Halfway To Happy

Single And Fabulous?

2011-11-14T08:09:00.000-08:00

A few weeks ago I was approached by a woman I’d never met. She told me she reads my column, and she wanted to tell me her boyfriend has left her,
‘For someone younger, of course. Like that isn’t the biggest cliché in the book.’ I made sympathetic noises, not sure what to say in return. While I awkwardly stirred the froth in my coffee she added, ‘I figure what the hell? I’ll take a page out of Jennifer McGuire’s book. I don’t need a man to be happy – I can do it on my own.’
I say again, I’ve never met this woman before in my life. Which, in her opinion, was neither here nor there.
She waited for me to say something, to offer her some sort of advice. To tell her that yes, my life is pretty terrific and yes, I am much happier without a man. Which is true, most days. But do you know what is more true?
There are still moments - like when I am crying in frustration about some bill or a broken whatever or the futility of ever planning a family vacation – when I am genuinely surprised there is no one there to make it easier for me. No one is stepping in and saying, OK, clearly you’ve had enough today. Let me take the reins.’
So I suppose my advice would be this; don’t mistake positivity for a perfect life. Sometimes a big smile is just a front. And I think that’s probably okay.
This has been happening a lot with me lately. I’ve gotten some beautifully written emails from women who feel connected to me through our shared experiences. One woman actually wrote to tell me she loved my book so much she finally decided to leave her husband. I think she was kidding. I hope she was kidding. I also hope her husband is not a vindictive man driving the streets of Owen Sound at night with my address clenched in his sweaty hands. Either way, my publisher and I are hard at work on a new disclaimer for the back of my book (you know, something like WARNING: Contents may make your marriage seem worse than it really is. If you experience a loss of sexual appetite or an increase in eye-rolling when your husband calls out ‘Have you seen my keys? I know I put them here...did you move my keys?’ PLEASE step away from the book for no less than forty-eight hours. However, if symptoms occur, pleases consult your nearest divorce lawyer and/or mediator depending how messy you feel things may get.
Despite the emails from moms on the brink who seem to trust me or the girls on the street who want to talk, I have fought the ‘single mother’ tag. Despite it being exactly who I am, all the time. I didn’t want to become a one-horse pony show, you know? Like how Kevin Costner could never really play anything other than a slightly funny, well-spoken accidental hero with an American accent. Even when he was playing Robin Hood. I wanted to try my hand at other roles. Matchmaker (more on THAT later), teacher. Butcher, baker, candlestick maker. I wanted to shrug out of that coat and try on something a bit lighter, like maybe a movie critic. Challenge myself. Being the boys’ mom, it’s what I know. It feels as warm and comfortable as a well worn pair of slippers at this point. We’re a team, the five of us. And not to get all gross and mushy here, but they’re it for me. The loves of my life. So why the hell do I fight my role so hard? I don’t think I want to fight it anymore.
Because there are a whole bunch of women out there exactly like me. Reinventing who they thought they’d be as women and moms. Trying to figure out how to change the stupid bathroom light bulbs (we’re down to one right now, and there is just no way I am finding replacements anywhere, they’re very weird looking) and trying to do right by their kids.
So maybe I’m not Kevin Costner. Maybe I’m more like Harrison Ford. See, he could have gone on trying to reinvent how people saw him too. Anyone remember Regarding Henry (DON’T see it)? He tried on other roles and no one wanted to see it. Instead, he embraced his role as accidental, affable hero. Made a long career out of it, in fact. He realized something – there is comfort to be found in sameness, in knowing what to expect. And there is even greater comfort in finally letting yourself be...well, yourself.
That being said, I do still plan to keep you on your toes every once in awhile. Next week – elective hysterectomies, love ‘em or hate ‘em?

Good Riddance To Bad Rubbish

2011-11-07T08:00:00.001-08:00

It's really tough to figure out when someone is stalking you. All morning, my friend and I have been on the phone. Talking about good stuff like her french onion soup recipe that turned out great, some boys we remember from back when we were girls. New jeans she got for $2 at the Goodwill that make her legs look super long. And then she gets a text from an ex. Another text from this ex.

The two of them broke it off months ago - in fact, he was the one who broke things off before he realized she was an excellent catch. She's moved on as people do. And he just won't let it go. At first it was just sending her texts every day, stupid poems about how much he missed her and telling her to 'touch the ocean and feel my heart beating beside you.' Which just goes to show he wasn't much of a loss. Sidenote : I never liked this dude. First of all, he was too old for her. He said he was 50 years old but I'd like a gander at that birth certificate. He looked like the guy in the painting in Ghostbusters 2, Viggo,the one who wants to take over the world. Also he was a bad guy in Die Hard. But I digress.

He wasn't just physically too old, but emotionally. While also managing to be simultaneously too immature for her. He could never keep a job, was a terrible father to his grown-up kids.
I remember once he told me 'If my kids don't side with me in the divorce (Oh, he also wasn't divorced yet) I'll be like a ghost, I'll be gone. I'm using these kids in the divorce to get what I want.' Which is perfect, since that's exactly what all the experts recommend, right?

