Writing another blog entry about the TV show is the psychological equivalent to holding hands with other viewers. It's the connection I need to sustain me when the cast is struggling to survive. Which is always. Also, I get to list things that annoy me about other viewers while staying well out of reach.
Sensible watchers live in the hope that all will be well with Rick and the Gang. Maybe someone will figure out a cure. Or find a safe place for them to live. From week to week, we hold our collective breath and pray no one else we love dies. Because it happens a lot.
The Talking Dead invites famous fans to discuss the night's episode. I enjoy that. But some guests are complete idiots. Fans like Sarah Silverman, who live for more blood and gore. "More zombies!" they cry shrilly. "Kill more people! Keep it going!" Well, we all want to keep it going, but not like that!
These gore loving, negative Nellies speak for a minority of the Walking Dead family. I can't help wondering, how were they raised? Do they consider Cormac McCarthy's novel, 'The Road,' a light situational comedy? I feel no connection with these fans whatsoever. But there are many like me out there. I just know it. So in the interest of my own mental health, I am emailing the show's producers with the following suggestion.
Make Walking Dead buttons for fans to wear that stipulate preference. There would be the "No More Deaths of Main Characters!" buttons. The rest would read, "More zombies! Who cares about Darryl!" Only two teams. From this moment, you must decide who you are in the world. Do you want mayhem for your own cruel enjoyment? Or survival and character development? Please choose wisely. If you pick the second, you are dead to me. Pardon the pun.
Wearing buttons makes a lot of sense because then we know who to approach on the street. We could hold spontaneous fan meetings all around the world. If I was in Tokyo, I would find my people. I couldn't understand a word they were saying, but we would make misty eyed contact, perhaps hug before saying goodbye. It would be enough.
Feel free to accost me on the streets of Flin Flon. But only if you're on the right team. So choose wisely. If you pick the wrong button and the world turns dark, we'll know who the bad guys are. The potential, 'Team Cannibal.' People who were probably happy when certain characters (I won't spoil it!) died.
Ahhhh. Now that I've shared, I feel so much better. I'll see you at the Orange Toad for our first 'Darryl lives forever!' group meeting. If you disagree with my point of view, then I'll meet you at dawn on number ten highway. Michonne will be there with her katana. (Of course she's on my side! Duh!)
Tuesday, February 24, 2015
Tuesday, February 10, 2015
East Side Story
When I was a child, neighborhoods in Flin Flon commanded great
loyalty from their smaller citizens. I grew up in East Birchview, and
happily defended its honour against the slights of older, more established
areas, like Willowvale. There was something almost gang-like in
our devotion. Not like the Los Angeles Crips and
Bloods, or the Jets and Sharks from West Side Story. We were more
like the 'na na boo boo' gang.
We didn't glide elegantly down the back alley of Norma Avenue, snapping our fingers and throwing down badass lyrics. The Hanson sisters would have liked that, but brother Bill and the Bryson boys, not so much. Belting out a few lyrics would have been awesome, too. Again, no support. I guess it only works in a musical.
In the absence of singing and dancing, the neighborhood kids on my street formed a tight if sometimes uneasy alliance. This was especially true in summer when children were allowed to run free. On a typical day, most would duck out after breakfast, taking nothing more than a white bread sandwich, a jar of freshie, and a head full of crazy ideas. Generally we were expected to return for supper, bring our shoes home, and try not to kill ourselves.
The best thing about East Birchview was our proximity to the bush. Every day of the summer we roamed its paths, making wildly improbable plans while chasing down the two horses and one cow that were often seen ambling through the trees. I think they belonged to Mr. Stevens, though why he had them, I'm not sure. Still, it was kind of heartstopping to see a horse pounding along the path behind you. We'd give chase, picturing ourselves riding bareback through town, like Tonto. We never caught them, but it was thrilling, nonetheless.
