It's taken me a week to write about our harrowing journey to Montreal, in part because of all the media attention, parades and movie deals I've had to deal with since. And by "media attention" I mean marketers at the mall trying to get me to buy hair straighteners for Christmas, and by "parades" I mean the parade of drywall-dust foot tracks along the hallways from the renovations going on in Gutsy's room, and by "movie deals" I mean the free ones on TV with too many commercials that I can watch when my creativity is tapped from sheer exhaustion.
Sadly, the blog - and all things related to it - have been neglected. I'd apologize for that, but it's nearly Christmas and some things need to take a backseat so I can keep my head above water - double chins and all (and no, said chins are not quite big enough to act as a floatation device, alright?!) But since the snow is falling heavily on Canada's National Capital region right now, and people are trapped in their cars along a snowy highway in Sarnia, Ontario, I figure it's as good a time as any to write about the trauma of our epic journey.
Gutsy, my mom and I went to Montreal last Tuesday for an appointment with a psychologist at the Montreal Oral School for the Deaf (Psst! Give them money - they do good work!) We were offered some free academic and behavioural assessments by someone who understands deaf and hard of hearing kids, so how could we say no? We have a bit of money for therapy with Geekster's work insurance plan, but we don't know when I'll finally snap from the strain of raising three boys full time, so we like to hold onto it just in case. Initial psychological testing can get really expensive, so theoretically it's worth a two-hour drive and a tank of gas to get it at no cost.
Theoretically.
I had it all planned out: We'd leave before it got light out and beat traffic out of Ottawa. We'd arrive in Montreal at the tail end of their rush hour, but we'd have lots of time to get to the school anyway. With three-and-a-half hours to do a two-and-a-half hour drive, it would be a breeze.
Oh, except for one thing: the fucking snow.
See, when I smugly left my home at the carefully-planned time of 6:30 A.M. and balked at the line-up through the Tim Hortons saying "It's fine, mom. We have lots of time!" only a few flurries had graced Ottawa's roads. Being in a valley, we sometimes avoid the worst of a nasty system as it splits off around us and regroups later as it heads East.
You know, toward Montreal?
I never thought to check the weather outside of Ottawa. In my mind, anything that was going on here was probably also going on two hours from here. How could someone as ridiculously intelligent (and good looking) as I am overlook something that simple?
If I had a MENSA membership, someone would have come to revoke it due to my sheer stupidity that day. And if they were to try and find me last Tuesday, they'd need look no further than highway 40 East, just west of Montreal, where things had slowed down to a crawl. Those exclusive geniuses could have just run up between lengths of cars which were more or less stopped for some then unbeknownst reason. They would have found me looking puzzled and a little... tense. Because, about three quarters of the way to our destination, just as I was feeling like the best road trip planner ever, the highway was suddenly coated with a thick slab of snow. Traffic slowed to a crawl, and I began my steep decent into a panic that wouldn't let up until well after sunset.
"Why are we stopping? It's just a little snow," I whined to The Madre. I ignored the fact that the snow was getting deeper. I ignored the gusting white stuff before my eyes. I ignored all signs that this was going to be a very long drive. I had planned this out, dammit. It was going to go well because I had planned it out. That's how these things work, right?
Instead, I kept glancing at the clock. I get a little obsessed with time when I think I'm going to be late for something. Look at road, look at dashboard clock, back to road again, over to iPhone to see if it's synched with clock, back to road, back to clock again, back to road where there looks to be a barricade along the division strip up ahead. Why is there a wall there? Construction? Back to clock, back to road, over to the strip of wall, back to fretting about how we might be late if this rush hour traffic doesn't let up soon, back to strip of something which is looking a lot less like a wall and more like a... Oh. My. God.
"Mom, you'd better call the school and tell them we might be a little late. Or a lot late. Oh. My. God."
A tipped over tractor trailer. On the side of the road. The road we're driving on right now. We are so dead.
