Sheep in Wolves' Clothing: Buster Speaks Out on Grandchildren:

I have nothing against children. Other than their infernal howling, they are for the most part benign. Or at least that was my initial assessment. I now find myself engulfed in a world of enticingly smelly poopy diapers, toy-to-toy armed conflict, and an unreasonable frequency of acting-out that I am at the limits of my abilities to contend with. And yet, I prevail.

As a Border Collie bred over generations by soggy Welsh stocksmen, I have always considered myself a member of the Black Ops of the canine world.  A 2000 word vocabulary, an assassin’s stealth, and a frontal lobe of Einsteinian proportions qualify me for duty on the front lines of Sheep Wars. To date however, my massive skill set has been applied to rescuing sticks from lakes, disciplining insolent felines, redirecting the mindless and slobbering beasts at the off-leash, short-circuiting disturbances at Sunday dinners, sounding the alarm at security breaches, and providing sage leadership to my neighborhood pack – such as they are.

Selected by my handlers as a puppy for my endearing chubbiness and mutant extra dew claw, I have few demands placed on me.   In return for board, room, and periods of soulful eye contact, I am required to walk my handlers a minimum of three times a day, act as an empathetic and perceptive therapist in times of stress, and play nurse-maid to Traumatized Rescue Dog and Don't-Give-A-Crap Cats.

Which leaves me with plenty of time to ponder my fate both past and future.  Neutering (a deceivingly benign term) executed without my consent, has robbed me of my legacy. Not for me the joys of a mate and the patter of little paws. My genes, the result of hundreds of years of skillful cross-breeding and selection, will die with me.   

Enter Grandchildren.

With their first appearance it was made abundantly clear that the tightly swaddled mewing bundles were neither food nor toys - a double disappointment.  And while  instinct urged me to deal with the bawling lambs in the way I knew best, a deeply submerged gene indicated that these were not just any sheep, but the forbearers of what would become my very own herd.  

Unable to resist their plaintive calls of distress I stayed close, perhaps too close; an action misinterpreted as hunger. Banished to the Siberia of the backyard, unable to plead my case verbally, I was forced to fret from a distance.

Two years have passed and their numbers have exploded exponentially to 4. The assumption remains that given my possession of flesh-tearing canines and a genetic predisposition to disciplining naughty sheep, I am still not completely above suspicion.  Lambs are still barred from physical contact despite an occasional covert pat while the authorities are distracted.  The arrangement suits me; it appeases the authorities while preventing the ignominy of being mauled by sticky fingers.

What is beyond the pale however, is their increasing use of commanding language and imperiously placed exclamation points reserved until recently for the exclusive use of my handlers.  "Come! Buster, Come!"  The gall of it.  Trained to extend their tiny palms forward and bark "Back Buster! Move!" when contact is imminent, this high-handed and authoritative finger-wagging from the bearer of poopy diapers in nearly intolerable. 

And while the four of them have clearly been placed higher on the totem pole than the lofty perch from which I formerly viewed my domain, I have come to terms with the concept that though they are merely little sheep in wolves’ clothing, they are in fact, My Sheep. 

Having established my position as Keeper of the Herd, negotiations with the authorities have made it crystal clear that typical herding techniques such as heel-nipping, stalking, and knock-downs will not be tolerated. In lieu of these highly effective methods, my responsibilities now fall within the following parameters:

·        Accompanying and protecting the herd on all excursions, including the thorough vetting of all strangers. (Typically this involves approaching the intruder with a wide grin and wagging tail while pawing their leg till they scratch my ears.)
·       Chasing down runaways inside and out (to their shrill delight) and redirecting them back to the herd. Unless a squirrel turns up.

·        Positioning myself as arbitrator of all tantrums and serious altercations with the authorities.

·        Protecting the herd vociferously from the North Korean spy masquerading as our letter carrier.

·        Remaining within arm’s reach and eye contact as they wander river trails, visit the playground, throw ravioli at each other, refuse to nap, wrestle each other to the ground, and dream the night away at Baba Grampa House sleepovers.
·       Restraining myself while cheese treats are allocated to those with tiny voice boxes that permit verbalization of please and thank you. 

My prediction is that the two new arrivals, yet unable to mobilize independently, will follow the same trajectory, resulting in a synergy that is multiplicative rather than additive.  And while I find this prospect terrifying, I am, for the moment, content.  Having purpose and meaningful work for which I am imminently suited, I have created my own herd, a legacy for which I will be remembered.  

The Deposed Toddler: The Arrival of the New Baby

At the best of times the toddler is vastly underrated.  With over-sized heads, waddling gate, and a babbling brook of utterances, evolution has unleashed an adorable yet dangerous version of gangsters in diapers. Employing high octane tantrums of seismic proportions and imperious demands for food, drink, and attention, there is very little that a persevering toddler cannot make happen.

Physical development leads to changes in the balance of power. The ability to accelerate from a domineering swagger to near Olympic speeds on chubby little legs that far outstrip this Baba’s abilities to overtake, is an unforeseen glitch in the previously successful method of subduing recalcitrant charges. 

Diaper changing becomes a martial art where writhing, kicking victims must be subdued with measured strength that, while getting the job done, prevents broken bones and poop-splattered furniture. The potty, a curious piece of furniture the toddler is encouraged to pee or poop on, remains a poor alternative to these buckin’ bronco sessions on the change table.  

Previously thrilled with all forms of story-telling and nap-time lullabies, the toddler becomes a discerning bibliophile, loudly rejecting literature on the basis of book color, font size, illustration style, or species examined; or rejecting stories not associated with Buster or fishing, or lullabies not based on the moon.

Lunch, formerly a delightful and civilized interlude (as long as the general categories of noodle and peas were met) disassembles into fork-waving demands quelled only by one particular shape of pasta, one brand of ravioli, and one soup can label. Like irate gastronomes stranded at a country truck stop, they vent their displeasure with all the emotion of a Shakespearean tragedy – surely the source of future teenage angst. A risk this Baba is willing to take.  Menus remain standard despite the finickitiness of diners.

Previous methods of communication based on subtle body language, single syllables, eye contact, and soothing rocking are replaced by stream-of-consciousness soliloquys featuring randomly placed consonants and baffling syntax that, if not understood immediately, are repeated at increasing decibel levels till demands are met. Vocabulary explodes, threatening the effectiveness of the simple military commands that have served this Baba so well.  Logic and reason rear their ugly heads as the infernal questions of Why? and How come? follow each and every statement.

Nap time, formerly a sacred ritual, is similarly affected.  After one blessed moment with eyes closed the logical toddler surfaces to declare “Did it!”  Sweetly tentative requests are replaced by an imperiousness befitting a Tzar or Tzarina. Whereas the sweet babbling of ba-ba-ba-ba was previously music to the ears, now the air cracks with commands – most often beginning with BABA!!!.  Commands that must be softened by tiresome training in Magic Words, the rules of which are crystal clear but form the basis of a rapidly building resistance to correction of any kind.  

The toddler has the keys to the kingdom and the world is its oyster.

