One of my new blogging gigs is for Suite, a new sort of blogging community that aims to encourage the fine art of conversation while banishing all that nasty blather from online trolls.

For Suite, I've launched a theme called "When I was a kid". The basic premise is my take, as someone who grew up in the freewheeling seventies, on today's much more complicated parenting ethos. I'm also the parent of a soon-to-be 10-year-old boy--did I mention that? Here are some pulled-from-my-life stories that show how much things have changed out there:

My worst moment as a sports mom is about my occasionally embarrassing efforts to avoid becoming a pushy sports parent.

The ball hockey game that launched a thousand emails examines parenting, fear and safety in the digital age.

That moment before a woman gives birth is unforgettable, like no other. She stands at a precipice, and someone’s about to push her off. All that has gone before will change, irrevocably. She lifts off, not knowing where, or how, or when, she will land.

With my son, I had what’s called a precipitous labour. Because it was so short, because he burst into the world mere moments after I staggered into a hospital birthing room, I tend to gloss over the pit of terror. In light of some of my friends’ stories of days-long ordeals, complications, surgical slicing and mean red scars, it’s always seemed wrong to complain.

But indeed, I felt more than a taste of terror that day. Besides the purest joy I felt at the end—the day was punctured by moments of panic, shame, anger, and a dash of despair. Recently, years after Zachary’s swift and frightening birth in a Toronto hospital, I’ve had a chance to learn a little more about what is sometimes called “fast labour”. One of its hallmarks is intense pain. I kind of likened it to being rent asunder. While I was still home, getting out of the shower, mild pain morphed into waves so intense, I dropped my hair dryer and simply lay on the floor writhing.

When a break finally came, I managed to pull on my hideous pair of greige maternity pants, and then Steve and I fled to the hospital. Cue the squealing tires, and panic, nurses rushing, clothes peeled off. That is, until it all screeched to a halt. After a young, inexperienced doc examined me, he dismissed me, “Nope. Long way to go. Cervix hasn’t even softened yet.”

Mutely, embarrassed for me, the nurses melted away. And for a brief while then, I felt the fool. So I had misread the signals? These lightening bolts of pain riding through my body—this was just…just the beginning? “How will I do this?” I asked myself, dumbfounded that an hour into labour I already felt defeated. And in that moment I felt that sense of connection and terrible awe. How many women around the world and through the ages had come to this exact point? Amid my fierce contractions, which had never stopped, a second doctor popped in for another look. He was, I suppose, my knight in shining armour. What of the first doctor’s assessment and that decided lack of cervical softness? “People!” he said, “That is the baby’s head. Let’s move!”

The medical machine sprung back into action: a birthing room, monitors, me trying to manage the right position for the baby lifeforce bursting its way out. As if things couldn’t get any crazier, I noticed doctors turning tense, grabbing equipment. Zach’s heart rate, they informed me, had started plummeting. And next I felt the agonizing stabs of some obstetrical-grade vacuum. With the suction helping Zach along, it was all yelling and pushing from me. And then it was over. He had arrived, my beautiful baby, safe and sound. Typical of babies from fast labours, Zachary was all pink and lovely, while I was almost unrecognizable—bloody, ghastly white, swollen and puffy, like something you’d see in a boxing ring.

At this time of year, Mother’s Day, like every mother, I’m filled with these messy memories of my baby’s birth. I’m also thankful that I laboured in a facility that offered a medical team, second opinions (!!), clean surroundings, and lifesaving meds and monitoring and equipment. Our system is not perfect. And yet compare Canada to a country like Uganda. In the developing world, mothers are hundreds of times more likely to die in childbirth. And at this most exciting but potentially frightening juncture, many women also face terrible indignities. Consider: “In Sub-Saharan Africa, for example, a woman has a lifetime risk of 1 in 39 of dying from pregnancy related complications…One in four women who die during childbirth simply bleed to death. This can often be prevented by a medication that costs less than 99 cents.”

Having become more aware of the global maternal health issue, our family has started participating, every Mother’s Day weekend, in the Toronto leg of the country-wide Save the Mothers annual walk. The walk raises funds for the work of Dr. Jean Chamberlain Froese. Canadian and Hamilton-trained, Jean and her family spend most of their year in Uganda, where she focuses on a local development approach, training and supporting local medical staff, and assisting women in labour.