It was then that it dawned on me: we weren't dealing with rush hour traffic. We were dealing with weather pandemonium. How did I not see this coming? How did I - a Canadian through and through - miss that we were driving into a snow storm? The receptionist at the school told my mom to be careful. She said she had heard there was a tractor trailer flipped over somewhere. "Yes, there is," said The Madre, calmly. "My daughter took pictures."
I'll skip some boring details in this part of the trip. There's a lot of panic on my end, a little bit of worrying on Gutsy's part due to my panic, a lot of reassurance from my mom who's trying to get me to calm down, some stalled cars in the middle of the highway, a lot of stressed out drivers, many tow trucks, some very slow commuting, and a GPS on my phone that kept bouncing around to the point where we actually overshot our exit and had to turn around in a highly illegal highway manoeuvre that could have resulted in several lost demerit points and quite possibly an accident if I had been just a hair off (stress can make even amazing people like myself do really stupid things - it was still pretty cool, though. I should have been a stunt driver. A minivan stunt driver.)
When we arrived at our destination, we had been on the road for five hours.
Can I say that again? FIVE BLOODY HOURS.
What should have taken just over two hours took five. When we arrived, we were tired, anxious, and hungry, but mostly grateful. The psychologist had kept her entire day open for Gutsy and took him in right away. The Madre and I sat in the waiting room and ordered Greek food. Naturally, that took about 90 minutes to arrive, and it was lukewarm to boot. But it was the best damn meal I'd ever had, because I wasn't eating it on the highway to hell. It could have been pickled silverfish on a stick, for all I cared. It was just nice to be somewhere where I wasn't constantly making sure rubber firmly kissed pavement.
Later on, I made my way to the convenience store down the road on foot. I had thought it was right across the street, so I hadn't bothered with my coat, mitts or hat (my brain had a serious case of the dumb). It was bitterly cold, and the sidewalks were as messy as the roads. All told, the city received over a foot of snow. I tromped my way through it, determined to get drinks and chocolate bars for our lengthly waiting room stay, all the while cursing my stupidity for not grabbing my winter gear from the van first. By the time I reached the final crosswalk, I looked like a pudgy yeti, all snarly and shit. A man strolled out of the store, smiled at my preciptation-covered self and said "So I hear it might snow," before smiling as he walked away. It's a good thing he was cute or I would have devoured his soul with my angry. Instead, I laughed and replied with "I heard something about that, too." That man will never know how much I needed that chuckle.
The testing went well, as far as I know. I think we're going to end up with the diagnosis of "bright and anxious," which is pretty much what we figured. She suggested some local places for less pricey therapy, and also said that Geekster and I may need to change our parenting strategies when dealing with Gutsy; a tough thing to do when the other two gremlins are parented in a completely different way. But if it means fewer panic attacks, less meltdowns, and more cooperation, sign me up. I'll jump through hoops of fire if we can have more harmony around here. Furthermore, she told us that this type of behaviour - the need to try and control what he can - is not uncommon in hearing impaired kids. She stressed that we have to remember he has a disability, which we often forget because he's so capable in other ways.
Before we left, one of the amazing ladies printed up a map with alternate highway directions and highlighted our route. She said we'd avoid a lot of traffic that way, and could easily make our way to Boston Pizza for dinner on the West Island (land of the tipped over trailer) before heading home. We headed outside, confident that the uneventful trip back would more than make up for the chaos getting there.
You know those disaster movies like Armageddon or 2012, where absolutely everything that can go wrong does? Yeah...
As we're leaving the parking lot, I tried to give my windshield a wipe to get what the brush missed. Crack! The passenger side wiper, which was apparently frozen to the windshield, broke and started flailing around. My mom and I jumped out to fix it, but I made one fatal mistake: I forgot to turn the wipers off. Wump! The bloody thing got stuck under the driver's side wiper, flipping sideways. A plastic piece flew off.
"Turn the wipers off!" The Madre reminded me.
"Okay, I just have to..." K-thzzzz! The wipers were trying to move away from each other, but still lodged.
"You need to turn them off!" she insisted.
Panicked, tired, and in a dream-like "is this really happening right now?" state, I finally made my way to the wiper controls and was about to switch them off when there was a snap!
