Puzzling #SOL24 29/31

Someone – I think it was Heidi Allum – recommended Julie Otsuka’s novel The Swimmers early in this challenge. I got it from the library this week, and have found the writing fascinating, though I’m not 100% sure I love the novel itself. Still, when I sat down to write this morning, I could feel the way Otsuka’s style was influencing mine, so I went with it.

***

You see the puzzles in an online ad. You have seen them before, but this time you click because they are, supposedly, on clearance. You tell yourself that you will buy one only because your husband’s birthday is coming up and he likes puzzles. You tell yourself that you will check the prices and the comments to make sure the company is legitimate, but you know the truth: you will buy one, and it will be for you. To hide this, you buy more than one.

The puzzles arrive on your husband’s birthday, and he pretends to be delighted. You show him that they are wooden. You show him the way the pieces are shaped like animals and other objects. You tell him that they are not rectangular but rather come together to create the shape of the thing you are piecing together – a butterfly, a maple leaf, a turtle. He says thank you and gives you a kiss.

That night, when you come downstairs to plug in your phone and start the dishwasher, you decide to start the puzzle that you have decided is “yours.” The butterfly. You tell yourself that you just want to get a few pieces together. You tell yourself that you just want to get a feel for it and that this will help you fall asleep. After all, you know you how bad blue light is for your sleep. You remind yourself that it is a long weekend. You do all of this because you know how you are with puzzles. Obsessive. Before you even open the box, you know that you will not go to sleep anytime soon.

You do not go to sleep anytime soon. The pieces are light but sturdy and you like their smooth feel, so different from the cardboard you are used to. The lack of obvious edge pieces fascinates you, as do the odd shapes and the way the pieces fit together. You realize that you cannot use many of your standby puzzle strategies. Slowly, you discover new ways of finding matches. When you look up, it is well after midnight. You have only managed to put together a tiny portion of the relatively small puzzle. Reluctantly, you go to bed.

Your husband gets up first in the morning and walks the dog. You sleep in because you were up so late, puzzling. When you come downstairs, still in your nightgown, you put water on to boil, then sit at the kitchen island to see if you can find another matching piece. Some time later, you remember to make the tea.

You go through the stages of puzzling. You get into a rhythm of finding matches, and then you get stuck. You worry that perhaps the company has sent a defective box: surely all the pieces cannot be here. There simply are not enough to create the promised outcome. You walk away for a few minutes, then return to see the puzzle anew. Aha! These two entire sections fit together. You go through another productive period and another period of frustration. Your son wakes up and helps for a few minutes, then wanders off. Your husband comes in and works with you, gently teasing you about your obsessive nature. At one point, disgusted, you decide you will never finish and walk away. But of course you return.

You neglect to fold the laundry. You know that you don’t want to fold the laundry anyway and the puzzle is just an excuse. Again, you reach a point where you are certain some pieces are missing. Then you decide that maybe, just maybe, two parts of the butterfly’s wings are reversed. Carefully, you slide them along the surface, keeping all the bits together, hoping that this will set things right.

Success! You are on a roll! Your husband comes in and reminds you told him about several things you wanted to accomplish today. None of them were this puzzle. He reminds you that you have plans this afternoon. There are so few pieces left that you are reluctant to leave, but you do because you know he is right. Then, just as you begin to write, he appears at the living room door.

“Love,” he says, “I think you can finish it in the next five minutes.” He laughs at how you light up. In the kitchen, you see that he has placed just a few more pieces for you. Now you can see how easily the last ten or so pieces will come together. With only the tiniest bit of turning pieces one way, and then the other, you place all the pieces. Your husband threatens to place to the last piece. You glare at him and ask how much he likes being married, which makes him laugh again.

You place the last piece and say, “I love it!” and he smiles at your pleasure.

You take a picture. You know that you will take the puzzle apart almost right away and gift it to someone else. You are simultaneously pleased with this tiny accomplishment and embarrassed by the pleasure it brings you. You know you will write about this. You know that this is love.

Locked Out #SOL24 28/31

As I walked up the sidewalk towards the house, my heart dropped. Two large boxes waited just in front of our door. I glanced inside: the lights were off. I dropped my things on the front porch and, although I was fairly sure I already knew what I would find, dug through all the pockets of my purse: nothing. Just in case, I checked my backpack. Not there either. Finally, I walked back to the driveway, opened the passenger door and checked in the glove compartment. Still nothing. I could hear the dog pawing at the door, but there was nothing I could do about it: I was locked out.

