‘AStory for My Son

Kat Code

‘The Way Things Sometimes Are
CF Miley, Opinions Editor

y son, Hayden, went on his
| \ ) first journey away from his
mom and dad last week—a

seven-day trip to the Queen Charlotte

 

Islands with his class. I was concerned

about how he’d fare; he’s only been
cool going for sleepovers for the past
six months or so. I was assured that he
was doing fine by a group email that
arrived every two days during the week
he was gone. There were no teary
phone calls, no desperate messages to
come to the Charlottes and retrieve
him, nothing to indicate trouble.

I could tell he’d missed us when we
picked him up at the airport—he was
huggy and tired. I opened his journal
when we got home, expecting to read
about adventures and happy times. On
the first page, right under the messages
of love and encouragement from his
mom and me, was scrawled the follow-

   

ing message in my son’s telltale print-
ing: “I hate this place. I wish I was at
home.” I kept reading until the woe
of his little broken heart was too
much to take.

In response to my boy feeling so
alone last week, this week’s “The Way
Things Sometimes Are” is dedicated
to Hayden. I know how you felt; I’ve
been there myself.

I remember my first day of pre-
school. My mother had _ briefly
explained the concept to me the week
before, promising, “You'll get to play
with all sorts of other kids. It’s going
to be fun. You'll love it.” I remember
worrying that I was going to be all
alone. My mother repeated her manta
of “Itll be fun” several times in the
days leading up to my first day.

 

The fateful morning for me to
begin my 14-year descent into memo-
rization, regurgitation, and mediocrity
finally arrived. My stomach felt like I’d
swallowed a medicine ball. I sat
stunned as the eight cylinders of our
*77 AMC Matador belched great puffs
of black smoke into the carport. I was-
n't a religious child, but that morning,
in a striped shirt and brown corduroy
pants, I prayed.

“Please, God, let her change her
mind.” We pulled out of the driveway.
“Please. Please, please, please, pretty
please with sugar on top, make her take
me back home.” We passed through a
couple of lights and turned onto the
road that led to Blacklock Elementary

6 | www.theotherpress.ca

School. “Please, God, I'll be good. I
promise. Let us get a flat tire. Pll mind
my manners. Please stop this car, God.
Please.” We were in the parking lot and
my mom finally pulled the hulking car-
beast to a stop. Apparently, God didn’t
care about my manners all that much.

Blacklock. Elementary. School.
Even the name terrified me. Black—as
in Black Death, black plague, and the
blackness of pure evil. Lock—as in
once you're locked in, you can kiss your
little blonde-haired, green-eyed ass
goodbye. I burst out crying like I’d
never cried before.

The women from the Wailing Wall
in Jerusalem would have applauded the
depths of my suffering had they been
there to bear witness. Instead, the
applause came in the form of two
sharp handclaps from Mother.
“Enough!” she finally yelled after her
battery of “things Colin likes to hear”
ran out. It was only years later, over
Sunday dinner, that I learned that my
mom had seriously considered quitting
her job and home-schooling me during
those awful minutes. Instead, she spat,
“Get your ass in there!” with the
resolve of a mother running late.

It was a classic match-up—‘“I don’t
wanna” vs. “You bloody well better.”
She pleaded. I resisted. She ordered. I
clung to her leg for dear life. After sev-
eral embarrassed sideways glances from
other patents and promises of
favourite dinners to be cooked, “You
bloody well better” finally won out in a
landslide of kicking limbs and blood-
curdling screams. My mom scooped me
up, carried me into the classroom,
plunked me down, and left. After a stu-
dent teacher took me for a drink of
water, a tiny one-armed girl named
Pamela came over and sat down beside
me. “It’s okay,” she said. “I was scared
my first day too.” She was right; it was
okay. She let me touch the silver hooks
on the end of her prosthetic arm after
telling me she was born that way. We
even got to finger-paint and everything.

You're never alone, Son, it just feels
that way sometimes. The memories and
experiences of the last week will stay
with you your whole life. I bet you

became better friends with Miguel, ~

Chris, and your other buddies during
your week away. Just remember, your
dad loves you more than all the stars in
all the skies, even when I can’t be there
to tell you in person. I’m proud of you
for sticking it out. Way to go, Hayden.
Way to go.

 

 

 

Pass the Water
Please!

Kat Code, OP Contributor

hh, summertime. Beaches, BBQs,
A cute boys with no shirts walking

around...summer is definitely my
favourite time of year.

For most of us, summer means getting
outside, whether it’s going to the beach, jog-
ging along the seawall, or chillin’ on a patio
with a cold beverage—preferably an alco-
holic one. And when you mix physical
activity, or drinking, or both, with hours
spent under the summer’s hot sun, it can
only lead to one thing: dehydration.

We all know that the common cure for
dehydration is water. We probably all know
that we’re supposed to drink at least eight
glasses of water per day. And most of us
know that we dont drink enough water, even
as we fuel our mornings with caffeine and
celebrate the weekends with booze, which
only complicates the matter further. But are
we all aware of the array of health com-
plaints that can be attributed to dehydration?

Lack of energy is one of the most com-
mon ailments that can be cured by simply
drinking more water. High blood pressure
and fluid retention are also attributable to
dehydration. There is also a range of pains
associated with not drinking enough water to
meet your body’s demands. Migraine
headaches are the most common of these,

June 8/2005

 

 

Kat Code