Anyhow, he was texting her all the time and we all said Ignore it. It's no big deal. But then he started calling her sisters. In fact, once he even parked outside her sister's apartment overnight, chain smoking and watching the door. That was creepy. My friend called him to say Get a hold of yourself and his response? 'Hi Baby, how are you. I miss you...' Jesus.

Then he started calling her very pregnant sister at her office, pumping her for information and upsetting her. The texts kept coming, except this time her new fiancee started getting them on his cell too. She threatened to call the police. The texts kept coming. We thought I should maybe go over there with a baseball bat and rough him up a little, but figured he would just love the attention. So she just kept ignoring him. Ignore, ignore, ignore...

Until today. Because c'mon, enough is enough. I told her to call the police. She hesitated. It's just texts, what are they really going to do? Does she want him getting in trouble with the law over something so small? Except is it that small? Is it? She said to me 'Do I really need to call the cops because someone is texting me too much?' and isn't that just so convenient for him, the way we can minimize it. Our problem is, we laugh everything off. When he was stalking her sister, we laughed about it. When he called her boyfriend, we laughed. On account of how ridiculous he looked. We laughed like we did in high school. Except it isn't high school. We have families now, she has a daughter and a fiancee and a new life she's trying to build in another province. She's trying to open the next door and walk on through but he has this firm grip on her wrist, keeping her between the two doors and she can't get away. She's having nightmares, panic attacks. She's never free of him. And it's not that funny. It's scary.

I wish I could be there when the police go to his door - and by the way for any of you going through the same thing, ten minutes of phone calls to the police and there you have it. You've got official back up. I hope they scare the shit out of him. I hope he slinks back to his parents' house with his tail between his legs and never calls her again. So we don't have to talk about him anymore.

The Mirror Has Three Faces

2011-11-04T17:22:00.000-07:00

(You know how people like to share the good news about cheap gas? Like how just the other day it was on for 116.2 at Zehrs? Well, I just found another good mirror. Sportchek - I just spotted myself in an accidental mirror, make-up free and I didn't scream. Go on and get yourself an ego boost.)

There is simply no such thing as an absolute mirror. A mirror you can trust to reflect you back to you. You can go from one mirror to the next and the next and look like a completely different person at each one.
Far be it for me to insinuate that there could possibly be a mirror conspiracy. No, no not at all. It’s not as though I believe faulty mirrors were invented by the same diabolical masterminds that brought us fat free cream cheese and Angelina Jolie’s lips. It could very well be several different diabolical masterminds, determined to make us feel atrocious and therefore sell us whichever Thigh Masters, lotions and lip-plumping lip gloss they are selling. Although...okay, maybe not the Thigh Master. Chrissy from Three’s Company invented that one and I don’t think she’s in danger of being called a diabolical mastermind.
I’m assuming it’s something to do with the glass. Or the way it’s treated or something. I don’t know why all the mirrors of the world are different but I do know this – I have three mirrors in my house within ten steps of each other. A vintage mirror in my bedroom, mirrored closet doors beside my bed and a bathroom mirror. I wake up in the morning, roll over to face the mirrored closet doors and see a hag lying in my bed. A hag wearing the pyjamas I wore last night. Her hair stands up on end, her face is rumpled and old from sleep, and she has a decidedly fleshy arm the size of a normal person’s thingh sticking out from under my covers. We glare at each other and climb out of bed. Then I turn to see myself in my vintage mirror. Here I see a faded, sepia-tinged reflection. Like a lost woman from the nineteenth century or a plain-faced ghost. I always feel a little sad when I see this reflection, and wonder if I said ‘Bloody Mary’ into the mirror five times this version of me would climb out of the mirror, fingers curling around the frame, to hack up my whole family.
Then I head into the washroom for my morning ablutions and voila! I have managed to lose fifteen pounds in ten steps, my normally sallow skin has a healthy glow and my face is practically line-free. But you know what? This super-flattering mirror (exclaimed over by many a friend in need of a pick-me-up) is the one I never trust. Surely that is not how I look. That is not how I feel, so no way right?
Sometimes I head out shopping to find myself a neutral mirror and Oh Boy, is this ever a bad idea. Certain mirrors are rough – Sears has terrible lighting, Reitman’s mirrors seem a little condescending and Le Chateau....I’ve been snubbed by the Le Chateau staff too many times to even try their mirrors again. Shame though. Cute shoes in there.
The worst, as any girl can tell you, are accidental mirrors. You know what I mean – when you don’t realize there is a mirror to your left and you glance over to catch a glimpse of yourself before you even have a chance to suck in your stomach or tilt your head fetchingly or anything. These are probably the most honest mirrors out there – but does anyone ever need this much honesty?
Which means we never really know how we look, not really. Pictures are the same as faulty mirrors. Your friends love you so it’s not like they are going to say, ‘Oh my God Jen – do something about your face! You look so washed out!’ My son Nathan is pretty good at telling me when I look bad (once when I wore too much make-up he told me I looked like Queen Amidala from Star Wars. If you don’t know who she is, look her up. Ouch), but he’s never in any rush to tell me I look good. Which means, I suppose, that I’m going to fumble around in the dark forever, never knowing how I really look.
The good news is, though – so are you. We’re in it together.