Enter The New Baby. 

Without their knowledge or permission the toddler returns from a sleepover at Baba’s to find that a coup d’etat has occurred; a fall from grace that topples him or her from their position as Head of State and Master of the Universe.  

The only preparation for this world-changing event has been an inordinate attention paid to mummy’s watermelon and the provision of a plastic baby doll that bears no resemblance to the shrieking, steaming, pile of red, wrinkly skin attached permanently to breasts formerly the personal property of said toddler. 

After an initial period of shock, careful evaluation of the situation confirms the fait accompli and the beginning of the 5 Step Program of denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance begins; the length of which varies from days to decades.   

Clearly the obvious evolutionary response is to remove the threat.  However, preliminary forays in this direction are met with a surprising degree of disapproval and threats of banishment. The unkindest cut of all is the clear requirement that the squalling intruder not only be tolerated but adored.  An intelligent toddler rapidly calculates the risk/benefit ratio and sacrifices short-term cooperation for long-term gain. 

The parental strategy of appealing to the Big Boy or Big Girl deep in the toddler psyche is an excellent diversion.  Spectacular oohs and ahhhs accompany the appearance of poop or pee in the potty.  Treats, toys, and praise are used to encourage helpful tasks such as fetching diapers, tidying up, and helping with baby care.  All excellent strategies that will bear fruit.

Or not. 

Sometimes the best defence is a good offence.  A thwarted toddler is a force of nature.  Capable of subterfuge, the toddler may carry out not so subtle sneak attacks masked as clumsiness or inattention.  Admonishments of ‘gentle, gentle!’ simply confirm the effectiveness of the ruse.  Amazing displays of outright defiance and rage carried out in direct eye contact with the authorities, highly creative rampages culminating in eating sunscreen, refusals to nap, and kamikaze attacks on other toddlers are typical responses to the despotic changes forced upon them.

Freud tells us that the toddler is the meeting ground of the Id and the Superego. The Id has no inhibitions; its mantra Me! Me! Me! denies the existence of any other priority.  The Superego represents the should, should, should of human personality and is responsible for inhibitions that divert us from the path of narcissism.  The integration of Id and Superego into the Ego is a long process, one that many never complete. Pity then the conflicted toddler as he or she struggles to find their place as only one of the orbiting planets in the family solar system. 

As Baba I am alternately terrified and amused by the process, at times cheering for the toddler side and perhaps less often for the parental side.   In retrospect, I really don’t remember how we did this in our own little family, but I do know that, like Gloria Gaynor, we survived.

Child Labour

It came to me as Little One Number Two, brow furrowed in concern, used tiny fingers to pinch and prod the wrinkles that have set up residence on my face. Although the last person I would expect to point out my faults, she was certainly not the first to suggest that I was clearly in need of repair. 

 

But it got me thinking. About Little fingers and Little jobs. The whole child labour thing. And while nobody’s suggesting we farm out children to thread Indonesian looms or strip copper wires from old computers in China, there are clearly acceptable developmental tasks that are suited to tiny fingers.

For example, Little One Number One has recently shown a proclivity to weeding the garden.  After a few failed attempts to distinguish between errant sunflower sprouts and a row of healthy carrots, he set to the task with gusto, clearly displaying both predisposition and skill. Granted, an attention span of 90 seconds works against him but still…  While Number One had his nose to the grindstone, Number Two looked on in mockery with eyes that said Fool.

Another toddler-ready task that has enough educational merit to make it into the Montessori curriculum is laundry sorting.  A simple guideline of white, dark, and coloured  (grey is however a grey area) resulted in an astounding 85% accuracy rate in Little One Number One (a success rate my husband of 40 years can only aspire to).  With an outburst of babble referencing child labour laws, Little One Number Two deigned to participate but had no qualms about joining in the reward activity of rolling and jumping in the piles of sorted clothing.  

The same sharp eyed observational skills that make children aware of tiny ants underfoot can be capitalized on here.  Little One Number Two is a scanner.  The first to sense the presence of  birds and squirrels in trees, she cocks her head and holds her finger up to request the silence required to identify the call of her favourite birdees. At a recent funeral, having spotted a crow through a window, she impressed the mourners by flying across the room full-tilt waving her arms and shouting Caw! Caw! With training she could probably scan military photos and security tapes for the presence of baddies.

Having said that, it was Little One Number One’s sharp eyes that determined that Number Two had somehow blown a shoe on our travels through the river trails and was travelling light. Fortunately, retracing our steps, the shoe was discovered by Buster the Dog some meters away.  (Clearly, this is not the best Baba Advertising but I am past fear of confession.)

While established theory states that gross motor skills precede development of fine motor skills, my recent experience refutes this hypothesis. For example, picking up tiny peas to feed to slathering dogs gathered like alligators below the high chair, is clearly not a challenge for a precocious toddler.  However, using a whisk to mix banana oatmeal chocolate chip cookie dough turns out to be prohibitive, as evidenced by the predictable (and yet still attempted) outcome of batter-coated toddlers, dogs, cats, and kitchen floor. I was again reminded that for children, actually baking cookie batter is superfluous. Fortunately, Buster the Dog, ever ready to spring into action, led the clean-up detail while the guilty parties were hosed down.

To say nothing of the technological capacity of little fingers.  When my own chubby stumps bludgeon and stab at those tiny ‘play’ arrows on Elmo’s World youtubes (a simpering take-off on the greatness that was Sesame Street) a tiny index finger will patiently brush mine aside and calmly navigate for me.  While survival in generations past required strength and gross motor skills, control over the electronic world is by buttons. 

Good observational skills and a tiny index finger could rule the world. 

Making Babies

Watching my kids go through the journey that is pregnancy, I wonder to myself - How did I not see this before?

In previous eras pregnant women had protected status as a result of their delicate condition, and were coddled through their miseries (unless of course you were a peasant and spent sun-up to sun-down in the field) by a flock of women who hovered over and cared for you.  By the time I was pregnant in the 80's women had recently won many victories in equality and pregnancy was the last frontier.  The prevailing attitude to pregnancy was to suck it up and not whine.  Instead of demanding consideration of what we were living through over and above what men live through, we set about proving our equal worth. In retrospect I think we were wrong in this.

Actually, it is an illness

About the same time, some brighto decided that pregnancy needed to be de-medicalized because it was natural. No longer having the excuse of being ‘ill’, women were expected to step up, suck it up, and carry on. What absolute nonsense. If a man walked into emergency with even half of the symptoms of pregnancy he’d be hospitalized for a serious disease.  And so, pregnancy lost its special status and became just another unsupported ring of fire for women to jump through along with menstruation, child birth, and menopause.

Until recently.  Lately I’ve run across a number of posts and essays suggesting in bold print that pregnancy is not all it’s cracked up to be.  And that it frankly sucks. Certainly this isn’t news but up to now dogma regarding how women are supposed to feel about being pregnant has constrained any blasphemy suggesting that many young women today do not feel thrilled/blessed/radiant/wonder-struck about taking on the job. And while logically pregnancy is the result of a conscious decision to embrace the trials of pregnancy in the spirit of self-sacrifice, it rarely is.

