After a year filled with stress and uncertainty, I decided that the best thing for my overworked brain would be for us to acquire another dependent.
Don’t get me wrong, Homer (the dog) is the best. When it comes to being a three-month-old puppy, he's crushin’ it. And, best of all, he forces me to get outside. No matter the obstacles...
After a busy day of work last week, I rushed to rescue the dog from prison, grabbed my oldest human child from the sitter's, and raced to not be the last parent (again) at junior kindergarten pick-up for the youngest.
Since I have a condition whereby I think I can do it all because life is a magazine cover (and then it turns out the magazine is mostly ads and smut and the cover was over-filtered anyway, but I refuse to learn), I suggested that the three of us take Homer for a walk somewhere. And, ever the optimistic masochist, I thought it best that the "somewhere" be both inconvenient and untested.
Off we went to a trail I had merely heard of once or twice. And before you (continue to) judge me: my four-year-old assured me he had done it before with Grammy and he rated it as “pretty good.”
Fun astronomy fact: sunset occurs approximately 27 minutes after sunrise this time of year. We were very much racing the clock.
Side note: top five things that cause/add to my adorably debilitating anxiety are:
- Attempting to walk my tiny 50-pound puppy on a leash
- Parenting alone - i.e. being solely responsible for small humans and/or animals
- The woods
- The woods after dark
- Attempting to walk my tiny 50-pound puppy on a leash while parenting alone in the woods after dark
The "adventure"
We parked the car and ventured onto the trail. It was quite non-threatening and ran parallel to a highway, which was reassuring - we weren’t so far removed from society.
"Look at me," I thought smugly, "I am one of those moms who really can do it all. The kids are pumped, the dog's tail is wagging. I should be teaching a 'Live Your Best Life' class right now..."
That's when a man - surely, a lovely, harmless man - approached, somewhat out of nowhere, with a small, highly vocal dog. Yappy was straining to get all up on and around Homer. Homer was equally desperate in his longing.
“Bring yer dog closer,” the man grunt/demanded, “but not too close.” God forbid.
Side note: other things that cause/add to my mild to debilitating anxiety are:
6. Strangers in unfamiliar situations
7. Attempting to walk my puppy on a leash while parenting alone in the woods after dark and being approached by an assertive stranger and his screaming dog.
I obliged. I wanted to show the boys that people are inherently good (as I mentally reviewed some basic self-defense moves… OK, "pee in your pants" is really the only one I know, so... I readied myself).
In hindsight, it was a relatively benign exchange involving a socially-awkward man and an everything-awkward me, straining to control our dogs as they fought to sniff each other’s butts.
And it was sweet how the man watched us walk away until we disappeared into the trees, puffs of cigarette smoke lingering in the air above him.
I was at once relieved and terrified to be fully immersed in the woods. With little more than a dark gray whisper of residual daylight illuminating the trail, I suggested - after about 15 minutes - that we head back to the car.
Which was the four-year-old's cue to PUT. 'ER. UP! His immediate response was "this is the worst day ever!"
Funny, I thought. Aren't I doing this FOR them? Shouldn't they be overjoyed that I'm conquering 18 to 25 of my most firmly-entrenched fears to give them a generically exciting childhood experience? I'm giving you an adventure, dammit! Please love it!
I didn't say that, of course. Mostly because it's unfair to force my youngsters to love a trail walk just because L.L.Bean ads tell me they should. Nor should they have to applaud my daily, parental Fear Factor victories. But mostly I didn't say anything because I needed to listen for wild things in the woods.
8. Wild things in the woods.
In the event we were being watched by coyotes, as I assumed we were, I shushed my whining child and, in a broken whisper, begged, "please"? Like all good parenting books recommend.
His tantrum grew louder. I was now - his words, not mine - “not [his] friend anymore.” Sweet baby Jee, the pack of onlooking coywolves are wondering how they got so lucky, for ours was a broken pack.
"OK fine!" I whisper-shouted. "We'll go as far as that little stream up ahead and then we're turning around!”
Homer was pumped to dive into the babbling water and take a drink. My four-year-old followed suit and even attempted to crawl into the culvert. Oh, what fun (this is how I die!)
I whisper-beseeched him, more forcefully now, that we must get back to the car, as the sun was gone and it's not safe to be in the woods at night. That is unless you're a wholesome family who climbs mountains all willy-nilly, carrying children in backpacks. In which case, it's downright encouraged! Those guys are all about the YOLO. I’m more a DDD gal (don't die, dummy!). Which is equally cool and compelling…
Going off-path
Finally returning in the direction of home, I noted a trail that led to the parallel highway.
“That makes the most sense,” I said aloud to myself. Straight ahead, in the darkness, was (I assumed) the man. A mere 30 feet to our left, through some trees, was a sidewalk, lit by traffic, that essentially led back to our car.
Everything about that last sentence is true minus one, crucial detail.
“Mom, this is treacherous,” exclaimed my seven-year-old, leading the life-line that was his younger brother, clung to me, clung to a giant, manic puppy. Transport trucks whizzed by close enough to tousle our hair.
A sidewalk there was not. To our right, a near-vertical incline of shale and frozen mud. To our immediate left, a buzzing highway.
“Why, why, why, would they have a footpath that leads to this?” I asked nobody, likely instilling comfort and reassurance in my children.
“It’s fine," I lied. "This is fine. No big deal, right? This is an adventure.” I attempted to de-escalate their inevitable psychological trauma.
“Dis is da worst day ever,” added the four-year-old.
“Yes, yes I’m aware. You mentioned that. But… what if this is a cool adventure? If we hug close to these rocks, it’ll be like we’re brave cave explorers, trying to find our way home.” Jesus, take the wheel.
“Are we lost?”
“Of course we’re not lost. Our car is right there!” I nodded my head in a gesture toward the dark, ceaseless abyss ahead.
Another transport truck whizzed by. The dog lunged toward it. I struggled to restrain him.
“Ya know what?” (I was going for “the kid show veejay” tone but I’m sure it came out more “The Shining".
"J, you hop up on my back, I’ll straddle Homer, and M, I’ll hold on to your back, and we can do a fun conga line!” I bared my teeth and stretched my mouth as far horizontally as I could, in what surely looked like a warm, maternal smile.
The freezing rain was now slapping me directly in the face.
“Anyone can do a boring walk where everything goes smoothly,” I assured them. “But we’ll get to talk about the time we did a conga line, clinging to a cliff, trying to get back to our car.”
“Can we please go home now?”
“Yep,” I conceded, between fatigue grunts, allowing the four-year-old to slide off my throbbing back. I instructed the children to lay against the rocks. I said it would be cozy and we could pretend we were camping. As I had only taught the puppy “down” and “stay,” I was able to bust those party-moves out in a timely fashion. And with my last shred of dignity, I called my mother to rescue us.
Did I instill in my children a love of “getting lost in the beauty of nature”? God no, they will likely never walk that trail with me again. Did I give them a hilarious story to tell their friends (counsellors) someday? Also probably not. But it's a nice thought, so I'll run with it.
'Tis the year of digging for a positive spin.
Make it a merry finale, friends. Keep fighting those fears and digging for those positive spins.
Cheers to our separate togetherness, and to a brighter (literally, I'm buying myself a headlamp for Christmas) 2021.
Heather Huybregts is a mother, physiotherapist, blogger (www.heatheronarock.com), YouTuber and puffin whisperer from Corner Brook, N.L. Her column appears bi-weekly.