The sand pit was also a great place to hang out. The whole neighborhood would show up for a game of steal the flag or king of the mountain. The sun would beat down, bleaching our hair and burning our skin. We'd return home covered in sand fly bites. There was no sun screen in those days, and we never seemed to bother wearing hats or applying bugspray.
One memorable summer, our next door neighbors, the Edwards, kept chickens in their back yard. Whenever we climbed the fence and called out to them, the hens would come running. We'd get scolded, but it didn't stop us for long. Having a close encounter with chickens was crazy fun, and slightly scary for town kids. Eventually Mr. Edwards got rid of them, but it was thrilling while it lasted.
I don't remember much fighting, but there was a lot of name calling and general put downs. For some reason, it didn't feel like bullying, though you had to know your place in the hierarchy. I sucked at marbles, wasn't great at cricket either. But I had a good imagination. I was the one who came up with the idea for a circus in our back yard. It was more of a fair, really, with crazy rides made out of boards, barrels and rope. We placed the planks over the barrels so a child could stand, one at each end, surfing and teeter tottering their way across the yard. I don't know that anything was ever that much fun again.
We went blueberry picking and played hide and seek. Crossed small lakes on make shift rafts and hauled our comics from house to house, peddling our wares with loud and voracious enthusiasm. An endless number of children's voices would echo throughout the neighborhood, carried aloft on the hot summer air. At the end of the day, we'd answer our mothers call, trudging home with sunburnt faces and dirty feet. Tired soldiers at the end of a long campaign, we could hardly wait for the next day to begin so we could do it all over again.
We didn't glide elegantly down the back alley of Norma Avenue, snapping our fingers and throwing down badass lyrics. The Hanson sisters would have liked that, but brother Bill and the Bryson boys, not so much. Belting out a few lyrics would have been awesome, too. Again, no support. I guess it only works in a musical.
In the absence of singing and dancing, the neighborhood kids on my street formed a tight if sometimes uneasy alliance. This was especially true in summer when children were allowed to run free. On a typical day, most would duck out after breakfast, taking nothing more than a white bread sandwich, a jar of freshie, and a head full of crazy ideas. Generally we were expected to return for supper, bring our shoes home, and try not to kill ourselves.
The best thing about East Birchview was our proximity to the bush. Every day of the summer we roamed its paths, making wildly improbable plans while chasing down the two horses and one cow that were often seen ambling through the trees. I think they belonged to Mr. Stevens, though why he had them, I'm not sure. Still, it was kind of heartstopping to see a horse pounding along the path behind you. We'd give chase, picturing ourselves riding bareback through town, like Tonto. We never caught them, but it was thrilling, nonetheless.
The sand pit was also a great place to hang out. The whole neighborhood would show up for a game of steal the flag or king of the mountain. The sun would beat down, bleaching our hair and burning our skin. We'd return home covered in sand fly bites. There was no sun screen in those days, and we never seemed to bother wearing hats or applying bugspray.
One memorable summer, our next door neighbors, the Edwards, kept chickens in their back yard. Whenever we climbed the fence and called out to them, the hens would come running. We'd get scolded, but it didn't stop us for long. Having a close encounter with chickens was crazy fun, and slightly scary for town kids. Eventually Mr. Edwards got rid of them, but it was thrilling while it lasted.
I don't remember much fighting, but there was a lot of name calling and general put downs. For some reason, it didn't feel like bullying, though you had to know your place in the hierarchy. I sucked at marbles, wasn't great at cricket either. But I had a good imagination. I was the one who came up with the idea for a circus in our back yard. It was more of a fair, really, with crazy rides made out of boards, barrels and rope. We placed the planks over the barrels so a child could stand, one at each end, surfing and teeter tottering their way across the yard. I don't know that anything was ever that much fun again.
We went blueberry picking and played hide and seek. Crossed small lakes on make shift rafts and hauled our comics from house to house, peddling our wares with loud and voracious enthusiasm. An endless number of children's voices would echo throughout the neighborhood, carried aloft on the hot summer air. At the end of the day, we'd answer our mothers call, trudging home with sunburnt faces and dirty feet. Tired soldiers at the end of a long campaign, we could hardly wait for the next day to begin so we could do it all over again.
