My Yo-Yos

My baby boy is 10 and one half. He reminds me daily that he is almost 11, which is close enough in his opinion, to being an adult and allowed to legally do whatever the hell he wants.

I tell him he's allowed to drive when he's 19.

I tell him he's allowed to drink a beer, ONE beer, when he's 21.

I tell him he's allowed to get a tattoo when he's 25.

I tell him he's allowed to have a girlfriend over my dead body.

I have noticed, especially lately, how quickly he is growing up. I have yet to figure out the age old, mother-love question of how to prevent this from happening. I blink and he is 4 or 5 years old, barely reaches my waist, but cheerful and cuddly and still believes his mummy can do anything. I blink again, and here he is today, almost at my shoulder-height, sulky when asked to make his bed, sarcastic, most times still cuddly.

I choose to not wonder too long about his future because I am desperately trying to hold onto now. In trying to be a good parent, sometimes I have to get in his face - "No. You will NOT speak disrespectfully to me. I am YOUR MOTHER." He pushes buttons and tests limits, but nothing that isn't expected and nothing too far out there that I can't reach him and yank him back to me.

My kids are my yo-yo. I'm holding on to the circled start of it, while they roll themselves out along life, crazy bumps and jumps and twists and all, but I reel it back in, check on any knots that have been created, and then step back and watch them roll out again.

One day, the yo-yo will break free and roll completely on its own and my heart will shatter.

Until that day, I'm hanging on, as tight as I can.

Sleep. My kingdom for a night's sleep.

My son and daughter both woke up at 6:00 a.m. on Saturday AND Sunday. Sleeping in on the weekend for me is waking up at 7:15 a.m., so that extra hour and 15 minutes can make or break me. It very nearly broke me this weekend. I'm a light sleeper at the best of times, but when you haven't had a good night's sleep in almost 11 years, it does start to take a toll and you wish that shooting up caffeine was legal. Or that muzzling your children wasn't frowned upon.

Every mother and father out there can relate to the dread you feel as you hear the first rustlings of blankets that early (or earlier) in the morning. You slowly come out of the warm, sleepy state you were in, dreaming of playing house with Dr. House (what IS it with that crusty character that appeals to me? His dialogue is written for him, but damn, he SAYS exactly what other people are thinking and plus, he has nice arms and plays a mean guitar lick...I'm getting off-track here.)...and you hold your breath and think that maybe she's just turning over, upside down or sideways in her crib, or that my son is just pulling his blankets up under his chin to ward off a little chill.

But, no. The next sound I hear is my son grumbling because he can't find his favourite hoodie and stomping around his room because 10 year old boys do NOT tread lightly no matter where they are; and then I hear my daughter standing up in her crib, shaking the sides trying to get them down and she is yelling, "Muummmm-yyy". A delicate, gentle flower she is not. My son bolts down the hallway and I will my legs to move, to get out of bed and get the little princess before she starts really screaming.

Blurry-eyed, I pick her up, along with her doo-doo (her bear blanket), her two bébés, a book, and she MUST have her housecoat and her pantouffes (her slippers); and we head to the kitchen to make the coffee together. My son has escaped to the family room to watch cartoons.

My hubby isn't home in case you are wondering. He left early the day before to go to our cottage to do fix-it-man-stuff....lucky bastard.

The military and police use various forms of torture to get what they want out of the bad guys, right? I am certain that it all began with a couple of parents who said, "Hey guys, I've got a great solution to getting X to confess...It's called 'Parenthood'. Sleep deprivation in its finest form."

Finally, the coffee is ready.

Big Occasion

It's my sister's birthday today - she's 40.

Happy Birthday, Bebe!

Sarcastic comments will follow...

If they're screaming & crying, it must be Wednesday

And this morning is reminder #4,327 why animals eat their young.

And why sometimes vodka with your Mini-Wheats can be a good thing.

Days' End

I can't wait to go home. The best part of my day, of my EVERY day, is getting home from work and having my kids come running from wherever they are with the biggest smiles you've ever seen on their faces; and an excited, "Mummy's home!" as they wrap their arms around my neck, my legs, my purse because they are happy to see me. There are few things better after a shitty day than to have that love poured on me, refreshing me like an unexpected rainshower in the middle of a hot, humid day.

And the love is returned with as many kisses and hugs as I can sneak in before those 10 seconds are over and it's back to their whining about what we're having for dinner, and "I don't wanna do my homework", and a blood-curdling scream of "me do it"; all while the dog is making that unbearable howling noise she does as I'm trying to untangle her from between my legs and not drop the toddler on her head - which I sort of feel like doing because that screaming is RIGHT IN MY EAR.

