Life without Ben is so quiet. When I make dinner there is no Mario game being played in the background. When I lay on the couch to read a book there is no little body leaning into mind doing the same. In the mornings I am not saying, “Hurry up, hurry up. We’re going to be late.”
I can see why people are in a rush to meet someone new and start other families that will fill in the silence with technicolour noise.
He’s too big to easily carry. He doesn’t startle anymore when you wake him. When we leave the Haber's, he puts his boots on and sleep-walks to the car. In the morning he squints at me when he says, “Happy Birthday” on his way to the bathroom. He’s taller now and he packs his own lunch. He pushes the kitchen chair over to the cupboards to pull down the crackers. He forgets to push the chair back to the table. He debates between raspberries and strawberries. He packs pickles and sneaks one into his mouth before twisting the lid of the jar closed. He gives me a medal he picked out with Derek the night before. It has, “World’s greatest Mom” engraved on it. It is equal parts cheesy and awesome.
So this is my dad. My cancer-free but still recovering from a million and one surgeries, dad. My dad who despite everything, still goes outside and uses a pick ax to chip away 3 foot high mounds of snow & ice from the front walk. He also slips my child peppermints and ten dollar bills in front of me and then stage-whispers, “Don’t tell your mom.”
He tells dirty jokes. He has a big laugh and he giggles too. He likes spaghetti westerns and movies about the war. He likes country music and BBQ’d fish. He has calluses on his hands and helps dry the dishes after dinner. His hair used to curl and his nickname when he met my mom was Cookie.
He made it to my grade eight graduation even though he could barely stand up straight. He refused to throw a game in checkers, even when I’d get mad. He also taught me to throw a baseball, mow the lawn, and drive a car. He never managed to teach me my times tables, but he taught me to swim.
This is my dad, cancer-free.
My mom and I hate him for being so fucking photogenic.
I'm about to leave the office for the weekend (thank god, the weekend) and on the ride north to my parents' house I'll probably be listening to this non stop.
On Tuesday I was emailing with my friend Agatha. She informed me (in all caps no less) that it had been snowing in North Carolina. In an effort to buoy our spirits we started listing off all the great things we love about the summer.
I think it bears repeating.
bbq's cold beer hamburgers licking relish off your knuckles napkins that you have to hold down with your elbow live music outside movies in the park bike riding birds in the morning crickets at night bare legs freckles
sunburnt (and freckled) necks on boys of all ages boys with the sleeves of their shirts rolled up baseball driving with the windows down and the music loud drinking in the swimming pool august sunsets flip flops everyone in the world being on tour from june to september buying new sassy sunglasses
sweat on the back of your knees smell of lawns being cut
TREES WITH LEAVES ON the way people cut patterns into the outfields of baseball stadiums going to the beach and smelling like sunscreen afterwards even though you take a shower outdoor movies for three dollars raspberry lemonade and vodka
iced tea falling asleep in the sun drive ins tans lines on your feet
iced tea with JACK DANIELS pedicures sundresses impromptu picnics street festivals fried food from street festival carts (in the nc) world beerfest
midnight drives swimming after dark open windows chlorine beach towels lawn chairs steak with a side of corn on the cob village fairs strawberries and cream ice cream cones ferris wheels
Are we seriously talking about changing the words to the Canadian national anthem? Apparently it’s because “in all our sons command” excludes women. Now if you told me you wanted to change the words because you were tired of them after hearing it played 14 times during the Olympics, I could understand. But this is ridiculous. If you’re going to change ANYTHING about our national anthem consider the words “glorious and free.” When sung it sounds like glory ossen free which is too similar to Olly Olly Oxen Free and just makes me want to play tag.
In other news, right now if you were to break into my apartment you’d see that it looks like someone murdered a smurf in my bathroom sink. (Aside: Spell check does not know what to do about the word smurf) You see, Ben uses Agent Blue when he brushes his teeth and today he knocked it over. I’m of the mind that if you make a mess, you clean it up yourself. Unfortunately Ben is of the mind that if you make a mess, you just grab a towel and smear it all over the place. So like I said: Crime Scene.
And while we’re busy being random, only six days left till my birthday. To celebrate, I’m going home to visit my parents this weekend. You know what that means, right? Shitty internet connection My mom is going to make me lasagna!!! It’s my birthday dinner of choice, and god help me – my mother had better not disappoint and chosen this week to stop reading my blog.