For me, our family’s annual walk together is deeply meaningful. My son, happy and healthy, walks beside me, and we pass our local hospital along the way. The walk, a joyful, social thing, also has an occasional hush. Most profoundly, the walk mimics the distance a woman in the developing world might have to walk to hospital. This forms a powerful backdrop for my first-world Mother’s Day pressures—where to have brunch, what to buy for my own mom, and how to escape that Hallmark-imposed feeling I always sense nipping at the edges of this day?

We’ll be walking again this Saturday. If you want to join in, the walk is in East Toronto and there’s a great party at the end with a local high-school Steel Drum Band and my hubby Steve at the BBQ (link is below). Or if you’d like to sponsor us again this year and help women and babies in Uganda receive adequate obstetrical care, that link is below too.

Thanks for listening and I wish all of you a very Happy Mother’s Day.

Links:

- Facts from Save The Mothers: http://www.savethemothers.org/learn-the-issues/
- To see details about the Toronto event, click here.
- To sponsor me, click here.
- To read my article in the latest issue of Herizons magazine about socially conscious gifts for Mother’s Day, click here.

As I write this, our brand-new dog lies snoring gently at my feet—though always with one eye half-open. If you read my previous post, you could probably predict how this was going to go. Maybe better than me: I was nervous and full of second-guessing about this “Rusty”. But then we took a swing around the lake to his temporary suburban digs in Stoney Creek. (“You have a pool! In your backyard!” our city-kid Zach marveled to the foster couple.) And we found Rusty every bit as lovely as his profile said he was.

Rusty is soft and sweet. He gently rolls onto his back when he realizes you’re up for giving him some love. As for his manners—I’m just going to put it out there—we could see right away this guy was, ahem, a tad better behaved than our much-loved Zoe.

The only shocker came (still comes) looking at his ribcage. Past that strong Lab face and glossy coat, there’s a cruel count-every-rib gauntness. And just when you wouldn’t think Rusty could get any thinner, there’s just empty space where he should have a waist.

Before we knew it, we had Rusty in the hatch of our car. And quicker than you can snap your fingers, we are dog owners again. Having raised a breeder puppy before, Rusty takes some getting used to. There are all these missing pieces to the puzzle. It’s crazy. We know so little about him except that he’s come from a shelter in Ohio, is maybe 7 or 8, has been well-trained, and did well in foster care.

Thus far, Rusty’s settled in with a quiet thump and quickly accumulated a list of good points: He’s an easy guy in the house. No chewing furniture. No stealing or begging for food. He enjoys the backyard without a bark or a whimper. This big boy is perfectly content to sleep on the floor—and wouldn’t dream of claiming the couch, or the humans’ beds. And best, he’s been greeting neighbours and Zachary’s friends with just the right soupcon of friendly tail wagging, lowering his handsome head ever so slightly to receive hello pats.

Seems the only thing we need to train him on is his exuberance upon meeting other dogs. When it comes to other canines, Rusty is ready to party. I’m suspecting he was a country dog, or maybe a hunting dog, so needs some schooling on restrained city-dog hellos.

But the big job now is to feed him. And here I’m having fun and seeing little hints of what might have been. Unbelievably, for such an emaciated dog, Rusty is choosy. We’ve been offering him bowlfuls from the monster sack of kibble his foster family gave us, and hungry as he must be, he’ll politely walk away. Out of curiosity yesterday I threw some avocado in his bowl. Yum, he said. Then we tried some cans we still had of Zoe’s premium fish-oil laced lamb and rice. Double-yum. Similarly, he delicately polished off slices of bacon, oatmeal, and butter. Real food, man, he’s saying. I like real food.

When our family chose “rescue” over pedigree, we landed squarely in the middle of a growing North American trend. According to Linda Lord, a professor of veterinary medicine in Rusty’s home state of Ohio, “In general, across the country, the adoption rates have gone up.” And stats from the Humane Society of the United States and the A.S.P.C.A show this trend is making a huge difference in kill statistics. Today in the U.S., an estimated “3 million and 4 million unwanted dogs and cats are euthanized annually. Forty years ago, an estimated 20 million annually were euthanized.”