In A Nutshell...

2011-10-31T10:43:00.000-07:00

(Note - after a brief hiatus (okay, it's been almost 2 years) wherein I attempted to work like a regular person and realized it simply wasn't in the cards, I have returned to my blog. I realize it will take some time for anyone other than my mom to come across said blog, but just in case I'm going to roll out the good stuff.)

For awhile I was a matchmaker. Throwing dinner parties in my living room with mini crandberry brie sliders and awkward, not-remotely-sexual-tension choking the local singles to death in their turtlenecks. Best moment - when a baby mouse came wandering out of my son's room and a disgruntled single in his fifties said 'Hey, you know you've got mice in here, don't you?' I, in fact, was not aware. I would like to say it was MOUSE (singular) not MICE (plural) and that man was never going to find a girl anyhow. Too picky.

Also, I was a baker for the local bookstore and was this ever a great gig. My favourite moment was when I arrived with a big Dollar Store container full of caramel shortbread and two Blake Carrington-types met me at my car to take tem off my hands, so addicted were they. That day I thought for a second that I could maybe pull off a Mrs Field's and have a cookie conglomerate. Watched DC Cupcakes religiously for hints and, apart from pink rubber boots being just about the cutest thing ever, came up with nothing.

I've been a receptionist in a doctor's office and learned that people in general emit a different odour in a waiting room than anywhere else on the planet. Also, if you put six eighty year olds in the same room they can look anywhere from fifty five to one hundred and five. And when you ask the young looking ones 'What's your secret?' they smile secretively and share nothing.

I've done some time as a sommelier, which just means I can memorize things like 'spicy overtones' and 'about a one on the sweetness scale' and 'this is a hardy, cold-weather hybrid grape from Wisconsin.' Amazingly people believe me, even the Movers and Shakers. When I say to them 'Do you taste the wet earth and bath salts? That's a good sign for a bold red.' They lick their lips and say 'Mmm, yes. This is lovely, very bold. I'll take a case.' The power.

For the last two years I've tried to get away from writing not because it makes me unhappy, but because well - it's gotten more important to me to make it. To stop being a screw up and start providing for my kids, even if a 9-5 job feels like hard time in solitary confinement. I need to do well, to give my kids an okay life. To be a grown-up, so just in case my oldest son gets to college next year and finds himself $100 short he can call me and say, 'Mom, I need some money.' and I can have it for him just like that. Instead of saying 'Tell me about it. I'm $400 short. Good luck.' Full time writers are full time down on their luck.

But here I am, back at it. Because matchmaking was hard, harder than the Millionaire Matchmaker makes it look. Nobody wanted to pay, the women had absolute must-have checklists as long as their legs and the men wouldn't show up for even a cup of coffee just in case something better came along. Plus, if you give people blunt advice about their love lives in real life, they call you a bitch and storm off.

The baking turned out to be tougher than I thought. Turns out you don't make any money if you use real butter. One batch with accidentally purchased organic butter (at $9 a pound) and I was out of the baking game. Besides, it was making me hate baking.

The doctor's office...well. I can't say much just in case, but did you know doctors don't do anything - ANYTHING - for themselves? Like, they don't even like to cut their own fingernails? C'mon.

It turns out, for better or worse, I am meant to be here. Sitting in my yellow chair by the fire with my feet up and the sun on my back, drinking up the last sweet bits of tea in my cup, sending bits of me out to the great big void and hoping, hoping. Someone will hear me...

Girl Crush

2010-01-18T10:07:00.000-08:00

Everybody nowadays seems to talk about girl crushes. Or man crushes. Like, my sons probably have man crushes...not that there’s anything wrong with that. And me?

Well, last night I watched The Golden Globe Awards. They were pretty much just boring – Ricky Gervais was the host and he’s gotten to be a one horse pony show. All of his jokes are about him being short and fat (um...we’re not blind. We get it) or how he gave Steve Carrell his start. Newsflash – just because you’re British doesn’t make you funny. Enough with Ricky Gervais already...he’s not funny, he’s self-promotional in a sort of boring, nauseating way and he’s just plain uncomfortable to watch.

Anyhow – where was I? Oh yeah – the awards show. I realized last night that I do actually have a girl crush or two. Like Sophia Loren – I have a girl crush on her. I want to be her. Did you ever see ‘Houseboat’? With her and Cary Grant? Man, she was just awesome. Her clothes were the best, and she had this kicky little short haircut that you just never see anymore. My favourite scene is when she comes out wearing this fabulous silver dress that looks like it’s been painted on and Cary Grant just stands there thunder struck.

