Judith Pettersen

I don’t know if its the long days, or the pile of stuff in our garage that we moved from Winnipeg, but something is keeping us up at night. We’ve been taking turns getting out of bed. Clarence covers the two to four shift, I take over until six. After that, we try to get some sleep. This is a relatively new thing, because in the past we almost never had insomnia at the same time.

We know all the tricks. Don’t turn on lights when you get up to pee. Don’t think about anything as you stumble back to bed. And never talk to your partner. This is my husband’s idea, because I am more than willing to let the complaining portion of the night begin. Faking sleep sometimes tricks my brain, but not lately. We’re thinking of trying my friend’s trick, where you and your partner switch sides. For Sonia and Tom, this is a completely normal thing to do. To me, it’s the wackiest thing I’ve ever heard. And yet, I will probably give it a try.

We’ve had a busy time, lately. That might be part of our problem. Come the fall, I’ll be more than ready to settle into a new routine. The garage, by some miracle, might be empty. Ideally, we’ll turn off all our devices by nine, be in bed by ten. This will leave us a good hour for reading. I know the feng shui-ers frown on books in the bedroom, but it’s a childhood habit I plan on keeping.

The worst part about not sleeping is that every problem gets blown out of proportion. Even the stuff that’s not a problem. Gardening, dentist appointments, weight gains, worrying about weight gains because you know that lack of sleep is a contributor. The brain starts looping from one thing to the next until life begins to feel like a dystopian novel. As John Travolta sings, ‘Summer dreams, ripped at the seams.’ That’s for sure. I can’t even go outside and stand in the middle of our lawn to stare up at the starry sky. It’s always been my favorite thing to do when I can’t sleep. But that’s been stripped away and we haven’t got our new sod yet. Sigh.

The minute the sun goes up, though, I’m able to shake off all the night time wackiness and revert to normal thinking. ‘What was that about?’ I ponder as I prepare my morning cup of tea. The oceans aren’t rising all that fast. Clarence does not have to start building a raft from our left over deck lumber.

Today we started meditating with Oprah and Chopra, free online and very relaxing. I sat in a yoga like position while Clarence rested on the sofa. He started snoring about half way through, but I’m assuming that’s because he was really into it. As we chanted quietly to ourselves, I pictured us having a restful night.

Yes, I’m willing to change from my side of the bed to his, if that’s what it takes. But I’m hopeful that Deepak Chopra is right. Staying in the moment will ‘unstick’ me from this restlessness, sending me into the child like sleep I often experience in winter. As for you, dear friends, I wish you no ripped seams, or floods, no nights of dark planning. Just pleasant and restful sleep. So be quiet, now, and please, don’t turn on the light.

It’s time to let Adam and Eve off the hook. Yes, eating from the tree of life was a big mistake. Their bad. Listening to the snake in the first place, not a smart move. Eve would love to take that one back. The story reveals humans for who we really are. Excepting Victoria’s Secret models, we’re often ashamed of our nude bodies, even when they’re in good working order. We like to eat lambs and trophy hunt lions. And we generally blame each other when things go wrong. Theologians are divided on the bible story, depending if: a) They believe it in the first place. b) They’re sexist pigs who pin everything on Eve. Or c) They take it as a metaphorical example of how we all need to be saved.

Falling can happen unexpectedly. A trap door opens beneath our feet, and down we go. For example. My hubby had to undergo a procedure that meant fasting for two days. He didn’t whine about it, but took a relaxed attitude. It was almost disappointing how well he was doing. Because I felt extremely anxious. We went to Home Depot, then to Chapters for a cup of tea. I was famished. I’d been sneaking around our apartment, chewing apples in dark corners like a rat who’d wandered in from the street. I didn’t want to eat in front of him, so I was much hungrier than I usually allow myself to get. (First world problem, I know) Hungry. Irritable. Or, as my family likes to say, ‘Hanson Hangry.’ It takes the definition up a couple of notches.

