Archives for November 2006

You know that feeling you get when you have just finished a long book, when you have been living with these people for a really long time and you are tired and about to go to bed and planning to stop by for a little night cap before slipping into a coma and then you remember that the book is done and so you have no place to go. But you need SOME place to go before you call it a night but you don’t have anything lined up and you don’t really have the energy to get to know someone, you just want to unwind. You do NOT want to start a RELATIONSHIP, I mean you just broke up with your old book…

You know that feeling?

I’m feeling it.

Some people would just go to bed, but they clearly aren’t as addic…I mean, committed as I…or is that, should be committed?

Good night.

My older brother, Tanner, flew back to California today. He was here a little over a week to shoot a short film. It was a great visit. He has been gone a lot, what with the shoot and so many get togethers with friends. Yesterday he didn’t book anything. Paul and David took the day off too and it felt like Saturday.

Paul made everyone waffles on his new, industrial (true story) waffle maker. Torey and I took Lydia for a haircut and sat in the nearly empty salon chit chatting with the stylist and oohing and aahing over the Bird – classic girl time. Paul did a lot of leaf removal with some help from me and the kids. Tanner and David played a lot of Settlers. Later, Torey made cookies with all the children. Just as I was coming in to make dinner Tanner announced that he wanted to buy it. We ordered Chinese. While Paul finished up outside I did some work on the Carnival essay. Torey and David drifted in and out giving input and then finally something clicked and I hammered out the ending.

After dinner I played Settlers with Tanner, David and our friend, Dan. Paul and Torey threw the kids in bed and then all the adults, with the exception of Pau,l played several mad rounds of Dutch Blitz.

It was a great, slow, lazy day.

After Tanner left today I started crying. The Big Kids gave me hugs.

I miss my brother.

Safe travels, Tanner. Come back soon.

https://alisonhodgson.com/2006/11/851/

Finally as promised. The essays below are companion pieces. The one titled Carnival comes first and then Ponyfoot. Tell me if Ponyfoot makes you laugh. It is the one that had Torey bent over gasping. But, as I qualified before, she was there.

https://alisonhodgson.com/2006/11/853/

My children and I have not always had good experiences at fairs and carnivals. Actually, we have never had a good experience. Other women might let this keep them away, but I should tell you, I am not “other women”. You have probably figured this out by now. That is all I have for a defense of why, when our annual community fair rolled around again, I thought it would be a good idea to go. Well, perhaps I considered it a challenge to be met, a sort of mountain to climb.

The fact that the last time we tried to have fun at this fair our adventure ended with an emergency trip to the ophthalmologist did not deter me. This was our year. We were all older, some of us were wiser and we could do this – so many people did – you know, be together, have fun, enjoy the festivities. I knew we needed a plan and decided to get there first thing, do all the rides and then meander between the crafts and the petting zoo, eating when we were hungry or tantalized by treats.

And it worked. We got there early and went straight to the “rides”. There was still the bouncing cage, the slide, the whale and the Velcro run. There was also a rock-climbing wall, some small carousal type rides for the little kids and – excitement of all excitements – pony rides.

My sister, Torey and her three-year-old daughter, Ren, accompanied us. This time Rennie was the balker. She would wait patiently in line and once even entered the whale’s mouth only to immediately regurgitate herself out in terror, “I don’ wanna do it!” Her little voice quavered. Torey, being a wiser mother than I had been at that point in my career, realized that the craft tent was more their speed and we agreed to meet later. Everything was close enough that the big kids could stand in one line while I stood for them in another. This way they were able to go on everything they wanted and some things twice.

After we had exhausted our inflated plastic options we found Torey and Ren, headed over to the pony area and confirmed that the rides would start at 11:00. It was then 10:40. Torey was against waiting for it to open as we were the only ones there. She was for getting something to eat and coming back when the rides started. I knew this was crazy talk. If we left and came back we would have to wait an additional twenty minutes, at least, for a turn. I put my foot down and Torey yielded to my greater wisdom. Besides, there was a cage full of kittens just outside the ring that the children were happily petting. Sure enough only a couple of minutes passed and families began to line up. By 11:00 the line snaked far into the park.

We were the first to be invited in. Christopher and Lydia were directed to the ring of horses while Torey and I placed Ren and Eden on the ponies of their choice. Eden’s, a dark brown pony, was named Spike. She had asked one of the employees, a teenage girl, who was standing next to us holding onto Spike’s harness. Soon the woman in
charge yelled for them to start and all horses and ponies started plodding in a circle. Walking with Eden, I made all the typical comments a mom makes to a small child who is doing something exciting – “Wow! Look at you riding! What a big girl!” – you know the drill.

