Mother's Morning

By the time I get to it

My tea tastes of nothing

 

It started

As I swam back to 

Consciousness

In the hour before dawn

 

Discipling the dogs as I came downstairs

Starting a pot of coffee

Mixing spices for the chicken I’m roasting

At 6:30 in the morning

For the evening meal

 

Next, it’s shoes, cleats actually

Wet from yesterday’s game in the rain

 

‘Put them in the drier,’ I said sagely

Thirty minutes later my Sweeper

Or is it Centre Back

Exposes unglued souls

Panic ensues

 

There’s a game today

The nearest store is an hour away

My schedule is packed

 

She finds the gorilla glue

I turn to social media

Confident other soccer moms

Have cupboards full of cleats

In various sizes

As do I

 

Cleats are offered

The glue has stuck

And I think this child

Won’t become known

In the annals of soccer

As Shoeless Suki K

 

Work – some work must be done

On deadline

Before 9 this morning

 

After the kids leave for school

And return for

Forgotten things

I sit, copy and paste

Write a few abstracts

Distracted by the doctor directed

Reduction in coffee consumption

 

The dogs suddenly

Need to go out 

I can’t ignore the barking

At the door

I have less than 10 minutes

To deadline

 

They’re out, then in

I answer an email

Post to the website

Check social media 

Searching for replies 

To interview requests

I sent out before 7 am

 

Inappropriately early appeals

To parents

Of school-aged children

We are a cadre of early risers

Whether we want to be

Or not

 

9:05 the chicken is cooked

The dogs are pooped

I turn the ringer on the phone off

Close all the curtains

Lock the doors

And sit down to write

 

Taking a moment to

Reflect

Regroup

Relax

 

Listening

To the sound of running water

In the fish tank

The white noise overhead

From the heat pump

 

Too soon

The hour I carved

For creative preservation

Is over

 

There’s an email from a teacher

Homework hasn’t been handed in

The chicken needs to be dissected

Bones and skin for broth

Dogs need to be walked

again

 

I don’t want to think of what’s next

My jaw clenches as I review my schedule

 

I miss the early days of the pandemic

When all we had to do was stay home

Thankful for the exemption from the world

 

But right now

Now

I must remember

 

To eat

Brush my teeth

Wash my face

Apply deodorant

Leave the house

And drink my tea

The age of power

Composite photo from: CBC, Erin O'Toole/Creative Commons, Chris Young/The Canadian Press.

In Nova Scotia we’ve just gotten through our second election of the summer. The first was a provincial election called by a premier who hadn’t been voted into office by the citizenry but by his party when his predecessor retired. The second was a federal election called by a prime minister who hadn’t yet passed the halfway point of his most recent mandate.

 

I have always been interested in politics; at first personally and later, as a journalist, professionally. As a high school student, I volunteered for a federal campaign in Edmonton. As a university student I joined Mel Hertig’s short-lived National Party of Canada (a left of centre outfit not to be confused with several far-right nationalist parties that have also populated the Canadian political landscape). As a parent, I’ve always followed the parties that would benefit my family which, along with the necessary non-partisanship required for work, means I have no political affiliation or membership.

 

On Monday night, as my daughter and I waited for the numbers to roll in from across the country, we diverted our attention from the vote count by speculating on and then searching for the age of all the federal party leaders.

 

We started with Conservative leader Erin O’Toole. From my familiarity with his campaign webpage, I pegged him at 60. Sorry. He’s 48.

 

JT, also known as the best-looking head of state in the world, is 49. My daughter thought he was far younger than that—good hair will do that for a man.

 

Green party leader Annamie Paul, also 48. I had no estimate in mind for her—her hair and clothes don’t give anything away—but 48 fits.

 

And Jagmeet, Mr. Singh - leader of the NDP - despite the grey in his beard, it’s clear that this guy is too hip to be old. He’s hip in a way that doesn’t make my teenage daughters cringe. He’s so hip that he probably doesn’t use the word hip and he does use tik tok. He’s 42.

 

On the fringe of national politics there are the leaders of the Bloc Québécois Yves-François Blanchet, 56 and the People’s Party of Canada Maxime Bernier, 58. These guys look like they’re in their 50s but in a good way.

 

After this trip down the google rabbit hole I was left with one illuminating thought: I am in the age of power. I turned 48 last month, these people vying for the top job in the country are my peers.

 

I know I am getting older but when I was in my teens and my 20s, when I was first hepped up about politics, all the politicians seemed like old men. In this era, they are my contemporaries.

 

Getting my google on, I found out the truth about the old men I remembered from previous elections; of the prime ministers I remember-- Mulroney, Trudeau (the father), and Harper—all entered office in their mid to late 40s.