She still looks phenomenal. Sure, sure she’s obviously had ridiculous amounts of plastic surgery and she applied her rosy blush with a paint roller but still. She’s Sophia Loren. She says things like ‘Beauty is 50% what you’ve got and 50% what you think you’ve got.’ I just love her.
I used to have a girl crush on Jennifer Aniston. I wanted her to be my best friend. When Brad left her for Angelina I took it really personally...maybe because we all secretly fear that there is an Angelina out there lurking in the bushes waiting too ambush our men. Someone with a frank, knowing stare that we all take to mean she really knows what she’s doing in the bedroom and full pouty lips. How can a good colourist and strong biceps compete with that? Jennifer never stood a chance.

There’s something about Jennifer Aniston these days though – I’m thinking of dumping her. She seems like a creep. I don’t even know why. Maybe our chemistry is just off.

I hope I’m understanding the whole girl crush thing. I mean, I don’t want to do it with them or anything. I just think we could go shopping together and have lunch. Plus I like to see what they’re wearing...they’re like my life-sized Barbies.

Like Scarlett Johannsen. I love to see what she’s wearing on account of she has boobs and so do I. So I check out her clothes to see what I could look like if I had money/youth/taste/severe weight-loss on my side.

Also I have a girl crush on Susan Sarandon. Because of her wrinkles. And her all-around cool. Ditto Sarah Jessica Parker. Like maybe if we hung out I could look like the young one. The chubby one, sure, but the young one. That might be nice.

If we had a girl’s day, Sophia could teach me how to walk like a woman with her feline sort of slide that she has (God, she really is just fabulous), Scarlett could pick out a good sundress for me to wear, Susan could help me perfect that raised eyebrow thing that she does, the one all men seem to love, and SJP could pick out my shoes.

And Jennifer Aniston? Well, she’s been demoted. She could pick up the check.

Summer Hits 1985

2010-01-12T08:46:00.000-08:00

You know what I miss about the Eighties? Apart from my wrinkle-free skin and Culture Club, of course. Mixed tapes. Homemade mixed tapes especially. Although that’s not to say I didn’t enjoy the odd K-Tel selection every once in a while, I’m sure some of you remember those. ‘Summer Mix 1985’ remains a favourite of mine.

But homemade mixed tapes were really the best. Now I know people can create playlists these days. I’ve heard it’s considered pretty thoughtful if someone creates a playlist for you of songs they think you’ll love or, even better, songs that remind them of you. It’s just not the same, though. When I was in high school, if a boy made you a mixed tape....man, that was something. It meant he was thinking about you, really thinking about you for long stretches of time. Long enough that he had to collect up all of his various cassettes, make a list of songs for you and spend hours hitting the ‘play’ and ‘record’ buttons simultaneously over and over. Painstakingly writing out an index of the songs he’d chosen on the cover of the cassette. Sometimes even doodling a little colour art or making up a title like ‘Songs That Make Me Think Of You’. Gorgeous.

My best friend Gina was a dab hand at the mixed tape. She was a terrible deejay – forever turning off songs about a minute and a half in because she got bored of the tune – but she made a helluva mixed tape. They were organized thematically and I desperately wish I still had some of them. She made me tapes for when I missed home in Switzerland (lots of The Platters and somehow she even found a little Anne Murray. Who I can’t stand unless I’m thinking of long drives at night as a kid, my family singing along to ‘Danny’s Song’ with the windows down), tapes for when I was having boy troubles (The Cowboy Junkies, Concrete Blonde and The Stones – that tape got used up pretty frequently) and tapes for getting ready to go out for a night on the town.

It’s funny, you know. I can’t remember much about certain boys I thought I’d love until the day I died from high school. I couldn’t tell you what colour ‘Rob’’s eyes were, or how tall ‘Mike’ really was. But I remember the mixed tapes they made me. Rob was a big Aerosmith fan and honestly, I had no clue of his affections until he dedicated ‘Angel’ to me with a weird little voice-over on one of his mixed tapes. Rob really knew how to work his magic on me through song. Whenever I was feeling mad or sad or pretty or anything, he’d whip out the perfect mixed tape and make it all perfect. And Mike....well let’s just say that to this day, I can’t hear ‘Purple Rain’ without having a flashback to his rec room. On his couch in the dark. His back under my hands....enough said.

Mixed tapes weren’t always great. One boy – one beautiful, complicating, heart-breaking boy – used a mixed tape to break up with me. Ouch. The whole thing was ‘Free Bird’ and ‘Wherever I Lay My Hat, That’s My Home’. I mean, honestly – he couldn’t just tell me he was going on a road trip to Thailand for six months? I still hate ‘Free Bird’.

I think we should bring back the mixed tape. Dig up all the old cassettes and find ourselves tape recorders. Forget playlists – after all, how long does it even take to make a playlist? Does that really tell someone how much you care? What does it tell them? ‘Look how much I love and appreciate you – I spent six minutes scrolling through my ipod and found some songs I thought you might like.’ Where’s the romance in that? Fellas – and ladies – if you really want to show someone how much they mean to you, create a mixed tape for them. And if it’s someone you really dig, make a collage for their cover art out of magazines. No one can resist a collage.