Tuesday, February 3, 2015
Non Athlete
Children who are not athletic usually take a while to discover that truth. Because when you're young, anything seems possible. Flying is not out of the question. So why should playing 'Steal the Flag,' 'Kick the Can,' or baseball be so hard? For some of us, it really is.
I'm genuinely clumsy. Ten years of ballet hasn't helped much, either. When our community choir had dance tryouts a few years back, I was out in the first round. I didn't mind that much because I really don't like being on stage. I was just secretly hoping that things had changed. That the act of aging would have endowed me with better coordination. It feels a little ironic, this continuation of my disability.
I'm not competitive, either. As a kid, my sister Susan was always challenging me to races. Who could run the fastest, climb the highest, swim the farthest? Not me. And I didn't care. I just never understood the point of it. I still don't like to compete. I don't buy lottery tickets, enter my name in contests, or take on fitness challenges. Even yoga feels too difficult. Like I'm making fun of myself, trying to twist like a pretzel when just walking down the street with shopping bags is challenging enough. Zumba is an exception, because you can break out in your own moves if the dance is too hard. People might laugh, but they're usually courteous enough to look the other way while doing it.
Sometimes I think I have a neurological condition, like a mild form of MS, or Parkinson's. Something that would account for all the dropped balls and missteps. The difficulty in dribbling a basketball or playing tennis. I can't even folk dance, and we took it every year in gym class.
I get lost easily, too, which may be part of the same problem. To find the right spot in a city or a basketball game feels like a quest. A Lord of the Rings sized quest. That many do it so easily seems almost magical to me. People who are naturally athletic or have a good sense of direction must find my problem puzzling. I feel the same way about people who can't spell.
In spite of all my klutziness, I always have fun playing. So what if I'm bad at winning games? I'm good at making friends. All you have to do for that is show up, cheer for your team and don't be a downer. Encourage the people who like to run at the front of the pack. I may be lagging behind but I'm chock full of admiration and ready to cheer all of you in the running. Just remember that, once its over, I'll need someone to come and give me a ride home. I'll try not to get the blood from my skinned knees all over the seats. At least, I'll give it my physically mediocre best.
I'm genuinely clumsy. Ten years of ballet hasn't helped much, either. When our community choir had dance tryouts a few years back, I was out in the first round. I didn't mind that much because I really don't like being on stage. I was just secretly hoping that things had changed. That the act of aging would have endowed me with better coordination. It feels a little ironic, this continuation of my disability.
I'm not competitive, either. As a kid, my sister Susan was always challenging me to races. Who could run the fastest, climb the highest, swim the farthest? Not me. And I didn't care. I just never understood the point of it. I still don't like to compete. I don't buy lottery tickets, enter my name in contests, or take on fitness challenges. Even yoga feels too difficult. Like I'm making fun of myself, trying to twist like a pretzel when just walking down the street with shopping bags is challenging enough. Zumba is an exception, because you can break out in your own moves if the dance is too hard. People might laugh, but they're usually courteous enough to look the other way while doing it.
Sometimes I think I have a neurological condition, like a mild form of MS, or Parkinson's. Something that would account for all the dropped balls and missteps. The difficulty in dribbling a basketball or playing tennis. I can't even folk dance, and we took it every year in gym class.
I get lost easily, too, which may be part of the same problem. To find the right spot in a city or a basketball game feels like a quest. A Lord of the Rings sized quest. That many do it so easily seems almost magical to me. People who are naturally athletic or have a good sense of direction must find my problem puzzling. I feel the same way about people who can't spell.
In spite of all my klutziness, I always have fun playing. So what if I'm bad at winning games? I'm good at making friends. All you have to do for that is show up, cheer for your team and don't be a downer. Encourage the people who like to run at the front of the pack. I may be lagging behind but I'm chock full of admiration and ready to cheer all of you in the running. Just remember that, once its over, I'll need someone to come and give me a ride home. I'll try not to get the blood from my skinned knees all over the seats. At least, I'll give it my physically mediocre best.
