Strolling with Wolves

I have emerged from the woods, hairy and disheveled, to write this post.  It was just too good not to tell immediately.

This summer, being that it is the first one where I don’t have a job or a colicky baby, I have decided to spend the majority of my time out at the lake. Buddha comes with me, of course, along with the Dogs from Hell. Practical Joe stays at home slaving away at his job during the week (and his video games in his oh-so-free evenings.)

The other day, in an attempt to shake off a case of cabin fever, I decide to take Buddha and the Hellians for a walk down the gravel road that leads to our cabin. It’s a remote road bordered by thick foliage and wild flowers. We've (very creatively) deemed it The Quiet Road because of it's desolate nature. On it you might see the odd frog or turtle crossing the road, but other than that there's not a whole lot of activity. 

Or so I thought.

I am nearing the end of my walk and suddenly a strange feeling comes over me. It’s the kind of feeling you get when you’re being watched. Most of the time when I get this feeling in the city, I quickly pick out the culprit, usually an old man leering at me for no apparent reason or a snobbish lady judging me and my screeching baby. Both of which are manageable.

But here I am alone. Here, in the middle of nowhere, this feeling is downright creepy.  Shivers shoot up my spine. I look around me, but there is not a person in sight.

I breathe a sigh of relief .  A leering man out here would be far too much to handle. I continue walking.

About a minute later I see something emerge from the woods up ahead of me. I squint to try to make out the dark figure and quickly determine that it’s probably someone’s dog. Relieved, I continue walking.

But as we get a little closer my rambunctious Dogs from Hell freeze in their tracks.

“Come on guys!” I try to coax them along but they are too zeroed in on the dog up ahead.

I take another look at its dark coat and piercing eyes and my skin begins to crawl with fear as the realization sinks in: that’s not a dog… that’s a big effing TIMBERWOLF!!!

I freeze in the middle of the road, frantically trying to think of something to do. Buddha points to the wolf and happily chirps the word, “Dog!” for the first time ever.

“Shhhh!” I tell him.

The wolf takes a few steps toward us and I start to cry. I am completely helpless. Stranded in the middle of the woods without a single way of defending my baby or myself from a 150 pound predator. I don’t know how I’m going to get us out of this one but what I do know is that that wolf will be well matched by me if he tries to harm my child. 

Desperate to try something, anything, I slowly reach down into the bottom of the stroller and grab a container full of cheese that I had carefully diced up for Buddha that morning. I open the container and very, very slowly empty in onto the road.  I turn around and begin walking in the other direction, away from the wolf.  The dogs from hell don’t follow me, which is sad but in a way, still okay with me. Those dogs becoming wolf meat is a small price to pay for my child's safety.

YIP! YIP! YIP! YIP! YIP! The dogs go baserk.

“Guys noooo!!!!” It comes out automatically as I turn around to see my little lap dogs running toward the giant wolf.

For a moment I am frozen again but decide that this time I need to run. I run until my chest is on fire and I am gasping for air.  I run and run and run until I realize that my dogs from hell are running beside me. My Dogs From Hell are okay!!!

After a joyous reunion with my dogs and about an hour of waiting to make sure the wolf is gone, we head back.

When we get home, Dog from Hell One pees on the couch and for once I don’t really mind.

Namaste,

MM

Playgroup allergy

I’d heard about them before and they sounded pretty awful: bored housewives who get together to teach their wrangy children how not to steal each other’s toys. (“Jacob, what did I tell you about sharing?” they’ll say in that naggy mom voice that I’m sure I myself am slowly inheriting.)

“You shouldn’t be so judgmental,” says Mommy Ventura over the phone. “Aren’t you a bored housewife?”

Damn best friends and their astute observations.

“Well yes, but I don’t think the commiseration of others is going to do me any good. It’s just not my scene.” I shudder again at the thought of the forced chitchat about loose teeth that would surely transpire.  

“But what if you just went to a really big one?” MV tells me about a playgroup that she’s gone to. “There are so many people… I swear, it’s not awkward at all. You barely have to talk to anyone.”

I mull it over. “I suppose that could be okay,” I mumble, feeling like a grumpy old man. (What kind of person am I that the selling factor to a playgroup is that I’ll barely have to talk to anyone? I decide not to further analyze.)

“It’s really fun. You should try it!” MV continues.

I look over at Buddha who is staring slack jawed at an episode of Sesame Street.

•••

I arrive at the playgroup.  A feeling of dread overcomes me as I open the door to the community center. My mind is flooded with imagery: a sharing circle, women who look like June Cleaver, sandwiches cut into perfect animal shapes. (“This is an orangutan,” June will say as she passes her child a tuna sandwich.)

But when I enter the room it is nothing like what I had pictured.  The large hall has more toys that an FAO Shwarz. It’s a kid’s dream. Buddha immediately busies himself with a toy motorcycle and I follow him around the room, smiling at other parents and making sure that Buddha doesn’t run over their children.

A few minutes in and Buddha is having the time of his life. He squeals with delight every time he discovers a new toy.  I decide that playgroups aren’t so bad.  I even find myself yearning to talk to some of the other moms. I look over at a group of women who are enjoying coffee and laughing together in the corner. That’s when it hits me. Behind my judgment and harsh prediction of what a playgroup would be was the secret fear that I would not, or perhaps could not, fit in.

As soon as I realize this I make a b-line for a mom who is standing at the inflatable gym.  I introduce myself to a woman named Rea and we have a lovely chat. We talk about nothing in particular but it doesn’t matter. It’s just good to make even the smallest connection.

But my June Cleaver moment is short lived.

“I’m sorry. I think I need to sit down for a minute,” I tell her as a wave of nausea hits me. I've never been morning sick before. It must be the playgroup.

I sit down on a chair and put my head between my knees.

“Are you alright? Do you want me to get you something?” says poor freaked out Rea.

“No thanks. It’s just morning sickness. I’ll be fine.” I wave my hand trying to downplay the extreme nausea that’s set in, but I quickly realize this is no small matter.  I have to leave.

I peel myself off the chair and hurry over to Buddha. He’s enthusiastically banging together a toy spoon and pot. I pry them out of his tiny hands and he starts to scream. 

Now the whole room is looking at me but I can’t be bothered with that small fact. I’m about to puke.

After speedily strapping Buddha into his stroller I hightail it for the car. I buckle him into his car seat and drive off, my tires screeching on the pavement. I drive maybe a half a block before frantically pulling over, opening my door, and getting sick all over the pavement.

After I am done, I look up. Standing on the sidewalk is a mom pushing a stroller. She is frozen, gape mouthed.

“I’m so sorry,” I say before slamming the door and driving away.

I guess I’m going to have to find another playgroup.

Namaste,