Thank You

I'm terrible at writing thank-you notes. Let me clarify. I'm actually quite good (if I do say so myself) at writing a very thoughtful, personal thank-you note. I'm not good at taking the time to actually write it.

It's not because I'm not thankful, because I am. And it's not that I forget about the gift, because I don't. I don't even forget about writing the note. I'll think about it at totally inopportune times, like in the shower or when I'm grocery shopping. Sometimes, I start writing the note, or I even get so far as to finish it and put it in an envelope. But we never have stamps, or I can't find the address, or I get distracted by a kid wanting a snack. It gets put in my "pile" and never seen again. Okay, not never. But when it finally surfaces again it's been long enough that I'm embarrassed to send it. But more often than not, I never get to writing it in the first place.

Of all the thank-yous I have forgotten to write, the only ones that continue to bother me are the ones I have forgotten to write to my Aunt Thiry. She's my godmother and she's the only relative (outside my immediate family) who remembers my birthday. She sends a check in a beautiful card and always writes a long message inside telling me what she's been doing and asking about my family. She includes a Bible verse, one that she chose just for me. This year she included a hand-made wooden cross. I used to write back. But since having kids (they seem like a convenient enough excuse) I haven't done that. Not because I'm any less appreciative of the card and Bible verse; I'm actually more so now that I have a nephew and a niece-on-the-way. I recognize now what a special relationship that is. But in an attempt to show her how much it means to me I reject the idea of a simple thank-you note and decide to write a letter instead. However, if I couldn't find the time to write a short note, it's even more daunting to find the time to write an actual hand-written letter.

The other piece of my guilt is my mother. She takes it as a personal failing on her part that I don't regularly write thank-you notes. And my Aunt Thiry is her sister. So while my mom has no idea that I didn't send a thank-you note to my friend Jen for the dinner she brought after Lily was born (I did, however, say several verbal thank yous...that has to count for something, right?) I'm sure she asks my aunt if I have sent a card yet. I can almost hear the conversation:
My mom: Did Sara send a thank-you yet for the birthday card?
Aunt Thiry: No, but I know she's thankful, I don't need a thank-you note.
My mom: She really should send a card. I raised her better than that.
Aunt Thiry: Oh, Sara is so busy. I don't need a thank-you note.
My mom: She's not too busy to write a thank-you.
Aunt Thiry: Well, I think Sara is beautiful just the way she is. I really don't need a thank-you note.

Ok, so I know what you're thinking (or at least what my mom is thinking). If I can take the time to write this post, why can't I take the time to write a thank-you note? That's a good point. And it has been bothering me all while I've been writing this morning. But there's another aspect at play. What do you do with the thank-you notes you get in the mail? I'll tell you what I do. First, of course, I read it. They pretty much all say the same thing ("Thank you for the such-and-such. It's just what I wanted. Love, So-and-so"). Then I, very gently and with great care, place the card and envelope at the top of the pile in my...garbage can. Is there anyone out there that keeps thank-you cards? If so, I will keep an eye out for you on the next episode of Hoarders. I won't get into one of my environmental kicks, but it just seems like a waste. Wouldn't a phone call make more sense? Or better yet, saying thank you in person? Unless you're going to write a letter (like I keep planning to do for my aunt) I don't see the purpose of wasting that money/stamp/paper. (BTW - I feel the same way about ALL cards. Except for Christmas cards. There's something special about Christmas cards.).

I'm not going to make any promises about being better at writing thank-yous. I know myself better than that (and lately I'm trying not to constantly set myself up for failure). But one thing I do want to be better about is saying thank you over the phone or in person. First off, I want the giver to know that the gift was safely received. And, obviously, I want the giver to know that I'm grateful for whatever it is that was sent. However, if I can't find the time to write one thank you note, I'm probably not going to find the time to call everyone who has ever given me anything. So, I ask that this post serve as a public thank you to all of the wonderful people in my life who have given me things and not gotten a thank-you card in return. You are owed more than this, but right now this is all I'm able to give. I'm hoping I can now consider myself up-to-date on thank-yous. Except for the one I owe my Aunt Thiry. I'm going to turn off my computer and write her a letter right now.

Dog Days

I have a dog, a black lab mix (with what we don't know). She's a good dog, doesn't bite the kids and sometimes sits when asked. She currently has a huge thing growing out of her eye that the vet doesn't seem too worried about, but that I think gets a little grosser every day. She's getting old. My husband loves her. My kids adore her. I tolerate her.

About eight years ago, after being married for just over 6 months, Wade and I decided to get a dog. Okay, before he gets all in a bunch, I decided to get a dog. Whatever. The point is, we looked at a few different Humane Society locations and after seeing many dogs of all shapes, sizes and temperaments we saw Sadie. Amongst all the barking and jumping she was lying in her kennel quietly. She was beautiful, silky black fur and a streamlined body. We took her out for a walk and fell in love. We brought her home and introduced her to my cat.