And I realize I must be crazy-in-da-head for even thinking of wanting another one. But then my son will give me a hug just because and my daughter lays her head on my shoulder and the dog has stopped shrieking and I can smell the outdoor, sunshiney goodness of my kids.

I close my eyes and know that for this moment, at least, I'm as close to heaven as I'll likely ever get.

Spring

I had to rub my eyes several times to be sure I wasn't imagining seeing these at home - they will become irises - dark purple irises - and they are always the sign that spring is really here!

Well, them and the thousands of Canadian snow geese dropping poop bombs during their squawking fly-bys!

Money. What is it good for?

So, listening to the radio this morning on the drive in to work, and the djs are debating whether having lots of money makes a person happy or not.

Having never had lots of it, I'd err on the side of fucking right it would. I make an average to below average salary, as does, oh, say, 98% of the population, and there's pretty much nothing left after paying for daycare, car, gas, utilities, the mortgage and copious amounts of alcohol in which to deal with the stress of worrying constantly about THE BILLS.

I don't need or want to be obscenely wealthy, but damn, it'd be nice to be able to go on a vacation and buy a really ugly, tacky, useless souvenir that I just have to have because the sun in the Caymans has fried my brain of any sort of restrained taste and that enormous bookcase made from conch shells and seaweed would look fabulous in our bedroom. Really, it would!

Until such time as a trip to the Cayman Islands, or, you know, Massena, New York is possible, I'll be the one you see in the liquor store, sorting through the cheap bins.

'Total amount due' is easier to read when you're smashed.

Little Moments

"What is wrong with this damn steering wheel? It's not turning! What the...piece of Ford crap!"

"Did you turn the key all the way so the truck has started?"

"Oh. I guess that might fix it, right?"

"Ri-i-ght." He shakes his head and wonders if I really can be that dumb.

Yes. Yes I can.

Calling All Passengers

I love airports.

The idea of flying anywhere is enticing. I don't travel very often, so even the experience of flying between cities in 45 minutes causes me enough excitement that I have trouble sleeping the night before I leave.

I smile at the guard who asks for my id and boarding pass before I walk through the two columns that will alert them with disconnected beeps to the fact that yes, indeed, I'm wearing an underwire bra and oops, that's my watch hidden underneath my sleeve. There are people moving along the brightly lit walkways, everyone has a destination. Some are sitting, watching, reading newspapers, waiting for their boarding call.

Even my coffee tastes different this morning...it tastes like freedom and possibility.

Ghost

The boredom is always there, lurking in the shadows. I can feel the darkness creeping in for it's usual extended visit. There is a certain comfort in its regularity, kind of like Pap smears and periods - you don't want it to come, but you know it will anyway. It brings with it an aching tiredness, an exhaustion that is difficult to fight against. My mind slowly becomes numb, the painful effort to do anything, no matter how small, costs much in the way of expended energy. Brushing my teeth becomes excruciating as my mind fights to force it to happen, because physically, I may as well be trying to lift a small pick-up as lift my toothbrush - I just cannot do it.

These are the days and weeks when I suck at motherhood and partnership. As I begin to wither away in spirit, focus and simple there-ness, I scream inside my mind and am furious with myself because I can't stop this from happening. My kids are a light, but too much aggravation from them, which isn't really aggravation, they are being kids, and I'm ready to curl up in a ball on my bed and cry and stare out the windows at the trees because I cannot deal with it. I will be vacant with my spouse, or hurling nasties at him because he dares to open his mouth and he will still be there, frustrated, to try and pick up the pieces of me. He will first retreat to his workshop because he needs to breathe and get the hell away from the fog enveloping the woman he lives with and loves, and really, I don't blame him. I'd want an escape plan too.

This feeling of boredom and restlessness and depression has been with me as far back as I can remember. I honestly don't know what it's like to not have it with me, and in clearer moments, I realize it has become a crutch. I've done the pyschotherapy thing, but it only lasts as long as my insurance covers it, and then I can't afford to keep going. I've done the medication thing, but I hate the way it freezes my emotions even more. I'd rather at least be able to feel the numbness than nothing-ness.

Rollercoasters ain't got nothin' on me.

Deep Thought

Tuesday morning. Cold air. Cloudy. Smells like snow.
Starbucks latte. Light foam. Sprinkle of cinnamon.

Life is good.