Wednesday, December 31, 2014
Knock Out Punch
'Stop all the clocks,' says WH Auden in his poem, 'Funeral Blues.' 'Cut off the telephone. Stop the dog from barking with a juicy bone. Silence the pianos and with muffled drum, bring out the coffin, let the mourners come.'
The first time I heard this verse, I hadn't lost anyone, really. A few neighbors had passed away. A cousin died. We all felt sad in the way children do when they see adults cry. But it was never personal. Since then I've lost my in-laws, both parents, and many friends.
Before mama died last week, my siblings and I had surrounded her with songs, prayer, assurances of our love, promises of good behavior. Mostly we sounded like a bunch of six year olds trying to make a very good impression on someone who already knew us all too well. With her passing, Auden's poem returned to me, especially the first line. Because when someone so important to us dies, the clocks should stop. A silence ought to fall so everyone on earth can drop what they're doing and ask, 'What's going on? What happened?"
Grief is the unwanted journey. The boxer who waits inside a dark ring. Please, you think. Just give me a minute. Give me a moment. Please stop the clock. But grief has no mercy. It jabs and jabs and knocks you down until after a while its not even worth fighting.
Auden's last verse says:
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
You live there. Down at the bottom where the darkness of your grief rips a hole in your chest, confirming what you already knew. You won't ever rise again. But strangely, and in opposition to how most things work, that admission of defeat brings peace. The hurt begins to ease. You are able to acknowledge that death is part of life. That it's coming for all of us, even if, as I believe, we're simply moving on to another place.
The clocks can't stop because they would never be able to start again. What feels so singular, so personal, so tightly packed on the inside, is universal. We all grieve. We all become orphans and widow-ers. The ones left behind. Most of us are lucky enough to realize what we've had within our small communities of friends and family. In lonely times we draw our memories around us; an embrace from everyone we've ever loved and lost. Then we take a deep breath. Feel lighter. Discover that we don't hurt as much as before. The boxer puts down his gloves and the ring fades. Life goes on.
The first time I heard this verse, I hadn't lost anyone, really. A few neighbors had passed away. A cousin died. We all felt sad in the way children do when they see adults cry. But it was never personal. Since then I've lost my in-laws, both parents, and many friends.
Before mama died last week, my siblings and I had surrounded her with songs, prayer, assurances of our love, promises of good behavior. Mostly we sounded like a bunch of six year olds trying to make a very good impression on someone who already knew us all too well. With her passing, Auden's poem returned to me, especially the first line. Because when someone so important to us dies, the clocks should stop. A silence ought to fall so everyone on earth can drop what they're doing and ask, 'What's going on? What happened?"
Grief is the unwanted journey. The boxer who waits inside a dark ring. Please, you think. Just give me a minute. Give me a moment. Please stop the clock. But grief has no mercy. It jabs and jabs and knocks you down until after a while its not even worth fighting.
Auden's last verse says:
The stars are not wanted now: put out every one;
Pack up the moon and dismantle the sun;
Pour away the ocean and sweep up the wood.
For nothing now can ever come to any good.
You live there. Down at the bottom where the darkness of your grief rips a hole in your chest, confirming what you already knew. You won't ever rise again. But strangely, and in opposition to how most things work, that admission of defeat brings peace. The hurt begins to ease. You are able to acknowledge that death is part of life. That it's coming for all of us, even if, as I believe, we're simply moving on to another place.
The clocks can't stop because they would never be able to start again. What feels so singular, so personal, so tightly packed on the inside, is universal. We all grieve. We all become orphans and widow-ers. The ones left behind. Most of us are lucky enough to realize what we've had within our small communities of friends and family. In lonely times we draw our memories around us; an embrace from everyone we've ever loved and lost. Then we take a deep breath. Feel lighter. Discover that we don't hurt as much as before. The boxer puts down his gloves and the ring fades. Life goes on.
