in the darkness....

I was thinking today, about a good friend I had in high school. She was adopted. I don't know why I started thinking about her really. We lost touch years ago. She undertook her latter high school years in a boarding school in the big city, and while we tried to maintain contact over that time, life took over, as it does. She moved, I moved, her parents moved and my parents moved....she could live in the next street for all I know. Nevertheless, we were good friends at the time. Her parents owned and ran a local motel, and I was invited regularly to stay over at her place; we were even allowed to stay in a motel room if one was vacant.

The motel was close to the local swimming pool. One summer we spent practically ever day at the pool (a fact you might find surprising if you had read the story, two posts back). This friend even invited me to stay with her at her Aunt's place in another town, over the winter break. Her Aunt owned a corner deli and we spent most of the week working in it, which was a huge novelty (for me anyway).

We did a lot together, this friend and I. I remember one night, creeping out from one of the motel rooms we were staying in and walking to the all night truck stop (roadhouse/diner/servo) for hot chips; scrambling over neighbourhood fences and into foreign backyards, then walking back through the local cemetery eating hot chips from a wrap of butcher paper, while trying to make out the inscriptions etched into the old leering Gothic style monuments. This friend was there for me during a difficult time in my life. She was funny and crazy; a risk taker and a bit unpredictable...a welcomed distraction, and just what I needed at the time.

Despite all this, I realised it was quite difficult to get to know this particular friend. There was somewhat of a wall that she placed around her that forbid one from really getting to know her. Humour was her best defense; whenever things go a bit intense or serious, whenever the deeper or the tougher question were raised, she expertly sidelined all and any expectations of a genuine or heartfelt response. Never did I learn her hearts crush, while we were at school together, although she told me of the her crush in her new school, he being at a safe, unlocatable and unidentifiable distance - a mere abstraction to me, a fictional character in a novel or a cartoon upon which to wonder and imagine, but never know.

One night however, when laying in our respective twin beds in the motel, darkness draped upon all forms, our voices rising up in the night, unencumbered by the intimidation and bounds of body language suggestions, my friend started talking about her adopted older sister and how, when her sister became upset with my friend, she would tell her that she wished she "had never chosen her" at the hospital/orphanage. I asked my friend when she had been told she was adopted and while wrapped in the safe shroud of night, she told me that she had always known. Her mother was unable to have children, and her birth story was that her parents took her older sister to choose a sibling, and her sister was said to have proudly chosen the prettiest baby in the establishment. My friend seemed happy to recount this story to me. It was a comfort to her; it made her feel loved and wanted, like she belonged for she was chosen.

On the back of this discussion; seizing the moment and perhaps being both rather insensitive and a little daft of age, I then asked my friend if she ever thought about her birth mother. "No", came the abrupt reply, a reply tinged with disappointment and hurt, "and I will never look for her. She gave me up. My parents are the only parents I know. They are the ones who love me. I never think about my birth family." And with that I felt a door close. Silence descended like a rock in a still pond - hard and fast, fanning ripples the only sign that something had occurred...I heard her muffled sobs in the darkness, and it broke my heart to think that I had brought this pain to the surface, for it seemed apparent that this was something that she had often mulled over in the private corners of her inner being. We never spoke of it again, and she seemed happy with that, but the conversation stuck with me, as has the memory of her quiet stifled tears and I have wondered about her and where she is today and whether there really is some part of her that seeks, and longs.

*Photo by Olivier Follmi - "A Tear of Coldness at 4200 Meters, Ladak".

under-estimated

I remember when Dad first took my training wheels off my bike; I was six.

I remember the anticipation; my self-doubt and concern about riding without my tiny support wheels. I remember Dad's encouragement and promise that he would not let go of my bike until he knew I was ready and able to ride on my own. I remember taking off for the first time, Dad running along side me holding the seat so I would not topple over. He kept telling me to peddle and concentrate on where I was going - "look straight ahead". We did this over and over again, on the circular driveway out the front of the ole homestead, near the garage. Unbeknown to me, Dad, though still running alongside me, was decreasing the amount of support he was applying in order to keep me upright, until his assistance was no longer required. Then eventually, we took off together, Dad stopping part way while I rode on - solo.