For some reason we decided to get a dog when I still had one week of teaching left in the school year. But she was a year old and already house trained, so I thought it would be an easy transition. And starting at the end of that week I would have the whole summer to work with her. Our first evening at home with her we lounged on the couch and watched T.V. It was exactly what I pictured having a dog would be. The next morning I fed her and gave her a pat on the head as I headed out for the day. I thought about coming home to her wagging tail, she'd be waiting at the door for me to come in. I had been coming home to Mona (my cat) for years at this point, but she always seemed more annoyed to have me back in the house. A dog, on the other hand, would be excited to see me.

Sure enough, when I arrived home I could see her on the other side of the door. She was wagging her tail. She was happy to see me. Perhaps she was wagging her tail a bit too hard, she was a bit too happy. As I opened the door and was greeted by her happy, energetic face, I was also greeted by the overwhelming, suffocating stench of poop. Everywhere.

Oddly, it never occurred to me to take her back. I was angry. I was disgusted. I was completely out of love. But I was also committed. I immediately went out and bought a kennel. All evening I worked with her on getting in and out of the kennel on command. I put a blanket in it to make it comfortable. And the next morning, in the kennel she went. Problem solved.

That afternoon I rushed home to let her out, feeling slightly guilty that she had been cooped up all day. As I approached the door I was, at first, happy to see her wagging tail. But then it dawned on me, Wait?! What's she doing out of the kennel!? Stupidly I had bought a kennel where the door simply slipped into a metal bar, there was no lock, and the latch was easily (apparently) maneuvered from the inside. And once again... Poop. Everywhere.

This time I went out and bought a combination lock. Not so maneuverable from inside the kennel. Morning. Kennel. Locked in this time for sure. But, you guessed it, she met me at the door once more. How did she open the lock, I thought, She doesn't even know the combination!! I wish I had taken a picture of the kennel. It was bent. Twisted. Completely mangled. And she had somehow squeezed her body through a tiny opening and yes, pooped. Everywhere.

I was at a loss by this point. But Wade realized we could put her in one of the rooms in the basement until we figured out what to do. It was an old house and had an old unfinished basement. She couldn't do much damage down there. So, I left her whining behind the closed door. Although I was fully expecting it, she did not meet me at the door that afternoon (wouldn't that have made an amazing story?), but when I opened the basement door the first thing I saw was wood chips and blood. She had completely scratched away the inner side of the cheap, hollow door. The next day, had we left her down there, she would have broken through.

We solved the problem by putting a huge chain-link fence in the basement. She never got out of that. We had won. I had won. But here's the thing, it was never really about winning (well, maybe a little about winning). I just wanted this dog to know she was safe with us. I hated that she was pooping all over my house. I hated coming home to that smell. I hated scrubbing the cream carpet. But what I hated most was knowing that she had spent all day worrying, scared to death that we weren't coming back. I don't know what her life was like before we got her, but it couldn't have been good. I wish I could have explained to her that with us it could be.

Having a dog is not what I had pictured. She is hyper, nervous and always underfoot. She makes my house dirty. She pushes my patience. But she's also gentle, protective and great with kids. I'm not gonna lie, I dream of a time when my house isn't hidden under a layer of dog hair. But I also know that when that day comes, there is going to be a missing member of our family.

On the Edge

I spent the last three days on a camping trip with three other moms and our collective seven children. It was fun and adventurous and rainy and relaxing and uplifting and terrifying. Yes, absolutely terrifying. Well, only parts were terrifying. And only for me.

We camped in the Gooseberry Falls State Park. Clean bathrooms, nice campsite, quiet evenings. Lake Superiour was breath-taking. Both in the sense that it was beautiful, and in the sense that at times when I stood by it I, quite literally, couldn't breathe. It seemed that every direction we turned there was a cliff. Steep, high, dropping to rocks, crashing water and certain death below cliffs. Well, I'm assuming that's what the cliffs were like. I never actually got close enough to look over the edge.

The first snippet of fear hit me when we took a walk after dinner on the first night. We thought we would wear the kids out a bit before stuffing them in the tents and commencing with mom-time, which consisted of sitting around the campfire drinking beer. The kids ran off ahead of us a bit and one of the other moms yelled "Don't get too far ahead!" Another said "Beware of the cliffs!" I laughed. Kids running near cliffs! Preposterous! And then we emerged from the path onto the top of a cliff overlooking Lake Superior. I'm sure the view was gorgeous, but I couldn't see it. I was too busy screaming at my kids to stay away from the edge. We'd had a long rainy day of driving and setting up camp, so we only stayed a moment and then headed back. I'd only gotten a taste of what was to come.