Monday, December 15, 2014
A Piece of My Mind
For someone who considers herself a writer, I have a hard time explaining things. One night at Zumba during a particularly tiring routine, I gasped the words, "I feel like I'm in a concentration camp hauling rocks, with no dinner in sight." Since we were dancing to the theme song from, "Love, Actually," I was asked to lighten up. But I wasn't whining. I was pretending. I just forgot myself and did it out loud.
Weird scenarios jump into my mind all the time. Like last summer, when I saw a small crack in the cement outside my house with a tiny bit of moss sticking out and a strange bug on top of it. My first thought was, "So this is how the alien invasion begins." It made perfect sense to me. I also enjoyed the imaginary dystopian world that followed where I became a freedom fighter with my own plane.
My regular life is rich and satisfying. The one inside my head is darker. Strange music drifts through the background, the melody dependent on the scenario. Say I meet a neighbor downtown. They might nod and keep walking. If I'm spending time in my alternate universe, I may hear the words, "Meet me at midnight. We're starting the revolution." (Cue heavy African drum music)This is why I often have a vacant look on my face. Because I'm someplace else.
My childhood report cards read, "If Judy spent less time daydreaming, she would accomplish more in class." Maybe. But I don't think I could have handled the boredom. The truth of my adolescence is that half the time I was checked out. No wonder I could never figure out the coolness factor. One time at a friend's birthday party, a girl from my grade six class caught me singing out of a window. I was pretending to be Doris Day sending forth a wistful love song. The girl looked at me like I was deranged. I knew then that we could never be close, because she just didn't get it.
I'm at the age now where I make no apologies for being exactly who I am. It's such a relief. I love reading books because they put me in the company of other dreamers. But writing is my way of getting all that crazy stuff out of my head so I can remember to buy eggs at the store. Not every day dreamer is a writer. They may have something else going on. Those who write, paint, sculpt, sew or sing feel a lot less stress. If you don't let off steam from all those zany ideas, your head might explode.
We all feel that desperate yearning, that frantic call from our secret ourselves, asking to be released into the world. Find your outlets, my friends. Don't be afraid to expose the real you to the world, unless it involves pulling down your pants in front of strangers. Then, never mind. Otherwise, get to it. Over and out.
(I just received a secret call from the white weasel who lives under our garden shed. The mice are planning a take over...
Weird scenarios jump into my mind all the time. Like last summer, when I saw a small crack in the cement outside my house with a tiny bit of moss sticking out and a strange bug on top of it. My first thought was, "So this is how the alien invasion begins." It made perfect sense to me. I also enjoyed the imaginary dystopian world that followed where I became a freedom fighter with my own plane.
My regular life is rich and satisfying. The one inside my head is darker. Strange music drifts through the background, the melody dependent on the scenario. Say I meet a neighbor downtown. They might nod and keep walking. If I'm spending time in my alternate universe, I may hear the words, "Meet me at midnight. We're starting the revolution." (Cue heavy African drum music)This is why I often have a vacant look on my face. Because I'm someplace else.
My childhood report cards read, "If Judy spent less time daydreaming, she would accomplish more in class." Maybe. But I don't think I could have handled the boredom. The truth of my adolescence is that half the time I was checked out. No wonder I could never figure out the coolness factor. One time at a friend's birthday party, a girl from my grade six class caught me singing out of a window. I was pretending to be Doris Day sending forth a wistful love song. The girl looked at me like I was deranged. I knew then that we could never be close, because she just didn't get it.
I'm at the age now where I make no apologies for being exactly who I am. It's such a relief. I love reading books because they put me in the company of other dreamers. But writing is my way of getting all that crazy stuff out of my head so I can remember to buy eggs at the store. Not every day dreamer is a writer. They may have something else going on. Those who write, paint, sculpt, sew or sing feel a lot less stress. If you don't let off steam from all those zany ideas, your head might explode.
