Shaken Baking

I thought I had properly done the mental autopsy on my family's relationship with Donnie Snook. I had my white night going over every interaction, feeling and trying to find something I had missed. I don't know what I was hoping I would remember. Catching a glimpse of a NAMBLA tattoo peeking from under a sleeve? Anything in hindsight that seemed inappropriate or fishy I guess. 

The thing is I can remember when my son first started school I WAS suspicious of Donnie. What were his motives? Is he really that altruistic? Why is he here from Newfoundland? What did he leave? Why does he take the kids swimming and everywhere else? Why the fuck does this man give a shit about these kids when no one else, sometimes including their parents, do? Like everyone else, I ended up being put at ease. It all just seemed, ok.

I admit  I am a suspicious person. I tend to feel the more bible thumpy and churchy a guy is then the more likely he likes kids bums. That is my inner dialogue and I admit it is a bit extreme. However, this suspicion has kept me talking to my kids about owning their bodies for as long as I can remember. I talk about the fact that adults are not always right and that if an adult tells you not to tell, tell immediately. They know to say no very very loudly. They can deliver wicked kicks to the shin and nads and run. They know to be wary not only of strangers but of the people who are supposed to  care for them. 

I did not realize just how much my tenuous grip on sanity depended on all these conversations being purely hypothetical. They were never supposed to be anything but just  in case scenarios. They were never ever supposed to be tested. Every year I could count down one year closer to my babies not being considered prey by some perv. 

Then I fucking find out they had been spending hours a day a few days a week for fucking years with the Big Bad Fucking Wolf himself. What the fuck. 

So I did all the things I guess you do. I went a bit crazy. I questioned the kids. I called friends and ranted and raved. I read the news and watched the news. I wrote and I had a cry and I thought  it was all back to ok for us.

Then I realized I had made about eight batches of brownies in three days. From scratch, using recipes from the UK that required conversion, sugar that had to be processed into superfine sugar and chocolate and nuts to be chopped up and weighed. I adapted recipes until they were mere shadows of their former selves, using successful tricks from one in another and changing ingredients like a whore changes panties. I created my own original recipes and executed them successfully for the first time in my life. In a few days I applied every skill I had ever acquired and poured my heart into my stand mixer.

I found the comfort in comfort food is found not only in the eating of it. I was so helpless to do anything real for my babies. There was no actual boo boo to kiss, only  the spectre of evil  in our midst, how the fuck do you kiss that better?

So I fed them. I now know what it means to use love as an ingredient. I was making gooey morsels of my love and protection and every ounce of mothering I could do so they could eat it and be safe. 

To everyone feeling as I do with each new article, here, have a brownie.

Here There Be Monsters

I never really  read any of the books on parenting or subscribed to a particular school of thought.   At 19 my goals were 1. survive the misery of pregnancy 2. sleep whenever possible 3. raise a happy healthy non douchbaggy hard to molest kid. 

16 years and two kids who are happy, healthy and definitely not douchebaggy later I am fairly certain I have done good. It was never easy, still is not, and of course kids are always works in progress as are grown-ups. I know I could not have prepared myself. Parenting is like going through life walking a tightrope while blindfolded. You have no map and there is no clearly marked area labeled Here There Be Monsters so you can avoid it. You navigate through the years white knuckled and  maybe laughing a bit manically just praying you are not screwing them up too badly each time you miss your footing or fall down. 

You hope the messages you are sending them keep them safe when you are not looking. You hope you choose the right people to care for them and you hope your teachings and your babies and your trust are never tested. 

To my complete and utter horror my trust and that of thousands of parents in my town were tested this week. For my tiny brood at least, their hearts are shaken but their bodies are safe and sound. I could not be more grateful that my brand of straight up no bullshit, humour and interrogation has at the very least made them appear as lousy targets for predators if not kept them out of their company. 

For that I admit I am both relentlessly beating myself up and telling myself I could not have known, the city was duped and it was not my fault. Still, I am horrified, sad, betrayed, suspicious and paranoid and did I mention beating the shit out of myself?

I am fortunate that my kids do not appear vulnerable despite belonging to a very vulnerable demographic, from a single parent home, below poverty line, urban neighborhood, ADD,absent fathers, working mom. I am so glad that the lessons in confidence, love, self esteem and street smarts worked. I am also devastated to know they were ever tested. More kick-the-guttiness, the very fact that I was able to work, to set an example and provide a loving environment is almost entirely due to the support of the programs founded by the man who could have done my children harm.

I simply don't fucking know how I could have worked without the hot lunch programs ( there are still schools that just release kids at noon hour with no cafeteria) and after school clubs that let me depend less on child care I could not afford or get subsidies for.  Lets not forget the countless times he took the kids swimming, to hockey, parks and movies (ARRRRRGHHHHHH!!!!) giving me a few precious hours to breathe. I trusted him implicitly and the kids adored him.

The night before his arrest my 10 year old daughter was chatting with him, one of the only non-related adults on her facebook. (oh god)

My feelings of gratitude, shame of feelings of gratitude, blind rage, terror and confusion are just waiting to become tears eventually. This predator's help let me become the parent, and person I am now, and yet, he is a monster and I find myself clinging to my children as well as my faith in humanity.

I hope the programs are not tainted by scandal and lose support from the community. They are not only sources of filling lunches or mittens or after school games. This relief is giving other women with families like mine the ability to live with dignity, away from social assistance and the trappings of poverty. They are essential services in a world where we need safe places for our kids during working hours. 

Weed out the predators, hunt them with every bit of available technology and empower kids to speak up and be the owners of their little bodies, punish the ones who prey on them with stiff sentences and comprehensive services for the victims. Bring justice and closure but please do not stop supporting the Chicken Noodle and After School Clubs in Saint John. Do not shut them down to forget. Forgetting and not talking are the worst thing to do. Remember and stay vigilant, keep going and vow to keep on keeping on in spite of the bastards, heal and grow.

These kids and the slew of honest caring volunteers need the biggest show of thanks and support ever in this their darkest hour. Please lets restore our faith in each other by doing the right things. You know, for the children.