CARRIE, COREY, AND KITTY'S FIRST MOVE

CARRIE, COREY, AND KITTY'S FIRST MOVE                                                                                                                                                                

         My husband and I married at the age of nineteen and by the time we were twenty-two we'd already moved four times. We thought we were experienced. This time, however, we had an eighteen-month old daughter, Carrie, a border collie named Corey, and a cat known simply as Kitty.                                                                                                                        

         We'd decided to re-locate our family from southern Ontario, Canada to rural northern Ontario. This was to be our first 'big' move involving an anticipated road trip of ten to twelve hours. We weren't naive, but we were ambitious.                                                                                

         For weeks beforehand, we'd purged and packed. Everything we owned had been carefully wrapped and secured in labelled boxes or disassembled ready to be transported. Being young; that is to say having limited funds, but strong and resourceful; we'd rented a large truck.                                                                                                                        

         Moving day in mid- October was blessedly sunny and a little cool, perfect weather for loading furniture and cardboard boxes into the truck. Yes, there seemed to be hundreds of cartons to lift, lug, and re-locate, but we weren't daunted. We were lulled by a deserved sense of deja vu and fuelled by our enthusiastic optimism re our fresh start.          

         Carrie and Corey amused themselves nearby. Their antics; chasing each other in and out of open doors, playing hide and seek amongst our dwindling piles of household effects, and revelling in their echoes bouncing from one empty room after another, made me laugh. All of this boisterous behaviour could only make the two of them more than ready for a nap once we embarked upon our epic adventure.                              

         At some point, I realized that I could no longer see or hear the daring duo. As all mothers know, a toddler's silence is not golden, it's suspicious. While I searched for my daughter and her furry friend I hoped that they were merely resting before resuming their fun.                    

         When I found them I didn't know whether to chuckle or cry; I think I shrieked. The two co-conspirators were covered in dripping white house paint and stomping in a blossoming puddle. During their brief break from pre-occupied Mommy's radar, Carrie and Corey had discovered paint cans in the garage.                                                                      

         I wasn't prepared for this. I'd thrown an overnight bag into the trunk of my car and it contained one change of clothing for the three of us, pyjamas enough for one night, and a few diapers. I never dreamed I'd need soap and towels before the day was out. Our bureaus, stuffed with clothing, had been the very first things loaded into the truck. The bathroom boxes were somewhere amidst all of the others.                              

         Necessity really is the mother of invention. My husband and I had to scrounge for whatever we could find. The garden hose was still attached to an outdoor faucet, so Corey was sprayed outside. She was left to shed the water in the only way she knew; shaking and shimmying. Of course, she insisted upon doing this in close proximity to us. Shared droplets seem to dry quickly. I was forced to bathe Carrie in the kitchen sink with a sliver of soap I'd left there. To dry her, I had a ragged dish towel which I'd intended to discard upon our departure.          

         From the car, I retrieved a 'new' outfit, but I didn't have a spare clean jacket to replace her red sweater now stiffening with paint. With a great deal of sleeve-rolling, Carrie was released wearing my sweatshirt. Her wandering was only slightly impeded. Her shoes were given a token spit and polish.                                                                                

         Before long, our little convoy was on its way. Corey and my husband, Paul, kept each other company in the truck. I followed in our sedan with Carrie strapped into her car seat behind me and Kitty stretched out beside her.                                                                                          

         The first leg of our trip was uneventful. Carrie, as predicted, nodded off and the cat vocalized her misgivings about her first car ride, occasionally. After a few attempts to climb onto my lap, Kitty returned to her spot next to my daughter.                                                                                

         After a pit stop for a welcome meal and stretching of the legs, we continued on our journey with Paul in the lead. Carrie was very happy with her box of Smarties; a gift from a generous and admiring waitress. I'd positioned the rear view mirror so that I could see Carrie and reassure myself she was fine. One quick glance alerted me that Carrie's face was turning blue and she appeared to be wheezing. Frantically, I steered the car onto the highway's shoulder and braked.                              

         In a few heart-wrenching seconds, I'd pulled a saucer-eyed Carrie from her restraints, dangled her upside down, watched the offending candy spit onto the floor, and wrestled the Smarties' box from her determined grasp. Her wails were as much a reaction to fright as they probably were to regrets; she really liked Smarties.                                        

         Paul pulled up behind us as mother and daughter were calming down and breathing easier. This occurred in pre-cellphone days and he'd been diligently watching our progress via the truck's side view mirrors. One minute he saw us and the next minute we'd disappeared. He'd doubled back to troubleshoot.                                                                      

         Carrie crisis averted we set out again. Both Carrie and Kitty could not settle down to sleep. Cranky, they resorted to their only form of entertainment; baiting and bickering. They swiped at each other until Carrie was scratched and crying.                                                                                

         Once again, I stopped my vehicle on the side of the road. Once again, I unbuckled Carrie from her car seat. Across her fair-skinned button nose was a bleeding claw mark that she insisted would be 'all better' with a bandage. Naturally, I agreed with her and I rummaged in my purse for one. As soon as the 'magic' bandaid was taped over her nose, Carrie repeatedly stroked it. Once again, Paul had to turn around to search for us. This time, it took both a mommy and a daddy cuddle to console her.                                                                                                              

         Shortly after our return to the driving part of our move, mercifully, both Kitty and Carrie fell asleep. Carrie was able to soothe herself with thumb sucking; her tiny forefinger arched protectively over her nose.                                                                                                                        

         The rest of our trek proceeded smoothly and without incident. Our next shock happened the morning after the move into our new house near Kapuskasing, Ontario. It was October the sixteenth and we awoke to several inches of snow on the ground. That snow and more stayed with us for the next seven months.                                                            

         We would repeat this move, but in reverse, two years later. By this time we had two kids and I was heavily pregnant with our third. She would prove to be the easiest 'item' to move.

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