We were moving slowly, but we were under the trees and it felt good to be in the shade and look at different views of the sunny park.
Near the ponies, area businesses had set up tents. The one closest belonged to Big Dog Tai Kwon Do School and I decided to check it out as soon as we were done with our ride. We swung around and I was looking across the road at Paul’s office building. He had hoped to come but had sprained his ankle playing basketball that morning. He called me soon before we left for the carnival and told me what had happened, that he was fine, but was sitting with his ankle elevated and iced per the care of the corporate nurse. “I’m afraid I won’t be able meet you over there today.”

“I didn’t know you were planning to go.”

“I was. I’m sorry I can’t, but I hope you and the kids have a good time.”

We were and I was so grateful. Everything had gone perfectly. The kids were all happy. The rides, as soon as this one was over, were completed. All that was left was meandering around the craft area and maybe getting a little something to eat. We had done it! We had come to something intended to be fun for the whole family and the whole family had actually had fun. I was amazed and happy and grateful and relaxed…and then the pony stepped on my foot.

I know, I know, it’s not often you get to say that, but I do and did so many times that day: to Torey, to the bewildered women at the Tai Kwon Do tent where I wandered in shock, to the kind ladies at the information booth, to the young man who drove me in a golf cart over to the fire trucks, to the firefighters themselves as one of them iced and bandaged it, to my friend from church who happened by and offered the use of her phone, to Paul who I called to ask for my doctor’s number which I could not remember, to the nurse at the doctor’s office, to the doctor who used to attend my church who my friend ran into and dragged over to check me, to Ronald McDonald as he terrified Ren and Eden while we waited for Torey to get the van, to the woman who checked me into the E.R. later that day, to the nurse and the doctor and the X-ray tech in the E.R and then to anyone who happened to notice the colors and size of my foot in the following week.

Initially I didn’t say anything at all. I just crumpled against the pony and groaned loudly. My immediate concerns were choking back an expletive, staying calm, and avoiding the attraction of any attention.

I can’t tell you how much it hurt. I know “pony” sounds so cute and harmless. This is where being pedantic gets one into trouble. A short fat horse stepped on me, technically a pony, but please do not think it was small or light or incapable of inflicting excruciating pain. It was and it did, although I don’t hold him responsible. Nor do I hold responsible the teenage girl who suddenly shouted, “Whoa!” right in his ear, startling him and Eden and me. I was immediately startled again as Spike tried to stop, tripped, stomped on my foot, ground into it to regain his balance and then stepped off lightly.

After I managed to pull Eden off I staggered across the ring to where Torey was already waiting with the rest of the kids. “The pony stepped on my foot.” I whispered hoarsely.

She gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. “Do you need to go to First Aid?”

I was bent over, one hand on my waist, the other on my forehead. “I’m fine.” I said.

Torey looked at me quizzically.

This is where things get a little fuzzy. Now I know that I was in shock and trying to find some way of coping with the terrible pain other than throwing myself on the ground and screaming hysterically. When I am hurt my impulse is to walk, as if I keep moving I can get away from it.

“I want to check out the Tai Kwon Do tent,” I said and, without a backwards glance at my three children, began to hobble to it.

Torey watched me stagger away, still bent over, head nodding, one hand up by my face the other down by my waist both alternately pointing and then batting at some invisible assailant. I reminded her of the slightly unbalanced woman in town who likes to stand on corners and preach to passing cars, but that didn’t fully capture it.

“It’s hard to describe. The hunching and staggering cannot be highlighted enough. You sort of looked like a pecking chicken, a umpire calling a play and a decrepit old woman all rolled into one but that’s not quite it…you just had so much going on.”

We’ll never know exactly what I resembled as the scattering of our children: Christopher back to the kittens, Lydia towards the craft tent and Eden and Ren to the four lane road with a view to getting hit by a car, distracted her from making a perfect study. I was on my own.

When I finally made it to the Big Dog Tai Kwan Do booth, the two women running it jumped to attention handing me brochures and offering to answer any questions. I stood dumbly. I was trying to read the brochures and unable to focus, just stared at them trying to figure out what had propelled me there. Since I have ADD and three children I often find myself staring blankly trying to remember why I am wherever I am, so that wasn’t a new feeling, but I was realizing that the throbbing pain in my foot, the constriction in my throat and my inability to remember my name might indicate the need to postpone exploring my martial arts’ options. The women were still smiling expectantly. An explanation seemed necessary.

“I’m sorry,” I croaked, “a pony just stepped on my foot.”

They both gasped and made shocked murmurs. “Do you need anything?” One asked.

I shook my head.

A woman with a baby in the stroller, also visiting the booth, offered me some Advil. I was poised to refuse and then thought better, “That would be great. Thank you.”

