent she was by the decisions she made. Yes, of course there were awful times, but generally speaking, I think her dad and I got lucky, especially when I see the beautiful, caring, funny young woman that she has now become.

And why only one child, you may ask? In the words of her father, “We got it perfect the first time, so why mess with that?”

For twenty-two years, DD has provided me with endless joy and also endless laughter. For example, there was the time, when she was three, that I called her to come to the kitchen. It took her a while to show up – unusual for a kid who loved to eat.

“Where were you?” I asked her.

She cheerily replied, “In my fucking bedroom.”

I looked at her. I looked at her dad. He looked at her. He looked at me.

“Where were you?” I ventured, trying not to show my shock.

“In my fucking bedroom,” she repeated, as jaunty as anything.

Her dad was stifling his laughter by this point. Easy for him – he wasn’t looking right at that angelic little face with the big hazel eyes framed with long light brown hair.

“Oh,” I stammered, “do you mean your pretty bedroom?”

DD nodded, all serious now. “Yes, my pretty bedroom.”

Dodged a bullet there.

DD, I love you tremendously! You make the world a better place and me a better person. I am so proud to be your mom! So, Happy Happy Birthday, DD – in either one of your bedrooms.

Llama-rama

Driving to work today (I’ve just realized that a lot of my posts have to do with driving. This one doesn’t, not really, it just starts that way!), I took a slightly different route. You know, just to shake things up a bit.

So I was cruising down this sort-of rural road, which was lined with hobby farms on one side and a subdivision of enormous homes with tiny yards on the other. I glanced over at one of the hobby farms and spotted a llama. It was a big brown one, laying atop a mound of dirt and gazing out haughtily at the chickens, geese, and the lone sheep that wandered about the yard beneath it.

It reminded me of the time, many years ago when DD was a toddler, when her grandmother (my ex mother-in-law) and I took her to a local petting zoo. Now, DD is an animal lover from WAY back (like in the womb), so there was no better way to entertain her than to provide animals for her viewing pleasure. If she could actually touch them, so much the better. So she was incredibly excited to be there.

At this zoo, there were a few animals in huge enclosures that were not for petting, simply for admiring. Like llamas. There were a whole bunch of them (is it actually called a herd of llamas?) in an area that seemed as big as one of the hobby farms that I spotted today. To my recollection, most of them were grazing far away from the chain link fence, but there was one – another big brown one – close to the fence. Of course, DD and I went to take a closer look, because I quite like llamas and think they’re rather esthetically-pleasing animals.

Her grandmother called her over to look at some other animal soon thereafter, but I stayed there, talking to the llama in question. It moved closer to the fence, almost close enough to touch. I kept talking to it, holding out my hand for it to sniff (Do llamas even do that? I mean, they’re not dogs! Still.). The llama came closer. I thought I was mesmerizing it with my melodious voice, so I moved closer too.

Can you see where this is going yet?

The llama and I were almost nose to nose, with the fence between us. We had serious eye contact.

Then it horked up something small but very, very hard and spit it at my face. I sputtered, wiping cud or whatever it was, off my face. The llama kept staring at me, then made as if to spit again. I leaped backwards.

DD and her grandmother just about peed themselves laughing.

I no longer approach llamas.

Sing a song of thong

How many of you out there have ever worn thong underwear? Anybody? Anybody at all? Bueller?

Come on, we’ve all tried it (at least, the women have. Lots of men have too, but they don’t like us to tell.). And let’s admit it: thong underwear is uncomfortable at first. No, not uncomfortable. Irritating. No, that’s not quite it either. Agonizing. That’s closer.

Almost ten years ago now, I was intrigued by the idea of no visible panty line under pants, so I made up my mind that I was going to try thong underwear. A co-worker, Tanya, wore them all the time (Yes, Tanya was in her early twenties and wore hip-hugger jeans to work a lot. That’s how we all knew that Tanya always wore thong underwear. At least we were spared the tattooed lower back.). Anyway, I talked to Tanya about the virtues of thongs more than once.

“They feel gross at first, but you get used to them,” she promised. “And once you do get used to them, you’ll love them!”

“How gross?” I asked, concerned.

“Like dental floss up your butt.”

“Oh – I’ve never had dental floss up my butt,” I replied. “I really must try this!”

So I bought a couple of pairs, and wore one to work one day. And it was gross.

I spent a lot of that day tugging and pulling and wondering at what point I would get used to the thong. I told Tanya that I didn’t think I liked it, but she encouraged me to give it a few more days.

So I did. And, lo and behold, I did get used to it! And I loved having no panty line under my pants! I bought more thongs and kept on wearing them. Every day, in fact.

Fast forward a few months later, and I was still happily wearing thongs. But one day, I realized that I was pulling and tugging and rearranging again. It was uncomfortable again! Well, I thought, I’ve obviously put on some weight. Crap.

I went to the bathroom to try to seriously readjust one more time. Yes, I told myself, I have definitely put on weight. This thong barely fits around my hips now! I’ve got to go on a diet or exercise more or … or …

How about if I just put the thong on correctly, then? They really don’t fit that well when you put them on sideways.

I no longer wear thong underwear. They’re just too complicated.

For my dad

Today it is two years since my dad died.

Although it was a shock, it also wasn’t. My dad had suffered four strokes in the last nineteen years, the first one when my daughter, his only grandchild, was only two weeks old. It was on the right side of his brain, meaning that the left side of his body was affected, but not his speech. He spent many months in rehab relearning how to dress himself, bathe, walk. Through it all, he remained upbeat and optimistic. Having a new grandbaby around also kept his spirits up. As he once told me, “At first, I was a little depressed, wondering ‘Why me?’ Then one day I thought, ‘Why NOT me?’ and then I felt better.”