 It may be that there are two issues. Dealing with pregnancy is hard enough, but being expected to go to work, run large homes in which they continue to do the majority of cooking and cleaning, often in the absence of family and neighborhood support systems, while raising other children WHILE PREGNANT is perhaps beyond reasonable expectation.  And yes, modern man should/would/could be a partner in pregnancy, but in reality his contribution ranges from Superman to No Man.

It’s Not About You

 In this modern day we’re used to being in control of our lives, so it is a bit of a shock to realize that our much anticipated little embryo is a parasite.   While we’d like to think of pregnancy as a cooperative venture between mother and fetus, it’s actually more of a hostile take-over.   Without our permission or knowledge the embryo directs a massive renovation and revamping of the mother’s body.   Every morsel of food, vitamin, and mineral ingested will be primarily directed to the cause: the construction of a food/waste/gas transfer station (placenta), the assembly of the fetus, laying down of fuel stores, preparation and implementation of the exit strategy, and the development of glands and ducts for mammary take-out. If mom can’t get the nutrients, her own blood, bones, organs, and muscles undergo redistribution to supply the fetus with what it needs.  Need calcium? Take my teeth.  The good news is that like any successful parasite, it rarely harms a healthy host enough that its own survival is threatened.

Most of pregnancy’s symptoms/signs/annoyances stem from the fact that though the code is perfectly orchestrated, there are unintended consequences.  For example, massive amounts of progesterone are secreted by the placenta in order to keep the smooth muscle of the uterus relaxed, thus preventing premature contraction and miscarriage.  Unfortunately, all the smooth muscle in mom’s body has the same progesterone receptors, and responds too.  Smooth muscle in mom’s leg veins relaxes causing blood to pool in the legs resulting in kankles and varicose veins.  Smooth muscle in mom’s gut relaxes and food sits around, leading to heartburn, indigestion, nausea, and constipation. 

Great Expectations

The following is a list of maternal changes in pregnancy - what a woman can be expected to endure during her 280 days of pregnancy. Some women say they never felt better than when pregnant, but most will have some combination of the following.

If you’re a man, consider carefully what it would mean for you to go through this, and decide whether you’d make this sacrifice to have a child.   Act accordingly.

(Note, the following is basic biology.  If you missed it in Grade 12, here’s your chance.)

·        Heart workload increases by 40-50%, heart rate by 15% and cardiac output rises from 4 to 7 L/a minute.  Even when she’s resting she’s jogging.   

·        Unspeakable fatigue.  Early pregnancy hormones lead to an exhausted stupor and the tendency to nod off in mid-sentence.  As pregnancy develops, and the 25-35 lbs of assorted tissues, fluids, and fetus accumulates, weariness is constant. Add the rigors of normal life and getting up with other children in the night and you get the idea.  If you don’t, try strapping 2 or 3 ten pound bags of flour to your abdomen for a full day and night and see how perky you are.

·        Legs and ankles swell (kankles) and painful varicose veins can develop. Smooth muscle in mom’s veins relax causing blood and fluid to pool in the legs by gravity.  Pooling can pop valves in leg veins leading to ropy, painful varicose veins. All effects courtesy of progesterone. (Note: the ‘glow of pregnancy’ is just blood vessels in the face dilating. It doesn’t mean she’s radiating happiness.  She’s just radiating.)

·        Breathing rate increases by 40% while the pressure of the uterus against the lungs and diaphragm can make for breathless nights. (Not that kind.)

·        Nausea and vomiting or the circus trick known as The Reversible Gut. For some, there’s minor gagging on the toothbrush or queeziness looking at meat.  Others endure 9 months of incapacitating wretching hell and the despair that goes with it.

·        Indigestion, heartburn, constipation.  Again, because trusty progesterone relaxes smooth muscle and the gut is made of smooth muscle, food sits and sits instead of being pooped out. As the growing uterus squishes the stomach and intestines into a rapidly disappearing space, heartburn and indigestion are a problem.

·        Hemorrhoids:  Constipation and ‘straining at the stool’ pop out blood vessels in the butt into little grapes. Nasty and painful.

·        An overwhelming desire to eat and lay down fat (when not throwing up). This is natural selection at it’s finest. In days past the ability to find food and accumulate fat in a world where food was scarce ensured that the pregnant woman and her child would survive.  While the average pregnant woman needs only 300 cal more/day, code is strongly suggesting you eat like your life depends on it.  While average weight gain is 25-35 pounds of fetus, fluid, tissue, and blood, those hassling a pregnant woman about her weight should probably expect a right hook and a compulsory viewing of Aliens.

·        Weird changes in taste and smell leading to simultaneous revulsion and craving.

·        Breasts grow ridiculously and may be painful as glands and ductwork develop, indicating greater than ornamental value. Added features include stretch marks, spreading areolas, dark nipples, and possible oozing.  Which may or may not be a turn on.

·        No alcohol and one cup of coffee/day for 9 months.  Gents, this alone might be a deal breaker, right?

·        Dizziness and Fainting:  When standing up suddenly, dilated veins allow blood to pool rapidly in her legs and blood pressure drops.  While lying on her back, the uterus compresses large blood vessels decreasing blood flow to and from the heart and blood pressure drops.  Maybe stay seated?

·        A brain at the mercy of hormones: As estrogen and progesterone make mincemeat of cognitive skills (baby brain) and emotional range, mood may waver between elation, rage, giddiness and despair. Neither logical or reasonable, these emotions may garner little empathy from observers. Interestingly, I read a book for pregnant women from the 1800’s that described hysteria and despair as an expected aspect of pregnancy.  Either this aspect of pregnancy evolved out in the last 100 years or somebody forgot to tell us this is ‘normal’.

·        Peeing All the Time: Initially, because the kidney’s working overtime to process all that extra blood.  Eventually, because Junior’s squishing her bladder. What little sleep she’s getting is interrupted by trips to the can possibly several times a night. A good case for catheterization and a leg bag.

·        Back pain: As the uterus grows abdominal muscles get stretched, pulling her abdomen forward, creating a sway back and causing pain from spinal shearing.

·        Waddle: Changes in center of gravity, posture, and balance change the gait to a side to side waddle.  Foot size increases and foot arch flattens.

·        Falling: Pregnant women fall as much as women of 70+ years of age.  Balance is so altered that caution is needed, particularly during exercise.

·        Proneness to Injury: Relaxin hormone softens and relaxes the symphysis pubis ligaments for delivery but has the same effect on all ligaments and tendons making joints loose and prone to injury and dislocation.  Muscle strains and pulls are more likely. I had a physiology prof whose hip kept dislocating during lectures. Amusing. For us.

·        Risk of clots and embolisms rise as more clotting factors are released to prevent the uterus from hemorrhaging.

