The Face of Panic

When things don't work instantaneously for Hannah, she often reacts with unparalleled panic. It could be a shoe that isn't going on right or a wrapper that won't open - whatever the cause, the response is quick, disproportionate, full-on panic. If you're not in the same room when it happens, you experience your own heart-quickening panic as images of wild animals mauling small children flash through your mind. Racing to the scene, you discover the real problem is that Mr. Potato Head's nose wouldn't go in.

Undeniably, events in Hannah's world take on far greater significance than I give them credit for. Why else would she go into histrionics over a grilled cheese that was cut into four slices instead of two? I try to be patient. I try to be understanding. I try not to let my irritation show or to have my own disproportionate emotional meltdown of a response. But it's so hard because these fits of panic drive me absolutely insane!

My standard broken-record response goes something like this: "Relax. Calm down. There's no need to freak out." It actually helps.

Now I just need to think of what to say to Hannah.

Share? Over My Dead Body!

Hannah has experienced many of her friends sharing toys, books, puzzles, etc. with her. She understands the concept. She is a nice girl. Yet, the other day when given the opportunity to share something of hers with a friend, she not only balked, she outright went nuts.

Her friend had been given a caterpillar in a jar and was going to watch it turn into a butterfly over time. Hannah happened to have a book about this very thing with lift-the-flaps and all. It was a perfect pairing for this little boy. Even the type of caterpillar was the same. However, when I offered the book, Hannah became upset. Very upset. Possessive in a scary way. She hugged the book to her chest and cried that she didn't want to give it to them. I tried to reason with her. She didn't budge. I shrugged it off, assuming that in 5 minutes, after she'd forgotten about it, I'd just sneak the book into my friends' things. She did not let the book out of her sight or her tight grip. In fact, she was so worried about me giving them the book, she didn't want to say good-bye. Instead, she chose to stay in the safety of a chair in the office, clutching the book safely in her arms.

I was embarrassed (though I'm familiar with Hannah's theatrics), but there was not way to pry that book from her hands without causing undue stress or grief. It just wasn't worth it. An innocent spectator might have thought I'd asked Hannah to donate a kidney to her friend. These are the things that are supposed to happen to other peoples' kids so I can watch and shake my head and think, Thank goodness my kid doesn't act like that.

The Cottage - Part 2

With the benefit of a little time and distance, plus being safely installed in my new home, my cottage woes seem worlds away. I am no longer perched on the edge of a suspicious-looking couch on a blanket trying not to let any of my skin make contact with the actual fabric on the couch, nor am I intentionally ignoring something that spilled on the carpet beside my feet. Despite our somewhat dodgy accommodations, we had a nice time at the cottage. The owner made a few helpful improvements during our stay. He had the sandbox weeded and removed a leaning tower of wood from beside the slide. He installed a screen in our door. He disposed of the dead mouse in our oven.

We still got to swim, fly kites, have picnics, sit by fires, go out on a boat, etc. All the traditional, happy memories exist. They are just tempered with other memories. Hannah actually refers to the cottage as "the spiderweb cottage". As far as the kids are concerned, apart from the spiders, there was nothing wrong with the place. They had a great time. And looking back, I think Scott and I did, too.

Cottage Horrors

After packing up an entire house, loading two children prone to car-sickness into the car for a 4-hour trip, I finally arrived at our cottage destination. Our home for a week. And here is what transpired:

I pulled into the entrance, saw a sign directing me to the office, and proceeded down a one-lane drive toward said office. A truck began driving toward me. It continued to head straight for my car until we were both forced to stop – nose to nose. Confused (and a little bit ticked off), I put my car in reverse and backed out to the main road. The truck followed and then stopped right in front of me. The driver emerged and walked to my window. “And you are?” he asked, in a tone that implied I was trespassing or committing some other unidentified offence. 

I sized him up, said my name, and then added with what I hoped was some semblance of authority that I was renting a cottage here. 

“Yeah,” he answered. “Number three. That’s why I tried to stop you. You have to pull in behind.”

This guy was the owner? Not a very welcoming introduction to the premises. I found our cottage and parked behind the rear wall, or what was left of it. Part of it had been patched up and the other part was lying on the ground. Hmmm. Interesting. I opened the screen door, minus its screen, and entered the cozy kitchen. I had to lean slightly forward as the floor was listing so heavily to one side it was a bit of an incline. I herded the kids inside and tried to ignore the obvious: this place was falling apart. 

We unpacked our few belongings and Hannah had a few minor freak outs about bugs, spider webs, etc. As I started filling the fridge, I noticed that the incline of the floor was affecting everything I put into the fridge. It all rolled to one side. The whole fridge was leaning precariously. I warned the kids not to touch it since it might fall on them. Later, Scott rolled up a magazine and wedged it under one side creating some stability. 

Entering the bathroom, I noticed a sign warning me not to drink the water or even brush my teeth with it unless I boiled it first. No problem. I located the kettle. It was coated in spider webs. I emptied the dead bugs out of it and then pretended it was sterilized after boiling twice. When Scott arrived later that night, he asked me if I’d seen any mice. “No, thank goodness,” I laughed.

Of course, I hadn’t opened the oven yet…

To be continued.

Not my Comfy Pants!

Obviously, we eventually had the entire house packed up and ready to be loaded onto the truck. It was nothing short of a miracle. Although, to be honest, there were some loose items being tossed into the truck at the end of it all. My dreams of a massive purge never really materialized as every last item in the house seemed to make its way into a box, albeit rather randomly at the end.

The night we loaded the truck my main job was to keep the kids out of the way. With nothing to play with and nowhere to sit, it was not an easy task. And then, of course, there was Hannah’s superbly dramatic reaction to anything of hers going onto the truck. Tears. Flailing arms. Gnashing of teeth. When her dresser was loaded, she was beside herself. “Are my clothes going on the truck?” I replied in the affirmative. She freaked out. “Not my comfy pants! I don’t want my comfy pants on the truck!”

Her comfy pants? Out of everything to be upset about, her comfy pants nearly broke her. I had to remove her from the scene. I can’t wait to see her reunion with her beloved pants in the new house. There might be balloons. Or confetti.

Next up: Cottage Horrors.

I'm Still Using That!

I’ve been off-line for almost a month and am so far behind in my blogs and email it’s almost frightening. But I have  month left of summer holidays, a new house with a main floor office, and motivation to catch up again quickly. So, to start, I will go back in time to before the move. To the packing stage.

Packing is not fun. It starts out okay when you think you can really organize everything and pack everything in a way that makes perfect sense. Then you start having space in boxes that you have to fill with random things. Then you look around and realize even though you’ve filled 30 boxes, your house doesn’t look any emptier. That’s when panic sets in, just a bit at first. As you frantically continue filling boxes, throwing logic to the wind, the panic increases. How can you possibly pack everything, but still live in the house? Worse yet, how can you pack anything when your kids follow you around crying, “Don’t pack that. I’m still using it!” And by crying, I mean full-out hysterics.

Hannah used that line so many times that Jacob started saying it without even knowing what it meant. He would follow me up the stairs and tell me at least 6 times, “No packie that. My still using that!”

Poor Hannah was so distraught watching her beloved possessions disappear one by one. Her distress translated into some interesting behaviour, but nothing prepared me for her reaction when we actually loaded the truck. Stay tuned for the post: “Not My Comfy Pants!”