Day 195: Missing Work

There are days when I am tempted to miss work.

Not sick days, mind you. If I'm actually sick, I'm more than happy to spend the day drugged and lying on the couch with a good book and a honey-lemon tea (made by Nathan, of course).

Except when I'm teaching. If it's going to take more than four hours to prep for a substitute, I drag my hacking, shaking self to work anyway and try to only cough on the bad kids.

Just kidding.

But seriously ... sometimes on quite ordinary days, life kicks you when you're down and makes even the very thought of work overwhelming and unbearable.

And you have to decide ... to work or not to work?

One of those days was last Thursday.

I'd already made the decision to re-home Kia. Of the almost 3000 views my ad had garnered in 3 days, more than a dozen people had contacted me. One of them was the manager of the House of Dogs (grooming salon/doggie daycare). We had met (I liked her), she had met Kia (and fallen in love with her), and Kia had already spent a day at daycare (and enjoyed it immensely).

But Thursday was the day that Kia was going home for good. I was supposed to bring her stuff with me in the morning, but I was running late and would have to drop it off after work. So when a staff member came out to help me lift everything, there was only Kia.

He took her leash. Since I am the primary dog "care-giver" in our home, Kia walks best with me. Even when Nate tries to walk her, she insists on walking by my side and obeying the commands I give to Sam.

As the man gently led her across the parking lot, Kia kept looking over her shoulder to see if I was coming. I got back in the car so she couldn't see me. When they reached the door, he pulled it open and they both stepped inside. The door had one of those special "slow-closing" hinges, and at the last minute, Kia changed her mind and headed back out to the parking lot. The door closed around her middle.

The whole thing lasted only a second or two, but it carved itself painfully on my memory.

Kia, physically trapped between two worlds, was not in distress. Her ears were perked forward, her mouth gently open, her eyes bright and expectant. Her tail swished back and forth, softly painting the air behind her. She was waiting. Waiting for me to come join in on her next big adventure.

Not this time, babe.

It took every ounce of self-control I had not to march into the shop and demand her back. But what would I do? Take her home and crate her? Skip work and spend the day together? But what then? Tomorrow I'd still be in the same situation as today.

When I looked back, the man had already freed her and she was happily perched at his feet, waiting for a treat. She'd been given a golden opportunity. Another chance at life. And I wasn't going to let my emotion steal that away from her.

I put the car in drive and pulled out onto the road. I was already crying.
To work or not to work?

To work. Fortunately, I was painting bathroom stalls, so I could cry quietly in private. I ate silent tears all day. But when we brought Kia's belongings in the evening, she looked so content that I knew I'd made the right decision.

I still missed her, but all was well.
Then life kicked me again today.
But this time, it kicked me in the ankle instead of in the heart.

I woke before 5:00, showered, ate breakfast, and let the dog out. Because of the heat, I've been keeping Sam in the basement while I'm at work (we don't have air conditioning and the basement stays cool all day). I was running late, so I didn't bother to turn on the light before I carried his water bowl downstairs.

That was a mistake.

I fell.

I missed a step and my ankle turned.

Water went flying as the bowl and I careened down the steps and into the wall. Sam showed his deep concern by barking at the top of the stairs and then coming down to lick the water off my legs. Then, as if trying to be helpful, he picked up the metal water dish (which is quite heavy) and carried it down the last few steps. But instead of setting it down on the basement floor, he started carrying it back upstairs.

I say started because the bowl didn't make it all the way up.

He dropped it. Without warning. On my hand.

Suffice it to say that an hour later, I am sitting in the sun room with a sore wrist and a frozen bag of assorted peas on my ankle.

Sam is snoring at my feet ... occasionally farting happily to himself.
He is so weird.

To work or not to work? That is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to suffer through
A day of pain or to take precautions against more serious injury...

I called in sick.
Happy Wednesday, everyone.

But mums... I did not means to make you fall...

Day 180: It will only take an hour, they said.

Today, I celebrate a momentous occasion.

The end of my career as a newspaper carrier.

It lasted 2 days (plus the required 2 weeks notice which I shall endure as a sort of purgatory for my overwhelming stupidity). Aside from hand-raising puppies (which is a level of insanity not to be mentioned here), they have been the longest 2 days of my life.

I should have seen it coming.

The good people who hired me said that according to the computer's calculations, it would take me 60 to 90 minutes to complete the route.

Mua-ha-ha-ha-ha!
I should have done the math myself.

In order to deliver every paper inside of an hour and a half, I would have to average one delivery every 50 seconds. But on Canada Street, the houses are v-e-r-y   f-a-r   a-p-a-r-t.