The thing is, that after years of relative stability, lately Mr. 13 has been losing things. Notably, his house key. Because he is often the first one home in the afternoon, I loaned him my key. Then he found his key and gave mine back – but then he lost his again. Then things got complicated. Somehow or another, I realized earlier this week that I no longer had either my key or my back-up key. At the time, I thought, “I should really take care of this now,” but of course I didn’t. And here I was now, keyless.

I left my things on the porch and walked over to Mike’s because he has a spare key. He wasn’t home.

So I walked back to our front porch and texted Mr. 15. “Are you near home? I’m locked out.” Since Mr. 15 pretty much always has his notifications silenced, so I didn’t get my hopes up. I told myself that we were lucky it was such a beautiful day; just a week ago, I would have been freezing while I waited. I tried to be happy that my children were off with their friends rather than inside online.

After a few minutes with no response, I texted Andre to see if maybe – maybe – he was finishing up work early before the long weekend. Nothing.

Finally, I sat down on the front steps and texted my friend. (Yes, a fair number of people have extra keys. Our house is pretty friendly.) We were heading to the gym soon anyway, so I figured maybe she could come a bit early.

She replied immediately and agreed to come by in a few minutes. The dog was pretty unhappy about me sitting on the porch without him, but there was nothing I could do. I checked my email and waited until she arrived, tossed me the keys, and went to park. I gathered my things, moved the boxes to the side of the front door, and put the key in the lock.

Wait. The door wasn’t locked. That was odd. I pushed the door open to discover that BOTH OF MY CHILDREN WERE HOME. Both of them. One was on the computer; the other was in the kitchen *on the phone I had just texted*.

“Did you not see me?” I asked. “Did you not notice the dog at the door?”

They looked at me, perplexed. No and no.

“Did you not notice that I texted? Did you not hear the delivery guy who left the boxes?”

Nope. Not at all.

Mr. 15 said, “I mean, why didn’t you just open the door?”

I looked at the large boxes, the excited dog, the dark house and my two clueless children. “Well,” I said, “I thought I was locked out.”

Sisyphean Laundry Basket #SOL24 24/31

All day, I’ve been meaning to write.
All day, I’ve been meaning to prep for the week.
All day, I’ve been meaning to mark.

But I couldn’t. Because, you see, I need to fold laundry. A LOT of laundry. Maybe five loads? Maybe more? I was going to post a picture, but I can’t – it’s too embarrassing.

I promised myself I would do it before I sat down at the computer.
I did not promise myself I would fold laundry before I went grocery shopping. Done.
I did not promise myself I would fold laundry before I walked the dog. Done.
I did not promise myself I would fold laundry before cooking, cleaning the kitchen, cleaning the bathroom. Done, done and done.

It’s not like I haven’t been productive. I have, more or less. But now it’s almost bedtime, and the laundry is there, staring at me. I’ve had to create a giant pile so that I could reuse some of the baskets for – you guessed it – more laundry.

I usually don’t mind folding laundry – just turn on a TV show and off I go, but today, the knowledge that the minute I am done, the very second I put the laundry away, there will be more… I just couldn’t do it.

There is a reason Sisyphus wasn’t a woman. If he had been, rolling that boulder endlessly up the hill would have just been another thing on his to-do list every day.

The well-loved cat #SOL24 23/31

The text came in just before 10.pm.

Hi neighbours. Sorry for the late evening message. Tippy is at our place and is not willing to leave, maybe because of the cold. We can try to send her out if you are able to let her in.

Tippy is our cat. At least, we are the ones who brought her home from the Humane Society seven years ago. At this point, we are pretty sure she has several others families.

Tippy when we first got her, seven years ago. She has always loved kids.

For instance, she has definitely adopted the family two doors down. They have two girls, each a year younger than one of our boys, and no other pets. To visit them, Tippy climbs one medium-height fence and one tall fence and then paws at the sliding door on their back deck.

Not long after we got her, she began accompanying our kids to the bus stop every morning. After they were gone, she circled back to pick up the girls and accompany them to their bus stop, then she came home just in time to scoot inside as we left for work. Eventually, to her disappointment, the kids all started walking to school, and she was left to find other neighbourhood children to shadow.

The pandemic, awful for so many humans, was Tippy’s heaven. She woke and had breakfast with us, then got everyone settled for school. Mid-morning, she went out our back door, scaled the fences, and hung out with the girls for a few hours. At their house, she developed a routine: explore to make sure everything was still where it was supposed to be, then settle in a sunny corner by the front windows and wait for various people to adore her. After a good nap, she would ask to be let out their back door, then come back to our place.

