Today is the first winter day with a measurable wind chill; it’s snowing, and the sunshine is losing its tug-of-war with cloud cover. My husband has a heavy day of virtual meetings that he should be preparing for. My teen, reluctant to step away – even if it means for only 45 minutes – as she detests missing out on group work, in case she is not apprised of every little nuance of what is said and done. The chronic pain in my feet, although diminished since beginning medication in the fall, returns, my feet throbbing at the mere thought of being squeezed into a new pair of skates. The toddler is refusing to even join us. Everything is telling me to stay home. No, we must go skating. Lockdown measures in place mean that for our local outdoor skating rink or figure eight trail, once taken for granted as always available, now requires one to log on promptly at 8am and spam the registration site in a gamble for a free spot seven days later. I have difficulty planning for tomorrow right now, so to commit to anything 168 hours from now, is a big deal.
A week ago, I won that lottery and amazingly spotted not one, but six spots at 10am for the trail. I had immediately added the five of us to the timeslot and checked out, feeling both exhilaration and a sense of obligation. The rarity of the booking and our tween’s mental health and physical requirement to get on the ice – and his surprising eagerness to do so – meant that we actually had a responsibility to get over there.
We turn into the parking lot as the sun breaks through. I glance at my watch and notice that the temperature hovers at a comfortable zero degrees and feel a twinge of guilt that we are here without the little guy. I shake it off at the realization that I can actually just focus on myself and enjoy the big kids. When does that ever happen?! We climb out, collect our skates from the back hatch and head over to the registration desk, me scrolling on my phone to pull up our email. Toronto Fun? No. Registration Receipt? Nope. Parks and Recreation? Uggh, not that one either. We arrive at the desk, scanning each other’s eyes for signs of smiles – our mouths covered with our varying masks. There they are, visible in the scrunch of the eyes, mine invariably showing a pandemic induced wrinkle or two as well.
“Cichy. There should be five of us on your list, though I can’t seem to find my email,” I deliver, as my eyes follow her pen down the chart attached to her clipboard.
“Cichy, M? Found that one. Who else?” she asks me.
I read off our three remaining names and let her know that the last Cichy isn’t with us after all.
Her pen makes a few more passes up and down the list before she leans over and consults her colleague to do the same: “No, sorry. Did you get an email?”
I nod, distinctly remembering the valour I felt in securing our spots and the subsequent Ding!Indicating my email, received: Receipt for your recent City of Toronto PF&R transaction has been created.
“Maybe someone else was checking out at the same time and was able to secure the spots first? What does it say in your email?” she asked, treading lightly with her doubt.
We figure out the cryptic email heading the message in question should have, and I open it with fleeting relief, my shoulders immediately falling as I see it reads only my husband’s name. We all grin even bigger, but now with unease, and step awkwardly to the side to log into my account and figure this out. I fumble with my mask for facial recognition. How am I supposed to remember a password I use only a few times a year? There it is, in plain text: Account History: Skate Reservation: M Cichy, one spot. Shit. The kids stand huddled with us, all four sets of eyes reading the last two words again: one spot. A pleading look from each of them makes me step back, narrowly avoiding contracting their fallen moods.
“Ah well kids, it is what it is. I have no idea why your dad would get the spot when I was the one logged in if I added us all and the spots were scooped up, or what might have happened. Better luck next time! H, do you want to jump on and skate a few laps while we watch? We do have the one spot?” I ramble before they revolt.
Too late.
His eyes well up immediately, dart down and away as a snarled “NO!” cuts me off. His shoulders hunch, he kicks at the salt on the pavement and mumbles his grievances. The older one sets in with how unfair it all is, how much school time she’s wasted, the injustice of it all.
I threaten that she finds her own way home if she doesn’t zip it and move on, but in the instant that I utter my stern promise, my eyes meet my husband’s. I hand him my skate bag and announce, “No. Iam going to walk.”
His eyes tell me he understands, and he herds the whining duo in the opposite direction before they catch hold of me and drag me into their despair. Their mood follows them to the parking lot, fading from the space around me. I pause, satisfied at my brilliance and breathe deeply, thinking of my little one’s Monster Meditation on Headspace. I hear Grover’s voice in my head as I follow his instructions.
“Breathe in, breathe out (I breathe in, I breathe out). Count one, two; then DO!” I channel Grover.
I take one step, and then another, and cross the footbridge onto the field towards home. The invigoration I feel! The freedom!
In the Before Times, I would have caved under the pressure at the point of searching for the email, without even knowing the outcome ahead. I would have been irritated by the pleading eyes of my kids; the sweat-producing doom of plans that had failed AGAIN. I would not only have let their disappointment wash over me with a heaviness I couldn’t bear, but I might have even insisted those innocent list-checkers find who was at fault. How could this have happened? I would have insisted they find a way to fix it. We would have stormed off to the car; our anger in all its glory, competing. For what? For who felt worse? That storm cloud would have lingered above my head all through the day. Not today. My steps quicken, warming me, not with panic this time, but instead, with satisfaction.
I marvel at the runners heading onto the peninsula trails, content with knowing that I’d never be a runner.
I notice the dog in the window of one house, watching me exit the park, with its paws on the windowsill.
I appreciate the creativity with which some people have decorated their houses for the holidays – thankful that so many had thought similarly to us to keep them up, long into the new year.
I notice the sound of a car turning up the block to my left, and the start of another’s engine in the next driveway on my right.
I am aware of the man in the window of the corner house and recognize the look of indignation that he is in there and I seem to have the time to be out for a walk.
A break in houses, gives me clear sight-lines of the lake and I notice the darkness of the water, a contrast to the little white caps of the current, as it splashes ashore.
I pass the empty playground and note the time as one to remember to bring A, to avoid others (as if I ever find the time to take him out for fun anymore).
Before long I find myself climbing our front steps with a smidge of disappointment at how fast I had arrived – the others had barely arrived themselves. Instantly, my husband is in front of me, recounting the arguing and ensuing fist fight between the kids on the ride home.
“Nope! I don’t want to know! I can already imagine everything that happened, everything that was said – I’ve lived it too many times!” I cut him off, with a wave of my hand to indicate that I would not let my mood be pierced by their negativity. I hang my coat on the hook, put my hat and mitts in the drawer and unlace my boots, placing them on the mat carefully and deliberately. I had done it! I had drawn a boundary and stuck to it. I felt bad – well maybe not that bad – that M had to endure the arguing alone, but he had the advantage of disappearing to the office downstairs and transforming into a valued executive; a virtual queue eagerly awaiting his attention. Whereas, I had an entire afternoon of balancing ahead; trading hats between being Mummy, school supervisor, lunch monitor, argument diffuser, screen time negotiator, household bill administrator and bill coordinator, whilst fitting in dinner conception, planning and execution, and prioritizing my main concern at the moment: carefully assessing the nuances of my middle guy’s needs. So, I don’t feel too bad.
I take the win. I smile at my husband and sit down at my dining table post as the chaos finds me once again. After all, this is life, juggling kids.