 

I am the age of power, I never guessed I’d get here so soon.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The year ahead

 

My personal new year, also known as my birthday, was indicative of what I expect for the year to come: joy and pain, birth and death, fear and relief.

 

8 a.m.

I started the day with a phone call from an old friend who now lives in New Zealand. We’ve been friends since High School – over 30 years – and although we don’t always keep in touch, we are there for each other when needed.

 

Next, I was treated to wonderful gifts from my children. From my oldest I got a replacement fountain pen that I had mourned the loss of for years. It wasn’t the item itself that meant so much to me – things are just things—but the knowledge that she knew me. It was a symbolic gift that indicated she knew my heart’s desire.

 

My youngest daughter spent hours over the summer creating a cornucopia of artistic gifts for me. Beautiful bookmarks, paperweights depicting my two favourite TV characters (Oscar the Grouch and Animal- who I consider a good representation of my personality), a wonderfully decorated pen/bookmark holder, and a painting of my favourite flowers; gladiolas.

10 a.m.

Fully caffeinated, my 16-year-old and I went out for a driving lesson. She’s had her beginner’s permit for just over a month, and I hate to say it, but I don’t think we’ve made much progress yet. Somehow it is hard to find the time to go for a drive- how did this COVID life become so busy?

 

I laugh nervously, she swears like a sailor, and the car bounces along the dirt road at a very sedate speed.

 

Today’s lesson is on the road next to my father’s house. For the past 20 odd years it has been called the Mountain Road, but when I was a kid, it was the Indian Road. I drove there when I was a child. My parents, 70s parents, gave my sister and I a car when I was about 7 years old. We drove it in the small field behind the house and up the Indian Road.

 

The car was a red ’71 Nova that, in its short lifetime, had required a great deal of body work and was a patchwork of body filler and jerry-rigged fixes. We took out the back seat to mark a stump in the field and our cousins stood on the floor in the back of the car hanging onto the front seat as we tore up the grass and tried to leave a trail of dust behind us on the road.

 

This driving lesson wasn’t that.

 

We drove to the end of the road, where we encountered a large machine working on the power plant, turned around and drove back. Nothing too strenuous. I didn’t even need to chew gum to ease the tension.

 

11:30 a.m.

While we had been celebrating the day with gifts, outside a story was breaking. The nearby landfill was on fire and toxic smoke was creating a mournful haze across the village. I drove out to the scene, or as close as I could get, without getting in the way, to get some photos and headed back to town heavy with worry that the fire would spread, that the toxic smoke would persist, that we would have to be evacuated.  (Thankfully the fire was contained, and the smoke dissipated in the early afternoon)

 

1:30 p.m.

When I got home, we ate cake but not before I got a call from my aunt who along with birthday wishes conveyed the news that the Colonel, father of cousins who I’ve always been very close to, was dying. And that another cousin from a different branch of the family was expecting her first grandchild to arrive within hours.

 

After the call I sent messages to my cousins and reflected on how grateful I was to have known the Colonel for these many years. I first met him when I was in my mid-teens – as I am now 48 and he is 96 – he must have been 62 at that time.

 

He was traveling to Alaska to see one of his sons, my much-loved cousin Charlie. He stopped into our house in Edmonton on the trek up North and impressed me with his vigour.

 

Years later, when I was an adult and visiting family in Massachusetts, I would see the Colonel from time to time. My children and I went out with him for lunch on his 91st birthday.

 

Over the years I have heard many fantastic stories about the Colonel. And I’ve been glad to claim him as family.

 

3:30 p.m.

Mid-afternoon I received messages from the Colonel’s sons that he had died. At 96, all agree he’d had a good run, but it’s difficult to lose a parent no matter the age. Two of my favourite people will no longer have a father, and despite their age, the loss is deeply felt.

 

Although we know we are lucky to be in our 40s, 50s and 60s with parents still dolling out advice- the loss of these touchstone souls is no less painful. For a time, it will be unbearable.

For me the hardest part of the news is not being there to share the grief of the people I love.

 

7 p.m.

Feeling like I needed a little comradery, I went to visit my neighbour and found her away from home. Her two adult daughters were visiting, and I stayed to chat with them for a few hours. It was the balm I needed to connect with these two wonderful young women. I enjoyed my time with them and went home feeling renewed.

 

My own children were both home when I returned and we resurrected the disco ball, connected the iPhone to the speakers and had a dance party to end the day.

 

10:15 p.m.

News of new life was delivered via Facebook. Two babies entered the circle that is my wide and expansive family. That makes four of us (one of my adult cousins also shares the day with me) with the same birthday. I sent messages to the proud parents welcoming their newborns to the August 26 birthday club and wished them the all the best. 

 

This day has been a rollercoaster. I’m taking some time to sit with it all: life, death, the year that was and the year ahead.