Ben’s a little outraged that I’m going to visit Grandma & Papa without him. And by little, I mean there was actual sulking involved. Over dinner we had a discussion about who papa loves more: me or Ben. I’m not going to lie, it got a little heated.
And finally this: recently we’ve cobbled together a book club. I say cobbled because there are at least two people who aren’t huge readers and are pretty much (openly) only in it for the wine & snacks. This morning when I got to work, this email was waiting in my inbox: I went onto the KPL website to put a hold on the book for our book club ... got an email a couple of days later to say it was on the hold shelf. So, Friday I stop in to pick it up ... right away, found the other item I'd put on hold but couldn't find this one ... I looked further down the shelf & a giant tag with my name on it caught my eye. The giant tag was attached to a large canvas bag that had 10 books in it ... at this time, I thought WTF??? OMG??? I have to read all of this in the next 6 wks???
Well, I got the bag home, put it on the floor & proceeded to forget about it over the course of the weekend. Monday night, I decided to look a bit closer so I could figure out what the heck I'd gotten myself into ... turns out, I got 10 copies (yes, you read that correctly) of the same book ... I'd gotten a "Book Club Kit" that has 10 copies of the book, a duotang of ideas for book club members and the privilege of having all of this for 6 wks instead of the normal 3 wks.
Once I figured this out, I breathed a lot easier ... let me tell you ... I was extremely worried when I thought I had to read all of these books in 6 wks ... I was already "dead" to you as a result of the Janet Evanovich comment & didn't want to further disappoint you by being in distress about this book or my inability to get through it in time!
So in conclusion: national anthem if fine, tag is fun, smurfs are dead, lasagna is yum, papa loves me best, and book clubs are not for pansies.
But oh my god does he try. And try, and try and try.
Tonight he sang in the shower and I spent at least ten minutes trying to stifle the laughter. When he got out I said, "What the hell was that?"
"It's a song from a different country. Eyi Eyi Eyi-eyi-eyi-i-i"
"Dude what kind of country? Do they skin cats there? Is this a folk song in honour of all the dead cats?"
Ben stood dripping on the bathmat. "What?"
"Nevermind," I said.
When I walked out of the bathroom, it started up again. He says it's a French song, but as far as I can tell it's Arabic. And really badly out of tune.
I read this online today and laughed out loud. It's no surprise that I'd marry the author of this quote:
Scene 2: Gandhi’s Autobiography
My wife likes to read at bedtime. She brings home Gandhi’s autobiography. She reads a little bit now and then before she falls asleep.
After a while, out of curiosity, I start taking peeks at the book. Finally, I decide to read it from start to finish. She catches me at this, and becomes concerned that I will finish the book before she does. “It’s not a competition,” I tell her.
She wants to see where I’m at in the book—if my bookmark is too close to her bookmark.
She watches me while I read. She accuses me of “skimming” and “skipping pages” in order to finish the book first.
“I’d blame it on Ambien. I’d say I was sleepwalking the whole time. I’d be famous on YouTube.” One night at bedtime, she threatens to hide the book. I know how she hates to see me spend money, so I tell her I’ll go out right this minute and buy a duplicate copy, so I can read in peace. “No bookstores are open this late,” she says.
“Then I’ll break into one. I’ll smash their window, grab a copy of Gandhi’s autobiography, and leave enough money next to the cash register to cover the book and the broken window. They’ll show the surveillance video on the news…a man in his bathrobe doing a smash and grab—actually, a smash, grab, and pay. The bathrobe is up over my head, like a hoodie.”
“You never see that,” she muses. “You never see surveillance footage of people breaking into bookstores.”
“It’d be a first,” I say. “I’d blame it on Ambien. I’d say I was sleepwalking the whole time. I’d be famous on YouTube.”
We share a chuckle, but the next day, I can’t find the book.
Yesterday Ben asked his daycare provider if it was okay for him to play over at a friend’s house after school. She said yes and (I’m assuming) shoved him full bodily out the front door before he could reconsider otherwise. I fully support her decision. In fact, I’d probably fully support her decision to duct tape his lips shut some days. After all, there are mornings when he’s so chatty that by the time I shepherd us to the car, I feel like I’ve gone 10 rounds with Kelly Ripa on meth.