:(

Even with a car, I could not deliver those papers in less than two hours unless I was Superman.
Or Superwoman.
Is there a Superwoman?

It doesn't matter, because even if there is ... I am not she.

My first day, Canada Day morning, we picked up the papers at the Marysville Irving at 6 am. Nathan drove the car and I called out the house numbers and ran frantically though the rain to deposit each paper safely in each mailbox.

We dodged blind corners and potholes and slippery grass and hidden house numbers and crafty mailboxes.

It took us over 2 hours. I was soaked with sweat by the time we were finished.

Being the psychopath that I am, I thought that making a better map would help. Even on my own, I would be able to beat the time Nate and I set together.

How wrong I was...

This morning, I awoke at 4:15 and made a map, complete with ordered house numbers. I counted every single one to make sure I had them all, then showered and fled out the door at 5:30 so I could be at the Irving when the papers were delivered (usually at 6:00 am).

I was there in time all right. 6:00 came and went. Then 6:10. Knowing I have to be at work at 8:00, I called the carrier hotline, only to be told that the press was late, but not to worry - they'll be dropped off by 8:00, so you have until 10:00 to deliver them.

Seriously???

I was already on my way back home to spend 45 minutes with my hubby when they called again. The papers will be here in 5 or 10 minutes, they said. I turned around and headed back to the Irving.

6:20 came and went.
6:30...
6:35...

Finally, a nice man in a van named Jim dropped off the papers.
(The man, not the van, was named Jim.)

I only got half of them delivered before work, and I was still late.
Not to worry, said the Gleaner, we'll send out a broadcast saying that they won't be delivered until 6 pm tonight.

Sure...

After spending 8 hours painting a classroom the exact same crappy off-white color that it was before, I drove back to Marysville. I didn't get home until 6 pm.

All in all, I got told off by two old ladies (apparently they didn't get the Gleaner's memo about the late delivery), had my arms bruised by more than one screen door, got lost, was told I failed to deliver to an address that I distinctly remember delivering to, and swallowed a mosquito (which almost made me throw up).

Newspaper carriers around the world, I salute you!
(But you can no longer count me among your brethren.)

If anyone wants to be a martyr for 2 weeks (possibly less) ... Facebook me.
I'll pay you everything they give me (about $150/week).
But I wouldn't recommend it.

Day 173: On Employment

Last summer, I searched for a job. For two months, I watched websites like a hawk, applied to everything I was even remotely qualified for, and tailored resumes and cover letters to match each specific job description.

I got nothing. A few smattered interviews, some better than others, but in the end ... nothing worked out.

Finally, just before I received my last paycheck from DPCS, I got a job making sandwiches at a deli.

It was better than nothing, and I took it the way a starving man might take a plate full of lima beans. Sorta like "AWESOME, I'M NOT GONNA DIE!" and "BLEACGHHH, DO I REALLY HAVE TO EAT THIS CRAP?!" all at the same time. It turned out to be a lot of fun ... great people, good pay, free food ... but when I was offered the library worker position at NMES, I accepted immediately.

And then got laid off.

This summer, I began searching for a job ... again. I started yesterday, to be precise. Amidst hunting for elusive ROE's that still have yet to be found and cleaning dog hair off carpets and out of crevices, I made time to send off no less than 15 applications. I didn't tailor much of anything, but whipped them out between emptying drawers and changing loads of laundry.

But today, two of them panned out. At least so far.
Because life can change at any minute, you know ... ;)

First, I'll be delivering papers for the Gleaner ... a long route in Marysville that will net me more in one month than writing does in six. I'll be getting some much-needed exercise and will still have evenings and weekends free to spend with Nate. If I stick with it, I will also earn some extra $$$ to take a few French courses at the university next fall. Of course, I am not much of a morning person ... do they make water backpacks that you can put coffee in???

Second, I'll be painting/cleaning classrooms at FHS with Spruce Grove Building Cleaners. It's full-time, days only, well above minimum wage, and should last right into August! More exercise for me, and weekends and evenings still free.

In the end, I'll actually be making more than I make during the school year, which is great since we are moving upstairs in less than a week.

Happy, happy, happy!
(In the best possible way.)

Of course, everything could be different tomorrow. But I will enjoy today's blessings with a smile. I will keep drawing, keep writing, keep trusting.

827 days to go.

Day 168: Prayer & Bumps in the Road

I vividly remember my first experience with real, intercessory prayer.

When I was a child, my little sister lost a toy in the backyard. It was only a cheap Happy Meal toy, a plastic figurine of Bambi with movable legs. But our family was far from wealthy (in material possessions at least) and she loved that toy.