I had ridden a few metres before I realised he was no longer there; of course I turned to see where he was, and of course I fell off and scraped my knee, but I was also encouraged to get right back on there and try again, and eventually...at some stage, I must have gathered the experience and confidence to ride steadily.

Mister is an avid bike rider. He loves to tear around the street on his bike, and show off to the neighbour, delighting in her telling him "how fast" he can ride. Now and again we have suggested that perhaps he might like to take his training wheels off, but as is usually the case with him, we were met with much wailing and resistance, but since he is still only four, we didn't push it.

On Thursday afternoon, Mister was watching "Franklin", a cartoon about a turtle and his mates. During the episode, Franklin took the training wheels off his bike, and for whatever reason, Mister suddenly declared that he would also like to take his off. We were delighted to hear this, and bargained with him that we would do the deed on Saturday and spend all afternoon nurturing his confidence and guiding him in the art of bike riding sans trainer wheels.

On Saturday, Mister was champing at the bit, waiting impatiently as Ashely removed the wheels. We encouraged him to ride on the lawn at first, but the ground was too moist and spongy and he was having a hard time getting started, so we took him out the front, where there is a pavement and lawn for him to fall onto. So we took him out there, nervous about how this experience might turn out; how much wailing and disenchantment there would be as he struggled to control and balance the bike, without the customary support. We were bracing ourselves for a very long day; some skinned knees and howling; the beloved bike very likely being tossed aside to pouting promises of "never riding it again UNLESS those trainer wheels are replaced"...but we were wrong.

I kid you not, we had scarcely gotten into the front yard before Mister, without ANY assistance whatsoever, jumped on his bike and rode off BY HIMSELF! Ashley and I were both stunned, looked at each other, and then threw our heads back and laughed out loud. Mister couldn't understand what we were laughing at, and since we didn't want to make him paranoid, we explained that he was doing a fantastic job, and "could not believe" that he was riding so well so soon after removing the trainers. We told him "we could have removed them weeks ago if we had known he was that good". Basically we praised him up, and he was very proud of himself. He even went for a ride around the block. He did very well, but got a bit wobbly when the path appeared to narrow, but overall he rode exceptionally well for a first go.

Yesterday morning he showed a friend his new biking skills, and then he declared that he was going to teach another friend how to ride without trainer wheels - I am sure the other friend would be wrapped!

Mister, who has been known to be an overly resistant nervous nelly about practically EVERYTHING, has really gained a lot of self-confidence in recent weeks. He is really enjoying being a "big boy" and we are also, very happy to see him bloom.

Baby Dolls

Never really been a doll person. I had dolls when I was little, but I didn't really connect with them.

All but one of my dolls were made of hard plastic; providing me little comfort, with their cold rigid little bodies and lifeless eyes. No, it were teddy bears and other stuffed animals that I delighted in most.

I took one particular bear everywhere with me. It had no name, but I would hold the ear of that fuzzy brown bear to my nose, and for whatever reason; its familiar smell soothed me, but not the dolls.

I tried to love my dolls; brush their odd stiff hair, and dress their inflexible bodies. I would wheel them around in the dolls pram, but ultimately, their lack of response and vacant expressions became a source of resentment to me, and I vented my frustration in various ways: ousting them from the dolls pram in preference for the stuffed animals, cutting their cascading fake locks, dressing them in the ugly dolls clothes, thus favouring my favourite doll outfits for the animals, scribbling on them with pen.....