We all feel that desperate yearning, that frantic call from our secret ourselves, asking to be released into the world. Find your outlets, my friends. Don't be afraid to expose the real you to the world, unless it involves pulling down your pants in front of strangers. Then, never mind. Otherwise, get to it. Over and out.
(I just received a secret call from the white weasel who lives under our garden shed. The mice are planning a take over...
Thursday, November 27, 2014
Dear Stuart Mclean
Life is made up of goodbyes. The only thing that doesn't change is change itself. Yadda, yadda, yadda. That we know it doesn't make it any easier or less shocking.
Like most fans of CBC radio, I was enamored with Jian Gomeshi, the cultured, soft spoken host of Q. I admired his courtesy. The thoughtfulness he showed his guests and listening audience. Famous people like Barbra Streisand were drawn by the considerate, almost tender way he conducted his interviews. I loved his voice, his smartness. The way he flipped between languages, speaking Farsi, French and English, while discussing books, music and movies with enviable ease. He seemed suave yet sincere.
Bill Cosby reminded me of my dad. Of everyone's dad, really, but a much cooler version than the ones I knew. Someone who was never lost for the perfect answer. No one was funnier, especially when he talked about Noah. The Cosby show was a role model for the ideal family. Perfectly funny. But Pandora's box has been opened and the truth is out. Goodbye, Jian. So long, Bill. Get down from your pedestals and out of our sight. The nations need time to grieve.
Dear Stuart Mclean, my hope rests with you. With your wacky Dave and Morley stories, your quirky and talented musical guests and even the letters you share, sent by regular people like me. Everything about your show is Perfectly Canadian. Please, Stuart. Don't let me down. You alone are holding up the CBC broadcasting company. I have selected you as my new comfort blanket. Bill and Jian were frauds, and I have never cared for the Kardashians, the Brangelina's or any Hollywood celebrity, really.(Bill Cosby wasn't a celebrity, in my mind. He was a kindly relative that I happened to visit with whenever he was on TV.)
I'm not expecting you to be perfect. Just don't molest anybody. Be the nice guy you seem to be and keep making me laugh. Keep that kindly, Canadian persona going that every listeners identifies with, even if they are American. So, do we have a deal? I'm going to assume we do. Good luck with this Sunday's show. I'll be listening, as usual. Your faithful and devoted fan, Judy
Like most fans of CBC radio, I was enamored with Jian Gomeshi, the cultured, soft spoken host of Q. I admired his courtesy. The thoughtfulness he showed his guests and listening audience. Famous people like Barbra Streisand were drawn by the considerate, almost tender way he conducted his interviews. I loved his voice, his smartness. The way he flipped between languages, speaking Farsi, French and English, while discussing books, music and movies with enviable ease. He seemed suave yet sincere.
Bill Cosby reminded me of my dad. Of everyone's dad, really, but a much cooler version than the ones I knew. Someone who was never lost for the perfect answer. No one was funnier, especially when he talked about Noah. The Cosby show was a role model for the ideal family. Perfectly funny. But Pandora's box has been opened and the truth is out. Goodbye, Jian. So long, Bill. Get down from your pedestals and out of our sight. The nations need time to grieve.
Dear Stuart Mclean, my hope rests with you. With your wacky Dave and Morley stories, your quirky and talented musical guests and even the letters you share, sent by regular people like me. Everything about your show is Perfectly Canadian. Please, Stuart. Don't let me down. You alone are holding up the CBC broadcasting company. I have selected you as my new comfort blanket. Bill and Jian were frauds, and I have never cared for the Kardashians, the Brangelina's or any Hollywood celebrity, really.(Bill Cosby wasn't a celebrity, in my mind. He was a kindly relative that I happened to visit with whenever he was on TV.)