Honestly, though. I think I’m on to something here. If more daycares utilized duct tape as a method of discipline and crowd control, there would be less child abuse in the world. You’d just have to invest in some hypo-allergenic Goo Gone to clean up the sticky tape residue around their mouths and some possible psychotherapy for a few years down the road. I see that you're skeptical, but I’m sensing a possible business venture here.
Anyway. My point is, after work I picked Ben up at the Haber’s instead of daycare.
I’d like to pause now and congratulation myself on my excellent timing, because Nancy was just about to make dinner when I arrived.
(Obviously we stayed.)
Nancy let me chop onions with her chop-chopper (not its officially trademarked name). I also got to use the salad spinner (which I now want for my birthday (in less than 10 days for those of you counting down and/or planning to surprise me with cake and a small booze-soaked party (what?))). I also got to stir a lot of stuff and spread butter onto French bread. That’s about as fancy as Nancy would let me get even though it was Teresa who accidentally pureed the roasted red peppers. What an effin novice SHE turned out to be. (Haha)
Still, it was a good dinner despite (or perhaps because of) my limited involvement.
In other news, Ben found his backpack. You’re shocked, I know.
Ben and I went head to head on Sunday. Mostly we have a very peaceful existence. I like to think it’s because as parents we were militantly consistent with him when he was a toddler, but it’s probably more to do with his easy-going nature than anything else. In other words, as a child he is not very much like me at all.
I was very headstrong as a kid, prone to fits of temper. Him? Not so much. He is easily cowed by a stern look. I was only cowed by a stern smack to the ass. Still, there are moments when Ben digs his heels in and refuses to budge from his ill-advised opinion. Mostly this is whenever he gets it into his head that something is “too hard” to do or learn. As you can guess, it generally centers around school work or learning to tie your shoes.
Learning to tie his shoes is something that took nearly two years of cajoling and only three minutes to master once he finally got down to it. But that’s not really the point of his post.
Oh no.
You see, on Friday I picked Ben up from daycare and he was missing his backpack. “You must have forgotten it at school,” Lisa and I told him.
“No,” he insisted. “I didn’t.”
Despite trying to reason with him, he insists that he brought the backpack home. So Sunday night as I was getting his things ready for the morning, I gave him a cotton bag to carry his lunch in. “When you’re at school tomorrow make sure to look for your backpack,” I said.
Ben immediately insisted it wasn’t at school.
“Okay,” I reasoned. “I hear you. You don’t think you left it at school, but you might have – so you need to look for it while you’re there.”
Ben argued.
I argued back.
Ben shook his head and dug in.
And then I nearly exploded. Instead, I sat down and pulled him between my legs so I could easily cup his chin. “Look. I will not have this fight with you. I understand what you’re saying. You think that you didn’t leave your backpack at school. And that’s possible. But what is ALSO possible is the fact that you MIGHT have. I’m not saying you are wrong. I’m saying there is a POSSIBILITY that you are wrong, and refusing to admit that there is a POSSIBILITY you MIGHT be mistaken is rude, ignorant and unacceptable. Even when we are 99% sure we are right, there is still a tiny chance that we are wrong. Everyone makes mistakes. I make mistakes all the time. Being wrong is not a big deal. However, REFUSING to admit that you MIGHT be wrong will not fly in this house. Do you understand me?”
And then the tears came.
And I ignored them. “Now go look in the fridge for your backpack.”
Ben gave me a funny look and a timid laugh.
“What?” I said. “Every time I lose my keys I always look in the fridge. They’re never there, but I look anyway – because you never know. I might be wrong.”
I’m assuming the backpack will come home from school today, and it had better arrive with an apology.
Thursday I woke up in the middle of the night with a scratchy throat. Friday morning I sounded liked I'd been doing keggers with the Canadian womens hockey team. And by Saturday I wanted to rip my throat out of my body and fling it across the room. Oh, if only that were physically possible.
*sigh*
Nicole fed us dinner Saturday night then sent me home with a package of NeoCitran...possibly the most foul medical concoction (I can't believe I spelled that correctly on the first go (I'm not going to lie. I wanted to put a k in it)) since Buckley's. Still, it seemed to help some. So today I while I was grocery shopping I picked up a ton of fresh lemons. Then I sliced them, boiled them in a pot of water, and mixed in some buckwheat honey. Don't ask me why buckwheat honey because I don't know. I've never bought buckwheat honey in my life...it just sounded more.... medicinal. For kicks, I dissolved some tylenol into it.
I'm possibly as high as a kite right now, but damn that lemon-drink tastes a million times better than NeoCitran.
Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to re-watch Generation Kill and I refuse to be judged for it.
This morning I reenacted that cartoon you sometimes see in the funnies. You know the one where the guy or girl in the trench coat is walking against the wind head down, struggling, and getting shoved three steps backwards for every one they manage to take forwards? Yeah that was me.
When I finally made it to the door, I literally had to wrench it open with both hands. And even then, I had to wedge a foot into the gap to stop it from slamming shut on me.
So a big, hearty thank you to the engineers who created the Hurricane Alley outside my office building. Your engineering genius has created a breeding ground for mini tornadoes, turning even the slightest breeze into a full force gail wind whenever it curls around the building and down the hill.
In 1987 my parents sent me to bed during the finals of the Canada Cup. As a huge Edmonton Oiler fan (and honestly, back then who wasn’t?) I was devastated and begged to stay up past my bedtime. My parents were just as inflexible with me as I sometimes am with Ben, and I was sent to bed.
On the other hand, they’re equally soft too. When the game went into overtime, my dad came into my bedroom and woke me up. “Hey Shel,” he’d said. “Do you want to see the overtime?”
Obviously I did. I bolted out of bed and then sat on the end of our living room couch screaming at the TV with my parents. It was one of those memories that has stuck with me for years. I thought about it again last night when I let Ben stay up late. I watched him fighting to stay awake and then eventually doze off on the couch. During the last two minutes of the third I wiggled his foot.
“Hey Ben,” I said. “Wake up. Canada’s about to win.”
As usual, I blame Amy. See, I haven’t been posting because I’m lazy I’ve spent the last week rolling around in the awesomeness commonly known as Generation Kill.
It began innocently enough. Amy would occasionally email me little comments about this HBO series she was watching and I’d be all: very cute, now let’s talk about me. Then one night when I was drunk on lack of sleep, I phoned her in a mild panic over the unmentionable state of my martial union. She had the good sense to distract me with chatter about Generation Kill.
(Can you say Hello Rabbit Hole?)
Two days later I bought the HBO series on DVD. Five days after that I bought the book. And now I pretty much want to be a US Marine. Well, without all the killing and getting shot at. Or the sleeping on the ground. Or the lack of showers. Or the gag-worthy MREs because let’s face it, I am never going to give up M&Ms even if it means liberating the entire world from every last dictator. And don’t even look at me like that. Everyone has their limits, so what if chocolate coated candies are mine?
But yeah, outside all that I am totally badass. HooRah.
Okay, maybe not. We all know I’d get whiny filling out all the entry paperwork because SERIOUSLY. They never give you enough space to fit your postal code. Plus I’m not even American so there goes THAT dream.
But honestly, I loved this book & mini-series so much that I’m trying to find ways to force random strangers to watch it. In other words, Dear Everyone: Please watch Generation Kill so we can have a conversation about how incompetent Captain America was in the field. You go ahead. I’ll wait here.
I think our (or at the very least, mine) experience with the Iraq war began and ended with watching CNN coverage and Geraldo Rivera. (Trust me, I’m not proud) To read about the 2003 invasion from the ground as the marines experienced it, was fascinating. I especially loved seeing the psychological posturing that goes into forming a functioning (or nonfunctioning, as the case might have it) battalion.
In other news, the Habers are all sick with the plague. Last night Ben and I left karate only to get a text message from Derek. He was looking for someone to make a Gatorade run for them seeing they were all hugging any available toilet bowl and flirting with dehydration. Ben thought that Derek’s messages were hysterical. We were told to leave the Gatorade inside the front door. But only if we held our breath and didn’t actually enter the fortress of germs. Ninja rolls were optional.
Oh! And there was cop-related drama at my parents house this past weekend. Some fellow decided that it would be advantageous to toss his wife from their moving car after cracking her in the head a few times with his pimp hand. Nice, right? Anyway, Ben had been flirting with the idea of wanting to be a police officer (thanks to the husband of his daycare provider) but afterwards announced that perhaps being a police officer was too dangerous.
I’m refraining from suggesting he joining the Marines for obvious reasons.
(Ben couldn’t live without M&Ms either)
Last of all, this video makes the entire world a much brighter place. Rough, working-class men sing-shouting love songs for the win.
Earlier, Ben's daycare provider and I were talking about how much the kids have grown lately and how (in Ben's awkward case in particular) they're really developing their sense of humor.