She prayed that she would find it. Every night, after the books had been read and our teeth brushed, she would kneel by our worn couch and pray for that toy. Fall and winter came and went. Then spring, and the lawn grew long enough for mowing. One day, my father came into the house, smelling of freshly cut grass, his forehead wet with sweat.

He was holding the toy.

Needless to say, my sister was overjoyed and welcomed a somewhat-worse-for-the-wear Bambi back into the playroom with open arms. But I was jealous.

"Why don't my prayers always get answered?" I asked. My dad said that maybe my sister had a special gift, the gift of faith. God listened to her because she was a child with a pure heart.

Faith comes more easily to some than to others, and being a firstborn, I wanted it too. But firstborns are also clever and wily and driven to succeed - qualities not always compatible with childlike faith.

The next thing I remember really wanting was to win the Awana Grand Prix. My father had made identical cars for me and my friend, Liane. They were Formula 1 racers, carved from blocks of wood. They had plastic wheels and little Lego men as the drivers. As I watched the cars in the first heat being lined up at the top of the track, I remembered Bambi, and I started to pray.

But halfway through, I changed my prayer.

I knew that God blessed unselfish people, so if I prayed for someone else to win, he might take my selflessness into account and let me win instead.

"Dear God, please help Liane to win," I prayed.

She did.
And I finished almost dead last.

And the moral of the story is...
Be careful what you pray for. Be careful what you say.
Because even if you don't mean it, God is always listening.
Which brings me to today's post.

About two weeks ago, I flippantly remarked to Nathan that I wasn't worried about money any more. "We don't always know where it's coming from, but we always seem to have enough. From now on, I'm just going to trust God with our finances."

Yikes!!! (Too bad my mouth doesn't have an undo button.)

When we got home that night, we got a letter in the mailbox. Our tenants were leaving at the end of the month. It rattled us. Big time. But we looked at our budget and looked at our bills and decided that we could make it on our own. And we moved on.

About a week ago, I got called into the office at school. My hours were being cut, and I needed to decide whether or not this job still worked for me. It rattled me. Big time. But I was being laid off for the summer anyway, and that would give me two lean months to search for another part-time position and/or build a small-but-steady income doing art and writing. And I moved on.

Today, I got called to the office to take a phone call. When the speaker began, "This is the phone call that everybody dreads..." I knew it wasn't going to be good.

And it wasn't.

I was being bumped (someone with more seniority took my position because theirs had been cut). In less time than it takes to brew a cup of coffee on a Keurig, everything changed. Since I am at the bottom of the totem pole, there is no one left for me to bump.

Just like that, I became unemployed.

Tomorrow is my last day at NMES. I will smile and pack my things and drive home for the last time, not knowing what September holds.

But who does? Not a single one of us can see even one second into our future. We make guesses and predictions and hang up our hats on hooks that don't even exist yet.

We know that at any moment, it could all come crashing down. And when it does, will we have regrets? We wouldn't be human if we didn't have at least a few.

But do I regret leaving a permanent, full-time teaching job at Devon Park?

No. I have the highest respect for the dedicated staff who pour their souls into children for just enough money to pay the bills. But I was exhausted from working 60-80 hour weeks and needed time to myself to re-kindle my passion for working with children and youth. And if I had stayed at DPCS, I would never have met or worked with the amazing people who helped me and encouraged me through many dark days this spring, when I had too many puppies and not enough sleep.

Do I regret my education?

Yes. If I had known there were no teaching jobs before I started university, I would have steered my career in a different direction. I regret believing the myth that if I made excellent marks I was guaranteed a good job with a stable income, and I wish I had chosen my degree more wisely. The world is a hard teacher, and maybe if I had struggled more in school, I would have been better prepared to cope with life's curve balls.

Do I know what I am going to do now?

Yes and no. I'm going to continue to apply for jobs. I'm going to write and draw and paint. I'm going to take another look at the ol' budget. I'm going to wait. And I'm going to pray.

Don't cry for me. I had my little pity party in the car already on my way to take Sam to the vet.
And I'll probably have a few more over the next few days.

Maybe it will be okay.
And maybe it won't.
But life will move on either way.

Because even if we think we're doing all right, a major life-change could be less than a second away.

None of us can really make it on our own.

Day 158: Catching Pee Like a Boss

It's funny how you can convince yourself that you will be somehow less busy when a "life-event" finally ends.

Instead, you find that while you were preoccupied with your own personal problems, the world flowed on around and without you and now you have to swim to catch up. 

