Is it Just Me? – Resolving to Be Here

During the December break, we convince ourselves to have a wonderful time even if it kills us. Worries about money, careers, grades and weight are tucked away in a mental safe which can’t be penetrated for a full two weeks. The padding is family, friends, food and much needed rest. We also lose track of regular time.

Alas, the holiday has a beginning and an end. Eventually, reality knocks and the door to our tribulations is opened wide, flexing its maw like a hungry alligator. What do you do when December’s twinkling lights revert to the harsh fluorescence of winter? How do you feel when the ruts grab your wheels again and spin them without forward motion? Do you sink or do you dog-paddle?

By a fortunate turn, my family was able to leave Toronto for a few days, traveling north to the hinterland – with access to indoor swimming and plumbing, heat, food, ping-pong and a spa. Okay, we weren’t exactly roughing it in the bush although the temperature did dip to frost-bite lows on the same day that I signed up to drive a dogsled through the woods.

For those of you having a “so, what?” moment, please note that I have always nurtured a terror of canines as well as a fright of doing anything that might compromise my body. Hence, there has been no bungee-jumping or white water rafting on my life resume, nor have I started my own dog-walking business. But, I thought it was time to at least face a fear or two. Overcoming them would be a benefit but not necessarily a goal. The point was to trust me with myself and to maybe recover some personal power.

The night before the big event, I coincidently read my younger son, Harrison, a story about a dogsled adventure: a father is thrown from a sled which continues to run towards the edge of a high cliff carrying his son. At the penultimate moment, one brave dog stops the sled and the boy is saved from a deathly fall. Perhaps, this was not appropriate reading material for a self-acknowledged scaredy-pants. I lay awake wondering why I’d decided to test my composure and my bone density.

At the trail site the next morning, our guide gave us drivers a brief lesson in dog-sledding. “If you want your dogs to move, yell ‘Hike!’ To stop or slow down, step on your foot-brake. Lean your body into the turns or you’ll probably fall off. Any questions?”

I grilled the foot-brake while the guide introduced my Husky dog team. Bear lived up to his moniker, growling non-stop and constantly rearing up on his hind-legs. He looked possessed and I felt like his keepsake. Spook just wanted to snooze in the snow and Bosco was, well, normal, I guess, peeing and barking with equal enthusiasm. I didn’t trust any of them. They were strange dogs with psycho-killer blue eyes. Some, like Bear, were literally chomping at the bit.

The first time I tentatively called, “Hike!” my team tore down a steep hill twisting through the woods. I should have used the brake, but I was too scared of falling off to risk lifting my foot and so I held on tight and leaned into the turns, imploring my dogs to “whoa” even though this wasn’t a sanctioned command. What animal doesn’t understand “whoa”, after all? My dog team, that’s what.

I remained vigilant, my sole focus being to stay on the sled and avoid a concussion. I didn’t think about the fact that I’d lost feeling in my toes and nose, that my hands were hurting from gripping the sled and that the backs of my shoulder blades would ache for two days. I didn’t worry about how to land my oldest son, Charlie, in the secondary school of his choice, about the weird noise coming from our furnace at home or about the mountain of extra cheesy nachos I’d eaten the night before. When my team flew around a tight turn and I saw the stolid tree in my path, my only thought was “Save your face!” And, as I rose after falling, my only thought was, “I’ve lost my sled. Whoa, Dogs. Whoa!”

In the last five minutes of the ride, we emerged from the woods onto a sparkling white plain. With no more turns, menacing branches or hidden bumps to consider, I stood up straight, yelled “hike” with gusto and smiled into the frozen sunshine. I did it!, I thought. I would have patted myself on the back had it not necessitated me taking one hand off the sled.

As we each recalled our day’s adventures at dinner that evening, Harrison smiled at me with quizzical eyebrows. “Mom, when we go to fairs, you won’t go on the scary rides. You hate being in a fast motorboat. I just never thought you were the kind of person to drive a dogsled.”

“Does it freak you out?” I asked my son.

“No” said Harrison. “I think it’s awesome.”

A couple of weeks later, I am ensconced in my regular life, the holiday a digital memory. Both the snow and the laundry pile up and I spend a lot of my time driving children around, trying to issue and maintain order. But, I remember the sheer brilliance of “now” on that dogsled. I remember to notice the warmth of Harrison’s hand as he squeezes mine unconsciously in the first minutes of sleep. I remember to hear the happiness in my mother’s voice when Charlie proudly reports his exam marks to her.

I try to be here instead of worrying about what may be around the corner. I try to be like a blue-eyed psycho dog, marking my world as I move through it. I am chomping at the bit.

"Connected Parenting advises us not just how to parent, but—far more important—who to be as parents. The therapeutic methods suggested by Jennifer Kolari are based not on simple-minded behavioural solutions, but on building warm, nurturing relationships with our children, with insight and compassion not only for their little flaws, but also for our own larger ones."
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