Tonight, Ben managed to underscore this point during dinner. We were sitting at the table finishing up the last of our stew and garlic bread mostly talking about our mutual days. I told Ben I'd had a crummy day. He told me about how awesome his was. Then somehow, out of the blue, Ben pointed his hands and me pistol-style and made a click-click noise.
"What was that for?" I asked, confused.
Ben shrugged his shoulders. "That's just what you say to hot girls."
I started laughing. "Hot girls?"
"Yup," he nodded. "Hot girls."
"Huh," I replied. I sat there watching him laughing at himself. "I think you might need to hone your moves there, buster."
Ben and I spent the last week talking about bridges. First we went online and read about them together. Afterwards we drove to the Waterloo University and looked at the foot bridge that crosses over University Avenue.
Needless to say, we were somewhat inspired to build a kick ass bridge. Instead, we built something of questionable stability and used a lot of hot glue. As you can well imagine, the pads of my fingers are all burnt off. I suppose now is the best time to rob a bank seeing its doubtful that I have any finger prints left.
Today Ben came home with another school project. This time we need to build a foot bridge using the concepts he's learning in geometry. While Ben spent all of dinner chattering about trusses and beams, all I could think was: Dear God, I'm probably going to need a skin graft by the time we finish this.
Once upon a time Carolyn and I would talk multiple times a day. Now it seems like we only have time for a few errant emails and the occasional lunch. It's tragic actually.
Still, she loves me enough to send emails with photos like this one attached. It should be known that the jpg attachment was saved as "creepy harper" and frankly, I couldn't agree more.
Too stuffed to properly post a recap of today's events. In short, a lot of food consumed, and there was an adults-only colouring contest which Nicole won (by cheating, see below). Oh. And we kicked all the kids outside for some back yard skating.
This morning I drove you to Brantford for your first karate tournament. When we got to the college, you admitted you were nervous. "That's normal," I said, parking the car. "You just need to find a way to relax yourself."
Inside you sat beside me on the bleachers checking it all out. When you finally worked up the nerve to get onto the floor, you didn't look back. You practiced your kata a few times and when the convener called everyone to the front of the gym, you ran easily with the crowd.
While I sat watching you, I listened to a woman behind me. She was complaining to her dad about everything going on around us; the kids who were practice sparring without equipment, the parents cutting across the tournament floor, the people who didn't sing the national anthem, her ex-husband who fed the kids donuts at 10am. She didn't have a positive thing to say about anything.
When her daughter asked when her dad would be there, she said, "Never ask me that question again because I never know the answer!"
I don't know why she's so bitter, maybe she doesn't even know. Lots of people get worn down and angry at life, and over time they let it change them. I'm telling you this because I want you to know something important. The world will kick you in the ass and when it does, know this: we choose who we are.
Even in divorce.
It took me awhile to let go of my anger and resentment, and some days it's still a work in progress. Still, I hope I never speak to you the way that woman snapped at her daughter. I hope you never think you need to hide how you feel about your dad from me.
The very best parts of him are in you and I want you to grow up loving all of who you are. I want you to figure out what you will and will not stand for on your own. And most of all, I want you to know that I love everything about you.
I love the quirky curve of your smile because it reflects the person I believed your dad to be when I met him. I don't want you to ever doubt that. I loved him once and from that, came you.
I wish I could have told that woman behind me to save her fight for something worthwhile. And so I'm telling you. Choose who you're going to be, and choose wisely.
Nicole (not pictured above (or below for that matter)) and I have been friends since I was 14. In many ways we're not even close to the people who first met in grade nine French class. But nothing significant has changed either. We're both opinionated, logical and articulate. We both know our own minds and neither of us is easily led. She's a Christian and I'm confused. I could happily spend a month not talking to a soul and she's a social butterfly. I'm horribly unorganized and she ....well, she coordinates our girls weekends away for one. Frankly they should give awards for that because getting 6-8 women on one page is like herding cats.
Still, there isn't much I haven't shared with her over the years and she's been there through some of my best and worst moments. A few times people have asked if we're sisters. Obviously the answer to that is no, but she might as well be. I am completely at ease anytime we're together and when she invites you into her home she might as well invite you into her heart.
All this, and she has fabulous taste in pewter decanters.
I'm off work this week because my daycare provider is galavanting on a sand beach somewhere with her husband. But I'm not bitter or anything. My plan (initially) was to take Ben to school every morning and then sit down and get back into writing. That cackling sound you hear? Yeah, that's my plan laughing at me.