·        Risk of diabetes: Pregnancy converts more fat to glucose (sugar) so Junior has all she needs and more. However, blood sugar is useless without insulin present to open the sugar gates into the waiting cells.  Extra blood sugar means more insulin is needed.  If she doesn’t make enough, she gets to be diabetic and shoot up insulin for the duration of her pregnancy. It usually goes away after birth.

·        Vaginal and urinary tract infections: Itching, pain, discharge result from changing vaginal pH; courtesy of estrogen.

·        Stretch marks: Hormones make the skin elastic and Junior stretches it out from the inside as she grows.  Lovely pinks and purple streaks decorate breasts and abdomen.

·        Mask of pregnancy: Dark blotches on the face and darkening of the genitals and mid-abdominal line along with dark nipples/areolas.  Evolutionarily, this was to tell other members of the tribe that she was pregnant.  Hopefully that won’t be necessary.

·        Hair loss: Potentially like your dog in spring. 

·        Being scared:  Scared of what pregnancy is doing to her body and mind; scared of child birth, of breast feeding, of being a good enough mom.  That’s a lot of scared. 

·        Looking and feeling obese.  The big round belly and swollen body of pregnancy can look coincidentally like obesity.  So it’s easy to feel that way. Feeling and looking nothing like her self, she may feel out of control and very alone in this work.  It’s easy for her to forget that underneath all this hormonal havoc, she is still the person she was.

·        Fetal Gymnastics: Having sacrificed her dignity and health, the sweet little fetus she’s devoted 9 months to building, is kicking the crap out of her.

So, what do you want? A medal?

Actually, yes.  For every woman on the planet that has endured pregnancy or even attempted to.  In this day and age we use the word self-sacrifice when referring to fire-fighters and NGO workers overseas.  Yet the every-day sacrifices of pregnancy are not acknowledged simply because pregnancy is natural.

While we don’t have an option on how we make the dear, sweet babies we love, we can expect recognition and appreciation.  One thing we can do is raise our sons to step up.  To cook, clean, launder, and do far more than his share of work in return for his wife’s agreement to endure pregnancy so that he might have a child with his name on it rather than the manufacturer’s.  We can lobby for inclusion of pregnancy and childbirth education in school curricula so that kids are prepared for the reality of what’s to come and the responsibilities they’ll have.  We can change the dynamic of how we view pregnancy  - not as a super-mom competition where she who suffers is not as tough as she who doesn’t, and where moms are advised to suck it up and not seek the support they need.  We can encourage the use of doulas, midwives, support groups and all other sources of strength and care to make pregnancy easier.  We can lobby employers and government to allow husbands to use pat-leave hours to help their wives through pregnancy, not just after the baby comes. We can use the model of European countries and demand that pregnant women be allowed rest time during the work day and be given modified tasks.

I watch my own kids traverse this ground. And it's only when I watch them that I realize what hard work this is – a biological imperative that no technology can expedite.  They, like all pregnant women sacrifice their bodies, minds, and health in the same way women did a million years ago.  I wish I could make it better for them.  

On Being: Lala Land or Baba Land?

There’s a theory (mine) that the seismic activity on Vancouver Island is due to the weight of translocated retired Albertans pressing down on the Juan de Fuca plate in a imminent and nasty subduction.   Yet, regardless of dire predictions of a major shakedown and consequent tsunami rinse, the retirees continue in their mass migration like lemmings to the cliffs.

A recent visit to Victoria opened my eyes to the draw of the Island. Spectacularly beautiful, quaint, hip, and r-e-l-a-x-e-d there is no denying it’s paradise. But after two days in Lala Land I was conscious of an eerie vibe of purposelessness. I wanted to shake these people by the lapels and ask -“Come on, what have you accomplished today?” Nobody appears to be working, and the coffee shops and restaurants are full of chatting retirees and hipsters by mid-morning.  I saw one guy in a suit the whole time we were there.  (A local told me they burn their suits when they move there).

Lots and lots of relaxed chatting.  About what? I overheard (ok eavesdropped on) a morning conversation in a local pool between three retired guys while they pretended to water-run.  The topic of conversation was medical marijuana side-effects.  One guy complained that he’d wolfed down three bowls of potato salad the night before in a full assault of the munchies. The second fellow complained that he was forced to go out at night and find snacks (a problem because the whole town is shut down and asleep by 9:00). The third guy said “Why would you bother going out? - just use the restaurant delivery app and they come to your door.”  Apparently it’s the same with booze. 

What??  First of all, I didn’t know liquor stores delivered (mental note), and second of all, is this the only place on Earth where I could have overheard this conversation?  Surreal.

Clearly this was not Alberta where a subterranean God of Oil reigns, where a loud and proud redneck minority continue to dominate the rhetoric despite their trouncing at the hands of a tiny blonde nemesis. Nor was this a land of deniers of climate change and environmental degradation flitting around in their Emporer's New Clothes, fiddling while Rome burns. All of which I’m exceedingly fed up with.  Instead, the Islanders are living something quite different. They're living life like it's their last days - abandoning 'doing' in favour of 'being'. Preposterous.  Utopian.  Intriguing.

There must surely be something to this.  Our religious and ethnic work ethics ask us to work, build, and accumulate.  It is not a priority however to actually enjoy the fruits of that labour.  By enjoy I mean those moments when you stop doing long enough to allow your brain to flood with the neuropeptides of happiness and feel contentment and pleasure.

While we can’t change the programming of our upbringing, we can face the reality that unless the Hindus and Buddhists are right, we only go around once.  Waiting, waiting, waiting, for that time when you allow yourself to consciously enjoy the ride may be the definition of squandering a life. I often wonder, if God were to comment on modern life, would She say “Keep up the good work” or “What the hell are you doing?”

Not many folks on their death bed would lament the taxes they paid or wish they’d spent more time redecorating the house. What they might regret is not spending enough time with the sun on their face, smelling a child’s skin, savouring that great cup of coffee or glass of wine with a friend, being astonished by the beauty in nature, reading that wonderful story, dancing that dance, playing that game, laughing their guts out, and spending time around the table with people they love. Maybe these common denominators of joy aren’t the treasure chest at the end of the journey, maybe they are the journey.

It’s possible that older people spend a lot of time just hanging out not because they’re useless but because it’s only after living a fairly full life that it occurs to you that it’s all about the now, about enjoying this moment, not necessarily stocking up points for the after-life which let’s face it, is a long shot.

I confess that I’m not good at this. My brain is rarely ‘here’ - it’s usually evaluating the past or planning the future.  Running, meditating, carving clay, or laughing with my grandchildren are/were moments when time stops.  But it doesn’t come easy.

I hear you say that the concept of enjoying life is a luxury; that illness, poverty, bad luck, bad decisions, and grief can blanket the brain with sadness, snuffing out the possibility of joy. True enough. But, given that bad stuff has been part of human experience since the beginning of time, we are programmed to find moments of bright light in darkness, moments of surprising humour in grief.

It’s something I’ve noticed in our travels.  Even the poorest of the poor can smile. Given the sometimes horrendous conditions that people might live in there are still some common denominators that give joy: love, something beautiful from nature to look at, a good story, a funny joke, a touch, a child’s laugh, a beautiful melody.