It’s not all rainbows and puppy licks of course. Rescue dogs aren’t for everyone. I just read today that almost half of rescue dogs get returned right back to foster care. Even a sweet dog like Rusty was just returned by one family last weekend—in that case, the family’s cats scratched and hissed ‘no deal’. But by applying our previous experience as dog owners and choosing a dog that seems suited to us, we’re hoping we’ll have better luck. For his part, Rusty is enjoying some peace and quiet and I think he’s getting more comfortable. I just saw his eye close.

More:
- “Kill rates vary widely at Ohio dog shelters”. An article from The Columbus Dispatch on the patchwork condition of Ohio’s animal shelter and adoption system, and the rising popularity of “rescue” animals.
- “Ad Featuring Singer Proves Bonanza for the A.S.P.C.A.” New York Times, December 25, 2008. Great article about how those ASPCA ads by Canadian singer Sarah McLachlin made a huge difference.
- “To the Rescue. Nearly 20% of dogs and cats are adopted. Here's how to streamline your search for the perfect pet.” Prevention, November 2011.  

Is it too soon? Am I going to regret this? What if I don’t like him when I meet him? Tonight around 6 p.m. our family is going on a blind date. We’ll be meeting Rusty, a 65-pound bundle of well-aged chocolate Lab currently residing in a foster home.

At about 7 or 8 years old, and with his greying snout, he’s not a highly sought after companion. But something about him has drawn us in. I saw him first this weekend—a sad case of online dating where I kept telling myself I wasn’t really looking, just seeing what’s out there. Then I saw Rusty’s profile. Even after the pages upon pages of “rescue” dogs I saw next—beseeching eyes, mewling puppies you could cradle with one arm—Rusty seemed to have claimed me already. Part of it may be practical. I liked these words from his foster mom: “amazing quiet and gentle soul”, “fully house trained”, “soooo gentle with EVERYONE.”

But I can only partially explain why this dog feels so right. Saturday afternoon I showed his profile to my husband and held my breath. Was it just me? I walked away but his stillness at the computer, punctuated only by the occasional click (scrolling down), told me he was similarly engaged with Rusty and his story.

Having lost our own dog prematurely (she died at age 10 just over three months ago), Steve and I are not yet keen for the lightning jolt of a puppy in the house. Our son, small surprise, is desperate to get a puppy but, slowly, even he has become receptive to adopting a shelter animal. This older dog and particularly his mystery seem more right somehow. His foster mom says his eyes tell a story of “love lost”, writing, “I wish he could talk and tell us what happened to separate him from someone who obviously loved him very much.”

Perhaps that’s why we connect. Our dog Zoe left suddenly too. It was only in January that we learned her cancer had resurfaced, aggressively, and two weeks later we gathered to put her down. There was a great deal of crying around here, not to mention a great river of unexpected kindnesses: cards, pictures, emails, and even a food basket. Friends and family have visited and let us talk about her.

My way of handling that loss of dog love has been to walk our friends’ dogs—two in particular. The dogs lure me away from my hermit-like hunching at the computer. I rediscover walking and sunshine and that happy-doggie-love feeling. But that isn’t the real reason I’m about to go and stand on a stranger’s doorstep.

Oh no. My son got me here. Not sure how it crystallized—was it the page-long essay he just wrote at school all about his dog? Was it his occasional tears or his comment after we had a friend’s dog in for the day: “Mom when [so-and-so] was here, didn’t it feel like our family again?” He’s also complained that since Zoe died we’re always on him. Probably true. My son has been realizing the impact of loss, and reacquainting me with the benefits of pet ownership for a one-child family. When I add these things up it’s a strong case.

So—insert small sigh here—much as I’m enjoying wantonly setting appetizers on the coffee table and giving my vacuum cleaner a break, I’m accepting it. This house is likely to see sloppy dog bowls and fresh dust bunnies sooner than I expected. It’s just makes sense for us.