This is one of Tippy’s napping places in our house.

The neighbours – with our permission – got a cat bed and a scratcher, food and water bowls, and plenty of toys. Tippy makes good use of her time at both houses.

A few months ago, we got a dog. Max is an enthusiastic black three-year-old mix of Lab & “something pretty big.” He likes cats, but the cats are significantly less sure of him. Tippy is, generally, not impressed. The neighbours, too, worry. Last night, after the text about the cold weather (it really wasn’t that cold), Andre went over to pick her up As Tippy was passed from one father to the other, our neighbour asked if she was adjusting well to the dog. “We’ve noticed she seems a little nervous lately,” he apologized, “The girls are concerned.” Andre reassured him that all was well.

Max is pretty convinced that everyone should love him, too – even the cats.

Andre carried Tippy home, we all settled in to bed, and she took up her usual spot, waiting for me to finish reading so she can snuggle with me all night. No doubt, Tippy is a well-loved cat.

Tippy and I read together almost every night.

Hammer/Nail #SOL24 15/31

Mr. 13 is remarkably willing to go to appointments, provided we abide by one simple rule: the appointment must be scheduled during the school day. He’ll do almost anything to miss school. Unfortunately for him, his parents work, and he has a *lot* of upcoming appointments, so when the dentist observed that one of his canine teeth still has not fallen out and that X-rays showed a potentially impacted tooth, I scheduled the orthodontist for this morning, the last day of March Break. He was not impressed.

Nevertheless, he got up with only a bit of groaning and walked with me to the orthodontist. After we filled in all the paperwork, we were put into a consulting room where his x-rays were up. Right away, I could see the problem: one tooth looked stuck. But Mr. 13 is a curious sort, and he was looking at far more than one tooth. After a minute he said, “I think these are old.” The technician pointed out that they were dated Tuesday; they were recent. Mr. 13 nodded politely, and she went to get the orthodontist.

As soon as she was gone, he said, “Mom, those are definitely old.” He showed me the teeth he’d lost that were still present on the x-ray along with the teeth that hadn’t fully grown in but were, quite obviously, in his mouth. When the orthodontist and tech returned, I pointed out the problems. “Let me take a look,” said the orthodontist, but all he had to do was glance at Mr. 13’s mouth to know that we were right.

“Hmph. We need a new x-ray.”

“He just had one on Tuesday,” I said.

As it turned out, he had not had an x-ray on Tuesday. I was confused. Why were we here? No one was sure. The technician took Mr. 13 for the x-ray, then everyone reassembled in the tiny room. The new x-ray was displayed and the “impacted” tooth was, in fact, not impacted at all.

“Maybe he could just, you know, try to wiggle it for a little while?” I asked. I know my child; he is not a tooth-wiggler. He would prefer to keep everything as it is, thank you very much.

But no. We were already at the orthodontist’s, and he suggested sending Mr. 13 to an oral surgeon. Mr. 13 asked if the appointment would be during the school day. I rolled my eyes. Next, the orthodontist explained that he would need braces on the upper teeth to “close the gaps” and on the bottom to “correct the overbite”. All of this, of course, after this tooth came out and the new one grew in.

The orthodontist left, and the technician continued the explanation: braces will take two years, followed by a retainer for two years, then a small wire behind the teeth to hold them in place, and a retainer for the rest of his life. She sent us to billing for the estimate.

Billing booked us for an appointment in December (during the school day) to check on the position of the erstwhile tooth, then showed us the price of braces and all the ways we could pay for them. I tried not to let my jaw drop too far open. When she was finished, we paid for our visit, took the estimate and headed home.

As we walked down the front steps, Mr. 13 said, “Um, Mom. I don’t think my teeth are too far apart. And no dentist has ever mentioned that I have an overbite before. Do you think I need braces?”

“Have you ever heard the saying ‘if all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail’?”

He had not. I explained. He nodded sagely, “Yeah, this guy definitely only has a hammer.” We continued walking until we arrived at the diner we love, my bribe to get him to the orthodontist this morning. As we sat down, he confirmed, “So, I’m probably not getting braces, right?”

Nope, kiddo, probably not. Hammer/ nail.

Sick Days

Second semester started with days of absent students. Some didn’t understand that the semester began in the middle of the week. Some thought the first few days were “kind of useless” and decided to stay home. Two were out of the country indefinitely. Lots of students were changing their timetables. Of course, most students were there, so I focused on the ones in the classroom, tried to make clear assignments for those who were out, and continued along.