Sunshine & Dog Poop

There is still 5 feet of snow surrounding our house, but Spring seemed to arrive over the weekend. After such a long, tedious winter, it feels great to hear robins chirping in the morning, and feel the slight heat of the morning sun across my face as I wake up. Spring and fall are my favourite seasons in part because just when you've had enough of all that warm sunshine and blue sky good stuff (really, another beautiful day?), a cold rainstorm shows up, just when I need one.

I am one of those people who enjoy the white stuff only around Christmas. The minus 35 degrees we are subjected to on a regular basis and windchill factor signals it's time for me to hibernate because I'd rather have my feet tickled until I pee my pants than see or speak to any living thing until May.

Of course, there are two things not on my "best-of" list this time of year: Cleaning up Marla's poop which, if we'd been smart about it, would've been picked up every couple of days during the winter when it's frozen and somewhat easy to get at. Unlike now, where it's melted and squishy and oh-my-god-I'm-going-to-vomit-if-I-describe-this-any-further. You with pets understand exactly what I'm talking about!

And the other thing - our neighbour's two dogs barking constantly at us. We live in the country, but we do have neighbours nearby. We are separated by a creek, and they have a chain link fence & hedges in their backyard - but this does not deter the two dogs from yapping at us from the corner where they've created their own see-through spot as we try to enjoy our own green space. As soon as their dogs are let out, they head straight to the corner facing us and the loud, incessant evening-long serenade begins.

The dogs don't like the fence, apparently.

Apparently, our neighbours are deaf.

I may need to purchase a tranquilizer dart or two.

Boozing tonight is a necessity

Cheap, red wine and I shall be reunited in a few short hours because it's April and snow is falling.

The tribal-mother-of-all-that-is-holy-make-it-stop-dance didn't work. Neither did giving Mother Nature the finger with an enthusiastic "Up yours!", nor did sobbing uncontrollably and begging on my knees for it to end.

Drunk is the only way left to deal with it. At least then it'll look all sparkly-like and pretty.

Breathing easier

I'm not the first woman and I won't be the last to have gone through multiple tests and biopsies but I am happy to find out today that everything has turned out negatively in that regard. I'm physically healthy (I'll write about my mental health soon enough!) and that's what matters.

The worry and stress of "what if" has been taunting me for weeks and weeks. Such tiny little words to describe the waiting and wondering, the little question always in the back of my mind. What if I do have cancer? What if I get so sick that I won't be able to hug and kiss my children? What if I die before I'm ready to go?

There are so many people out there who've gone through this experience and didn't get good news that it breaks my heart a little to be able to feel so free and relieved that I'm not one of them.

I'm wondering now why I wasted so much time on a situation that was out of my control, something that was (or wasn't) already on its own path with destiny.

What if I just kicked "if's" ass instead?

Webkinz wrestling

My 10 year old boy loves to watch Friday Night Smackdown. I haven’t got even the tiniest bit of interest in wrestling, so I’m finding it difficult to muster up any sort of enthusiasm during our conversations about the Undertaker (what?) and Jon Cena (who?).

(He’s also dabbling in Webkinz…this I can wrap my brain around as they are soft, furry, cozy, cuddly teddy bears (and ponies, and dogs and kitty cats oh my) and they are very much like crack to the 6-10 year old age group.)

Twenty years ago, I didn’t enjoy being on the receiving end of moves my little brother was imitating from wrestling on T.V. and I enjoy it even less now that my son wants to do the same.

I do try to fake it with several “hmms” and “wow, really?” but sooner or later, he’s going to catch on that Mummy isn’t really paying attention because she’s thinking about all the times when her baby boy was her very own live Webkinz, soft and cuddly, and she was able to give him lots of hugs & kisses without her arm being twisted behind her back like the Samoan Bulldozer (huh?) might do.

I may end up in the hospital emergency room one day with my left elbow stuck behind my right knee – all because the “that punk” I murmur is also the code word the Undertaker uses to launch his Tombstone Piledriver.

I’m pretty sure I don’t want one of those. Webkinz-warm-and-fuzzy it ain’t.

Happy Birthday, Linus!

My hubby celebrates his 35th birthday today and could there be a better way to wake up in the morning than to have me nagging (I say gently - he would say it sounds and feels like a barbed wire fence being scraped along the inside of his skull) to get out of bed so he's not late for work?

He'll be late anyway because the garbage has to be put out, our 2-year-old must be cajoled and bribed to get dressed without launching herself off the bed, kicking and screaming simply because, because it's Tuesday and 7:00 a.m. and we dared to even think of putting pants and a sweater on her. Did someone put the dog out already?

And who the hell left the empty milk bag in the container again? Oops...this time, it was me. You didn't do it. I admit to it. Honey, this is my birthday gift to you - enjoy.