Gleeks Unite!!!

2010-01-09T10:02:00.000-08:00

My new favourite show is ‘Glee’. I just discovered it a few months ago and...wow. It’s tacky. It’s campy. It’s a little weird. It’s glorious. They do cover versions of these great songs like ‘Someboy To Love’ by Queen and ‘My Life Would Suck Without You’ by Kelly Clarkson. Every character on the show is a misfit or an outcast or just plain irritating. I can’t even express the depth of my love for this show...it’s endless. As is my love for Will Shuster, the Glee Coach.
Here’s my problem with the show right now, though. It’s not back until April. April!! What the hell am I supposed to do with myself every Wednesday night at 9 between now and then? Why do shows do this? They suck you in for a few months, lead you on with all of these great story lines and romantic problems and such and then disappear for months. What if something happens between now and then? What if the world ends or their show gets cancelled or one of the main characters quits? How will I ever know if Finn and Rachel end up together? If Will and Emma can make it work? If Kurt ever finds just one other gay kid at his school? If the Glee Club will win at Nationals? It’s torture.
To combat a Glee-less life filled with boredom and depression, I’ve come up with a few story line ideas for the show. Producers if you’re reading this (and I can only assume that you are) take heed. And pay up if you use any of my ideas.
1. Finn and Rachel. So now Quinn is obviously out of the picture. Finn knows the baby isn’t his and the road is clear for Quinn and Puck to get together and play house if they want. (Question – do we care if they get together? Apart from that scene where Puck plays the guitar and Quinn sings ‘Papa Don’t Preach’, these two really can’t hold onto my interest. I liked Puck better when he was singing ‘Sweet Caroline’ to Rachel.) Rachel can finally have her shot at Finn if she wants. But...the story would be over then. They would be a happy couple – yawn. We need to draw this out a bit. I think Glee should introduce a new character, a gorgeous guy with pipes who instantly falls for Rachel and appreciates her exactly the way she is. Let’s give Finn a run for his money.
2. Will and Emma. Will has left his wife, who doesn’t have to pretend to be pregnant anymore to hold onto her man. Emma left Ken which means she won’t have to have sex with him, thank God for that. He of the shorty-shorts and inexplicable gene pool. They can be together. Again...I don’t want that to happen yet. Too soon. So maybe Will and his soon-to-be-ex-wife find out she really is pregnant? They might get back together – but not after Will and Emma get busy first. Let’s give a girl a break here.
3. Kurt needs a fella. I think one of the football players – someone really beefy and masculine. Someone who has yet to be outted...
4. Artie – I need to know more about Artie. I LOVE Artie. His version of ‘Dancing With Myself’ was brilliant – I think he has one of the best voices on the show. I don’t really know what they should do with him, just do something.
5. Sue needs to exact some revenge on Will – preferably when he’s topless. Or wearing a wet white t-shirt. We need to see Will in a wet white t-shirt sometime soon. I want Sue to come back to her full glory after her debacle at regionals – because I need to know how Sue C’s it.

Why I'm Never The D.D.

2010-01-05T09:05:00.000-08:00

Every once in a blue moon I do something really kind for someone. Someone other than myself, that is. I leave the quarter in the grocery cart at No Frills for the next customer. I let someone sit at my table with me when the Bean Cellar gets too packed and they have nowhere to eat their Ultimate Grilled Cheese. I push someone else’s kid on the swing at Harrison Park...though this one I wouldn’t recommend unless you’ve gotten the go-ahead from their parents. It makes parents a bit skittish otherwise.
And there is something I do when I am feeling especially kind. When I’m feeling benevolent, almost. Saint-like. I offer to be the designated driver for a night out.
Now these instances are few and far between, mind you. As I said – once in a blue moon. So every nineteen years or so. But every once in a while when I’m out with friends I am especially fond of, friends who really need to cut loose and get jiggy with it, I’ll give it a shot. Let them get rowdy, get sloshed, get silly. Let them be the ones making the bad decisions for a change.
Because I guess that’s part of the deal, isn’t it? I mean, if I’m willing to give up on my fun (and no, kids, you don’t need to drink to have fun) so you can have a good time, it’s sort of your responsibility to drink irresponsibly. Bare minimum I’d better see some dancing on tables. Better yet, some atrociously bad dancing on tables. I want to hear singing, laughing, some really earnest conversations that are actually just foolish. I might even want to see some terrible drunken flirting, successful or otherwise.
The point being, if I’m drinking water all night it is your job – nay, your moral responsibility – to entertain me. Because I’ve now committed myself to a long, sober evening of purely voyeuristic pleasure. Let’s face it, I’m in it so I can recap everything you did over an egg Mcmuffin the next morning. To watch you slumped over your coffee, head in hands, unable to look me in the eye. After all if you’ve ever been the designated driver for me I’ve done it for you.
So to help you out for the next time, here is what I don’t want to see...a bottle of water. Delicate yawns behind your cupped palm at 9:30. Polite clapping in time to the music. Covert glances at your watch. Nursing of any light beer for more than ten minutes. Fifteen tops.
I know I’m a taskmaster. I know it might seem a bit harsh – okay, a lot harsh. It’s just that I don’t get out much. And I just don’t get to see my friends make fools of themselves...ever really. They are all so smart and together and fun and kind. Which is quite selfish of them, in a way. If they want to rip me away from my usual night of television watching and/or trashy romance novel reading, they need to make it worth my while. They need to let me take care of them, it’s only fair. Unless they vomit. I don’t want to deal with vomiting.
I want to keep them from dancing on broken glass and make sure they don’t flirt too horribly and buckle them into their seatbelts at the end of the night. I want to make sure they get into bed ok and leave them some Advil with a big glass of water on the nightstand. I want to bring them hangover food for the next morning. But mostly I want to see them have fun. Really reckless fun.
Is that too much to ask?
(Shameless self-promotion alert – I’m running a writers workshop, The Art Of Writing The Everyday, starting the first Wednesday in February at the Downtown Bookstore. I promise you...I’m smarter than I seem. We’re offering tips on how to get published, how to write the world around and I’m even planning on having a field trip. It will be fun and informative and I might even bake you cookies. For details and prices talk to Hazel at the Bookstore or contact me at jrmmcguire@yahoo.ca. Hope to see you there!)