I was never a pretty child. My parents dressed me as a boy, preferring to purchase plain, non-gendered clothing, so my brother could benefit from them once I had outgrown them. My hair, a mess of curls, was cut boyishly short, so my mother didn't have to struggle with the tangled birds nest atop my head. Those who didn't mistake me for a boy, assumed I were a tom-boy, but I was actually a little girl, screaming on the inside, to express her femininity.

I wanted the long hair in braids. I wanted my ears pierced. I wanted to wear pretty dresses that twirled when I spun and flounced when I ran. I wanted to own pink things, play dress-ups and beauty shop; learn ballet and go to girl scouts with my friends, but none of this was to be.

One Christmas, I asked for a doll with long hair - the emphasis was the long hair, a feature that would enable me to experiment with; style and make pretty, so when the time came, that I could grow my own hair long and pretty, like the other girls, I would know how to style it.

I did receive a doll with long hair that Christmas. She was a doll with eyes that closed when I laid her down. Like the others, she consisted of a hard plastic body, and legs that moved only at the hip, so when she was sat down her legs spread wide - most unlady-like; and arms that twisted only from the shoulder.

She had a lovely face, quite pretty in fact. She was dressed in a long old fashioned dress, with a cameo broach clasped at the throat. Her hair was a beautiful rich, red; the colour of paprika, and so shiny. The light caught her red tresses in such a way, that it seemed to be dotted with the tiniest fairy lights. I would have willingly traded my unruly blond boy-cut, for hair of that colour. Her long hair was styled into a sweet, feminine bun, with pieces falling about her ears, twisted into spiralling soft wisps.

I couldn't wait to let down her hair and take to it with a soft brush; plait it, braid it, tie it back and up, a million different ways. She was just what I wanted....until I was told that I could never let down her hair. It was to stay up. Her hair was to stay in that same perfectly coiffed style forever more. "Her hair is not for playing with", I was told. How disappointed I was, and while I played with that doll a lot longer than the others I owned, once again, I grew frustrated by my inability to interact with my pretty friend, until one day, I couldn't stand it anymore, and I pulled at the stitching that secured her bun, sending a mass of scarlet curls tumbling past her shoulders. To my utter horror, her hair was a terrible spiky crop all over her crown; the length sprouted only from the nape of her neck, and had merely been bundled on top hiding the nasty truth beneath. My mother had been correct; the only way her hair looked pretty was in that untouchable up-do, and now I had ruined it.

My daughter really enjoys dolls. I had never been inclined to buy her one, since I lacked the connection with my own, but her Godmother gave her one for her first birthday, and she really liked it. Two Christmases ago,she was given another, and last summer I let her pick one toy from the toy shop in town. She chose a little purple clothed doll.

She runs straight to the dolls at playgroup and enjoys putting them in the high chair, the crib, the dolls pram and wheeling them around. Her only frustration with her own purple doll, was that it came with a bottle and a pacifier, but neither fit in her mouth, they are just for pretend. So when I asked her what she wanted for her up coming birthday, she answered that she wanted a doll that she could give a bottle and pacifier to.

Yesterday I went to the store, aware that there would be a variety of dolls available, and also thinking that I would easily make my choice and be out of there. WRONG. Yes there were a number of dolls, and there were a number that enabled one to secure a pacifier in its mouth, but they were also kind of ...well....creepy.

One doll - Baby Alive, had these huge eyes. They blinked but otherwise stared in a possessed startled fashion. The doll spoke and giggled in a high pitched sugary sweet tone. It ate food and pooped, but get this, and this is perhaps the most disturbing aspect of Baby Alive, the doll sniffs the air, lip curling to the imaginary (I hope) scent, and says "I made a stinky"! I don't know about you, but there is something a bit unsavoury about that. I decided that Baby Alive could "make stinky's" for some one else.

There was another doll - the Interactive Chou Chou. It cried real tears, it drank real water from a cup, it didn't wet or poop though (which I actually appreciate), so the drink must get recycled into tears. It cries and talks, laughs and interacts with an array of "accessories" many of which you have to buy separately - I could see big dollars being invested in the future of this doll, so no thanks.