So far I've had a visit with Tiffany and her children. Daniel is the cutest little 2 month old and I got to hold him for three straight hours. Then Carmella conned me into putting together a princess puzzle and playing a game (or three) of Go Fish. For the record? Carmella is cute AND she cheats at cards.
Then yesterday I was: Okay, no seriously. Today I'm going to write. Instead I went and got my hair cut. It's super cute. You should just focus on that while I tell you that I got lost on my way to the stylist's. Again. Normally I can sort it out but these time I actually had to phone Nancy for directions. Nancy laughed at me a lot but she did manage to get me there. Goddamn you Wellsley and your Bermuda Triangle properties!
Then today, I was all: Okay this time FOR REAL I'm going to sit down and write something. But instead I ended up grocery shopping for baking supplies because my friend Jenn (and I use that term VERY loosely) somehow suckered me into baking cupcakes for some event thingy she's hosting for wannabe Urban Planners...which I think is different from Urban Outfitters.
Anyway, Jenn redeemed herself by linking me to this article which highlights the housing crisis in Detroit. For reasons I can't even explain, Detroit is one of my favourite cities...you know, near death experience aside.
In other news, tonight I'm honestly going to write because I have plans tomorrow with Nicole and if I don't hit my minimums then I'm not allowed to go out and play.
Seriously IKEA? Aren't you taking things a little too far? Personally I think reserved parking spots for pregnant women/people with small infants is ridiculous. Sure, lugging babies and their gear around is a gigantic pain in the ass but it hardly qualifies as disability. Now we're providing reserved parking for hybrids? That's going beyond stupid and then some.
Nicole's husband started framing the ice rink in their backyard in October. Then they waited for the snow. And waited, and waited. Once the snow came, they spent weeks outside flooding it night after night.
For a while there I might have laughed at Jeff's homemade Zamboni, but tonight I take it all back. Because frankly? That rink is amazing. It's hands down the largest backyard rink I've ever seen in my life and the kids went crazy playing on it.
I've never bothered with using photoshop before because I always assumed it would be way over my head. Last night I downloaded a trial version of Lightroom and it turns out I was right. Still, I'm relatively smart and I managed to tweak this photo a little. This probably calls for a large bottle of wine a few online tutorials.
MINT TEA IS THE BEST THING EVER. HOLY CRAP, HOW COME NONE OF YOU TOLD ME?!?
I’ve been Starbucks-free for over a month now. RIP Starbucks. I’m sorry if my radical departure triggers any massive layoffs within your corporate infrastructure but frankly if it does then that’s just poor fiscal planning on your part so shame on you for trying to guilt trip me otherwise. You’re like the bad boyfriend who beats you and then says, sorry baby I wouldn’t hit you if you didn’t make me so mad. Here’s a 6.00 coffee lets go have sex and I’ll let you give me a blow job.
(Seriously. I’m not sure why you even read this blog. Half the time it doesn’t even make sense.) (Also: Sorry Mom.) (Another funny fact: in the next few days, someone is going to Google Starbucks and blow jobs and land here. Poor bastards) (I’m still sorry Mom)
ANYWAY.
In the wake of our breakup I’ve been looking to find something that fills the 1100 calorie gap. The obvious choice was water. It fit the main two criteria of my one-person focus group: FREE and NOT LOADED WITH ENOUGH CALORIES TO FELL AN ELEPAHNT.
So far I’ve been drinking a lot of water which is fine but somewhat less refined when you’re schlepping an 18 gallon jug of it from meeting to meeting. I know, I know. Carrying a coffee doesn’t make you a professional…but it makes you FEEL like one. Confession: the only thing missing from my corporate fantasy (that I can post here without getting weird looks and/or fired) is a cap to fling into the air Mary Tyler Moore style. But I digress.
In a fit of Missing Tiffany desperation (hi Tiffany, I miss you) I left my desk in search of something to sip on while freezing my ass off under the air vent above my desk. That’s when I stumbled upon the miracle of miracles.
MINT MEDLEY TEA.
It’s a brilliant blend of spearmint and peppermint and frankly? It’s divine, Jesus even said so. Well. I don’t know for a FACT that he said so, but if he had some over dinner, I’m sure he would have.