Anyway, I’m in line to pay for my book and I see Godiva chocolate bars right by the checkout counter. I snatch one, pay for it and stick it in my purse. Over the next half hour, I redefined the word ‘sneaky.’ If Clarence bent down to tie his shoe, I stuffed three pieces into my mouth. (I’m almost certain I consumed half the tinfoil in this way.) I would misdirect him by pointing and saying, ‘Do we know him?’ He was so tired from not eaten for two days that he wasn’t even suspicious. Did I feel bad? Yes and no. It sucked that he couldn’t eat anything. But somehow, chocolate tastes a lot better when you have to sneak it.

If God would have kept Her mouth shut, Adam and Even wouldn’t have paid any attention to the tree of life. They would have stayed completely comfortable in their little nude world of free food and gentle animal life. As for me, chocolate is my every day fruit. And when I think I can’t have it, then I Want Some Now! What can I say? I was hangry. I never usually eat chocolate that sweet, either. Too much sugar for me and I end up with a bellyache. But it was there! And how could I say no?

There are vices I’ve always felt a little judgemental about. Things I couldn’t imagine doing with my money or time. But we all fall down, every one of us. Mother Theresa maybe longed to wipe the floor with sisters less efficient at cleaning up the lepers.  And Jesus was a little impatient with people for wanting to start a revolution, and not getting the whole ‘Kingdom within,’ thing. Even really excellent teachers can get frustrated sometimes. Saviours want to walk away, even when they don’t. Some fall in these tiny ways, retaining their saintlike status. Others steal the funds from foreign orphanages, or dial up old people, telling them they won a trip and scamming them out of their hard earned money. Those con artists are going for gold in the Falling Down Olympics. We’re shocked when we hear these things. But. To some extent, we all partake. Whew! I feel so much better, now that I’ve made my confession. I bet you do too. Let’s hold hands and sing Kumbaya.

My age has begun to feel like something separate from me. Like it needs its own chair. When I sit quietly and think about it, I feel grateful for this new decade of life. The years past are strewn with things I would handle differently now, given the lens of time and experience. There are words I would rephrase or even refrain from saying. Actions and activities I would skip altogether. Because, the older I get, the wiser I feel. Not like Gandalf or King Solomon, or even my parents. More like a wise person’s apprentice. I sense, hopefully, the green shoots of understanding beginning to poke their heads above ground.

Unless I’m around my kids. Then, I often feel like the newest recruit at the office. Or the understudy coffee maker at MacDonald’s. The other day, I was driving around with our youngest daughter. Throughout our conversation, she offered a litany of softly voiced suggestions. “Mom, the light is green now, you can go. Hey, mom, you might want to get in the other lane…otherwise it will be hard to turn. No, mom, you have to go past the building, then turn around to enter the parking lot.”

The more she talked, the more of a novice I became. “You know, I’ve been driving a lot longer than you,” I said, in the tone parents use when they’re feeling defensive. She gave me a semi-compassionate look, which somehow only made it worse. And the thing I kept thinking was, how old do we have to be before our children think we’re wise? The answer I came up with was, we have to be dead.

I’ve always admired my parents, but never more so than after they passed on. The way they did things, the encouragement they gave me. It wasn’t always like that, but as they got older, they sure seemed smarter. I wish I would have told them that. I’m sure I was complimentary about many things, but I don’t think I ever said, “Mom and Dad, you are so wise. Thank you for the advice.”

When my husband and I are alone together, we don’t notice that we’re reminding each other to turn off the stove or the water sprinkler, to plug in the car when its cold outside. Together, we feel like mature, competent adults. But when we’re around young people, ie: our children, we feel, to copy my mother’s phrase, like cows staring at a new gate. We become stupider. Or feel stupider. And yet our children are kind people. They’re helpful. But somehow, one can’t help picking up certain undercurrents. Like they’re secretly thinking, ‘Dear God, do I have to show them one more time how to get back on Pinterest?’

Being wise probably means accepting help gratefully. Knowing that our children are giving back to us for all the years we cared for them, in the best way they know how. We are each growing in our own way, at our own speed. So I head to the kitchen for another cup of tea and pat my age on the head as I walk by. (It’s sitting in the chair next to me.) “Good job,” I say. “Keep trying. You’re not quite there yet.”

A couple weeks ago I was looking behind the washer when I stepped into a pool of water. My foot slipped and I cracked my rib on the edge of the machine. It was very painful, and being me, I cried out. Being my long suffering husband, Clarence hollered down the stairs, what now? Are you alright?