She whipped the bottle out and handed me a couple tablets. I took them and stood blinking. She reached down under the stroller and grabbed a bottle of water. “Take this too.”

I knew that all the refreshments were on the other side of the grassy park, which meant that she had gotten this water for herself and then pushed that stroller across the park in the hot sun. I knew how hard it is to push a stroller across grassy and uneven surfaces. For her to give me, a complete stranger, this water that would cost her at least one more trek across the park seemed such a sacrifice. Her kindness undid me. I was on the verge of tears. Good thing I didn’t know it also cost her a dollar. In the past bottles of water had been given out free. Had I known I am sure I would have refused to take it and started sobbing hysterically.

Torey, who had gathered all the children, came up as I was thanking my benefactress. I swallowed the Advil as we walked away from the tent. “She gave me Advil AND a BOTTLE of WATER!” I croaked, my
voice breaking. “Wasn’t that KIND?”

Torey stopped and touched my elbow, “Are you OK?”

I looked at her, amazed, “I got stepped on by a POOOOOOONY!” This ended in a high-pitched squeal that only dogs could hear.

“I know! But you were heading off to the Big Dog, leaving me to chase the kids…” she paused. This was the moment she realized she was dealing with a lunatic. She scanned the park. “You need to go to First Aid. I bet it’s at the Information tent. I’ll take the kids to the Petting Zoo. You meet us there when you’re finished.”

And so I did. Later that day reclining on a bed in the E.R., Paul’s bum foot propped on the bed next to mine I quietly told him about my adventures at the carnival.

“I think I acted like such a nut because all my energy was going into holding back tears. Which doesn’t make sense since you know what an emotional girl I am.” He did know; I rarely resist crying. To me, it’s just a part of life, a sort of emotional sneeze. My philosophy for crying and sneezing in public is the same: try to be discreet and grab a tissue. There’s no need to be embarrassed or ashamed. Thinking about it, I could see that any time I was hurt physically I would resist any response, trying to ignore the pain and keep it cool. Why?
And then I saw myself as a child, in pain and crying, and heard my father’s angry voice, “OK, Alison tuck it in.”

Tuck it in. All we kids were told that any time we got hurt enough to cry. And we would, because no pain was bigger than our dad’s authority. We have talked about how that shaped us. As adults we can see the validity in trying to calm a child when helping him and yet we all got the message that our tearful response to our pain and fears was invalid.

Because I am such an emotional woman I thought I had eluded “Tuck it in.” but it was clearly still driving me. I, who will calmly wipe away tears prompted by a sad thought would have rather died than cry when I got stepped on by a stinking pony. In the shock of the pain I thought if I just kept moving, played it cool and pretended I was OK, I would be.

It isn’t just me. Sitting in the E.R., separated from the other patients by only curtains, every conversation was clearly heard. Person after person, before they would accept care, needed to explain to the doctor exactly how long they had held out, some for days, before coming in, and then, only at the insistence of a family member. Why are so many of us are afraid to ask for help, to show our weakness, to acknowledge our woundedness?

The doctor came back with the news that no bones had been broken and I was released with instructions to take care. We hadn’t been home five minutes before one of the children walked up to me and bumped my foot. I bit back a scream.

“Was that your hurt foot? I’m sorry, Mama!”

Days passed and it continued to be brushed against, jostled and stepped on. After a week Torey gave me a Pilates lesson and grabbed it to adjust my posture.

“Ponyfoot!” I shrieked and a nickname was born.

It’s been months now, the bruises are all gone and it rarely hurts, but every once in a while I will feel a shot of pain. My first thought is always thankfulness that I asked for help, that I went to the hospital and I allowed myself to be taken care of, because I know everything is OK. The pain is simply a reminder of the wound, and its infrequency a sign of healing.

Every August the business association of our little community funds a children’s fair. There are rides, games, a petting zoo, crafts and food, all free of cost. It is always on a Friday so Paul is usually working which means I don’t have him to double team the kids and lines with me. The last time we attended was before my youngest, Eden, was born. It was just Christopher, Lydia and I in the hot, hot sun. He was 5 and she was 3. Imagine accompanying the Tasmanian Devil and a shrinking violet to a carnival – it was a little like that. Christopher wanted to run from thing to thing, not always mindful of others’ personal space or if I was with him. It was the teensiest bit maddening.

Lydia on the other hand would choose a ride, usually something Christopher had no interest in, so I worked hard to keep him in line – literally – and we would wait, seemingly hours, get to her turn and she would choke.

“I don’t want to do it!” She would cry and try to climb up my body.