The other day Ben tore the knee out of another pair of jeans; the hazards of having children, I suppose. I shot this photo while he was reading on the couch (in my spot, no less). Somehow (and I can't exactly say why) the idea of documenting his jeans seemed just as important as the letters I write to him.
Afterwards, when I was downloading it onto my computer, I thought about all the jeans my mother patched together and then called play clothes. Then I thought about how radically different my childhood is from his. The summer I was eight I started biking alone into town to go swimming. Just this week Ben made his first solo walk to a friends house.
Some people would argue it's a different world now. I'm not entirely sure that's the case. Part of me thinks we've just grown overly cautious, afraid of our own shadows. Still his walk alone gave me butterflies and I thought about all the things that could have went wrong.
I wonder, is this what's in store for me in another eight years? A thin skin of panic sitting in the back of my throat while he takes his first solo trip with the car?
Lately Ben has developed this habit of calling me “my lady” which is a step up from calling me “woman.” Usually “my lady” is said with an accompanying bow with one hand swept aside so that I may pass him by in the royal fashion generally accorded me. This is somewhat tolerable at home, less so at the super market.
Secondly, he’s picked up this habit of repeating things he finds funny. As you can guess, mostly he repeats himself because in his own mind, he’s hysterical.
An Example From This Morning’s Drop Off:
Me: Whoops, we forgot your spelling. I guess you’re off the hook today. Ben: Sweet.
Ben, turning to Lisa: Haha. I said, sweet
He does this all the time and I usually feel like saying something snide because quoting yourself two point five seconds after you’ve just said something is fucking annoying. But! I’m a grown up so I don’t. I get that this is how kids hone their sense of humor and comedic timing. Much like toddlers will repeat tricks after they’ve gotten a belly laugh out of their parents.
The other night Ben and I went to the grocery store before dinner. On the way home he suddenly blurted out, “I don’t know why I’m thinking this, but some day when Papa dies I get to have his ring.”
“Oh?” I asked.
“Yeah,” Ben confirmed. “He said I could.”
“Wow. So how does that make you feel?”
“A little bit happy and a little bit sad.”
“Ah, sad because that would mean Papa isn’t alive anymore and happy because you’d have something to remember him by?”
“Yeah.”
Ben thought about it for a few minutes, then conversationally added, “Who do you think will die first, grandma or papa?”
“Tough call. You never know how long anyone is going to live.”
“Is papa still sick?”
“No. Papa’s much better now. He has one more surgery and then that’s it. Home-free.”
“That’s good. I don’t want him to die.”
“Me neither. It would make me very sad, but everybody dies eventually. If they didn’t there wouldn’t be any room on the earth for new babies.”
“Well I don’t want papa to ever die so no new babies allowed.”
Ben is a hardcore gamer and sometimes I worry that it’s a little out of control. But then I step back and see that he’s also a hardcore reader. Somehow it all seems to balance out.
I'm sitting in the corner spot on the couch and the dog is curled up at my feet. I'm listening to Joe Purdy sing, and the rain coming down outside. It's a melancholy mix but I'm feeling happy because in a few hours you'll be buckled into the backseat of our car and we'll be on our way home.
I'll ask you about your weekend, and you'll ask me about mine. When you get home we'll start dinner and my two week long stint as a single parent will rev up again. Before bed we'll read together and once you're alseep I'll pack your lunch for Monday.
It's a boring life at times, but when you launch yourself at me with your arms out and your heart wide open, it is the best life I could imagine.
I'm breaking my own rule and posting a photo of me on the internet. On the upside, its grainy and slightly out of focus which smooths out all my wrinkles. (Thank you mid thirties) As usual, I forgot to check my white balance. Apparently: I WILL NEVER LEARN.
BUT! I had to post it because frankly, the hilarious awesomeness of Ben's head cannot be denied. This is me wearing my eight year olds sparring helmet. I swear to god, this kid is a walking bobble head doll.
I’m learning, as I get older, that things don’t begin or end - they just evolve. It was drilled home the other night when we had a conversation while I was doing the dishes and you were finishing up the last of your dinner.
“Sometimes I still feel sad that you and daddy split up.”
“Yeah? That’s okay. Sometimes I feel sad about it too.”
“But you said you didn’t feel sad about it anymore!”
“Well, I do and I don’t. I don’t miss daddy the way I used to when he first left, so in that sense it doesn’t make me sad anymore. But I do sometimes feel sad that your family isn’t together the way I wanted it to be before you were born. Sometimes I feel sad that you aren’t growing up the way I grew up with your grandma and papa. That’s what I meant. But it’s okay. You roll with it.”