I was too busy whimpering to answer. I figured my rib was broken, or at least pushed out of place. But it would pass, I thought. Unfortunately, it hasn’t yet, and I’m very tired of being in pain. I’m not any good at it. There is a smugness to people like me who have skipped through life missing out  on the hard stuff. Yes, I went through childbirth. It was bloody awful, both words being accurate. But half the human race does it, so it’s hardly a unique situation.

I went through a bad toothache experience once. I was in Montreal and ended up having to see a dentist about a root canal. Right before I went on national television, I was given very serious sedatives. I’m not sure anyone but family or close friends would have realized how absolutely stoned I was. And in a bizarre twist of fate, I had to keep repeating the words ‘Swarovski Crystal.’

Aside from that, and from shingles, which were not fun, I haven’t suffered much in my life. I know people who live with all kinds of pain. I pray for them, think about them. But I never really understood what it was like to have pain every day, all day. And night. Rolling over in bed, I sound like I’m either in labour or having very kinky sex. Don’t worry, dear neighbors, who can hear me through the open window. Neither is true. My rib is far too sore for any kind of shenanigans.

I have a new appreciation for those who live with pain. I know that mine will pass eventually, but for many, it will not. When I meet these people on the street or at the grocery store, complaining is not the first thing they do. Many have the ability to shove it behind them and just get on with things. Whereas I want to stop strangers in the street, take their arm and make serious eye contact. “I’m really hurting right now,” I’d like to say. This need to share, no surprise to my readers, has taken me by surprise. It’s as if I can’t believe the unfairness of it all.

When you think about how most of the world lives, what’s fair, anyway? I’ve had more than my share of blessings. I should be able to serve my time in the pit of despair with a brave smile. Alas. The people I know who suffer on a daily basis have made it look easier than it is. The art of suffering involves a lip of the stiffest kind. Mine is obviously made of play-dough.

My husband and I have faced some serious challenges together. Like building two houses. His cancer diagnosis. A couple of elections. After each of these rather stressful events, we gave each other a long look, brushed ourselves off and went about our business. However. Gardening brings out some kind of latent control issues in us both. Dare to plant the tomatoes in the wrong part of the patch, and all bets are off. The hissy fits are reality TV worthy.

Things are at their most serious when we have to put equipment together. We just got a new weed whacker and assumed it was ready right out of the box. Charging the battery was the easy part, but figuring out how to attach the safety cover and flower guard? Two Neanderthals trying to program a smart TV would have better luck. Two dumb Neanderthals. It was only when we finally stepped outside to turn the sucker on that I happened to catch sight of our neighbor, Gerry. He had such a pitying look on his face, I knew he’d be willing to help. Sure enough, he had the same weed whacker.

Talking to us slowly and clearly, like we might have trouble understanding (duh) he reached out and pointed to a little button we hadn’t noticed, plus a longer switch. “You have to hold them both down to start it.” We were so thrilled to finally get it going that we were willing to overlook his obvious concern. And, since we’ve lived next door for over ten years, well. He’s seen it all.

It was extremely necessary that I take the first turn. In the end, it was the only turn, because I could not stop whacking those weeds. “Watch the perennials,” Clarence shouted from the sidelines.  He barked out instructions which I totally ignored, and then he ignored me in turn when I told him that there was no room for squash in our small garden plot. “Put the marigolds over here,” he whined, while I planted them in the opposite corner.

It’s fighting therapy, doing yard work together. Somehow, while dealing with the petty details of seed management and the business of how to save the front lawn, we are able to plant a more meaningful peace. Because there are times when you should sweat the small stuff. It makes the big stuff so much easier to handle. Now I’m going to to march over there and take back my favorite rake.

In an earlier blog, I spoke of my calmness during emergency situations. And it’s true. However, I left out something important. In minor emergencies, or when there is nothing momentous happening but for some reason I am still freaked out, I tend to gasp. If the situation is serious enough,  I cry out like an actor in a B movie. (But again, not in extreme situations. Then I am like Mr. Spock. Cold. Logical. Seriously calm.)