For most of our life, work makes up at least half of our waking hours.  Most of the time we’re ‘being’ at work. Stimulating interaction and acknowledgement of achievements that induce feelings of competency, of exhilaration, of identity within a group. In retirement, in the absence of work,  it’s a lot to ask of a spouse, friend, family, dog, volunteer group, grandchildren, work-out, or garden, to fill that gap. We have fewer outside influences to direct us, to grab our attention, to reaffirm our worth. When all is said and done you are left with yourself to find contentment.  Or not.

Recently I was complaining to a newly retired cousin about the hard transition from purpose and identity to a gnawing restless feeling of purposelessness.  He suspected that the key is to a) think of every day as Saturday and b) find or maintain ‘communities’ -  networks of people you share something in common with and perhaps work towards common goals with. We all crave contact – electronically through email or Facebook, in community, neighbors, or even chance meetings. We all need identity – to belong to a tribe or tribes. 

Fortunately, older people are generally quite good at this.  We’re more likely to strike up a conversation in a grocery store, in a café, on a walk, in an exercise class.  We’re more likely to know our neighbors than the youngsters in the breeder burbs do. The fact that older people do this is, I think, less a sign of an addling brain than a hard-wired adaptive response to stay connected, supported, and functional.

 It also bodes poorly for older people who’ve been cut off from interaction by illness, loss of mobility, grief, or fear.  Community can be lost in a second.  It was less likely in the past when people lived in villages/towns, where there was support, people visited, and mobility wasn’t as big an issue. Furthermore, putting people in monoculture aging institutions doesn’t guarantee community or make people pals simply because they’re all old.  

In this respect it’s possible that my family, always the core of who I am, is not enough. My potting studio is full of interesting people. While we create we talk, share, support, and laugh.  The community of people who practiced with me at the yoga studio (when my knees were still cooperating) had the same role. My neighbors, some of whom are known to me only by their dog’s name and our shared love of living where we do, are part of that network too.  My church, that I take for granted, is made of people that regardless of how little I see of them, will always be my community. 

I think of relocating along with all the rest of the lemmings to the shores of Lala Land.  Abandoning winter to the people with knees, to the stalwarts whose parents landed here and accepted winter as a minor inconvenience rather than the stifling blanket of cold and dark it has become for me.  The promise of warm winters, beautiful oceans, forests, year-round gardening, and a population that knows how to ‘be’, is clearly inviting.

However, striking out at this late date - not to follow a job but to purposely choose a certain kind of life - is not as easy as it sounds. It would mean starting over, re-building community, re-building the connectivity that gives life meaning, and leaving behind the loves of my life save my husband.  Yet, people do it all the time – as the hoards of ex-Albertans on the Island show.  How brave they are.

And yet, impossible. There is one identity I cannot shake, and that is the joy of being someone’s Baba. It is for me a job, a community, a climate all in one. Not Lala Land but Baba Land. It’s where I live now. No amount of greenery, no call of the waves, no promise of medical marijuana induced rapture is going to hold a candle to the joy of rocking a warm little body and watching sleepy eyes flutter and close.

For now, that’s where I ‘be’.

KidLit: Are Today's Children's Writers on Drugs?

 I have a good imagination – one that gets me into no end of trouble – yet my grandaughter’s book about a Siamese cat who believes he’s a Mexican Chihuahua who falls into red chili powder and therefore thinks he’s on Mars, is beyond me. The illustrations remind me of a mind-expanding experience in high school and the plot leaves me confused and slightly uneasy. Several trips to the library support my suspicion that there is a subgenre of KidLit that may have pharmaceutical inspiration. Even the great Robert Munsch, representing the conservative end of silliness, was allegedly a pothead.

I think back to the good old days when KidLit wasn’t so over the top.  Yes, I grant you it’s possible that Dr. Seuss was hitting the sauce back in 1957 when he wrote The Cat in the Hat, but at least I can follow the plot: children left at home alone, over-dressed cat breaks in and wreaks havoc, fish in sloshing bowl lays down the law, order is restored.  The dramatic tension between fish and cat is enhanced by fish being the preferred lunch of cats. Cognitive dissonance is achieved by having the fish in charge.  Solid writing.

At this Baba’s house the favourite naptime book is the old story of Chicken Licken.  In it an acorn falls from a tree onto the head of a chick who logically assumes the sky is falling.  He sets out on a journey to inform the king of the coming disaster and along the way picks up a hen, goose, duck, drake, and turkey to join him.  Multiple repetitions produce rhythm.  Illustrations are matter of fact and outlined in black.

Eventually Chicken Licken invites a fox to join them (only children familiar with the food chain recognize the foreshadowing). The fox misdirects the troup back to her den where her youngsters devour the whole crew. Although we are spared the carnage, the presence of wafting feathers and the visual of fox kittens contentedly cleaning their paws and faces makes it clear the crew is not coming back. 

Imagination? Clearly.  But there’s also a moral here which I assumed was either a) don’t over-react b) keep the food chain in mind when choosing travelling companions.  However, when I Googled the story (clearly other people are disturbed by this too) several other interpretations surfaced: have courage, don't believe everything you're told, don't be manipulated by mass hysteria, etc. 

 Is that not a whole lot of bang for your buck from one little book? It’s a mystery that Chicken Licken never made the Pulitzer short list - there’s enough there to keep kiddie brain gears turning for days. I can just see them sitting with their little furrowed brows, thinking ‘What the hell was that about?’

So knock yourself out crazy Mexican Siamese cat-dog! This Baba’s going to stick to the tried and true, the illustrations lined in black, the fox and the chickens, the story with a moral – even if I can’t figure out what the heck it is….

Finding Your Inner Baba

Recently a friend describes how she brought her extended clan together for a Night to Remember party where departed kin were remembered accompanied by scalloped potatoes and ham. 

I look over at her. “You’re the Baba in your family.”

Her blue eyes grin back at me.  “ I know”.

Neither Ukrainian or a grandmother, she is as much a Baba as one can be. Babas aren’t necessarily Ukrainian, or grandmothers, or old, or even female.  My husband, I must admit, is probably a better Baba than I am. With roots in the backwoods of Arkansas and the mountains of Norway, he took up my culture.  His nature is to nurture – cooking, comforting, being there – thinking of the needs of others without inserting his will (there we differ).  I know my mother recognized this in him early on when she gave one of the last existing copies of the bible of Ukrainian recipes (Ukrainian Cookery by Savella Stechishin) to my husband, not me.  Dedicated, no less. 

Every race has its Babas. When we lived in Korea I would watch the Babas in action.  The word that comes to mind is Formidable.  Not just your kim-chi making Halmoni but judge and jury in family matters.  For me, that’s too much pressure. And you live with your kids. When we lived in Switzerland I saw the family matriarchs rule categorically.  Swiss women did not get the vote till 1971 because, as the women there clarify, “The man is the head of the household but the woman is the neck that turns the head”.  Seen it in action.  Don’t want the job.  Prefer my own head.

