Hurry Up and Wait...a blast from my past...kids now 10 and 12, but still smarter than me.....

“Hurry up” is my mantra every morning. Every morning I strive to leave by 7:15 a.m. so I can make it to work on time, but every morning something or someone slows me down.

            The other morning I had risen early to have half an hour to myself to write before I had to shower, primp and wake the kids. My suit lay on my bed, carefully coordinated with shoes and jewelry the night before. I blew my hair dry and applied my makeup.

Turning on the light, I entered my four-year-old son Maclean’s room to wake him a half hour before we had to leave. Next it was his younger brother, two-year-old Blake’s, turn. He still likes a bottle in the morning so that sat warmed and ready in the microwave.

            We descended to the living room, the dog still snuggled on his mat upstairs being the only member of the house that didn’t have somewhere else to be. I flipped the cartoons on and bolted back upstairs to get dressed. As I stared at the bright red 7:05 on my night stand clock, I groaned. I’d forgotten to call the automated tee time booking service that opened five minutes ago, after promising friends that I would arrange our golf game for Sunday morning.

            While holding the phone with one hand, I shimmied out of my pjs and into my bra and undies trying to avoid the open window. Shifting the phone to the other shoulder, I hopped on one leg shoving the other into my skirt.

            Blake finished his bottle and submitted to wardrobe. Maclean wanted to watch one more cartoon, eat a snack prepared by me when I had NO time left, and pick a toy for the day home before getting dressed.                    

            Checking my watch, I tried the “hurry up, or we’ll be late” adult reasoning. He stared blankly at the TV and shrugged. I turned it off and said “upstairs now please. Time to go potty and get dressed,” in a singsong preschool teacher’s most optimistic voice.

Maclean retorted with ‘no’.

Short of carrying him up the stairs and stripping him against his will, I didn’t see how I could  make it to the day home and then the train to get downtown in a reasonable facsimile of punctuality.

            Blake sat ready to go.   I stood buffed, polished and starting to perspire.

“Let’s go buddy.”

             “No!” Maclean crossed his arms over his heaving chest.

            The tug of war began and I could see myself sliding helplessly towards the mud puddle. My blood pressure rose and my cheeks flushed. I pictured a pink slip on my desk with the words ‘chronically tardy’ slashed across in red pen.                     

            “Hurry up,” I shrieked, then remorsefully added “I’m sorry buddy, but please cooperate with Mommy”.

            “No.”

            The dog lumbered down the stairs, wiped his drooly muzzle across Maclean’s face in a morning kiss before stopping to stare at the back door until I could attend to his needs.

            Painfully, slowly, Maclean rose. Grabbing a toy like a last request from the floor, he plodded up the stairs.

            With Maclean dressed and back downstairs I instructed, “Pick your toys for the day home and Mommy will go get the car. When I’m back, we’ve gotta go.”

            Pressing the garage door opener incessantly while juggling my briefcase and the boys’ backpack, I willed the ancient motor to whir into warp speed. I crouched to sneak under the creaking door, threw the bags in, cranked the engine and wheeled the car out to idle in the driveway.

Blake had a Thomas the Tank Engine video instead of a toy. Maclean had disappeared.  “Let’s Go!” I cried cheerily.

            “Mommy, come here,” came Maclean’s reply from the kitchen.

            “Can’t buddy. Hurry up.”

            I kicked my shoes off and marched into the kitchen. I had let the dog out and promptly forgot about him. He glared at me, tired and disgusted (brown labs can say all that with their droopy golden eyes).

            Maclean wasn’t looking at the dog though. He stood transfixed, staring at the screen on the outside of the door. Perched on the black mesh was a dragonfly, its still wings reflecting a rainbow of colours in the early morning light.

            My sister, tenant and part-time child wrangler, emerged from the basement.

            “Look Auntie,” Maclean beckoned her over to see his prize.

            “That’s nice honey, gotta go.” I reached for the door handle to let the dog in. Maclean watched the dragonfly take flight.

            Auntie helped Maclean put his shoes on before we ran for the car, which was probably down a half-tank of gas by now.

            As I strapped them into their car seats Maclean said, “Mommy that dragonfly was neat.”

            “Yes honey.” I jammed the gearshift into reverse and flew down the driveway, fiddling with the radio to find the traffic news.

            As we sped up the road, a small voice from the backseat said, “It was waiting for us”.

            I eased my foot off the accelerator, turned down the radio and with a smile at him in the rearview mirror replied, “Yes honey, it was.”

Neighbours...inspired by Mama's losin it blog

3.) Neighbors.

I could go on all day with this prompt as I have found some friendly and some decidedly not. Where do I start? Excuse the misspelling, but I’m Canadian – neighbours….

I remarried nearly 5 years ago and dared to ‘cross the river’ in Calgary, which is apparently not something done by the native Calgarians, but only by us upstart (15 years ago) newcomers. So, I sold my house in the SW quadrant of the city and moved in with said new hubby in the NW.

