A Letter to the Fox Who is Eating a Bird

Red fox
Greetings to you, my woodland friend.
I must be honest. I wasn’t quite sure what to think when I first discovered we were cohabitating, here in suburbia. You see, I’ve never really known a foxy fella, like yourself.
But damn, you really are a gorgeous and mysterious creature! Your flaming orange fur reminds me that not all things orange are ill-intentioned. And your R.F.F. (Resting Fox Face) keeps things interesting for me, as I ponder what’s going on inside your sly mind.
Back in June, I was taken aback when our next door neighbour shimmied herself, wide-eyed and determined, between the pines and into our backyard. She tiptoed in, like a secret agent (elderly division), speaking in hushed tones. It seemed you’d been sleeping for hours in her backyard, all curled up on a big rock in the afternoon sun.
Worried for our daughters’ safety, and not wanting to wake you from your slumber, she appeared with her urgent warning of your presence. Believing you to be sick, rabid perhaps, she’d called the local wildlife authorities who were en route.
We rushed the girls inside and awaited their arrival.
Gathered at the kitchen window we witnessed a disheveled duo come on the scene, sporting measly looking supplies. And then we watched you hit the road running. You, a perfectly healthy fox, were not going to be scooped up by some fools with nets.
You hoofed it like a track star that day; the bad guys didn’t have a chance.
And you made your intentions clear: “I’m here, in your neighbourhood, on my terms and there is nothing you silly humans can do about it.”
Since then, you’ve made yourself even more at-home: chillaxing in the gardens of our
suburban ‘hood, frolicking playfully— so carefree— with your siblings; trekking off solo, into the bushes (squirrel-in-mouth), with a sassy twinkle in your eye.
You’ve got swagger, fox. I’ll give you that.

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What’s Your 7 Minutes in Tahiti? (Fending off the Mom-Meltdown)

Female leg walking on the beach in the ocean - Narrow depth of f

As a parents we’ve all lost it! Snapped. Acted in ways that we’re not proud of. I know I have. And when this happens, all we can do is forgive ourselves (once we let go of the guilt), and seek out ways to prevent the snap or meltdown or the losing of our shit or whatever we call it when our own behavior fails to meet our own expectations. Not to mention, the needs of our kids.

I discovered the key to my own meltdown prevention one evening, during the usual routine. You know it. The one that’s similar to a cyclone. It strikes weekdays between the hours of 4:00 and 8:00 pm.

A typical Evening Cyclone, and the surprises that pop up within it, render me useless by 9pm at which point I rip open a jumbo chocolate bar and plant myself firmly on the couch.

Those hours, leading up to bedtime, are action packed.  They involve an endless flow of food preparation, cleaning up, followed by homework, varying activities, and more cleaning up. Then, bath time and the sorting out of everybody’s things. And, of course, we can’t forget the unpredictable tasks of tantrum management and the keeping of sibling peace (insert frazzled expression).

On the above mentioned, and ever so insightful weekday evening, I was unknowingly on the verge of a discovery. I was also on the verge of a meltdown. My role as peacekeeper was wearing thin and my patience was waning. The girls were messily brushing their teeth. I was sorting the dirty laundry into piles.

My chocolate + couch time was feeling very far away.

I took a few deep breaths, willing my patience to hold out.

Twenty minutes more.

I can do this!

Then my youngest decides (for no apparent reason) to scratch her sister who does not retaliate but instead screeches the most ear piercing, window breaking, instant headache inducing shriek.

Deep breaths.

My eyeballs are, pretty much, akin to those of a bug, at this point.

“You’re alright,” I say to Zed.

“NO story for you tonight,” I inform Mini.

I start to shuffle them all towards their rooms, insanity creeping at my heels.

And then, the front door opens. Hubby is home from work. Up the stairs he comes.

This is my cue.

“I’m outta here,” I say, in a matter of fact manner.

Hubby’s brow furrows.

I turn and walk away, peeling my clothes off layer by layer as I go. I don’t look back but I’m pretty sure they’re watching me.  I open the door, turn on the water and step into the shower. The perplexed look on my hubby’s face is the last thing I see and then steam surrounds me. For that moment, and the six to follow, I am alone in Tahiti.

I immerge from the shower, a new woman. I throw on my robe and I’m ready for story time.

Seven Minutes in Tahiti, for me, on that day was a simple shower. It dissolved the meltdown in its tracks. Sometimes, I find that sending an SOS text to a fellow mom often does the trick too. She’ll text back a photo of her son, missing his bangs or a confession that she’s just been hiding in an undisclosed location scoffing ice cream.

Ahhhhh, 7 Minutes in Tahiti. Where do you find yours?