Regret

It seems odd that I am choosing to write about such a downer topic when everything around me is so beautiful right now.  I have been luxuriating in these hot, long summer days.  They make me feel happy and refreshed and quite inspired. It also seems odd to write on this topic when just today I could choose from any number of events to share.  I found my two year old playing with an open bottle of Aspirin. She had three in her hand and when questioned claims she did not eat any.  I checked her teeth and there was no trace of the blue capsule. I took her word for it.  She then ran around the soccer field half naked for the last half of my son’s soccer practice. And finally, while I was walking around the river tonight I told a woman who looked pregnant (at a distance) that she looked adorable only to be slightly horrified when she walked passed me and I started second guessing myself. Maybe she just thought I was a lesbian.

But, I do not usually choose my topics they most often just come to me and whatever the topic, I am usually game for sharing.  And for some reason, this is the story that I feel I must tell. My tale of regret is a sad one and I am not sure why I feel the need to make it public but why start censoring myself now? 

Regret, real regret, is a horrible thing.  Sure there are lots of small things in our lives we may think we regret but we probably throw the term around a little loosely. I am talking about the kind of regret that eats at your soul. 

As I have previously written, I just spent two weeks camping at a place I have been going for twenty six years.  Going there is like having my past, present and future all rolled into one. I met Sarah there when I was just eleven years old. I walked up to her and asked her if she wanted to go to the beach with me. We were inseparable after that and our friendship would become one of constant letter writing and sleepovers in between our family’s annual camping trips to OTF in the summer.

Sarah was beautiful. I don’t think any guy even saw me all those years camping as teenagers because I was always with her and she had the body of a bikini goddess. But my friendship with her was worth enduring being invisible.  Sarah lived with a heart condition that sadly took the life of her twin when she was just three years old.  Still, Sarah was always casual about her condition (typical teenager) and she took her medication without much thought.

Sarah and I remained great friends and we would eventually stand up for one another in our weddings.  A couple years after that, as life got to be too busy (whatever that means), we fell out of touch.  I remember after I had my first child she called a couple of times but between a mild case of self-diagnosed postpartum and the insanity of having a first child, I didn’t return her calls. I am sure her feelings were hurt. Then, when I had my baby shower, she was unable to come. I am sure my feelings were hurt. And after that, even though I still thought of her as one of my best friends, we just never seemed to really connect again.

Seven years ago, Sarah’s father called me out of the blue. He called to let me know that Sarah was in the hospital. It wasn’t too serious they thought but she had been having some trouble with her heart.  He thought it would be nice for me to call her. She had mentioned to him that it would be nice to talk to me.  I instantly knew I should just go and see her. I took down her number and put it beside me on my nightstand.

That number, in red pen, sat on my nightstand for two weeks.  Every night for two weeks I told myself I would call tomorrow. Then tomorrow came and went and I would make the same promise to myself. Looking back, I think the thought of calling her while she was in the hospital overwhelmed me. It felt like we had let a lifetime go by without contacting each other and I just kept putting it off those first awkward hellos.

On December 30, 2005 Sarah passed away. I never called her.  Her father would later tell me that Sarah didn’t know what she had done to make me so upset with her. Sarah had meant so much to me for so long and in the final days of her life I let her down in a way that is hard to move past.  I did not know that Sarah was going to die but that does not excuse the fact that I did not call her. She and her family reached out to me and I went to bed every night thinking, tomorrow.

Pictures like this haunt me. Our past is a little haunting though isn’t it. The girls in this photo only knew beach days and Boggle and staying up all night talking about boys and our futures. When I think of Sarah I feel ashamed but I am not so selfish as to let those thoughts erode my memories of her and our beautiful friendship.  I hope if she could she would forgive me and know that I loved her.

                                            1987 - The summer we met

Camping - Part III

Contrary to what you may think, camping is no cheap vacation.  My grocery bill alone this year come to over four hundred dollars (sorry Eric!) and that does not include the hundred dollars I spent at the butcher. And somehow, eight days into our trip, we were totally out of food except for some boxes of Kraft Dinner which we had already eaten for lunch. So, we decided on that eighth day that it would be a good idea to go out for dinner with friends and all of the kids.

Have I not yet learned that these ideas are always better left as thoughts only? Haven’t I learned that my children are notoriously misbehaved in restaurants – highlighting for everyone my parenting deficiencies? 

The dinner stared out with normal behavioural infractions followed by empty threats like, “Sit down or we’re leaving!” 

At one point, before dinner was even served, my youngest needed to go to the bathroom and her sister volunteered to take her. Lovely. Way to be responsible and helpful I thought to myself. See, I am a good parent I mused. About thirty seconds later my two year old appeared before us (and all of the other restaurant patrons) stark naked.  Clearly, she had been put up to this by her mischievous older sister.