The next day started with doughnuts and a trip to Split Rock Lighthouse. We spent the afternoon watching the kids play at Agate Beach while us moms sat with our feet in the cool lake water. Probably my favorite camping adventure. It occurred to me that I didn't seem to worry as my kids climbed huge rocks. But that evening, on another after-dinner walk, we went to what appeared to be a tad-pole breeding ground. It was a large, flat area that had several puddles, ranging from an inch to several inches deep. But beyond the puddles was, once again, a cliff. The kids had all been there earlier, when one of the moms had taken them on a hike. They had wanted to bring the rest of us back to see the tadpoles. On their first visit, they had been so excited about the puddles, that they hadn't ventured near the cliffs. But this time, feeling gutsier and excited to be showing off their cool find, the kids were running everywhere. I was filled with dread. Dread and panic. Hysterics, actually. Every ounce of my being, every cell in my body was terrified. I was tense and almost shaking. It was hard to catch my breath and all I could do was yell ("yell" doesn't quite describe it) at my kids to come closer to me. The fear must have been written all over my face and in my voice because Sophie asked why I was so scared. She said she knew not to go near the edge. I looked around. None of the other moms seemed so panicked. Of course none of them wanted their kids near the cliff's edge, but they seemed to trust that their kids knew better. They didn't seem to think that the answer was to repeatedly bark "Stay away from the edge! Get back here! Please, get back here!" And now that I think about it, none of the kids were going close enough to the cliff to actually fall.

I watched as one of the moms walked right up to the edge, looked over, and walked back. She did this as if it wasn't any big deal. As if looking over the edge of a cliff didn't automatically mean plummeting to her death. Later, as I thought about how all consuming my fear had been that evening, I once again pictured her standing there, looking down. I thought to myself, The only way I could ever do that is if there were a rope tied around my waist. But then again, if the rope broke... I thought about a time, about four years ago, when we went to a family reunion in Colorado. Wade, my dad, my brother, my sister-in-law and myself took the cog rail up to the top of Pikes Peak. At the summit there was a restaurant and gift shop. I was difficult for me to step out of the building to look at the amazing views. But I did, and I was fine. However I wouldn't walk within 30 feet of the edge. As long as I was no where near the drop, I knew I couldn't fall. I didn't feel scared. I didn't feel panicked. As long as I kept that distance, I was okay. But at the top of the cliff over-looking Lake Superior, it wasn't just about me. I knew I could stay far away from that drop, but there were seven kids who were filled with excitement and wonder and who weren't willing to hold my hand.

Here's what I rationally knew, even at that time: I knew all of the kids are smart, good kids. I knew that the other three moms weren't going to let anyone get hurt. I knew that I was the only one who was reacting that way. And I knew that my hysterical screaming was doing nothing but sucking the fun out of that moment for everyone. But I couldn't stop myself. I couldn't stop because what I knew was overpowered by what I felt. And what I felt was that something terrible, something catastrophic was about to happen. And I wouldn't be able to stop it.

Even typing that sentence brought the panic back for a second.

I've never thought I had any phobias. But on this camping trip it was clear that I do. What I had felt around those drop-offs was more than just wanting to keep my kids safe. It was irrational. It was all consuming and completely beyond my control. I thought I might be afraid of heights, but after talking with my husband about my experience, he pointed out that I have climbed to the top of St. Paul's Cathedral with no problem. I don't mind flying and one of my dreams is to slowly float above the world in a hot air balloon. I'm not afraid of heights. I'm afraid of edges.

After searching Google I found some explanations:

"Fear of edges is not a fear of heights. I don’t mind being up high at all. Planes, elevators, skyscrapers, none of those bother me. It is standing at the edge and being confronted with an unreasonable belief that I am going to tip over and something horrible will happen."

"This Edges phobia is generally caused by some influence of "Edges" in the person's life through the media, cinema, childhood experiences, family experiences, dreams, books, news events, etc."

Apparently, there are over 250,000 people in the US who have the same fear. I'm still reeling a bit as all of this is coming together. Note the influences in the second quote. My entire childhood, and even rarely as an adult, I have had dreams of endlessly falling. I wake up out of breath and in a panic a split second before, in my dream, hitting the ground. And now that I'm thinking about it, I'm terrified of the edge of the platform for the Subway in NYC. Bridges with little or no railing are almost impossible (although I can make myself do it) for me to cross. Even walking along the dock at Rabbit Lake, which I have been doing my entire life, has never been easy for me. It's actually a bit of a relief to finally understand why.

On the last morning of our camping trip, before packing up and heading home, we went to Gooseberry Falls. There were edges, but we mostly stayed away from them. I'm sure for my sake, although none of the other moms made me feel badly about it. At one point they took six of the kids, including my Sophie, to the other side of the falls, where it was a bit "cliffier." Max had wanted to stay back and play in the water. As I sat at the rocky shore and watched him, I thought about the fact that Sophie was off with all the other kids and moms, out of my sight, too far for me to hysterically scream at her. I said a little prayer that she stay safe and tried to make sense of how I had been feeling. Before too long I saw the kids emerge and begin making their way across the shallow river back towards Max and me. Sophie, filled with excitement, came running up to me, barely able to contain herself, and said, "Mom! I touched the top of a waterfall!" I hugged her and told her that it must have been amazing.