There was another doll that literally shut its eyes. A fold of "skin "enveloped them when one pressed the dolls hand. It was an interesting feature, rather life-like, but naaaaah. It was a bit freaky for my liking; besides, the doll wore a bit of a doped out expression.

There were an array of other dolls, that came with a pile of bits of pieces, most dolls these days seem to be soft bodied, with only the knees down and forearms to hands made of a soft plastic or rubber -like substance. But after a good 45 minutes of pondering, and almost walking away, feeling rather unnerved by the sea of baby doll eyes bearing down on me from all angles, I gathered my nerve and settled on Lullaby Chou Chou. It sucks on a bottle and the pacifier can be placed in its mouth. It doesn't poop. It giggles and cries. It can be dressed and undressed, and has a soft, movable cuddly body. It didn't have as many of the features as some of the other dolls, but then I figured, let Missy Mopps stage some of the imaginary play herself.

I hope Missy Mopps likes her.

Highway to hell

I lived on a farm in a remote little rural town, called Geranium, which at the time, boasted a district population of 80 people.

Our farm consisted of cereal crops, sheep and .....pigs.

We went to the local Area School, which catered for kids from the general region, from grades K-10.

My Mum would drive my brother and I to school in the mornings, but we would take the bus home. We were the first stop on our bus route.

I must say, I never really enjoyed the school bus ride. I was a painfully shy child, and my brother and I were the youngest kids on our bus, which would have otherwise been filled with rowdy intimidating high schoolers.

For the entire 5 years I rode that bus, I barely said a word.

Occasionally, I would be forced to speak; like when I would ask Mrs Clothier- the bus driver, to please drop my brother and I off at Grandma's house. Grandma's house was the next property over, perhaps a mile or so down the road from our place. Nevertheless, practically every time I was expected at Grandma's, Mrs Clothier would forget my request, and drive right on by.

On such occasions, pangs on anxiety would shoot through my chest, my mouth would suddenly dry up and I would pray that Mrs Clothier would suddenly remember my request.

Usually she didn't. She was probably on autopilot, trying to tune out the boisterous shenanigans going on in the back of the bus.

Somewhere between my Grandmas house and the next town I would drag myself to the front of the bus to remind Mrs Clothier, with the eyes of ridicule piercing my back and snickering from the other kids clanging in my ears . Never did any of the other kids speak out for us; perhaps they were having bets about how long it would take for me to fess up.

Our place resided alongside a highway. The bus would normally drop us at the front gate of a large circular track that wound its way to our home.

In the summer there was always a lingering fear that a brown snake was lurking in the scrub and bushes beside the gate; sometimes this was the case. Mostly, any rustling in the dry grass was put out of mind...out of sight out of mind.

If this weren't enough, my brother and I had to suffer the predicable taunting and humiliation that went along with being pig farm kids.

Whenever, the bus doors flung open for us to exit, a relative chorus of booing and hissing would spring forth from the older kids on the bus, which sounded something like this "PPPPPOOOOOOOO, YOU STINK!"

This chorus of discontent was generally followed by roaring laughter and a gaggle of teenagers falling over themselves in self-congratulation about how funny they were.

I never looked back; never said a word....just descended the bus steps and kept on walking, day after day, after torturous day.

No one ever mentioned it at school or taunted us in the school yard, but knowing that 9/10 bus rides would ultimately result in the same scenario, and bracing myself for that kind of humiliation, every single day from the age of 5...well, it just lead me to HATE THE GODDAMN BUS!