I ask you to roll with a lot of things. I guess I’m lucky, because you do.
You finished your dinner and that was sort of the end of it. But I thought about it for a long while afterwards. We always think our lives begin when we’re born and that they’ll end when we die, but I’m not sure it’s as simple as that.
I think in a way we exist long before we actually arrive here. We’re a list of baby names and expectations. And when we die, we become the players in stories that get told over family get-togethers. And so in a way, we evolve into this life long before we’re ever born into it. And maybe family and marriages are the same sort of evolution. I guess to that end, divorce is too.
For awhile it’s this consuming drama that seeps its way into every waking thought you have and then eventually, it’s just an anecdote over dishes. An acknowledgement of what it was before it became what it is.
I’m not sure how they do it but the college I (finally) graduated from always manages to track down my email address – even though it’s changed at least two times. I know for a fact I’ve never signed up for any newsletter, but there it is in my inbox nonetheless:
An invitation to some Alumni event that celebrates the day all my student loans came due I graduated.
Like the tagline says, I’ve been off the junk for 27 days. That’s 270 dollars saved. Or (somewhat more importantly) 29,700 calories. Shocking, isn’t it?
The other day Derek and I were talking about it, because at least once a week I really badly want to stop and order up my old usual. Derek says I can’t because I’m like an alcoholic. One taste of that Triple Espresso Venti White Mocha and I’m off the wagon and back down in the gutter with the other mermaid junkies.
“I could have just one!” I argued. “I totally could! Like on the weekend or something...as a special treat.”
“No,” Derek said. “You only think you could stop at one. One taste and you’d be right back to your old habits.”
I’d just like to point out that it sucks to have shitty friends who refuse to enable you.
Carolyn is a brave woman. Today she hosted a trampoline party for 22 children and lived to tell. Personally, I've never been happier for my deafness. It's probably the only reason I didn't climb across a table and throttle the child who communicated by barking like a dog. No seriously.
On Friday Derek and I talked about how I have a self-deprecating sense of humor. When I screw something up, I'm quick to say I'm an idiot and laugh about it. I ruthlessly make fun of my kitchen skills. But the fact is, I'm actually quite intelligent and I'm more than adequate in the kitchen. I even have the pumpkin chocolate chip bars to prove it, so there.
When I first moved into my apartment I hated the train. I was bitter about my circumstances and I’d give it the finger every time it roared past. Then one late afternoon, I was sitting outside while on the phone with my dad. We paused our conversation while the train when by.
“Fucking train,” I grumbled.
My dad at that time was just about to begin chemotherapy. In his simple, no bullshit way, he told me to get my head out of my ass and appreciate it for what it was: an honest life. Security, he told me, doesn’t come from living in a large house on the other side of the tracks. “Better to live where you are with the truth,” he said, “then to live over there with a pack of lies.”
And he was right, even if it took me a long time to finally make peace with it.
While I don’t love the train the way I used to, I don’t hate it anymore either. I don’t lift my middle finger and face it to the wall whenever it passes. I do however, look out my bedroom window every morning and see this. It’s not pretty, but it’s honest and I have my dad to thank for the revelation.
Severe case of January Blues. Not to be confused with February Funk or March Madness. FYI: Last minute flight, round trip & taxes in to the UK is currently 550.00 CDN. Be still my credit card.
Can we spend a minute talking about how I’d forgotten just much I love minces aux légumes?
My college experience was typical in the sense that it involved too much Jell-O and alcohol and too little sleep. Where it differs from Animal House is that none of us were running around having water fights in our underwear although Dave and I did soak the floor doing the dishes a few times. Anyway, my point is: minces aux légumes are awesome!
For some reason we got hooked on eating vegetable thins – sometimes as a snack and sometimes as an entire meal replacement. And for another equally random reason, we always referred to them in French.
Today I’m snacking on them with slices of cheese and I could not be happier. The lord truly blessed us the day these crackers were invented.
One Photo, Three Hundred Sixty Six Words is a year-long project cleverly designed to bore you to death and drive me crazy.
The premise is this: I take one photo for every day of the year and then write three hundred sixty six words about it. One word, for each day. 366 days = leap year.
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
.jpg)
-2.jpg)
-3.jpg)
.jpg)
Posts