The trouble with archetypes is they’re often myths.  When many people think of Babas they see a wrinkled, rosy face enclosed in a huska (kerchief).  Squat and solid, with hands worn by work and legs bowed by arthritis, they hobble from stove to garden and back again. Their sphere of influence is paltry, limited to church and family.

Not today.  Today Babas are chameleons.  Jean jackets and tattoos; power suits and $200 hair cuts; polyester tummy pants and t-shirts stained with toddlers’ lunch; white hair and spike heels; sweaty and muscled; clay covered or paint spattered; birkenstocked and braless; Lulu Lemoned head to toe; wrapped in bright saris or hidden under burquas.

Some people are born Babas.  You can see them even as children, clucking and herding, watching and organizing. Babas are also made.  Though I didn’t have a Baba growing up, I watched the Super Baba, my mom, in action.  I also watched hundreds of other women fill this role, some were aunties, some I met only in a book or a newspaper, some walking dogs, some I worked or played along side of, some I invented through the eyes of a child. 

The point is that Baba, Grandma, Kokum, Oma, Bibi, Nonna, Ama, Popo is whoever you choose to be.

So don’t buy into the myths.  Find your own Inner Baba.  Whoever you are.

Circumnavigating the Block: A Late Winter Expedition

In my continuing efforts to be helpful to my pregnant daughter and daughter in law,  I insist on taking the midgets (14 and 20 months) outside.  Bundled in polar gear and (with a nod to the Myth of Coming Spring) new rubber boots, we begin our expedition to Circumnavigate the Block.

Two waddling penguins follow me down the sidewalk, one announcing “slippery!” on each patch of glare ice, the other confirming the observation by landing on her bum.  Shocked by the appearance of a forest of wire-wildlife on the lawn of a neighbor, they freeze and stare, knowing instinctively the results of sudden movement.  When none of the animals respond, they lose interest - yet another Unexplained Phenomenon. 

Out of simple curiousity or perhaps an attempt to seek help and thus put an end to the expedition, they make the long traverse of driveways, climbing the front steps of complete strangers. Trading animated gibberish on the existence of a thoughtfully placed front bench or shrieks of delight at the appearance of a bronze bunny planted in the snow, they stop and smell artificial flowers artfully placed in frozen flower boxes.  The elder navigates the crusty snow in front yards to reach a display of birdhouses, once surprising the hell out of an elderly gentleman as he reversed out of his garage to find a little snowman examining birdseed in his rockery. 

Categorizing what we see is difficult.  Truck, car, or SUV? Grey, silver, or white? These are serious distinctions I often feel unequipped to respond to. Crossing the street requires inordinate coordination.  Look left, look right, look left again.  With up to a two second delay between word and action an observer would have assumed we were a group of Tourette victims passing by.  The disappointing yet realistic decision to abandon our quest was determined by cries of Hum! Hum! (Eat! Eat!) and little arms reaching Up! Up!  

As is often the case, adventure brings us closer to local culture, occasionally with unexpected results. On the return trip home, the elder stops in his tracks, mesmerized.  There on the front porch of a neighbor is a life-sized blow-up snowman, who, in a cruel joke, is shivering with his arms wrapped around himself in an effort to keep warm.  “Noman zhoozhi!” Snowman is cold!  I melt with the dearness of it all.  In an effort to determine whether the statement is strictly observational or is accompanied by empathy, I ask him what the snowman needs.  ‘Jacket! Boots! Hat!’ I point out the snowman has a hat.  The look I receive makes it clear I am an idiot and unaware that the black hat of a snowman is decorative and not functional.  Hating to leave while he is distressed about the snowman’s fate I suggest we go home and get a jacket for the snowman.  The little one, observing the interaction, shakes her head in dismay as if to say “It’s not real you nincompoops – it’s plugged in!”. 

Tired and hungry we arrive home to the warmth of the hearth.  With high pitched gibberish and wildly gesticulating arms they recount the highlights of their escapades, sharing the camaraderie that only explorers can.  Truly they are adventurers.

The Great Nap Experiment

Science is a tricky business.  Planning an experiment should take considered effort and thought.  But sometimes, the light just comes on, and you’re in it before you’ve really thought it through. 

Recently I’d noticed how babies and youngsters of all species can, at the drop of a hat, do a group sleep.  Puppies, apes, kittens, birds, piglets, and cubs will at some unknown cue stop their rough-housing and in minutes be fast asleep in a pile.  Kindergarteners and day care kids will, when the sleeping mats roll out at nap time, knock off together. My hypothesis is that a chemical signal, a pheromone of sorts, is responsible for the shut down.

To test my hypothesis I consider several options.  One is to put both of my little charges in the same crib at opposite ends and then do the usual lullaby/story song and dance while seated in a chair outside the bars.  (The metaphor of zoo or prison is, I know, horrifying). Even I see the folly in this plan and instead opt to mimic the pile-of-puppies imagery and put them both to sleep on my lap.  I know, I know.  A thoroughly modern Baba would have set up two play pens in different rooms, handed out the bottles and blankies, read a couple of stories, passed the verdict of Nap Time, closed the doors and retreated to her computer to check her Facebook page.

But what would we learn from this?

I announce to my daughter in law (DIL) whose house the Little One Number Two and I are visiting, that I intend to put both babies to sleep at the same time on the same lap.  Barely able to contain her mirth she maintains a straight face while preparing two bottles and changing both babies in preparation for what is clearly a doomed venture. I march them upstairs to the tune of Hey Tam Na Horeh, a Ukrainian military song.

Delighted with this sudden madness they join me in climbing into the big comfy leather rocker where I distribute bottles, set up elbow cushions, and prepare to read a story.  Except that my choice in literature is not unanimous and the book is flung far across the room.  A second candidate finds more favour but the pace at which I turn pages is unacceptable and loudly denounced.  I abandon story time. 

At which point the younger cousin realizes that her tiny petite body is being squished like a bug by the burliness that is her cousin.  (My inside voice laughs hysterically to think that my lap is actually not big enough.  I make a mental note to bring this to my husband’s attention). We adjust the seating arrangement and I begin the fascinating story in which all their family, toys, food, and favourite activities are catalogued and discussed. The elder wants to hear nothing except stories about Buster the dog.  The younger, nose still out of joint from her demotion to second tenant of Baba’s lap, just wants to go to sleep.  However, she stirs to action as the Poking Wars begin accompanied by insane laughter. Not mine.

Persistence is key in any endeavor and mine is eventually rewarded as the lullabies and/or pheromones have their effect. Eyes flutter….and close.  Yesssss!

Then CRASH!  I know that my daughter in law who is pregnant is working in one of the next rooms. I shout her name.  No answer except sudden cries from the babies as they hear the alarm in my voice.  I shout again.  Nothing.  I deposit the hollering babies abruptly and unceremoniously on the floor and run, finding my DIL in the bathroom dealing with a shelf that fell off the wall.  The children are beside themselves with fear and confusion, both reaching for her after their betrayal at the hands of their formerly loving Baba.  I really can’t blame them. 