This gasping, crying out behavior might occur during an exciting passage of a good book. Once upon a time, Clarence would come rushing into the room, a wild look on his face as he prepared for battle. Now, he mostly ignores me. I can’t say that I blame him. When my children were little, my sisters and I would talk on the phone in the evening. From time to time I might draw in my breath sharply. Clarence would put down his paper and wait for the worst news, ever. “Susan had Connor asleep and now he’s awake again,” I’d say, expecting him to also gasp in dismay. Instead, he’d give me ‘the look.’ But for tired mothers of toddlers, this was a gasp worthy event.

If I’m baking and forget an ingredient, or if I’m driving somewhere and realize I’ve forgotten my reading glasses, I may respond with some serious exhalation. This drives my husband crazy. I’ve been trying to change, but I fear the damage is done.

Last week, I suffered an unusual event. It wasn’t serious, just unexpected. I decided to read my kindle while walking on my treadmill because, as previously stated, sitting is uncomfortable. Somehow I missed seeing my giant purple exercise ball perching against the wall at the end of my treadmill. I climbed on and set the speed. Within seconds, the machine started making these screechy, rubbing noises. I squinted toward the front where the motor is, and then, to my alarm, I began to rise into the air. “Help!” I called. “Someone help me!” Of course, since only my husband was home, no one answered.

Actually, Clarence did answer. He said something like, ‘Nope. Not falling for it this time.” “No, really,” I screamed, “something is happening to me.” Finally I had the sense to jump off the treadmill. I watched, my mouth gaping like a Southern Baptist at a hooker convention, as the track continued to rise in the air. Then it started jumping up and down, up and down. I leaped backward, kind of wondering if the thing was possessed. That’s when I noticed the ball. “It’s okay,” I shouted. “My exercise ball is trapped under the treadmill!” ‘Uh huh,” Clarence said, not stirring himself from his chair. Really, I could have died.

On the other hand, its my own fault. Perhaps being calm in a serious emergency has this kind of effect. A person feels the need to react at least some of the time. Right? I mean, a ball caught under a treadmill, a person rising in the air like the rapture was happening and I was ascending to meet Jesus? I have to confess, the thought passed through my mind at the time. ‘So this is it.’ I think that was worthy of a gasp or two.

I’ve been wondering about this whole thing, and I’ve come to the conclusion that a person can’t be calm all the time or they’ll simply explode. In a real emergency, I’m a cold fish. But when things are less extreme, I let out a cry or two as a way of reducing pressure on my brain. No one operates well with a full head of steam. And someone needs to explain that to Clarence. But in a very calm way.

I’m going to let you in on a little secret. No mother can resist breakfast in bed delivered by her own children. How can her face not light up at the sight of those precious little beings? She knows every soft curve of each little face and how the stem of their necks are so fragile, its almost worrisome. So the burned toast and strange concoction of pancake, peanut butter and jam (because they thought it was more fun than syrup) is welcome when brought into the bedroom by these tiny,  playdough covered hands. Mom wipes the sleep from her barely opened eyes and tries not to wince as the tray slides, spilling coffee all over the new duvet. The children lovingly watch every single bite. I know, because I tried to escape to the bathroom once to flush a meal down the toilet and got caught.

Mother’s Day is a celebration of a child’s love for mom, and a dad trying to make it all work. But here is what mom might really need. A day off. Maybe at home, just lounging in her pajamas, listening to the house echo around her.  Add in a bath, a book, maybe, or a Netflix binge. A whole day dedicated to her recovery. Because mothering is a slog. Parenting in general is like attending a school where you never get the marks you’d like and always feel like you’re going to fail or at least fall short of how everyone else is doing.

You can’t put a price on love, but let’s try. Imagine if you charged your kid for every single thing you do. A pee break in the middle of the day would cost your toddler a quarter. In the middle of the night, its a whole dollar. for those snacks you prepare that they forget to eat, perhaps a sliding scale, depending on your mood. Meals, laundry, bedtime routine, helping with homework, weeping in the night (your own weeping) washing faces and hands, putting on sunscreen, parents day at school and camp, piano concerts that go on forever because everyone plays the same song, soccer games, baseball, all the pets, hair washing and brushing, funny stories, singing in the car so your toddler won’t fall asleep and stay up until midnight. Waiting up for teenagers. Talking to teenagers. Worrying about teenagers. The list is endless, really. And if children had to pay, say, when they turned thirty, well. You’d make a killing.