By the end of the first full week, classes were well underway, but students seemed to be coming and going at an unusual rate. I chalked it up to, well, I don’t know what – but weird things happen in small environments, and schools are no exception. So, a lot of students were missing class, such is life, and talk at the teachers’ table at lunchtime suggested that this was true in many classes. Worse, some kids were getting sick and then were gone for days – days! None of the normal “sick for a day and then back” that usually happens. We couldn’t figure it out.

Then, last week, my youngest got sick. He doesn’t love school, so I often look askance at any request to stay home, but on Tuesday, he was visibly unwell, so we let him stay home – and there he stayed for three full days. Three days! He’s 13! 13-year-olds bounce back ridiculously quickly; they don’t stay home for days because of a nondescript cold. (It wasn’t covid.) But here we were. By the time Friday rolled around, he’d missed the annual ice skating outing, pizza day, and more. He was ready to go back.

So I shouldn’t have been surprised when I started feeling sick on Saturday. I was gentle with myself, but I figured it was just a cold. Just a cold… and here I am, four days later, still at home. I am sick. It’s not Covid, but I was sick enough to check with the doctor on Monday. They shook their head and said, “there are some nasty viruses going around.” Indeed. Them they x-rayed my chest to see if I had pneumonia – I don’t. I’m just sick. Last night I slept 13 hours. I’ve spent most of the last three days sitting on the couch. My throat is a hot mess. I’m sick.

When I check class attendance, I see that the students are still sick, too. To date, only 6 of my 26 grade 9 students have perfect attendance; only 4 of the 21 grade 12s. No wonder I’ve been spending so much of my afternoon literacy block trying to simply find the students I need to work with. Whew.

I’m out again tomorrow – and I really hate being away from school. If I’m lucky, I’ll be better by Thursday. At least I’ve solved the mystery of all the missing students – they’re sick!

Wordless

Sometimes my youngest has trouble with words. Whatever mysterious worlds hold him together – his own internal sun, moon and Earth – line up, and emotion rises in him like a spring tide, flooding him and robbing his ability to speak. If I catch him early enough, he can still tell me what’s happening, though it’s hard. If we don’t notice the rising waters until it’s too late, his voice is gone. While he sits, nearly mute, fist pounding the space beside him, tears in his eyes, I struggle to guess at the words that elude him. Sometimes, I can find the words for him, and he collapses in relief; others, though, we’re not so lucky and all that that’s left is the language of the body. When I can, I hold him until the waters recede.

This is what happened on New Year’s Eve. I was the only adult left awake with the kids, who were waiting up for whatever magic they think happens at midnight – or at least for fireworks. I knew he had planned to walk out to the dock with the rest of us, but as the hour approached, he no longer wanted to come. When I asked him what was going on, his words were drowned out and his eyes filled with tears. I was reluctant to leave my youngest crying alone on the couch as the new year rolled in, but the others were waiting and time was short. Luckily, my partner was still awake, reading. He knows these moments, and came down to snuggle with our child while I went with the others into the dark. By the time we returned, my son was fast asleep.

These moments are frustrating, heartbreaking and, most of all, perplexing for me. I live in a world of words, trusting them to be my messengers to others, certain that I can coax them into shapes that will communicate meaning to those around me. I rely on words to tame the very emotions that, I think, overwhelm my child.

And yet. And yet.

These past months, words have often eluded me. I haven’t written here regularly. In fact, I haven’t written anywhere regularly. I’ve spent far too long staring at other people’s stories in an attempt to avoid my own. I’ve had no desire – much less ability – to put words to what I’m feeling. Instead, I’ve allowed myself to float on my own wordless tides. It’s unsettling.

Now, as 2024 begins, many people I love and admire – writers, readers and lovers of words – have chosen “one little word” for the year. I’ve tried to choose one, too, but the words have been as hard to hold as water. No word stays. As if to prove a point, I have spent some time now writing, erasing, then staring at the screen. The words slip through my fingers. What should I say? What should I not say? How do I feel? I don’t know. I want to commit to writing weekly this year. I want to say that I am grateful to know in advance some of the challenges that this year will bring. But those things aren’t true. 2024 may be the year I wrestle (again) with what a friend told me long ago: “Words put space between thought and meaning.”

I think about my sometimes wordless child, approaching the new year exhausted and curled up with his father. Perhaps this year it will be enough to hold on to those I love and ride the tides as we can, with or without the words to describe the experience. Surely, that is enough.