The passenger side wiper splintered, still lodged under the other one.
This is the part where I let out a string of curse words while holding back tears. We were in a strange city on a Tuesday evening in the middle of a snow storm. It was dark, and the roads were so bad that I couldn't drive more than a few blocks without needing to clean the windshield. Now what?
A man happened by with his dog. I asked him if he knew anything about wipers. He said he didn't, but there was a full-service gas station and garage three blocks up the road. He gave us directions, and away we went. I finally fishtailed into snow-filled parking lot, only to be met with several cars lined up for gas, many people picking up their vehicles after getting them serviced, and a disgruntled employee who said he could help us, maybe - and then went back to pumping gas into cars that were still running. Very safe.
I couldn't help but laugh. Was this actually happening? Unbelievable.
The garage manager hooked us up with a new wiper, ($25 - ugh! Could he smell a desperate traveller or what?) but only after telling me I was crazy for attempting to head back to Ottawa in the storm. But my mom needed her medication before bed and Gutsy had school the next day and I needed a hug from my husband and my very own pillow, so what other option was there? Onward.
We overshot the Boston Pizza, but only because it was off some obscure little road and it was snowy and we were tired. When we did find it, I had the best damned gluten-free pizza ever. Refreshed, we headed home.
We got in at 10 P.M. - nearly sixteen hours after we left. Gutsy took Wednesday off, and I spent most of the day in bed watching Grey's Anatomy reruns. The last time I felt that tired, I had just given birth. Several hours of stress really wreaks havoc on the body. But it was worth it to get help for a little boy we love so much.
I have no idea what I did to anger the Gods of Transportation and Travel, but apparently it was something worthy of only the nastiest of punishments. I've learned my lesson. The next time I see freshly painted lines on the road, I promise not to drive through them so I can leave tracks. And the next time I see a hot construction worker directing traffic, I promise to keep my eyes on on the road ahead of me and not gawk at his beefy biceps.
So today, as I watch the snow fall onto messy roads, you'll have to forgive my hesitation in going out to playgroup, or to get groceries or Christmas gifts. If at all possible, I'm going to stay right here in my warm house. Eight hours in a snow storm is more than my quota for the month of December, thank you very much.
Sadly, the blog - and all things related to it - have been neglected. I'd apologize for that, but it's nearly Christmas and some things need to take a backseat so I can keep my head above water - double chins and all (and no, said chins are not quite big enough to act as a floatation device, alright?!) But since the snow is falling heavily on Canada's National Capital region right now, and people are trapped in their cars along a snowy highway in Sarnia, Ontario, I figure it's as good a time as any to write about the trauma of our epic journey.
Gutsy, my mom and I went to Montreal last Tuesday for an appointment with a psychologist at the Montreal Oral School for the Deaf (Psst! Give them money - they do good work!) We were offered some free academic and behavioural assessments by someone who understands deaf and hard of hearing kids, so how could we say no? We have a bit of money for therapy with Geekster's work insurance plan, but we don't know when I'll finally snap from the strain of raising three boys full time, so we like to hold onto it just in case. Initial psychological testing can get really expensive, so theoretically it's worth a two-hour drive and a tank of gas to get it at no cost.
Theoretically.
I had it all planned out: We'd leave before it got light out and beat traffic out of Ottawa. We'd arrive in Montreal at the tail end of their rush hour, but we'd have lots of time to get to the school anyway. With three-and-a-half hours to do a two-and-a-half hour drive, it would be a breeze.
Oh, except for one thing: the fucking snow.
See, when I smugly left my home at the carefully-planned time of 6:30 A.M. and balked at the line-up through the Tim Hortons saying "It's fine, mom. We have lots of time!" only a few flurries had graced Ottawa's roads. Being in a valley, we sometimes avoid the worst of a nasty system as it splits off around us and regroups later as it heads East.
You know, toward Montreal?
I never thought to check the weather outside of Ottawa. In my mind, anything that was going on here was probably also going on two hours from here. How could someone as ridiculously intelligent (and good looking) as I am overlook something that simple?