All this was very hard on my mom, who not only worried tremendously that he might fall and injure himself, but also had to become my dad’s caregiver and take over all the household chores. She hadn’t driven much prior to this, but now she had to. She now had to deal with all their financial affairs, house repairs, car maintenance by herself. This is not to say that my dad had always done everything and my mom was completely uninvolved, not at all. My parents were always a team, doing things together, but now, Mom had no choice, she was forced into a solo role for which she wasn’t quite ready.

Still, life went on. Darling Daughter grew, and adored her Papa. He may not have been able to walk without a cane or pick her up and put her on his knee for a cuddle, but he spent many, many hours with her. He read to her, told her stories, drew for her, went for (slow) walks with her. She had the best grandfather, even if there were things he couldn’t do.

About ten years later, Dad had a second stroke. This one had more debilitating effects. His speech was affected more, and sometimes he had more trouble articulating words. His balance was shaky, and he began to spend more time in his wheelchair. His memory started to go. His body weakened.

There was a third stroke, but Mom and Dad both realized that it was fairly minor and that the hospital would be able to do nothing except keep him in for observation for a few days. The ambulance wasn’t called this time, but Dad’s overall condition was a little worse, especially his memory. He became very quiet and much more withdrawn after that.

Our last Christmas together, in 2006, it was clear to me that we were not going to have Dad around much longer. He looked so old and seemed to have so little energy. Yet, my brother was able to come home for the holidays, and Dad rallied amazingly. He was charming and witty – almost his old self (except he sometimes forgot what he had just said and sometimes it was pretty obvious that he had no idea which family member we were talking about!). But we had a wonderful time, and we were able to forget for a while just how weak Dad was.

Then, near the end of January 2007, Dad suddenly looked at Mom and said something entirely unintelligible. Mom asked him to repeat it and he didn’t seem to understand what she said. He mumbled some more gibberish and looked totally confused. Heart sinking, Mom called the ambulance again.

He’d had another stroke. But this time, the doctors told her, there was no way she could bring him home and look after him herself. He was just too mentally confused, and with his weakened physical condition, she just would not be able to cope. She understood, and plans were made for him to be transferred to the geriatric department of the hospital for a while, until a more permanent place could be found for him.

The last time I saw him, Dad’s speech was coming back, but he couldn’t remember a lot of words. He could only recall my first name, and I wonder if the only way he knew that I was his daughter was that I called him Dad. He asked after his granddaughter many times, and when I told him she was at work, he chuckled, “Oh, he loves his money, doesn’t he!” He repeatedly asked Mom if she’d help him get dressed and then they could go back to “her place”. When it was time to leave, we had to get the nurses to distract him so we could actually slip out the door.

The next day, Mom went back to the hospital to help transfer Dad to his new room in geriatrics. She said it was very nice, and that Dad quite liked the view of the mountains from the window. He had friendly roommates, and seemed content. I was unable to visit him that night, but Mom assured me he was as comfortable as could be expected.

The hospital called Mom at about 1 a.m. on January 26, 2007. She called me. He was gone. But really, he had left us about five years previously, when his memory really started to fail him and he seemed to just withdraw.

I know we were lucky to have had him for all those years, that we were on borrowed time. But I think about him a lot and miss him and love him. I always will.

Act your age

So – New Year’s Eve. Seeing Trooper perform. Trooper being a popular Canadian band from the seventies. The seventies being my era, so to speak. Not that I haven’t been a part of the eighties or nineties or the – what do we call this decade, anyway? The uh-ohs?

It’s just that I’m dating myself by specifying “my” era (dating as in carbon dating, but not quite so prehistoric). I’ve had a hard time admitting my age for many years, and having hit the half-century mark last year (I can’t believe I even TYPED that!), it’s worse than it ever was. I mean, obviously I’m as old as I am because DD is 21 years old, and I’ve been teaching for 29 years, and I remember stuff that people my age usually remember. But I just don’t BELIEVE I’m as old as I am.

My mother tells me that inside, she is really about 25. I used to scoff at that, but no more. In my mind, I honestly think I’m somewhere in my twenties, as well. I have always looked younger than I am (apparently that is a Capricorn trait. Also, my dad’s side of the family always looked young.), so when I look in the mirror without my contacts in, I can pretty much see someone who is in her twenties. Okay, late twenties. What gives me away, however, is all this knowledge I have accumulated. Well, that and the aches and pains of my body.

I know things like how the Gulf War started. I know where I was when I heard that John Lennon was assassinated. I know about the two referendums in Québec and how worried many of us were that the vote would be “oui” and that Québec would separate from the rest of Canada. I actually voted for Pierre Trudeau. Twice. I know that leggings were a bad fashion choice twenty years ago and are still a bad fashion choice, especially with a too-short sweater. Ditto for shoulder pads. I remember the original disco and grunge movements, for heaven’s sake!

I also realize that I know almost all the words to almost all the songs that Trooper played the other night, despite the fact that they weren’t exactly my favourite band way back then. I had no idea that their music was so much a part of my consciousness at the time – I guess we can thank the Canadian content broadcast laws for that one.

In addition, I found it quite astonishing that so many of the people who attended the show were so fat, grey or bald, and wrinkled. They were OLD! And the clothes some of them were wearing – don’t you have mirrors, people?! Strangely enough, many of them also knew the words to the songs. I guess even old people like Trooper – because I’m certainly not THAT old.

(And just so you know, they put on a fun, energetic show. Even though they too are a bit past the first bloom of youth!)