The last puppy left us on Saturday evening. We enjoyed a brief high and then spent Sunday in shell-shocked silence, only venturing out for a morning coffee and, later, dinner at my parents' house. 

Today we stepped back out into the stream. And it's like paddling a canoe up the Saint John River during flood season. We have cleaning and taxes to do; nine weeks of bills to pay; lawns to rake and mow; dogs to exercise, train, and fix; the list goes on and on.

And we're moving. In 3 weeks. 

Not far, mind you. In fact, the GPS coordinates will remain identical - as will our street address. We're moving up. Our tenants gave us their month's notice at the beginning of June. I can't blame them - they weren't the ones who adopted two intact dogs and expected everything to be all hunky-dory. We debated posting the apartment on Kijiji and renting it again, but the profit margin is slim after the extra utilities are paid, and we so desperately miss the sun. In almost four years of marriage, we have never lived in a well-lit space, so we decided it was time to give it a try. If it doesn't work, we can always trundle our stuff back down to the basement where we'll live in a damp, sunless pit for another four years.

Just kidding. Sort of.

Of course, moving upstairs is not without its challenges. Library workers in ASD-W don't exactly get paid during summer vacation. So in addition to claiming EI for the first time ever, I'll be trying to build a career out of pencils and paintbrushes - neither of which I have actually held during the last two months.

My first project is due on June 19th - a 30x40 piece for the Isaac's Way Art Auction. Then I have a few long-overdue pieces that need to be finished for friends and family, as well as a few long-term projects, all of which need to be completed in and around as-of-yet-non-existent work that will actually bring in a small but steady income. 

It's a gamble. But I'm taking it. 

Of course, the furry side of life isn't over just because the pups have all left for their new families. Poor Sammers lost his manhood today. I have never actually seen a dog sob until this afternoon when Sam mourned the loss of that which will never be his again. 

Moreover, just because the "factories" are gone doesn't mean the "swimmers" are too. He's primed and loaded for another month, so we got Kia's spay bumped up to next Monday. I am not sure whether she's in heat or whether she just had a UTI, so the vet recommended collecting a urine sample. 

Which I did. 

Quite skillfully I might add. As Kia squatted beside her favorite bush, I deftly held a zip-lock bag underneath. I got a good quarter-cup and didn't even get my fingers wet. The outside of the bag stayed as dry as the Sahara.  

After all the chaos of the last few months, that one perfect bag of urine represented a personal triumph. Its apple-juice-yellow glinted in the sunlight and promised better things to come.

There are many things I cannot do:

• Travel backwards in time
• Play the violin
• Predict whether my summer gamble will pay off
• Leave a carton of ice-cream untouched in my freezer for more than a day
• Finish Treego's black course without sobbing like a little girl

But I can catch pee like a boss. 

Day 102: Dog Milk Part II

Ongoing care of the puppies continues to consume our lives. Thankfully, it is the weekend, and we were able to sleep (in two hour intervals) until noon.

We have developed a system. I feed the puppies. Nathan stimulates them to go potty. And we can usually hit the hay after three quarters of an hour.

But there are all the other little things that still need to be done.

1. Puppy weighing.
2. Puppy nail-clipping.
3. Making sure the milk is safe for puppies to drink.

1. We are weighing the pups every other evening. They are squirmy and growing quickly. They body-surf around the whelping box on their fat little bellies - which has the added benefit of stimulating them to put out big ole nasty poos and pees that we have to wipe up before they try to eat it (or swim in it). Today is day 6, and they can barely fit into the scale we bought. When we weigh them, we also check to make sure their embroidery thread necklaces aren't too tight.

2. We are clipping their nails weekly. Usually, you do this to keep the mom comfy, as their little claws grow like mad. We are doing it to keep us comfy. I have tiny scratches on the inside of my forearms from hungry puppies kneading me as they suckle. To clip puppy claws, first you insert your left pinky into the puppy's mouth for it to suck on. You hold the puppy's paw in your left hand and clip with your right, using baby nail clippers and making sure not to go down to the quick or clip any skin because the puppy is wriggling the entire time.

3. Yesterday, Nate was worried because he thought that he may have left some traces of soap in the bottom of the jug we are using to mix the formula. He wasn't sure whether to use it or throw it out. Formula is expensive - but not so expensive that we're willing to gamble little puppy lives on it.

"Why don't you smell it?" I suggested.

He did. Nothing. He stared at the jug for a while.

"Well, there's only one way I'm going to know for sure," he said.

I cringed.

He touched his pinky to the formula so there was the tiniest drop on the end of his finger. Very, very, very slowly he brought his finger to his mouth.

He licked it.