Guess What I Don't Heart?

2009-12-29T12:41:00.000-08:00

Boxing Day. Every year I think I'm going to love it...see, all of my boys toddle off to their father's houses on Boxing Day which leaves me free. To do what I want. To relax or write or whatever. I'm sure all you moms out there with toddlers running you ragged, hopped up on candy are thinking 'Oooo...sounds divine!'

It's not. It sucks. Mostly because I commit myself to doing nothing. I stay in my red and green pyjamas all day, drinking wine and eating my way steadily through the leftovers. None of my lovely friends are available to cheer me up because they all have lovely, unfractured families. My parents are living it up in California and my brothers...well, let's not go there. Which leaves me alone and arguing with the dog outside in my slippers and robe on Boxing Day. In plain sight of the neighbours. I talk to no one. I watch Mad Men marathons on Bravo even though I've already seen all the episodes. And on commercials I try to talk myself out of eating every last bit of leftover trifle. Since I've already finished off the stuffing and peanut butter pie.

I have another glass of wine instead. Then I (maybe, possibly) drunken dial someone. He doesn't answer, thank God, and I don't leave a message but still. I'm drunken dialling in my kitchen on Boxing Day in my pyjamas and robe. Which is slightly more depressing than pyjamas on their own.

And when it gets dark out, I stare out the window and think about my life. Not the fun life I normally have with kids and friends and a job and stuff, but my Boxing Day life. The one I can't stop thinking is going to be my everyday life in the near future. No one to talk to. Kids on to better things. A dog who might hate me a little. And at least one thousand wated opportunities. It's enough to drive a girl back under the covers. Which is where I spent December 27th.

I !@#$ !@ hate Boxing Day.

I HEART CHRISTMAS

2009-12-23T12:33:00.000-08:00

Christmas is the best. Christmas is awesome. Christmas brings out the best in everyone. I really heart Christmas. Really.
This is what I keep telling myself. Even when everything is crumbling around me. When I’m getting sucked down into the abyss I call my sometimes life.
When my car is parked in my driveway, impotent and menacing. Smelling of burnt something and refusing to start. And I just don’t have the dough to fix it and now I live outside town and what the hell am I supposed to do to get around now that Christmas holidays are here? What do I do with the kids? Next week when they all want to go in to town to shop or see their friends or hang out , what do I do?
Breathe. I heart Christmas.
Plus, my lap top is down for the count. The very same lap top that protects under lock and key that which is most sacred to me, other than people and stuff. My book. My nearly completed manuscript that I think I’m finally starting to genuinely like. The thing I’ve been working on for years, and changing and fixing and editing. But not backing it up…I don’t like to back things up. Seems common. Cheap, really. I’m above all that.
So now the fate of my lap top is out of my hands. I can’t work on anything. I can’t get into pictures of my kids or edit my book or play Solitaire. And I was getting really good at Solitaire too (yes, I get the double meaning). Potentially hundreds of pages of work, years of my life, could be gone. I might be able to salvage the general gist of things, but most of it will be lost. It turns out I can only be clever once, there are no second chances.
In through the nose, out through the mouth. I still heart Christmas.
My kids made lists this year of what they wanted for Christmas. One of them – and Ben, don’t worry, I won’t say who – had a list totaling about $1000. There were just four or five things on the list. When I asked him (calmly and with great love) to get a freaking grip and remember that our family is referred to as ‘the working poor’, he said ‘Fine, just get me some shaving stuff or something’. Which in teen-speak means, ‘You are a rotten mother and when you are old and grey I will never visit you. You have ruined my life. Again.’
STILL. I. HEART. CHRISTMAS.
There’s so much we’re not going to be able to do this year. My gifts for the kids…lackluster at best. I’ve barely baked a thing, haven’t had a Christmas get-together yet and the dog keeps looking at me funny like she’s plotting something. We haven’t gone to church once. I can’t believe I just admitted that. My bank account – what can I say about my bank account? LOL, I guess. I’m already thinking about the yawning chasm that is the week between Christmas and New Year’s for me, when the boys all leave and I lie on the couch, watching romantic comedies and crying about my sad life. Something that is funny in the movies but awful and tragic in real life.
But still…still. The boys are off this week. We’re having friends over on the weekend. Mama’s giant box of Christmas goodness just arrived from California. She manages to take care of us all, even from far away. And that woman can shop like nobody’s business. I can’t wait to see what she got me.
I’ll bake while watching ‘It’s A Wonderful Life’. I'll pretend I'm Mary Bailey and there is someone out there who loves me like George loves her. I’ll finish up little bits of things and wrap presents. We’ll have friends over to toboggan on Christmas Eve. Maybe see the Festival of Lights one more time with hot chocolate and mittens. Because this year, regardless of what’s going wrong and what’s just never going to go right…
I heart Christmas.
Merry Christmas to all of you.