Will Rusty be the one? I admit I’m drawn to the poetry. He’s a dog who’s lost his family. We’re a family that’s lost our dog. Can we find happiness together? Will it be the dog behind door number 1? It can’t be that easy, can it? I’ve already prepared myself that something will go wrong—or weird. But even so, we’re heading out on the QEW tonight to give Rusty a chance. What’s going to happen? We're about to find out.

This is a chilling tale of a bear I met on vacation.

But first I should probably ask if I'm the only one. Do family visits to the zoo ever make you uneasy too? And I’m not just talking about prices here. I'm talking about all those animals in their enclosures. Do you find yourself wondering about them? Ever since the story of the Toronto Zoo’s elephants exploded, there’s been lots of talk in our house about animals in captivity. If elephants are suffering so acutely—isolated and crushingly lonely, feet damaged and constantly infected from the concrete paths they were never meant to endure, dying prematurely—what about other animals? Are they suffering too?

What a fraught issue this is for families. On the one hand, viewing animals with our kids can invoke a rapturous joy and love of nature. I’ll always remember the way my son rushed at the aquariums at the zoo when he was a little guy. Nose-pressed, he would stand there endlessly captivated by these tiny flitting exotic fish. And doesn’t stuff like this give our kids a desire to respect and preserve the environment?

But more and more, zoo trips fill me with nagging questions. Here’s an example. On our recent March Break trip to Charleston, SC we visited Charlestown Landing, a historical state park which also features a small zoo. In the “Animal Forest”, you get to traipse along wooden boardwalks, masses of Spanish moss trailing in the breeze, and see animals that are (or were in olden days) native to the Lowcountry. As has become a habit for us, we critiqued the animals’ habitats. “The birds can’t fly away?!” my son asked eying all the netting around the seabird enclosure. There was little signage, so we couldn’t tell whether the egrets, pelicans and such, had been injured and rescued—or not. The otters, with their bubbling river and stone enclosure, seemed to be thriving though.

Then came the kicker. In the next enclosure, I stared straight into the eyes of a single black bear (although reportedly he has a roommate). It felt Alice-in-Wonderland strange. Perched on a wooden structure, placid and still, he looked like an overstuffed toy. Maddeningly though, I couldn’t find any details about this bear. What was the back story here? “I’ve got to look into this,” I told myself.

Well today I did. And the story that I uncovered about this bear literally gave me chills. Just a couple of clicks on Google and I found the story of “Memphis”. Last year, this 450-pound black bear was found “in the backyard of a Lowcountry residence, chained to a tree or pacing back and forth in a small dog trot”. I also read that South Carolina is “the only state where keeping bears and other wild animals, even cobras, is legal.”

While Memphis is safe now, some black bears in the state have seen a worse fate. My brief search also turned up news of an unspeakable underground practice of animal abuse that apparently still occurs today in Pakistan and South Carolina. It’s called “bear baying”. In 2010, the Associated Press broke the story including video evidence of baying events. I still haven’t been able to bring myself to watch what’s happening to these bears or even write about it in my own words but here’s how the Humane Society of the United States describes it. I’ll warn you. This is really tough to read:

“A black bear cowers in the corner of a pen in rural South Carolina. She is tethered to a stake, surrounded by hundreds of onlookers.

She is foaming at the mouth and popping her jaws, behavior that means she is terrified. Her captors have cut or removed her claws and many of her teeth, leaving her defenseless.

Three hounds run at the bear from one end of the arena, barking furiously. Some of them bite her face and legs. Others jump on her. She backs up on her hind legs, trying vainly to shield her face. The assault continues for four hours, as nearly 300 dogs attack her in quick succession.

This spectacle is a bear baiting competition, called a "bear bay" by participants, and is practiced only in South Carolina. It is similar to the archaic blood sport of bear baiting.”

HSUS investigators videotaped this scene during visits to four bear baiting events in the state hosted by breed clubs associated with American Kennel Club and United Kennel Club. According to attendees, the bear used in some of these events was a 15-year-old female taken from the wild as a cub.

On its website, the South Carolina Department of Natural Resources has this statement:

Please know that S.C. Department of Natural Resources (SCDNR) does not consider bear baying/baiting a legitimate field trial and has never issued and will not issue permits for this activity.