"So? Did you taste anything?" I asked.
His reply frightened me.

"I didn't get enough to know."

This time, he dipped his entire index finger in the formula until it was soaked. A few clumpy bits of white goo adhered to his nail. He put his whole finger in his mouth, and sucked it dry.

I almost gagged.

"No soap!" he declared brightly.
And we went on with our day.

Hoping your weekend is less eventful than mine...

Day 101: Be Careful What You Wish For

You know when you're really busy and then something crazy happens and you look back and you're like, "No. I wasn't busy at all."

That is my life.

Puppies did come out on Monday, April 8.
In fact, they kept coming out until eight o'clock on Tuesday morning.

And Kia was having none of it.
For readers who aren't my Facebook friends, she rejected every single one of her puppies.
At first, she merely ignored them.
Then she growled at them.
Then she snapped at them.

And even after she popped out the last puppy and we took her to the vet to make sure nothing was wrong, she didn't stop.

We are now hand-raising nine baby Newfies.
There are seven black and two brown.
Five girls and four boys.

I thought there were six girls and three boys, and then I took a closer look at Green Girl.
She was definitely a boy.

After the first pup (Blue Boy) popped out, I actually got pretty good at the birthing process.
Kia squatted to have most of them, so I caught them before they fell on the floor.
She ignored them, so I broke them out of their little sacs.
She kept ignoring them, so I suctioned goo out of their lungs and rubbed their little bodies with a towel to make them start breathing.
She still kept ignoring them, so I tied dental floss on the cord that connects the puppy to the afterbirth and cut it with a pair of scissors.

Dog afterbirth is disgusting. The closest thing I can think of to compare it with is the dead jellyfish that you sometimes see washed up on the beach, except afterbirth has a little more "substance" to it.

I had to help pull one puppy out. He was born breech and his sack was already broken. Only his little back feet and tail were showing. I grabbed his midsection just above his legs and gently pulled down. I thought he would be dead, but he perked up pretty quickly.

I thought I was prepared for all eventualities. A dead puppy, a stuck puppy, retained afterbirth, birth defects, etc. I knew how many pups to expect (an average litter is 8-10, we got 9). I knew how to predict the birth (I stayed home when the temp dropped to 99.5. Eight hours later it dropped to 98.6, and puppies came 6 hours after that).

I just never expected Kia to reject her puppies.

Thank you, Tori, for telling me to get formula and a bottle even though I didn't think I'd need it because Kia had so much milk. As soon as Kia rejected them, we were able to start supplemental bottle feedings right away, so nobody missed a single feeding.

And Charity - the cardboard worked great for soaking up the gross stuff but leaving the blankets underneath relatively clean.

If we hadn't been prepared, it would have been 6-8 hours from the time Kia tried to savage her pups until shops were open, and the puppies could have chilled - or starved - and died.

I was glad we bought every single item in our whelping kit.
Even so, I definitely cried for two days straight.

Because newborn pups need to be bottle fed every 2-3 hours for the first two weeks of life.
Because newborn pups need to be stimulated to go pee and poo every 2-3 hours for the first two weeks of life.
Because Nate and I both work and can't afford to take two weeks off.

I didn't know what to do.

Amazingly, a group of people have stepped up to the challenge. This week alone, I have been overwhelmed with the generosity of the people in my life.

My family comes over every day and keeps us fed.
Jennifer is a life-saver! Literally. And Tanner, too.
Natalie fed the pups during the workday on Thursday - and Friday morning too.
Lara came over with her daughters and friends to feed the pups while Mom and I weighed them and replaced their little embroidery thread collars.
Susie and Jessie came over for an early-ish morning feeding.

The words early and late have somehow lost their significance in my life.

More people have helped and are offering to help in the weeks to come.

We will need every one of you.

Thank you.

Random funniness....

- Don't sit in the whelping box with the puppies, they will suck on your toes.
- Purple girl is a screamer.
- Poor Brown Boy ... Green Boy keep sucking on his wee, hoping milk will come out. Nope. Surprise! It's actually pee.
- Puppies make little contented groaning noises when they're pooing or peeing ... usually all over your legs.
- My hands smell like milk replacer.
- Last night, I was so tired that I talked in my sleep. Nathan says I was quite angry at him ... something about onions and cheesecake with ribbons on their legs.

Sigh. Happy weekend, everyone!

Puppies:
Brown Boy (actually brown, last puppy born)
Red Girl
Purple Girl
Green Boy
Blue Boy (first puppy born)
Yellow Girl
Brown Boy (not actually brown, just has a brown collar)
Grey Girl
Brown Girl (actually brown)