Gracie

2009-12-18T08:33:00.000-08:00

I have a niece named Grace. She is a little over two years old. The last time I saw her she was one and she could say my name. She could say ‘Jack’ and she tried to say ‘Nathan’. Grace was funny...the sort of funny when you can tell someone is eventually going to be a gas to be around.

This Christmas will probably be the first time she really gets excited about presents and stuff. Most two year olds know about Santa, get trained to say ‘Ho Ho Ho – Merry Christmas!’ and all that. Hopefully someone will take her to see a good Mall Santa, one of the ones with a quiet voice and excellent candy canes. I don’t know if she’ll cry or be nervous, it’s always tough to tell when they’re that age. It’s possible she’ll be really confident, waddle on up to Santa bold as brass. My brother and sister-in-law will treat her well for Christmas – I don’t know much about them any more but that’s a given. They’ll be generous with her. They’ll love her and make sure she is happy. My other brother will probably get her something cute, like a nice teddy bear and an outfit. Maybe a Webkinz. I wonder if he’ll get the salesgirl to help him pick out her little outfit...on Christmas day they’ll probably all laugh together about that. How he always manages to get the pretty girls to give him a hand picking a present. Grace might be big enough now that he’ll have stopped being nervous around her the way most guys without kids are around babies. I bet she’s sturdy enough that he’ll roughhouse with her, the same way he did with my boys when they were small.

Grace lives in a big beautiful house. It will be full of people at Christmas if I know anything about my brother. His in-laws, our brother. His dad and his stepmom. Maybe a few friends who have little ones Gracie’s age. There will be a big table set up in their dining room with a perfect, stylish centrepiece like a bowl of golden pears or a perfect poinsettia. My sister-in-law is an exceptional cook if memory serves so dinner will be really good. The men might sit around and drink some good scotch after dinner, the women all separate in the other room but not in a terrible way. In a way that feels as natural and right as breathing. Grace will have a bath at the end of the day and might toddle in to see the men, her hair wet and her pj’s warm from the dryer. If she does I bet she’ll crawl into my brother’s lap and fall asleep, her cheek against his chest so she can hear the deep rumble of his man’s voice. She will feel safe.

Next year she will be three years old. If I know her by then, I might ask to take her for the weekend. The boys and I will bake cookies with her and she could wear a little apron. We might go see some sort of Christmas movie if there is one playing. A Disney movie if her parents say it’s ok. By next year, it might all be ok.

But for now – my mom and dad will spend Christmas in California with friends. The boys and I will go tobogganing with our usual group on Christmas Eve and spend Christmas day in our pyjamas eating turkey. Our routine that we mostly love. My mom will be sure to remember all of us on Christmas day and will tell stories about what it was like when we were kids. How we made snowmen together and watched the same movies every year. How my youngest brother decorated the house one year as a surprise. How I made us each our own gingerbread cookie with our names on it, my brother’s cookies wore little bowties. How my other brother would get up at the crack of dawn on Christmas every year without complaint even though he is really a night person.

How we weren’t always separate little clusters of families. How we weren’t always fractured little bits of people.

Because she remembers who we used to be. So that some day, when all of this is over, she can remind us how to be us again.

Disappointment

2009-12-14T08:38:00.001-08:00

This weekend was disappointing. I had a little scene all set out for myself and none of it came to pass. So, so much I wanted to do and none of it got done. I hate being disappointed. I know everyone hates it, but I really, REALLY hate it. I hate when the kids and I make plans and they don't happen...I can never wrap my head around it. It gets me down for days and I drive everyone nuts. Even more nuts than usual.

The boys were supposed to go to their dad's this weekend. The weather was rotten Friday night so they stayed home, expecting to go Saturday morning. We got up early. I called first thing. I called at least two doezen times. We waited for hours....and nothing. He didn't answer the phone or call us to tell us he wasn't coming. He still hasn't called to explain. He just - didn't feel like being bothered, I guess.