There was a small lapse of time, the babe continuing to laugh in all her nakedness, while Eric and I stared in shock, then in shame and then at each other wondering which was of us was going to budge first and claim the streaker.

I somehow lost the battle and scooped her up and went straight to the bathroom to get her clothing which was scattered all over the bathroom floor (gross).  I took her outside to get her dressed again.

The evening settled back to the regular shenanigans we would again expect. You know, the older two telling the streaker not to say nipple or bum or boobies so that she would repeat those words at the top of her lungs. Honestly. Where did we go wrong? I may never win a parenting award but I will surely always have great stories to tell around the campfire.

Camping - Part II

Two noteworthy events occurred on this year’s camping trip.  The first involves an unfortunate incident with a chipmunk and the second (Camping – Part III) a streaking at a local restaurant.

About twelve years ago, on what would be (unbeknownst to him) one of my Dad’s final trips to OTF, there was a tragic incident involving his foot and a chipmunk.  My Dad loved to feed Chippee, one of the many chipmunks (all named Chippee) that would crawl up onto his lap for peanuts at our campsite.

One evening around dinner I heard a blood curdling scream from my mother.  We all came running to find Chippee convulsing our green indoor/outdoor carpet.  My Dad had stepped on the poor thing and, in an effort to calm the situation and make my Dad feel better my mom just kept yelling over and over, “Peter, you stepped on Chippee!” Horrified and visibly distraught my Dad did the only thing he could do; he grabbed his shovel, scooped up the dying chipmunk and took him into the forest to finish him off.

Fast forward to July 2012 and the McCabe family had our very own Chippee as we do every year.  One afternoon while we were all sitting around and Chippee was being particularly well fed something went terribly wrong.  Our oldest daughter called out to us that something was wrong with Chippee.  We ran over to find him (flashback moment) convulsing on our indoor/outdoor carpet.  We all stood looking at the poor thing in horror and unsure of what to do.  Pulling on my only reference for what to do in such a situation I advised (told) Eric to get the shovel and take care of it.  He then looked at me in horror but somehow found the courage to scoop the little guy up and put all of us out of our collective misery.

We have no idea how poor Chippee ended up dying outside our trailer door. There are theories that someone stepped on him without knowing or that maybe he choked on a peanut.  We’ll never really know but what we will always have is my daughter’s reenactment of the convulsing chipmunk which she will show anyone who asks.

In the end all I could do was comfort the kids and tell them the story of their Grandpa Pete. Fortunately, within half an hour another friendly chipmunk appeared at our trailer and both girls yelled out, “Chippee!”

Camping - Part 1

When I was ten years old, my parents borrowed my cousin’s tent trailer for a virgin voyage into the world of camping.  We were headed to a place we had heard about from them, a teacher’s camp of all places four hours away near Parry Sound, Ontario.

We loaded ourselves and everything we owned into our Silver Chevy station wagon.  The drive there was excruciating – highlighted by my parents arguing and the grave fear by all of us that the trailer that was swaying behind us was going to unhitch itself at any moment along highway 69.

At about 12am in the morning, the Bowman clan pulled into the pitch dark OTF (Ontario Teacher’s Federation) Campground. Consider for a moment the ramifications of this.  Our spirits had already been crushed by the six hour drive (recall me saying the trip only takes four hours!) and now my Dad would have to use the headlights from the station wagon to set up a trailer for the very first time. Needless to say, the arguing continued that night until we were finally able to crash in the trailer. We woke the next morning to find ourselves the lone trailer in the middle of a field.  Even at ten years old I was totally humiliated by our location. 

Twenty six years later I have only missed one summer at my beloved OTF.  I would meet one of my best childhood friends there that next summer when I was eleven.  We would stand up for each other in our weddings and when she was just thirty years old I would hear of her passing.  I would have my first alcoholic beverage on a huge rock in the woods in the middle of the night. I would make out with boys (sorry Mom) and truly come to know what summer love meant.

I try not to take it too personally when I tell people that I go camping and they respond, “You go camping???”  I don’t sleep in a tent anymore because we proudly own a tent trailer.  And when we camp it is without hydro or running water – there is a fifty year old washroom that provides those luxuries. 

Camping at OTF is a part of my soul and it has become a part of the fabric of my family - our children have never missed a summer there since they were born.  We are relishing these days when the kids run around with their friends and stay relatively out of trouble.  I don’t know what I’ll do when they want to stay out at night with their friends because I know exactly what they’ll be doing. I hope I’ll be more understanding than my mom but somehow – I doubt it.