On my crescent all houses have a front garage, one of those ugly but functional additions that shield the true beauty of the house from passersby in favour of offering drive-in convenience and anonymity. I could go for months without truly interacting with a neighbour. Sometimes this is a good thing.

I hadn’t been living in my new neighbourhood long when I parked across the street from my house because our sons (5 all together) needed the driveway to play basketball. It was summer and I was tired and hot after a day at work and a commute on a packed train from downtown. I cruised to a stop at the curb a little around the corner from my direct across the street neighbour, so that I ensured I didn’t block her driveway and left room for her and her husband and kids numerous cars (at last count they had 5 for a 4 person household and that doesn’t count the motorhome and the Harley).

Anyway, as I was coasting to a stop a polite distance from my neighbour’s overflowing driveway and watching my sons happily gambol about an angry rap on my window startled me. My neighbour, the wife of the couple, chastised me for parking there as someone would surely come around the corner and smash into my car and hadn’t she told me on numerous occasions NOT to park there. I’d never 'officially been introduced' to her before and as I rolled down my window I could tell she thought I was someone else. She apologized too late as her unfriendly tirade left a bitter taste in my mouth that I carry to this day. This taste makes it impossible to say hello.

She doesn’t own the road or the sidewalk and certainly not the one around the corner from her house, but she does own the space around her which I avoid like a no-fly zone. We don’t wave to each other when I pull into my driveway. I ignore her and she ignores me. The perfect un-symbiotic relationship I guess you'd say.

Worked well enough until one of my stepsons dared to take chalk to the sidewalk in front of her house. Another hot summer day and the boys were out spreading graffiti (what they consider to be art) in heinous pastels across public spaces. They dared to deface concrete with butterflies and aliens, rockets and words. My lovely neighbour’s 17-year-old son told the graffiti gang to clear the ‘F’ off his property.

Funny how angry, unhappy people spawn others and how they think they own the world. I wish I cared enough to give her and her family a piece of my mind, as now that I think about it the first time I met her she stood on my lawn at the side of my house with another nosy Parker looking into my backyard-neigbour's yard at their dog. Apparently the dog's barking bothered her across the street, but not me right next to it. Funnily enough I've had complaints about my dog barking too, anonymous ones from the city. Ah, civic harmony....

I do have lovely neighbours to my left who gave us their basketball backboard because their kids are grown and gone. Plus our neighbours to the right prop our fence up when it leans a little too far into their yard and let our boys into their home to call us on our cells if the garage keypad is frozen precluding entrance to our humble abode. Then there’s the neighbour down the street who just invited me over for a jewelry party and barbecue this Sunday.

They make the place seem a whole lot friendlier, and sometimes I’ll even slow down as I enter my garage to wave at them.

The View at Sunset

 
My son Maclean took this photo when we were in Victoria for my father’s 80^th birthday party. This is dusk at Ogden Point.

We arrived on the Thursday morning before Good Friday. My father picked us up at the airport in his convertible BMW – always the cool dude stylishly dressed in jeans and a leather bomber jacket. Bear hugs all around before he dropped us off at my boss’ condo to regroup before lunch with him and an afternoon spent blowing up balloons at my sister’s. My two sons, ten and twelve, gladly helped with decorations and enjoyed goofing around with my sister whom we see less frequently than we’d like.

She took us to the café two hours before the party to set up the tables with white cloths and glass candle holders filled with beach sand, shells and glass beads. My sons helped me tack the balloon bouquets to the railing of the Ogden Point Café as a welcome to the 20 some odd guests who would attend.

My boys cleaned up well in dark pants and button down shirts with their hair combed and their smiles plastered on as the official greeters. They each took one entrance of the café and as the 7pm start time approached they launched into best-behaved mode to impress my father’s tennis buddies, his fellow union club members and his neighbours from the condo. After living in Ontario all his life, he moved to the coast and by all appearances has made it his home.

I nervously prepared for my emcee duties as my sister made sure the food trays looked pretty with wildflowers and the guests were kept in sangria. The boys took pictures and video as they delivered the Grampalloon they had made from a flesh-coloured balloon with a drawn on smiley face, glasses and just the right amount of hair. The three-piece band played Gordon Lightfoot, Neil Diamond and other easy listening favourites and even managed to get the birthday boy up for a few dances. My boys delivered a cupcake with candle to Dad and we all sang Happy Birthday to a proud, yet humbled man on the eve of becoming an octogenarian.

As the candles in the centrepieces burned low and the frantic activity waned to enjoyment of good food, friends and a lovely view, I felt proud of my sons, thankful for my helpful, thoughtful and creative sister, and privileged to have one parent left who makes growing older look so easy.

Just like the stones worn down by the waves in the photo, life smoothes off our hard edges and if we’re lucky leaves us on a hospitable shore. May we all experience the joy of getting better with age like my Pops.