I'm not expecting you to be perfect. Just don't molest anybody. Be the nice guy you seem to be and keep making me laugh. Keep that kindly, Canadian persona going that every listeners identifies with, even if they are American. So, do we have a deal? I'm going to assume we do. Good luck with this Sunday's show. I'll be listening, as usual. Your faithful and devoted fan, Judy
Saturday, November 15, 2014
Ninja Sex
When Mari was three years old, she slept in the bedroom across the hall. We had an open door policy, which meant if any of our kids got sick, had a bad dream, or needed a cuddle, they could crawl in with mom and dad. Our bed was king sized, and we kept our bedroom door open. Theirs were kept closed at night for reasons of fire safety and parental privacy. We should have kept ours closed too, but for some reason, I felt the need to hear EVERYTHING that went on in the house. Was somebody walking through our yard at night? I would know. Could the hamster escape from her cage? Yes. In fact, she ran under the dishwasher with two weeks worth of stolen dog food. It was the chewing that woke me up. My point is that I was tuned in to every creak, every cough, every single thing happening inside and outside our house. I was always on the job.
Except for one night. With the desperation of parents with three children and a busy life, we happened to wake at the same time, with the same idea. Let's fool around. Happily preoccupied, we didn't hear the door across the hall opening, or the small sound of a person breathing nearby.
We kept our bedroom dark. You could barely see a hand in front of your face, never mind a small child standing beside the bed, her head resting on her mother's pillow. It was only when she started to play with my hair that I screamed in fright. Quickly snapping on the light, I don't know who was more horrified; Mari, Clarence, or me. It was probably a tie.
The difficult conversation came next. "Did mommy and daddy scare you?" She nodded, climbing up on the bed and tucking herself between us. "Did you wonder what we were doing?" She nodded again, looking forlorn rather than traumatized. Clarence and I could barely make eye contact, both experiencing the shame of first world parents. Most of earth's human population is crammed into one or two room dwellings, and often one bed. They tend to be prosaic about these things. Nevertheless, I quickly conjured up an alibi.
"We were wrestling," I said, inspired by an idea that would perfectly fit the situation. "Practicing our ninja moves." I did some ludicrous arm chopping and nunchuck wielding imitations, just to hammer home the point. She seemed to buy it, but I apologized anyway. "Mommy and daddy are sorry for scaring you." This was true of mommy. Daddy had already gone back to sleep.
The lesson was learned. Since I wasn't comfortable tying a bell around Mari's leg every night, I figured it was better to close, and even lock, our bedroom door. Not always. Just when we felt like being Ninjas. As parents with three kids and a busy life style, we didn't get as much practice as we wanted. But over time, we definitely earned our black belts.
Except for one night. With the desperation of parents with three children and a busy life, we happened to wake at the same time, with the same idea. Let's fool around. Happily preoccupied, we didn't hear the door across the hall opening, or the small sound of a person breathing nearby.
We kept our bedroom dark. You could barely see a hand in front of your face, never mind a small child standing beside the bed, her head resting on her mother's pillow. It was only when she started to play with my hair that I screamed in fright. Quickly snapping on the light, I don't know who was more horrified; Mari, Clarence, or me. It was probably a tie.
The difficult conversation came next. "Did mommy and daddy scare you?" She nodded, climbing up on the bed and tucking herself between us. "Did you wonder what we were doing?" She nodded again, looking forlorn rather than traumatized. Clarence and I could barely make eye contact, both experiencing the shame of first world parents. Most of earth's human population is crammed into one or two room dwellings, and often one bed. They tend to be prosaic about these things. Nevertheless, I quickly conjured up an alibi.
"We were wrestling," I said, inspired by an idea that would perfectly fit the situation. "Practicing our ninja moves." I did some ludicrous arm chopping and nunchuck wielding imitations, just to hammer home the point. She seemed to buy it, but I apologized anyway. "Mommy and daddy are sorry for scaring you." This was true of mommy. Daddy had already gone back to sleep.
The lesson was learned. Since I wasn't comfortable tying a bell around Mari's leg every night, I figured it was better to close, and even lock, our bedroom door. Not always. Just when we felt like being Ninjas. As parents with three kids and a busy life style, we didn't get as much practice as we wanted. But over time, we definitely earned our black belts.
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