But that’s not how it is. Because mothers are cheerleaders for everyone in the family, including dad. Every single muscle and bone in their body is honed by parenting because it takes its toll. But while it’s busy taking, it’s giving as well. Once my children left home, I had a revelation. Life was so easy! Meals lasted forever and I hardly ever had to clean the house. But. There was a flatness to it. I’d become addicted to the excitement children bring to our lives. When you have kids, you get to view the world like they do, and its always astonishing and beautiful and unique. Every single time. The way toddlers can listen to the same story over and over again, and never tire of it. The way they stop on a walk to gaze at every rock and blade of grass. It’s painfully slow, but awe inspiring because it takes you back. The things they say, the way they question absolutely everything. No one has ever made me laugh as hard as my own children.

Anyway, dear father, whose turn is coming up in June. Do something great with the kids on Mother’s Day, preferably away from mom. And maybe when your turn comes up, she’ll do the same. Then, reunite for dinner and talk about your day. Mom will be in a very good mood. And you know the old saying. When mama’s happy, everybody’s happy.

I have a hard time sitting. Not because I have A.D. H. D. (I hope) but because I find sitting uncomfortable. This makes all committee work difficult. Those long meetings with people who like to think deeply before sharing their thoughts. Speed it up, I want to say. My butt hurts.

Watching TV is also problematic. I have solved it by skipping rope every ten minutes during the show. Not every day. Just when I’ve been sitting at a desk instead of writing on my treadmill.  Skipping is also handy when watching thrilling shows like The Walking Dead or Game of Thrones, because it saves my butt and my nerves. There’s only one real problem with it.

It’s very hard on my partner. I try to stand off to one side and skip lightly, landing on the balls of my feet and staying in the salt category, rather than the pepper. If you remember skipping games, you’ll know what I mean. I bounce from foot to foot, trying to land quietly and avoid heavy, giant sized thudding.

The thing is, I would never skip while watching TV with anyone else. My kids would shoot me, for one, and I’d be too embarrassed with my friends. I like to pretend to be normal when I’m out and about. Only in the privacy of my own home do I allow my inner annoying weirdo to surface.

Most people move through life masking their discomfort or pain. I happen to come from a family with no game at all. When it’s slightly cold outside, we wear ski pants and long underwear. In hot weather we rival Scarlett O’Hara’s sisters with our limp wristed mewling. (Bill, you’re excused from this last accusation.) But avoiding discomfort is of the utmost importance to us. I’m trying to toughen up by a) drinking water before bed and not getting up to pee every half hour. b) Walking in the cold without a balaclava. c) Trying not to complain so much.

This blog is my version of skipping lightly. I’m still complaining, but I’m managing a soft landing, hopping from foot to foot, off to one side, and almost out of sight. See? You’ve hardly noticed me over here in the corner. I’m not really bothering you at all. Now excuse me while I work on my double dutch routine. I might make a little more noise during it, but I almost always stick the landing.

It’s time to talk about politics, the elephant in my blogging room. I can’t dance around the beast any longer. I’m not here to pander, promote, or manipulate. I’m here to whine. So please, for the next few minutes, let me make this about me.
But not just me. This may come in handy for other partners of people with big plans. The dreamers and visionaries. The one married to George R. R. Martin.

“Hey,” you might hear at some point in your life. “Let’s give up our jobs and travel across Asia, freeze our asses off, almost die and spend a lot of time with rats.” Of course, Clarence didn’t phrase it in that particular way. His type is very inspirational when presenting ideas. The next thing you know, you’re following along obediently. Nay, gladly.

I’m not in Asia anymore. And I’m not married to George R. R. Martin. But I am wedded to a politician who is up for re-election. So here’s my high pitched violin moment. Nobody ever talks about the politician’s spouse unless you’re Bill Clinton.  And believe me, we partners have our woes.
(The violin is playing quietly in the background. Can you hear it?)