My DIL graciously suggests that my intentions were good, but perhaps ill-conceived.  This is probably true.  Still, despite complications the experiment was, all things considered, a good start. Like any good scientist I look forward to verifying or refuting my results.  

If they let me….

10 Habits of Highly Effective Babas

A struggling novice Baba who grew up without a Baba of her own is perhaps not the best authority to compile this list. However, what I did have was a mentor - the Super Baba - my mother.  On call more often than was probably good for her, her priority was always the kids – not the adults. Despite a demanding job of her own she had, in retrospect, boundless energy.  She gave freely, they love(d)her to smithereens; her house was their Happy Place. What I know about Baba-ing I learned from her. The Traditional Baba which my mother embodies is the family matriarch.  Family decisions were, even at an unconscious level, made with Baba’s reaction in mind. Things are different now and the modern Baba has to walk the line between being an asset and a liability to her offspring. So tread lightly...

1. Don’t give advice unless asked.  And should the cold day in hell arrive when you are asked for advice, be wary.  Even though I have never been suspected of holding my tongue, my tongue is, in fact, nearly severed from biting it so often. I know this is the right thing to do because when I asked my mother, a very traditional Baba, to contribute to this list, her first suggestion was: Give Advice.  And a cautionary note to all you passive-aggressive Babas out there (which is nearly all of you):  telling a story about your experiences as a parent is an underhanded way of giving advice.  Just sayin’…

2. Do not call the baby ‘my baby’.  Unless you want to see your offspring rise up and morph into a Grizzly Bear version of the Uber Parent, then do not make this mistake.  A low warning growl, pupilary dilation, extension of claw tips and the words That’s Not Your Baby, will make the distinction clear.  If you’re lucky they’ll soften the blow by adding “I’m your baby” at the end.  Which is really dear if you think about it. 

3. Do what you’re asked to do and only that. Throwing things out and re-arranging items where they cannot be found could, in retrospect, be seen as a stressor. While doing dishes and laundry are acceptable and perhaps appreciated, re-arranging the furniture and organizing your offspring’s correspondence, may not be.

4. Feed them. The true test of a traditional Baba’s power lies in her ability to feed a lot of people really well, really fast, with no notice.  Having a smorgasbord ready at any time of day is the true mark of the Super Baba. All Super Babas have at least 2 turkeys in the freezer, 8 pies, and 6 rings of kovbasa. Similarly, no self-respecting Baba will allow her kids to leave a family dinner without a Safeway bag full of Tupperware containing leftovers.  Stock phrases such as “Who’s going to eat all this?” can be used to guilt unwilling recipients into at least taking the leftovers home and disposing of them there. Modern adaptations of this rule may involve Grampa whipping up this feast while Baba goes for a swim.

5. Do not undermine parents’ decisions.  I have a certain amount of experience in this area.  Stomping my feet and brandishing my independence did absolutely nothing to discourage my mother the Super Baba from overturning my edicts regarding the raising of children.  Turns out she was usually right, but that’s not the point.  On a closely related theme, if your kids snap at you don’t take it personally.  It won’t be the last time you’ll be reprimanded so suck it up Princess and move on.

6.  Baba’s House, Baba’s rules.  While modern parents value the art of negotiation and of developing the child’s Inner Boss, at her house Baba has all the cards (a situation Grampa has lived with for what I’m sure feels like centuries).  Naps are not optional, sound-effects fruitless, resistance futile. People who wear diapers do not make decisions. It’s the army.  An army of delicious food, monkeying around, playing outside, hugging, lullabies, and silly songs.  But still the army. Complaint department:  3000 km that-a-way. Although soft-hearted Grampa is the sympathetic court of appeal, the chances of recapitulation are slim. 

7. Use the BBC:  Baba Babi Ckazala.  The literal translation, ‘Baba Told Other Babas’, doesn’t convey the beauty of this communication system between women (subset grandmothers) that has been used since the dawn of time to spread gossip at light speed.  However, the more mundane but vital use is to support one another by talking about your grandkids, your parents, your marriage, the world in general, your worries, your aches and pains, your dreams and plans, and who died recently. And bitching.  Don’t forget bitching. While men do their mental processing while watching tiny creatures run up and down a field, women share their experiences.  Any social structure that’s survived for that many millennia is there for a reason.  Use it.

8.  Be willing to change with the times.  The previous generation had one authority on child-raising and child development: Dr. Spock.  Since his book was written the world has become a more complicated and perilous place.  Research on every aspect of child-raising has resulted in rules that overturn the lessons of experience passed from generation to generation.  It is common now to read of things we did in the old days that might now be considered a sign of neglect or negligence. Although many of the new guidelines strike me as dubious at best, I do know that if we had had access to the research available now, we would have done the same thing as our kids are doing.  If science replaces the common sense lessons of time then so be it. Nostalgia is a luxury.

9.  Rejoice in the Common Enemy.  My mother used to say that the reason grandparents and grandchildren get along so well is that they have a common enemy. While the observation is counter to modern thinking where we all work as a team, it does ring true in some respects.  Baba’s and Grampa’s house is a refuge from the realities of growing up, of training for real life.  It is a place where you are always perfect.  It is Time-Out in the nicest sense of the word.  What child doesn’t need grandparents who melt like butter just looking at you, who let you set the agenda, who let you carry on in the messiest ways, whose arms and rocking chair are a respite from the increasingly serious and demanding world?  If this wholesale spoiling of grandchildren gets you in trouble with the Enemy, then so be it.

 10. Tell your kids they're doing a good job.  Because they are.  Or you would've raised Holy Hell.  

      

    

      

Buster and She Who Must Be Obeyed - A cautionary dietary tail

Overhead conversations between my handlers alerted me to forthcoming changes.  High pitched happiness (which usually precedes dog-park outings) coincided with the phrase “Buster’s going to school!”. OK, I’ll bite.  Sounds interesting. 

If only I’d known.

A short car ride (I prefer the window down even in the coldest weather) resulted in the bonanza of all dog-parks – indoor, with a playground, populated by several dogs of varying shape and sociability.  We were given 10 minutes to extract vital biochemical olfactory information from each other’s butts - an enjoyable activity that terminated in the appearance of She Who Must Be Obeyed.  There are people who can travel through dogdom without even disturbing the air around them and there are those who reek of Power and leave the Smell of Fear in their path. Her first words to my handlers are “What does this dog eat?”  Female handler replies jocularly “The usual: fresh bread and butter.” No laughter.  Male handler quickly explains my dietary regimen to which She Who Must Be Obeyed replies, “Starting today he’s on half-rations.  After two weeks, give him half of that.” 

As she speaks, the word Noooooooooooooo escapes from me and I see myself lunging in slow motion to stop the calamity unfolding before me.  Except I couldn’t lunge because I was in a Stay.  As my head slumps to the ground I know my life in its present incarnation, is over.

