Maybe I missed one?

     I had intended to make this blog a chronological record of the events of my life that contributed to where I am today, but it seems my memory has chosen not to cooperate. When I was four-years old, my friend Shana and I went to the grocery store with our mothers. They were best friends. So were we. 

     Trips to the grocery store almost felt like little adventures. There are so many aisles of different foods. Some aisles even have toys! And with all of the people and carts, it is like being on safari - at least when you are four-years old. Shana and I liked to pretend that our Moms were chasing us. We would stay with them for a few moments and then when they started chatting over some food selection, we would round the corner of the aisle, hiding just within to "surprise" them with our presence. They always pretended to be surprised. I don't know how they managed. There were about two dozen aisles (it was a small Co-Op...no Superstore or Sobey's - my Mom tends to be anti-establishment and a big supporter of small and local businesses...a trait I have always admired and aspired to).

     We were rounding aisle five, the baking goods aisle, when I saw it - the Jell-O wall. It was a four-feet wide by two-feet tall shelving unit. And it was loaded with every flavour of Jell-O and Jell-O Pudding that you could ever want. And I had found my most favoritest flavour of all" Orange Jell-O. I skipped the scaring part at the opening to the aisle to run around to the other side and ask, nay beg, Mom to buy - and subsequently prepare - some Orange Jell-O. Sadly, Mom's reply was: "We already have Jell-O at home." We had strawnerry and lime Jell-O at home, but no orange. She would make some for tomorrow's dessert (Jell-O apparently took overnight preparation when I was a child - I'm not sure if it is the case today) if I was good. The three please's I offered helped me little. When Mom is determined, that's it. Accept it, and move on. I think I inherited that trait. I try to temper it since, in the last couple of years, I seem to believe that once I am convinced I am right about something...then I must be. Even though I know that is unlikely, there is something inside me that drives me to dismiss the possibility of being wrong...but now I am rambling...as I was saying, the orange Jell-O had been turned down.

***It should be said that, once the groceries were put away Mom made the lime Jell-O without any further prodding. Today, lime Jell-O is actually my flavor of choice.***

     So we continued through the aisle and moved forward to the next. Shana was, by now, prodding me to continue our game of running ahead of our Moms and exploring each aisle first to see if we could find "anything good" to ask for. Sadly, I was too disappointed to continue playing as I was bound and determined to sulk my way into an orange Jell-O night. As they rounded the next corner, I stayed behind and made my way back to the Jell-O. I grabbed the first box and opened it. I decided, since my seconds of sulking had not yet worked, that I would dip my finger into the Jell-O powder and enjoy it right then and there. Mom would be forced to pay for the empty container and I will have gotten my way. Something you may not know if that Jell-O powder lacks the sugary goodness of Kool-Aid powder. Not only did I not have my Jell-O, but I was dissatisfied with my seemingly wonderful alternative. And then it happened...

     I looked up from my dissatisfying Jell-O powder to see that my Mom was nowhere to be seen. So I dropped the box instantly and ran to the next aisle. Nothing. The next. Nothing. Maybe she was looking for me. So I returned to the scene of the crime. Mom wasn't there. She was gone. As far as my four-year old brain could figure, she forgot me at the grocery store. So I did what any sensible child would do in the midst of a panic attack. I wailed like you wouldn't believe.

     Within seconds a nice staffer came and comforted me to calm me down and then asked where my mother was. When I began to tell the guy that I was lost I began to blubber again. Without hesitation he offered to take me to the office so we could page my Mom. It was only about five minutes after that when Mom came to the office. By that point I had scored a can of grape pop and a bag of salt and vinegar chips. But seeing Mom brought all the panic back. I began to sob once I saw her. It was more a sense of relief than anything, as I recall. Mom sat in the first chair she saw and scooped me up to give me the biggest hug of my life. She had been worried and had been searching for me with Shana and her mom. So Mom hugged me for what seemed like a warm, wonderful eternity and thanked the staff before taking me by the hand and leading me back to the produce section to finish grocery shopping. And while I shared my chips with Shana, the grape pop was all mine. 

     What a day it was...

A world like no other

     When I was seven years old, I wrote a note to a friend in a grade two classroom. Recess was only 15 minutes long and we were picking up where we left off from yesterday's game. We were playing house. It was my turn to be the Dad. The day before I didn't like playing the child because I kept having to follow ludicrous rules simply because I was in that role and my friend decided, as father, he could make me do whatever he wanted...including carrying him on my hands and knees from "the kitchen" to "the livingroom". My note was to Jody, to whom I said we would "sleep together" and then "wake the kids" and that she and I would be "as snug as two bugs in a rug like two frogs on a log". Now, I had seen a card somewhere that said something similar and thought I was being clever and funny. At the ripe old age of 7, I had no idea what such a statement might imply other than a rhyme and people being in the same place at the same time.

     My teacher had been called away to a phone call and the principal, a nun at this catholic public school. She saw the note being passed and demanded it be given to her. Keep in mind that I was 7 years old. Reading this note, the principal flew into a rage and dragged four of us to the office for reprimand. It seems that each of us in turn were terrorized with our parents having been called in due to this horrendous incident. I, being the note's author, drew the greatest ire of Sister Satan (FYI: not her real name). First I was walked across the street to the convent chapel where I was ordered to pray and beg God's forgiveness. Then I was walked back to the school and into the principal's outer office while she called my mother to find out "what to do with me". The outer office, coincidentally, had "the strap" sitting on the desk directly across the room for me. All I could do was stare in fear at this "weapon of persecution" while waiting for the Sister to return to further torment me.

     When she returned to the outer office, I was told my mother could not be reached. Sister Satan, with no other recourse, said that she may have to consider contacting the local orphanage. No mother, mine presumably included, would want a child who would write such sinful things and spread such awfulness amongst my innocent classmates. Keep in mind, at this point I still don't know how my note had resulted in such anger. When my mother, who was reached, appeared I was instructed to beg my mother's forgiveness. I was already beside myself at this point, but the sight of my mother caused me to burst into tears and drop to my knees. I was so afraid that she was going to be equally inexplicably angry and give me up for adoption. All I knew to do was ask for her forgiveness and to tell her how sorry I was and that I would never do it (whatever it was) again. Mom lifted me into her lap and smiled saying of course she would forgive me and that she loved me. She suggested I go to the washroom and wash my face and dry my tears. While I was gone, she spoke with the nun who (in my opinion) changed my life forever and started me on the road to agoraphobic hell...

     My mother asked her what I had done. She handed the note to my mother without another word. Mom read the note, giggled, and looked to Sister Satan saying only, "Okay." It turns out that this twisted nun assumed I was implying that I would be having sex during recess and was planning the activity with my 7-year old brethren. Sex. At age seven. Now, perhaps by some miraculous mutation there are some 7-year olds who are capable of the physical act of sexual intercourse. Granted, there may even be a number of 7-year olds who know exactly how important their genitals are to this activity. I, however, was not one of them. I was barely conscious of aiming at the toilet at this age. What the hell else was I going to do with that damned thing at seven years of age???

     For the next few months, Mom didn't leave my sight. If she went to the basement to do laundry, I went to the top of the stairs. And while she was down there I checked the doors repeatedly to ensure she was not sneaking out. I even went so far as to watch out the living room window to ensure she was not slipping out the garage to get away from me. I was so fearful that my mother was going to abandon me (the sinner who wrote a note) that if she was in the washroom I was tiptoeing up the stairs to ensure I could hear her still there. It wasn't until February of the following year that my fears would see their first reinforcement.