If I had a MENSA membership, someone would have come to revoke it due to my sheer stupidity that day. And if they were to try and find me last Tuesday, they'd need look no further than highway 40 East, just west of Montreal, where things had slowed down to a crawl. Those exclusive geniuses could have just run up between lengths of cars which were more or less stopped for some then unbeknownst reason. They would have found me looking puzzled and a little... tense. Because, about three quarters of the way to our destination, just as I was feeling like the best road trip planner ever, the highway was suddenly coated with a thick slab of snow. Traffic slowed to a crawl, and I began my steep decent into a panic that wouldn't let up until well after sunset.
"Why are we stopping? It's just a little snow," I whined to The Madre. I ignored the fact that the snow was getting deeper. I ignored the gusting white stuff before my eyes. I ignored all signs that this was going to be a very long drive. I had planned this out, dammit. It was going to go well because I had planned it out. That's how these things work, right?
Instead, I kept glancing at the clock. I get a little obsessed with time when I think I'm going to be late for something. Look at road, look at dashboard clock, back to road again, over to iPhone to see if it's synched with clock, back to road, back to clock again, back to road where there looks to be a barricade along the division strip up ahead. Why is there a wall there? Construction? Back to clock, back to road, over to the strip of wall, back to fretting about how we might be late if this rush hour traffic doesn't let up soon, back to strip of something which is looking a lot less like a wall and more like a... Oh. My. God.
"Mom, you'd better call the school and tell them we might be a little late. Or a lot late. Oh. My. God."
A tipped over tractor trailer. On the side of the road. The road we're driving on right now. We are so dead.
It was then that it dawned on me: we weren't dealing with rush hour traffic. We were dealing with weather pandemonium. How did I not see this coming? How did I - a Canadian through and through - miss that we were driving into a snow storm? The receptionist at the school told my mom to be careful. She said she had heard there was a tractor trailer flipped over somewhere. "Yes, there is," said The Madre, calmly. "My daughter took pictures."
I'll skip some boring details in this part of the trip. There's a lot of panic on my end, a little bit of worrying on Gutsy's part due to my panic, a lot of reassurance from my mom who's trying to get me to calm down, some stalled cars in the middle of the highway, a lot of stressed out drivers, many tow trucks, some very slow commuting, and a GPS on my phone that kept bouncing around to the point where we actually overshot our exit and had to turn around in a highly illegal highway manoeuvre that could have resulted in several lost demerit points and quite possibly an accident if I had been just a hair off (stress can make even amazing people like myself do really stupid things - it was still pretty cool, though. I should have been a stunt driver. A minivan stunt driver.)
When we arrived at our destination, we had been on the road for five hours.
Can I say that again? FIVE BLOODY HOURS.
What should have taken just over two hours took five. When we arrived, we were tired, anxious, and hungry, but mostly grateful. The psychologist had kept her entire day open for Gutsy and took him in right away. The Madre and I sat in the waiting room and ordered Greek food. Naturally, that took about 90 minutes to arrive, and it was lukewarm to boot. But it was the best damn meal I'd ever had, because I wasn't eating it on the highway to hell. It could have been pickled silverfish on a stick, for all I cared. It was just nice to be somewhere where I wasn't constantly making sure rubber firmly kissed pavement.
Later on, I made my way to the convenience store down the road on foot. I had thought it was right across the street, so I hadn't bothered with my coat, mitts or hat (my brain had a serious case of the dumb). It was bitterly cold, and the sidewalks were as messy as the roads. All told, the city received over a foot of snow. I tromped my way through it, determined to get drinks and chocolate bars for our lengthly waiting room stay, all the while cursing my stupidity for not grabbing my winter gear from the van first. By the time I reached the final crosswalk, I looked like a pudgy yeti, all snarly and shit. A man strolled out of the store, smiled at my preciptation-covered self and said "So I hear it might snow," before smiling as he walked away. It's a good thing he was cute or I would have devoured his soul with my angry. Instead, I laughed and replied with "I heard something about that, too." That man will never know how much I needed that chuckle.