Ride is really a misnomer. Attraction might be a better word. We are talking about giant pieces of inflated plastic. In one the children could jump themselves silly. One was a giant slide. One was a long whale, through whose innards the children could run. There was one attraction that seemed the hottest ticket. It had the longest line although it was only a small tent, which gave no clue to its hidden delights. Lydia asked to go there next.

A wiser woman would have added up all the attractions that had already proven too scary and said, “NO!” I said, “OK, honey,” figuring that she deserved one more shot at a little fun and that maybe, just maybe, that benign looking little tent would provide it. You all know that it didn’t and I, from the distance of five years, can see it was foolhardy to even hope it could.

What caused this faulty math? I was just emerging from a depression and, though feeling much perkier and hopeful, I still hadn’t shaken off the guilt that I picked up within seconds of conceiving Christopher. I realized the whole carnival scene wasn’t working for us but I attributed it to my inadequacies as a mother. I wasn’t clear that low energy and an abhorrence for almost all places that delight children (see: Chucky Cheese, Disney World, and any carnival, even those in wealthy suburbs) were actually reasonable and that those high energy moms who love “fun” places are the ones who have some explaining to do (see: habitual use of illegal substances) This was one of those times when I really could have used the voice of God and flaming shrubbery to give me some clarity and to get me the crap out of there.

So we waited in the hot sun for another hour. As we approached the front of the line I realized that this amazing attraction was simply a small tent with several fans built into it’s walls which blew the 10 to 12 balloons inside all around so that the three or four children allowed in at a time were able to crazily bat at them. I couldn’t believe it. What a rip off! This was my thought but I had stood in the sweltering sun for an hour so that my kids could bat balloons crazily and, as God and the hundred other people in line behind me were my witness, they would.

Christopher happily slid through the slit of doorway with a couple of other kids while Lydia stood balking. Before she could say anything I shoved her through. My theory was that once she got in there she would enjoy it, which she did. She was merrily jumping, madly hitting at the bobbing balloons until another Merry Flailer elbowed her in the eye. She crumpled to the ground, sobbing. And so ended their turn and our time at the carnival.

“I can’t open my eye!” She cried. I gave her a hug, checked it out and assured her being shut and washed with tears was exactly what it needed and that we would get her all fixed up when we got home. And then we walked very slowly back to our car.

At home, I turned on the TV, plunked both kids in front of it and collapsed on the couch. I still had to finish packing for a family vacation half way across the country. We were leaving early the next morning. I breathed slowly and just let myself relax and bask in the self-congratulation that I was such a good mom to take my kids to this little carnival the day before we began a long car trip. How proud I was that I hadn’t told myself that I was too busy and deprived my children of this fun…it was then I noticed that, over 30 minutes after the elbowing, Lydia’s eye was still closed.

I looked at the clock. It was 4:29 on a Friday afternoon. The timing alone confirmed that I needed to take her to the doctor. Any medical emergency in our home has occurred in the middle of the night, on a holiday or late afternoon on a Friday. I debated between calling the ophthalmologist or the pediatrician. Distance decided. I hurriedly dialed the ophthalmologist’s number and explained the situation to a nurse. She sighed heavily. I waited. Both of us knew what needed to be done and neither of us wanted me to do it.

“How soon can you get here?” She asked.

I looked at my kids still red and sweating, sitting quietly, watching T.V. – Lydia with one eye. I sighed too, “Ten, maybe fifteen minutes.”

“Chop Chop,” she said and hung up the phone.

We made it in ten. The doctor was jolly and kind and glad we had come in. Lydia had torn her cornea, which would heal on its own, but was very vulnerable to infection. The doctor kindly gave me the drops, sparing me a trip to the pharmacy. Lydia’s eye healed beautifully and we took off on vacation as planned. We didn’t return to this carnival for five years, but that’s another story.

Recently I asked Lydia, now nine, what she remembered about this day. “I don’t remember you pushing me into the tent. I do remember picking up pieces of popped balloons off the ground and handing them to the worker and then I remember seeing an elbow coming towards me.”

Christopher doesn’t remember the day at all.

So there you have it. I sacrificed my time and energy. I stood for hours in the hot sun to show my kids a fun time and the only memory that survived is picking up trash and getting popped in the eye. I need to remember this: my children are going to forget many of the details of their childhood.

When they are grown they will look back and know whether or not they were loved and cherished, whether or not Paul and I honored and respected each other, whether or not our home was filled with peace and joy, whether or not they were guided and led, whether or not they were protected and kept safe.

If I stop thinking of a “fun place” as a location to be visited but instead a space to be created and daily commit to finding ways of enjoying my children, laughing with them and delighting in them, I know their childhood memories will be rich and sweet. Having my own childhood behind me, I already knew this.

I had forgotten, but from now on, I am going to remember.