friday fancy

A rainy day and too many photographs from last weekend's visit to my parents' cottage in Hanford Bay inspired a mirage. I wish there were oversized leafy sea dragons swimming in the lake. In June, the shores are still littered with winter's debris. My feet are haunted by the very decayed deer I stumbled over when chasing the kids down the beach last weekend.  By this time next month, the beach will be clear- the only remnants will be the drift wood fashioned into teepees for Independence Day bonfires.

Happy Friday! Happy 1st of June! It feels more like the 1st of October here. I hope wherever you are, there is warmth whether it be from the sun or in the smile of someone you love.

There is No Team in Me

The problem with staying home every day with children is that there is often no period at the end of the work week sentence. No Friday. There is nothing in place to let one know that she has reached a time of reprieve from the daily grind- a reminder to reset her clock to allow for a shift in routine, rewarding herself some free and flexible time. When you are the primary care giver of little (or big) children, you often find yourself swimming upstream in weeks that run on, spilling into each other, colliding with the weight of excess baggage from the weeks before.

For me this feeling is most pronounced when there is a sick kid at home throwing illnesses like RSV and a double ear infection into the mix of daily variables. I am fortunate to be able to stay home with The Baby when her health demands attention and her little spirit needs soothing that only her mother can give. But, during those snot dappled days, when  germs  victoriously dance around the loathsome chores piling up around me, and it seems that I will never be released from my station on the couch with the sicky, I entertain the idea of joining a workforce.  Any workforce which is outside of the home.

Illustration based on this image

As I rub circles on a little feverish back, I daydream of belonging to an ethnically and culturally diverse team, an intellectual powerhouse to which I am a tidy, productive, skilled and respected member. My imaginary boss, Bill Williams, a 30 year veteran in the field who has a remarkably thick chestnut colored mustache and a fatherly way about him-stern yet gentle, will praise me daily for completing my tasks in a timely manner with exceedingly fabulous results. I will rise to all of the challenges thrown at me because my day will be devoid of interruptions beseeching my service for “More chocolate milk!” or “More Yo Gabba Gabba!” “More Love! More Love!” Come Friday at 5:00, I will know that I deserved the free pace of the weekend because I worked diligently and accomplished so much during the work week.

My daydream bubble bursts when The Mr. returns home from his corporate job where he holds a position which he takes very seriously, but which he seldom gets the opportunity to tend to in the way he wants to because teamwork gets in the way. With his shoulders slouching from the dejection of the reality of belonging to a team, phrases like ‘micromanagement,’ ‘team building workshops’, ‘daily scrum’ 'Agile workplace' 'mentally unstable boss lady' hover around his folded body. He tells me stories of team spirit with an eerie vacant look in his eyes. There was the 6 hour mandatory sadistic conference disguised as a team building exercise where employees were instructed to skip around the conference room high fiving each other. Then there was another time when his company was  forced to get in touch with the emotional side of corporate culture and write letters of appreciation to one or more members of the team- which they had to share out loud. No one is calling out for 'More chocolate milk!' But in one of his former places of employment, the work day was punctuated randomly with the ding of a cow bell calling all workers to drop what they were doing and join the scrum master in the conference room for a spontaneous calisthenics workout- which resembled the hokey pokey.  In a 9 hour day, The Mr. manages to get two solid hours of work completed because, in an effort to raise productivity, the CEO spent millions of dollars on team spirit leadership initiatives. The Mr. climbed the corporate ladder and all he got was a lousy card table which he had to share with 8 other people. They were seated elbow to elbow- their work issued laptops and a single legal pad and pencil as their only possessions-all in the name of equality and teamwork.

After listening to The Mr.'s stories I realize that there is no team in me. I am too easily humiliated. I would not have made it past the high-fives. I don't really mind working alone and I'd rather chose daily snot over daily scrums. As for Fridays and weekends, I still get them. With four other people around to entertain and distract The Baby, my break comes in the form of being able to use the bathroom without the banging of little fists threatening to tear down the door because she's afraid that in the two minutes I've been out of sight, I've disappeared to the Ozarks. This week the kids are on February recess. So, you can bet I am going to be taking advantage of my bathroom breaks.

Happy Friday, Team!

fri-day-re-par-tay

Fur Free Friday

Ruby, Before Her De-Fluffing

It's Friday- the first Friday of the New Year. It is also Fur Free Friday in our house. I took Ruby, our dog, to get groomed. We did not mean to let her coat get so unruly. I am able to manage her grooming in the warmer months when I can take her out back, drop her to the grass, and shear her like a sheep. But as soon as autumn arrives, the texture of her fur changes making it difficult to clip and impossible to brush. By Christmas, she is dropping tumble weeds and I am constantly chasing after her with the hand held vacuum. Having The Baby, of course, makes things more tricky due to her insatiable need to taste test everything that falls on the floor. On more than one occasion, I have caught The Baby coughing up a hairball on the living room rug. 

When I made the appointment, I had not mapped out the complexity of balancing a baby, saddled with a winter bunting in one arm, while holding the reins of an overly excitable dog in my other hand. We narrowly escaped becoming casualties of the ice underfoot as Ruby dragged us along the parking lot. When we arrived, the groomer took one look at Ruby, and I could see the weight of defeat in her eyes. She had her work cut out for her. I apologized profusely for allowing my dog to get swallowed by her own fur. In the back of my mind, I replayed every episode of Animal Precinct and Animal Cops, recalling cases of neglect where owners allowed their animals to become so overgrown that the animal could no longer move its limbs. I wondered if the groomer was also recounting those episodes when she was appraising my dog.

With Ruby at the groomer, I could finally vacuum every surface of the house and enjoy it's fur free-ness without worry. I put The Baby down for a nap; and then, I sat in the middle of the living room and tended to the three looming baskets of clothes stationed there. As I folded, I had an uneasy feeling in my spine- as if someone was whispering against my body. It was bothering me enough that I stopped what I was doing and realized that I was alone. For the first time, my home was absent of all dogs. Oscar, Ruby's companion, passed away in July. But, Ruby was always beside me. The unoccupied space made me uncomfortable. I felt vulnerable and lonely. And, it took me by surprise, because as much as I value Ruby as a member of this family, I also thought that I would be relieved when we were one day freed of her anchor. Thinking about that day, which will inevitably come, made me realize how incredibly heart breaking it will be to lose her. And, I did not mind at all when the groomer called to tell me that Ruby was ready to come home.



Ruby, After Grooming. She always looks a little bit exasperated when I am taking pictures of her.



Ruby looked like a deranged Muppet before. But, now she just looks naked. She always walks funny after she's been thoroughly clipped. She fluctuates between a spring in her step and  awkward caution-as if she is trying to figure out how to move through space with a new body. The Baby was intrigued by our new pet.  She assessed the unfamilar creature before her and concluded that she was worthy to partake in a snack of yogurt bites. And, Ruby, never one to pass up a snack, earnestly accepted the offering.