The testing went well, as far as I know. I think we're going to end up with the diagnosis of "bright and anxious," which is pretty much what we figured. She suggested some local places for less pricey therapy, and also said that Geekster and I may need to change our parenting strategies when dealing with Gutsy; a tough thing to do when the other two gremlins are parented in a completely different way. But if it means fewer panic attacks, less meltdowns, and more cooperation, sign me up. I'll jump through hoops of fire if we can have more harmony around here. Furthermore, she told us that this type of behaviour - the need to try and control what he can - is not uncommon in hearing impaired kids. She stressed that we have to remember he has a disability, which we often forget because he's so capable in other ways.
Before we left, one of the amazing ladies printed up a map with alternate highway directions and highlighted our route. She said we'd avoid a lot of traffic that way, and could easily make our way to Boston Pizza for dinner on the West Island (land of the tipped over trailer) before heading home. We headed outside, confident that the uneventful trip back would more than make up for the chaos getting there.
You know those disaster movies like Armageddon or 2012, where absolutely everything that can go wrong does? Yeah...
As we're leaving the parking lot, I tried to give my windshield a wipe to get what the brush missed. Crack! The passenger side wiper, which was apparently frozen to the windshield, broke and started flailing around. My mom and I jumped out to fix it, but I made one fatal mistake: I forgot to turn the wipers off. Wump! The bloody thing got stuck under the driver's side wiper, flipping sideways. A plastic piece flew off.
"Turn the wipers off!" The Madre reminded me.
"Okay, I just have to..." K-thzzzz! The wipers were trying to move away from each other, but still lodged.
"You need to turn them off!" she insisted.
Panicked, tired, and in a dream-like "is this really happening right now?" state, I finally made my way to the wiper controls and was about to switch them off when there was a snap!
The passenger side wiper splintered, still lodged under the other one.
This is the part where I let out a string of curse words while holding back tears. We were in a strange city on a Tuesday evening in the middle of a snow storm. It was dark, and the roads were so bad that I couldn't drive more than a few blocks without needing to clean the windshield. Now what?
A man happened by with his dog. I asked him if he knew anything about wipers. He said he didn't, but there was a full-service gas station and garage three blocks up the road. He gave us directions, and away we went. I finally fishtailed into snow-filled parking lot, only to be met with several cars lined up for gas, many people picking up their vehicles after getting them serviced, and a disgruntled employee who said he could help us, maybe - and then went back to pumping gas into cars that were still running. Very safe.
I couldn't help but laugh. Was this actually happening? Unbelievable.
The garage manager hooked us up with a new wiper, ($25 - ugh! Could he smell a desperate traveller or what?) but only after telling me I was crazy for attempting to head back to Ottawa in the storm. But my mom needed her medication before bed and Gutsy had school the next day and I needed a hug from my husband and my very own pillow, so what other option was there? Onward.
We overshot the Boston Pizza, but only because it was off some obscure little road and it was snowy and we were tired. When we did find it, I had the best damned gluten-free pizza ever. Refreshed, we headed home.
We got in at 10 P.M. - nearly sixteen hours after we left. Gutsy took Wednesday off, and I spent most of the day in bed watching Grey's Anatomy reruns. The last time I felt that tired, I had just given birth. Several hours of stress really wreaks havoc on the body. But it was worth it to get help for a little boy we love so much.
I have no idea what I did to anger the Gods of Transportation and Travel, but apparently it was something worthy of only the nastiest of punishments. I've learned my lesson. The next time I see freshly painted lines on the road, I promise not to drive through them so I can leave tracks. And the next time I see a hot construction worker directing traffic, I promise to keep my eyes on on the road ahead of me and not gawk at his beefy biceps.
So today, as I watch the snow fall onto messy roads, you'll have to forgive my hesitation in going out to playgroup, or to get groceries or Christmas gifts. If at all possible, I'm going to stay right here in my warm house. Eight hours in a snow storm is more than my quota for the month of December, thank you very much.