As the offspring of trailer park parents there is nothing in my genetic code that would allow me to find merit in starvation.  Others of my breed are scrawny and nervous, the legacy of endlessly herding sheep with the occasional reinforcement of consuming one. (The ultimate Uh-oh). I, however, enjoy my food.  Pizza nights, fresh artisanal bread, those little bits of burnt fat from steaks.  Not that it comes easy, but with stealth and intelligence, much is possible.  As a result, unlike the others canines in our neighborhood, I have accumulated an impressive layer of fat; a symbol in the animal kingdom of success - nay - victory.  I have achieved my present state not through chance but through cunning and guile, the genes for which, sadly, will die with me. Damn you Darwin.

The tactics I use to accumulate calories range from simple trolling to applied physics.  Superior mass gives me free rein to elbow my way to the cat dish.  Feline protests, though painful, are rare.  The creation of elaborate distractions provides opportunity to inhale tender morsels of Rollie Roll that are intended for my toothless Rescue Dog Roomie cowering under the table. The occasional lapsed attention of my handlers can result in untended butter dishes on the counter that somehow fall to the floor.  (I am saved from consequences by the accepted dogma that disciplining after the fact when there is no longer a clear link between cause and effect, is pointless.  At this I laugh maniacally.)  Another tried and true scam is the “I haven’t been fed yet” con.  Playing one handler against the other, inserting the wedge and with the full force of emotion, eliciting a second feeding. Brilliant. Drive-by feeding is another under-appreciated source of calories.  Plates left untended on the coffee table, tasty morsels thrown by undisciplined toddlers over the side of the high chair, garbage left by the door…. The opportunities are infinite.  In short, a dog that settles for rations lacks imagination.

One month and 10 pounds later, I reassess.  Admittedly I’ve lost my waddle.  I can jump and run with more speed.  Ok, I can jump and run. The cats have more reason to fear me as starvation has heightened my senses, making me a more worthy adversary. In agility class I am earning the grudging respect of She Who Must Be Obeyed.  Yesterday I found myself walking the spine of the couch - something that would have led to disaster one short month ago.  As a leaner meaner version of myself, my eyes are wide open. However, when I close my eyes, I can still smell the fresh bread emerging from the oven.  A dog can dream.

The Good Grandma Scale

Grandma’s Briefs, The Nana Blogs, The GaGa sisterhood, Grammology….  Having been advised by the blogmeisters to peruse sites similar to my own, I’m overwhelmed and intimidated by what I read.

Who are these people?  What sweet pot of sticky toffee did they emerge from?  Is anyone really that nice? "7 Ways to Say Congratulations, You’re Going to be Grandparents” and “Another Ponytail Donated to Love", "Bonding Bragging and Benefits", "The Great Disneyland Adventure", "Fun Sandwiches".  I am way out of my depth here. 

I’ve never thought to make a brag book, and I forget to show off my iphone photos.  I don’t get coloring, and I’d sooner eat glass than go to Disneyland again.  My idea of a good time with my grand babies is sitting opposite their high chair laughing while we chew on bones and make rude noises.  Distractions consist of going outside to wander around or having them watch in-house Dogs and Cats TV.  Treats must have fibre.  They’ve never seen any cookies I’ve made for them because I ate them all. I avoid the new children's books because the authors sound like they're on crack. I forget to positively reinforce through praise and I’ve been known to use inappropriate language.  I have no tips on Nap Time other than the use of a full Nelson in the rocking chair and an extensive repertoire of nonsense songs. My baby proofing consists of picking up after the most recent fiasco. I rarely think to buy them presents, and I’m chronically short on clean bibs. I look forward to the time when they can help sort laundry and operate a mop.  Picking weeds in the garden is a life skill I can’t wait to teach.

In short, there is little to recommend me on the Good Grandma scale.

Except love.

Night Symphony: Baba in Bedlam

Roarfooshirrrrrrriek! The dear man next to me has assumed his night-time persona.  A chimera of Darth Vader and Snuffleupagus, the CPAP’s ungodly suction and mechanical exhalation unnerve me. As I lay beside him in the dark, one of two arms clad in tightly laced black gauntlets rises ominously from the bed.  An index finger reaches out menacingly, but lands softly on his forehead where it traces soft circles on the skin – a vestige of childhood self-soothing.  I smile.

Earlier, as I watch him gear-up for bed I am thankful that a CPAP allows him to sleep peacefully without threat of heart attack from sleep apnea.  I am grateful that a simple rigid gauntlet that stops the wrist from flexing can prevent the numbness from his dubiously diagnosed ‘trigger thumbs’. However, as I watch him arm-up, empathy and gratitude are so nearly over-ridden by the urge to break into convulsive laughter.  It never gets old.  As he slides into sleep and the symphony begins, I wait to see whether my accumulated exhaustion will triumph over the physics of air moving through tubes...... Nope, not tonight.  

Having hauled my pillow to the spare room, the Black Beast on the bed huffs and growls at this clear breach of territory as he allows himself to be shoved to the wall.  Making a mental note to clarify my status as pack leader in the morning, I slide between the coolness of cotton and the warmth of duck down, and drift.

What is that noise? I open one eye to see The Beast observing me at close quarters. Head tilted in the canine version of WTF, he eyes me with a mixture of delight and trepidation.  A new game or a medical emergency? We stare at each other.  I hear it too.  Rice Krispies ....... whissssstle…. Rice Krispies.   It’s me.  The sound is, as above, the physics of air moving through tubes. I rise, mentally tracking the last known position of the inhaler.  Rifling through purse, swim bag, coat pocket and other likely spots, it surfaces eventually. OK. Lips and teeth around spout, big Darth inhale… squirt ... Wait….10-9-8-... Gasp.  And again. Climbing the stairs back to bed I shake my head with wonder at the quiet, still night outside the window.

20 minutes later my eyes open to bedlam.  The Beast, scrabbling Fred Flinstone style to find purchase on the slippery hardwood barks hysterically in 5 alarm fire mode. Nutty Little Rescue Dog joins the fracas.  I pause momentarily to wonder why we spend money on an alarm system. The cause of the current fiasco?  Piano Playing Cat.  On her way from piano bench to piano top she has traversed the last octave in a shrill call to arms. The Beast, infuriated by both broken slumber and the impudence of one of his charges, barrels down the stairs.  Animal Armageddon – there will be hell to pay.  Joined by their Second in Commands, they fight like proverbial cats and dogs: Hiss! Slap! Yelp! Snap! Yowl! Howl!  The blare of my bugle call for retreat sends them scattering, and they have returned to their corners, licked their wounds, and have fallen asleep long before I can again close my eyes.

3:00 a.m.  Too early to get up and make tea, I toss, turn, and eventually find myself starring down at Darth as he sleeps peacefully on his side, hands angel-like.  The mechanical racket of the CPAP has, by a miraculous manifestation of a merciful God, been transmuted into the sound of ocean waves. Shusssshhh and pull………shusssshhh and pull. I want to cry with relief. Climbing into bed behind him,  I wrap my arms around his warm middle, and sleep.