Anyway. It’s a slog, this political life. I’m mostly okay with it, but people don’t realize the dedication it takes, the nerves of steel, the stiff upper lip necessary for the spouse of a political candidate. Just ask Donald Trump’s wife. Thank goodness making speeches wasn’t part of my bride price. I’m not sure how they do things in Slovenia but she definitely gets the sympathy vote.  Anyway, back to me.

I really, truly appreciate  all the people who run for office. Somebody has to step out of their comfort zone. Throw their hat in the ring. We can’t all live in North Korea where one guy is in charge forever. The problem is that when the candidate’s hat flies through the air, so does yours. You barely have time to look up before the job of being a full time minion begins. Fetching, carrying, printing, prodding, mailing, stuffing, listening, etc. I could go on. (You know I can.)

Please thank your candidate, whoever he or she is, for stepping up to the plate. They deserve your appreciation. Months of plodding around trying to get their points across, and an earnest desire to make things better is truly what most people running for office want. Please understand that. Then look behind them for the minion waiting, often bored, in the background. Shake their hand and mutter the words, “I’m so sorry.” We’ll appreciate the gesture.

The politics of a local community choir can be as complex as any ancient fiefdom. We have our King and Queen, Mark and Crystal, as firm but gentle rulers. We, the choir, don’t ordinarily vote on things, but we do offer opinions, a staggering weight of them. When speaking at inopportune times, Crystal can easily silence us with the phrase, ‘A little flat…you’re sinking, there.’ As she points at the altos, tenors, basses or sopranos, she might as well say, off with their heads! It’s very chastening.

Crystal is not afraid to mix it up with other fiefdoms. She easily calls on the top dogs in London or New York, casually mentioning that she’s sent in her application for a certain musical to be performed in, yes, Flin Flon. Greeted with hysterical laughter or cold silence, she presses on, winning hard to get scores and months of crippling work for herself and Mark.

Our monarchy is aided by faithful knights and nobles, ie: the people who sing really well. It’s a great social equalizer, choir. You could be homeless and sleep in a box, not having showered for a month. But if you have a beautiful voice, we worship at your feet. People will fight to stand beside you, knowing that your golden notes will help them swim, if not with the big fish, at least the medium sized ones.

Then there’s the rest of us.  Though Crystal denies crying herself to sleep at night, I’m sure the desperation of trying to bring us up to snuff, especially when we’re not getting it, is like being water boarded. But our fearless leaders never surrender to despair. At least, not to our faces. And somehow they manage to whip us into shape again and again before we land in Winnipeg, or New York, or on our very own stage in town.

We’ve had some challenging pieces over the years. One of the hardest for me was the Alto part to the song, ‘Where the Boys Are,’ that we sang during our ‘Hooray for Hollywood’ show. It sounded so wonky and off key. I might have wept a bit as I hit the wrong notes again and again. I can’t remember how it all ended…perhaps with a bit of lip syncing on my part. But hey…bragging rights. You show me your Mozart’s Requiem, I’ll show you my Verdi. Much harder, in my humble opinion, yet still a favorite.

We have joyfully performed, for the last twenty years, everything from ‘Schubert’s Mass in A’ to ‘Les Miserables,’ with plenty of Christmas concerts and Cabarets in between. At the moment, we’re learning Morten Lauridsen’s ‘Lux Aeterna,’ a piece which has insured I wear my big girl panties to choir. There’s strange timing, high parts, fast parts, tricky parts, and some that make me want to cry, they’re so beautiful. I wanted to quit, seriously. But our faithful king and queen never lost faith, and we’re slowly sorting it out. And after all that, there’s the real blessing, the better than silver lining of being in choir.

When I head to McIsaac School on a Saturday morning and sing for two hours, it lifts my life out of the every day and makes it, pardon the pun, sing. Perhaps its the act of pushing air in and out of my lungs. Joining others in learning difficult pieces. Hearing our voices united in song. Or all of the above. Whatever it is, its all due to our wonderful Mark and Crystal Kolt. We who are about to die, I mean, sing Lux Aeterna, salute you. We thank you for your gift, this crazy group, this amazing experience, the Flin Flon Community Choir. And did I mention that you don’t have to audition? Someone please high five me on that one.