As required by SC law, the only captive bears the SCDNR has permitted are those that were in captivity before January 1, 2006, and for which owners provided proof of possession prior to that date. No additional permits will be or have been issued for the captive possession of black bears in South Carolina, other than those legally possessed in another state and brought into South Carolina for temporary exhibition.

SCDNR does not consider the possession of black bears by individuals to be biologically sound, safe for the local community, or in the best long-term interest of the wild black bear resource. No further reproduction of captive black bears will be allowed in South Carolina.

In 2008, the South Carolina Attorney General issued an opinion that it is possible for bear baying/baiting to be prosecuted as animal cruelty under Title 47.

Activists maintain that an underground baying practice continues to exist. And petitions against this continue to circulate.

Asking questions about Memphis the bear led me to a horrible story of inhumanity, but I uncovered some signs of hope too. While Memphis endured years of mistreatment and is now unable to cope in the wild, he's been rescued and found a home at Charlestown Landing. And apparently there’s no evidence Memphis endured baying. Is the Animal Forest the best place for him? I don’t know, but I also know, he’s in a far better place today—and that things could be infinitely worse.

Sometimes zoos present us with stories like this. And sometimes on a simple trip to the zoo we encounter plenty of gray areas and ethical juggernauts. But there's more to the story. Zoos are also evolving, aiming to rescue animals, and/or protect and encourage endangered species. They're also looking at completely altering their animal environments. I think it’s worth staying in the loop, visiting zoos, and most of all, asking lots of hard questions. After all, for the Toronto Zoo’s elephants, it was such questions—from one passionate city councillor named Michelle Berardinetti—that changed everything. As I write, three weary elephants, Toka, Thika and Iringa, are reportedly this close to being loaded onto military helicopters and winging their way towards the warm embrace of a California sanctuary. I think that’s pretty awesome.

More:
"Rescued bear now living at Charles Towne Landing," Post and Courier
"Investigation Documents Cruelty of Bear Baiting," The Humane Society of the United States, August 2010
"Uncovered in South Carolina: Bear Abuse for Show", Huffington Post, August 23, 2010
"Information Regarding Bear Baying/Baiting," www.dnr.sc.gov/admin/bearbb.html
"Zoo's elephants will be sent to sanctuary," Toronto Star, October 25, 2011
"RCAF Asked to Help Transport Three Toronto Zoo Elephants to California:Zoo Check," Montreal Gazette, March 21, 2013

It’s ironic. Just as I’m launching my new website and blog, my son, approaching nine, becomes self-conscious. And assertive. 

“Are you writing about me?” he asks me. (This  isn’t exactly narcissistic since I do write about him a lot.) Then he tells me that if I do, he wants to know about it, and review it first.

Developmentally, this is right on cue. And I did expect this reckoning. But now that it’s here—me with a story to tell (all catlike, guilty feathers sticking out of my mouth), and him, hands-on- hips, calling me out—I realize this is more than a journalistic dilemma. We’ve come to another one of those parenting crossroads. What worked yesterday just doesn’t cut it today. 

His growth tells me, once again that, just as he is changing, I need to change too. What we were so recently, cut-up grapes, and Mommy-and-me classes, that’s gone. His blind faith in me, also evolving. I know something brilliant will rise from the ashes. We will discover how to make it work and it's a wonderful process. But each time it happens, I always feel—mixed in with my pride at his healthy displays of independence—a little stab of mourning. All that giving, then the letting go, ever reassessing and adjusting, such a tricky part of parenting.

I reassure my son that my blog won’t share embarrassing stories about him. In fact, it’s really more about me. When Zach was born, I stepped away from corporate writing to enjoy his early years. Then when he started school, I began to resurrect my freelance writing career. As he made friends in JK and mastered his pencil grip, I wrote query letters and started landing writing assignments.

Today, I’ve got a healthy, and growing, body of work. I’ve created my website to feature that and make it available for clients and readers. Alongside, my blog will expand on the issues I’m writing about, give some of the back story, and ask you to weigh in.

My next blog post (where I don't mention my son at all!!), talks about food waste. I'm passionate about this issue, have just written about it, and let's be honest, I've been guilty here too. Check it out, and let's talk.