Perpetuating Myth

Why do we really perpetuate the myth of Santa Claus?
I remember when I was in grade 3; it was almost Christmas time, and also the end of the school year. I was in my class room, talking with some school friends about plans for the coming holidays and what Father Christmas might bring us. I remember our conversation being filled with great anticipation, and our minds oozing with excitement, magic and fantasy. That is, until Nola Bennier wrestled her way into our discussion and snuffed out a magic that was reserved for children, but conspired, conjured and indulged in, by adults...
"Father Christmas is NOT real", she blabbed.
This meant WAR!
"How would YOU know?" began the rapid fire.
"Yeah, how would YOU know?"
" Yeah? "
"YEAHHHHHH!"
This was largely the sum of our counter attack.
Then the unexpected reply...the reply that won the war for Nola. The reply that ultimately burst the fantastical bubble for all who heard her damning words of truth....
"My Mum told me!", she announced smugly.
Her Mum told her...
We were speechless...there was nothing left to say. Although David, with courage enough to question the words supposedly spoken by a parent, staged a last ditch effort to salvage the doubt that is really at the basis of our feeble beliefs - the what-if-there-really-is-a-Santa doubt, that ensures a child will hang onto such beliefs because they inspire the imagination, either that or for fear that Santa might not come if we were to disbelieve and announce him a fraud, a fake, a phony, or even a CONSPIRACY development by parents to control and manipulate innocent young kiddies into being on their best behaviour and help out during the flurry of Christmas preparation! Ok... not likely words from a seven year old, but I am sure you get the picture.
"Well, if Santa is not real, then who puts the presents under the tree", says David, thinking this will surely stump Nola Bennier.
"Mum buys the presents at the shop and my Mum and Dad put them under the tree when we are asleep."
And with that, the fantasies and the magical possibilities that were scripted into our child-like Christmases, were crushed and then evaporated into the plume of illusion that they always were.
Silence....Nola walked away, leaving us with the tragic wreckage of what had been our lively discussion only moments before.
Did we feel jibbed? Did we feel angry at our parents for the deception? Did we feel we had to rush home and question them about the truth and plead to know why they had conjured up this ridiculous fabrication? No, not really, but once the shock of Nola's confession had subsided, we were angry! But not at our parents, because deep down, I think we knew that the whole Santa thing was just slightly unrealistic, but then again, Santa IS magic right? We were mostly angry at Nola for repeating her mothers confessions - to us. We didn't ask HER if Santa was real - she volunteered the information. We were blissfully happy with our delusions - THANK YOU VERY MUCH.
I know I didn't rush home to confirm the tragic news with my parents, and I don't think my friends ever raised the issue again, or to anyone else....well, until now that is.
I think the real magic of the whole Santa myth is the excitement and creativity, along with the fantasy and nurturing that our parents give us through their attempt to perpetuate a similar Christmas fantasy that was perhaps theirs, when they were children.
As a parent, we start off the idea of Santa very early.usually with the child's first Christmas. We show the child Santa, perhaps in the mall. We tell the child that Santa will be visiting on Christmas Eve. As the child gets older, they start asking questions, like..."we don't have a chimney, so how will Santa get in our house"? "How does Santa know where I live?" "How do his reindeers fly?" "What do you mean the Diego Rescue 4X4 is out of stock? Santa will make me one in his workshop...won't he?"
Such questions require creative answers that fill the child's mind with possibility, magic and wonderment...or a pack of lies, as Nola's Mum would suggest. It is a tradition- right, wrong or indifferent- for parents to subscribe to the Santa myth, and nurture that sapling idea. It is not what Christmas is ultimately about, I know that. But the original nativity suggests the miraculous, a long journey made by important people bearing gifts, and a gift to the world laid out for all creatures, both great and small, to partake in, not just on Christmas Day but for always, whenever the story of hope, peace, magic and miracles is remembered within us. Perhaps the Santa myth is nothing more than capitalist inspired hoopla, or perhaps it opens the door of possibility for children, who first know magic and miracle through the idea of Santa, and are then able to adhere similarly outlandish concepts of possibility, hope and belief to both a troubled real world, and also into the realms of glorious spirit.