My Grandson's mind works a little
differently. This is in no way a bad thing, except when it comes to
eating a varied and wholesome diet. His ability to eat things is
hyper-dependent upon texture, colours and packaging—well beyond
just a four-year-old's discerning pallet—and his mother has his
diagnosis and tax credit to prove it.
So, when my daughter was advised to get
a multi-vitamin with iron in it, the two went for some mother-son
shopping. Unfortunately, the only vitamins with iron are hard and my
grandson is used to gummies. This was a challenge of epic proportion.
So, his mom did what every good, determined parent does. She bribed
him. With his long-coveted favourite car toy.
Although not there, this is what I
imagine the conversation going like:
“Do you want this car?”
“Yes.” answered emphatically.
“Okay. I can get you this car but you
will have to eat one of these tonight and every night. Do you
understand?”
Silence.
“Do you want the car?”
“Yes.” said with increased
earnestness.
“Okay, if you want Mommy to get you
this car, then you will have to have one of these every night.”
pointing at the vitamins.
Blank stare.
“If you want the car, you will have
to have a vitamin every night. Okay?”
Long pause, “Can I think about it?”
Last week, while taking some garbage
into the garage (the dimly-lit garage I might add because after
considerable nagging the light bulbs were still not changed), I
slipped on the second step down. Glad it wasn't caught on tape,
because I doubt it was my most graceful moment. I heard the smashing
of glass and felt the stretching and twisting of my right foot and
hip.
Now, you should know that four adults,
two children, three dogs and a cat live in my house. I made quite a
noise. You would think someone or something might consider popping by
to see what all the ruckus was about. And, to be fair, my daughter
was at work so she remains in my good books. I did hear a voice yell
in the distance but no one came running: no queries of “are you
alright?” or loud Lassie-like barks from our Australian Shepard.
No, nothing.
Well, not quite. My cat came running.
Without any undue drama (well maybe just a little), I could have been lying there unconscious,
bleeding with broken appendages and the only one to show up was my
cat. A house cat. An 8 lb house cat. An 8 lb, barely audible house
cat. I mean, what could she do? She couldn't bark incessantly until
the neighbours came running. It isn't like she had an opposable thumb
so she could call 911—like a HUMAN--maybe even one living in this
house. At first blush, it appeared that the least qualified being in
the entire household showed up. And, I love her for it. It's tuna
all-round for the next three months. At least she could curl up on my
head and purr as I fought for my life.
Apparently I am a somewhat resilient
closer-to-50-than-40 year-old and had no serious damage at all. I've
been interested in returning to running again and we've signed up for
a half-marathon. On the last “long” run—and I use the word
“long” loosely if you think 7 km is long—I struggled. I gasped
for breath, ran slower than I could walk up minor inclines and took
frequent breaks. I'm slow, I'm weak and struggling. I'm no
longer qualified—but I showed up.
No longer asking “Can I think about
it?”, I need to realize the victory, at least for a while, is going
to be simply showing up. And, the funny thing is, if you keep showing
up over time, you become qualified. I hope that eventually,
one day, I won't feel as slow, or quite so weak, or like I'm about to
have a coronary on a tiny run.
My cat, Echo, appeared to be the least
qualified to help me face-down in the garage, however she packs a lot
of genius in that little skull of hers. She can get you to follow her
when she wants her bowl filled and I've seen her put a 50 lb dog in
its place. She knows the second I put my favourite blanket on a chair
and no matter where she is in the house, will come and defile it with
her hair and presence. And, she can locate and kill a mouse without
any front claws.
A few years ago she had a large kidney
stone. For a cat who faithfully uses her little box, I thought her
communication skills were exceptional when she jumped into our white
bathtub to show the stark contrast of the blood in her urine against
the porcelain background. She's never done it since. Quite clever.
So outer appearances are deceiving. No
matter how incompetent you feel, giving it the old college try is
better than not trying at all. Right now I feel I'm “just a cat”,
however, maybe one day and it won't be soon (trust me) I'll feel like
a Cheetah—at least in my own mind!
