Judith Pettersen

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.

The other night I dreamed that I had no skin. Just bones, so you could see all my dental work. I looked at my skull in the mirror and wondered if it was really me. When I woke, I kept thinking about it. Who am I, anyway?

We are all the sum total of our physical and mental parts, our upbringing and experiences. Then there’s that ten percent of uncertainty. Like the burger you buy from a street vendor, and are almost certain its beef. We get our ideas about ourselves from parents and friends, but also from the things we like to do. For me, this has changed over time.

When I was in my forties, I became obsessed with decorating. Like the poor woman’s Martha Stewart, I gave my house a makeover. Ripping out carpets, replacing them with fake hardwood, repainting all the walls. I even recovered the sofa, which, believe me. Don’t ever do it. There are at least ten thousand staples in there and no way to stretch the new material quite as tight. The whole experience was strangely satisfying, though. When we moved, we had to renovate the new place, but I never took the same joy in it. It was just something I had to do.

What changed? I’m not sure. All I know is that I don’t care what colour my walls are anymore. I’m feeling nostalgic for the lightness of my youth, the lack of possessions. Fixing broken things, putting in a new lawn (remember the cinch bugs?) Changing the odd window. That’s what I’m willing to do now.

I’m not a big shopper, either, but the dressing room mirror does provide some role play opportunities. Is this me, I wonder, as I try on something sporty. Or am I more classic? Goth? Does this fringed dress work? How about fishnet stockings or jeggings? Hmm. The problem with self definition by wardrobe is that it only lasts for about five minutes. Then you’re back to being you.

On bad shopping days, nothing works. When I feel that happening, I look in the mirror at my own boots, jacket and jeans and say, good enough. What’s wrong with looking like someone who lives in northern Canada, anyway? After all, its a huge part of my not so mysterious ten percent. At least I got that figured out.

My sister took me to a spa in Fort Garry called Thermea. In bathing suits and white bathrobes, we sashayed between the outdoor hot pools, warm and cold pools, dry and wet saunas with accompanying scented oils, an outdoor fireplace where we read our books, and indoor mats that lulled us to sleep in the warm heat.

We had lunch with wine, then scurried back to the pools. By the time we showered, I felt limper than an overcooked noodle. I left my sister and headed upstairs, where my massage therapist waited. The obvious offspring of a village pillaging Viking and an orthodox Jew with tattoos, his curly side locks seemed completely appropriate. Plus, he was huge. And I’d never had a male therapist before. By had, I mean… You know what I mean.

I’ve never really understood the rules about this stuff. We have society’s permission to be naked in front of opposite sex strangers if: a) you accidentally end up on a nude beach, like Clarence and I did, or b) they’re doctors and nurses. Was this the same thing? Is there a panel of people who decide the protocol of nudity? I did have a sheet and blanket for a covering. And this guy was a master at arranging them around my legs, upper torso, lower torso, like some kind of sheet genie. Whenever I started feeling uneasy, he’d work the tension right out of me.

Because he was so large, he didn’t have to glide around the table like a regular therapist. Instead, he would hip check the table, sending it wherever he wanted it to go. With hands the size of my back, he could have snapped my neck like a chicken. Between the sheet arranging, his breathing instructions and the moving table, I should have been flustered beyond the point of relaxation. But I wasn’t.

It helped that he kept calling me dear, like I was his ninety year old grandmother. And he had a way of breathing that was hypnotizing. My breath just kind of fell in line. Before I knew it I was completely relaxed. So if you’re lucky enough to go to the Thermea spa in Winnipeg, ask for Justin. Don’t be alarmed by his size. He’s a kitten packaged like a dinosaur. But with really good hands.

Forget New Year’s resolutions. Twelve months? At my age, that feels like two weeks. Not nearly enough time to reach for the stars. My new plan, uncovered this evening, allows me four whole years. So by the next leap year, my mission(s) should be accomplished.

First on my list is to stop falling down, at least physically. I’ve decided to quit seeing this as an impossible goal (due to my keystone cop-esque ineptitude) and begin viewing it as a decision. Ergo, no more falling down. I’m done with it. I made it all the way home tonight on very slippery roads. So.

In four years, I plan to be ten pounds lighter. When you break it down, that’s less than three pounds a year. Very doable. If I tried to make it happen in twelve months I’d be up eating cheese at three in the  morning, with a glass of wine or two on the side. Don’t drink without eating…that’s always been my motto. But this kind of pacing, four years worth, it will work for sure.

I like the idea of a leap. A decision to go for what I really want. Since I’m not quite sure about all of my end goals, four years gives me a little time to figure it out. Some things are too secret to share (even for me) but I promise that in 2020, I will give you all a full report.

And please… join me. Make a wish for things that feel so far out of reach, they’re practically impossible. Believe you can make them happen. Take a picture of them with your mental smartphone. Now, see yourself taking the hand of a friend. Then take my hand. We’ll head over to the cliff edge together, our pockets filled with dreams of things we never dared to hope for. If we leap together, they have a better chance of coming true. I don’t know what you’re wishing, but I’m very excited about not falling down anymore. What do you really want by 2020? Figure it out, then come on. One, two, three. Jump.

There are days when I feel myself ascending. Rising above my ordinary life into a heady mixture of something that can feel a lot like joy, but might only be self satisfaction. My part of the universe is very well, thank you. I am floating around, above it all. Up with all the other smug folk, having a great day.

Then, there are the other times. Days when I am falling. Literally falling, which happened three times this winter. The first time I was out walking with my sister. I hit a slick of ice and achieved what a snowboarder calls a boost. There was a lot of air between me and the ground before I finally connected. First my head, then my back and hips. I was glad I wasn’t alone, because it stunned me. I needed help getting up. For a whole day, I walked around puzzled, possibly concussed.

The second time I fell, it didn’t hurt as much. A quick dusting off, a furtive look around, and a continuation of  my journey. The third time happened inside my house. I’d just hung a painting and was stepping back to take a look when I caught my heel on the rung of a chair and toppled backwards. It was the only time I regretted putting in hardwood floors.

It’s not the pain. It’s the humiliation. This, my new sports slogan, also works for the ordinary fray of people who fall down. If walking can be considered a sport, (and it can) then I’m not a klutz. I’m an injured athlete.

I have also fallen down on the job. Oh, the futility of shoveling muck as a summer student at HudBay. The pile never seemed to lessen. There were moments when I questioned my need to exist. I would sneak off to the bathroom, where it was warm, and ponder a little. Newly restored, I would remind myself about the great pay which, indeed, took me right through university.

I tend to forget appointments. I’ve missed some great nights out because of Netflix binging. Forgotten to pray for someone at a specific time because I was caught up in the bizarre reality show of American politics. In each instance I felt myself slipping, like the universe had tilted a little and I hadn’t been able to stick the landing.  I UN-velcroed. I fell. We all do. We fall and fall and fall. Into Facebook. Into heartache. Into messes that we make into bigger messes through the erroneous use of imagination or bad decisions.

But then we get up. We dust ourselves off and make sure our parts are in working order. We carry on. Sometimes, with the perfect kind of boost, we rise into a magical day. Propelled into joy filled clouds, we high five each other about the great view. Ice sure looks pretty from up there.

Those moments sustains us for the journey forward. Because, for sure we will fall down again. When we do, we should relax. Let the road hold us for a moment. We are down, but we are looking up.  We take the hand that’s offered, that pulls us back on our feet. It isn’t so bad, really. And the sky looks beautiful from there.