And here is the question of the hour - how much longer do I have to shield the kids from this? Because sometimes it feels like I'm working harder for their relationship with him than he is. Which is fine, normally - I didn't know my dad. I want - no, I NEED my boys to know their dad, to have their own relationship with him independant of me, because they didn't make the choice to leave. I did. They didn't divorce their dad. I did. They deserve to know him the way all kids deserve to know their dads.

So I try to help. When they complain to me about things, we try to have 'family' meetings to work it all out. I try to tell them that everyone parents differently, their dad loves them. That he means well. I tell them they can rely on him. That he'll always be there for them.

They don't really believe me any more. I can see it in their eyes. I can feel them drifting away from him. They don't seem to trust him at all and what's worse, they don't seem to trust me when I try to patch things up these days. They don't seem to think I can make things better for them. They just accept things the way they are...they're biding their time.

And it's killing me. Because I'm starting to think they're right. I can't make things better for them. I can't change who they're becoming to each other. But I don't know how to stop trying...

The Plot Thickens

2009-12-10T10:20:00.000-08:00

(Ben reviewed a zombie book for Small Town Books, Wendi is cranky about Christmas, Kate got a brand spanx-ing new dress and Laura is sick of tidying up. Check them out!)

So it's no secret I'm a fan of Christmas. Christmas movies in particular as I'm partial to activities that require a lot of sitting around doing nothing. I've been slowly pulling out the seasonal movies since mid-November and can now officially go whole hog and just watch Christmas TV 24/7. Because the networks have started their Christmas specials...I have to say, Showcase and the W Networks are the best. All of their movies have really long titles like 'Exactly What She Wanted For Christmas' and 'He Knows When You Are Sleeping...', that sort of thing.

Yesterday I spent a lot of time watching movies. We all did - snow day. I l0ve snow days still. I feel like I'm getting the day off from something even though I'm not at all. Anyways there we were, all of us still in our pj's watching movie after movie. Miracle On 34th Street - about a young girl who really wants a 'family'. 'All I Want For Christmas' - about two kids trying to get their divorced parents back together in time for the big day. 'Jack Frost' - now this one really sucked. First of all...I don't know what the hell Michael Keaton was thinking. He used to be a moderately decent actor. In this movie he plays a dad reincarnated as a snowman. An utterly unwatchable snowman who makes bad jokes about his balls. Point being though...another movie about a single parent family.

I started looking through my Christmas movies and realized how many of them are about fractured families. Meaning single parent families. Children wishing on a star that they could have a 'real' family with a dad and a mom and everything. Gee whiz, Santa, I'd sure like a real family! Golly, that's be super!

Because families with just a mom or just a dad aren't real. We're just illusions, placeholders until the real thing comes along. And I guess movies about regular families are dull...I have to admit even I'd rather watch a movie starring some adorable little girl finding her daddy a girlfriend by Christmas. I've been brainwashed, I admit it.

Still, just once I'd like to see a movie I can connect with. Say, about a gloriously beautiful (right? RIGHT???) single mother who is making lists of presents on the backs of envelopes all over the house, restructuring budgets and trying to remember where she put that stupid box of outdoor lights. A woman who has two exes - slut - and not just one. And she might even be friends with them both. They might even be good dads who love their kids and make lists of presents themselves. And they might all work out how to give the kids a good Christmas between them. Probably none of them ever, EVER wants to be reconciled by their meddling kids. And maybe her kids don't want to find themselves a new daddy by Christmas. Because they've already got one, broken in and all.

And somehow, despite the divorce and everything, they are pretty happy with things just as they are.

Actually..that movie sounds dull as shit. Never mind.

Dumped

2009-12-07T06:41:00.000-08:00

I didn't think there would be anything worse than my man-cub being lured out of the jungle by a she-wolf, I really didn't. The axis of our happy home has shifted irreversibly. We can never go back to our own little unit...we've been invaded. I thought we'd hit rock bottom, our relationship ruined in a fit of cologne and hair gel and smooching. That's right, he's been smooching, I have it on good authority. His brother told on him...apparently he's been smooching in the bus loop. Which anybody whose anybody knows is just not done in polite society. The thing is, I don't know why I asked if he was smooching. I thought I'd want to know. This is a rite of passage after all, and I'm all about being there for their rites of passages. So this shouldn't have been any different than, say, losing that first tooth or the first time he peed on the toilet.

Well it was. Very different. First of all, my little man cub all but tore his brother's face off when he found out he was outed. Now he refuses to talk about said girlfriend. She is protected territory. He is the head of his lion pride and she is his...God, I can't even say it. I think I've been kicked out of the pride, just like Simba.

So like I said, things were pretty awful. Another queen in my castle and all that. But now...something worse has happened. Something I thought might make me secretly happy, truth be told. The thing is - the she-wolf ditched my man cub. They had a 'date' (choke, gasp, cough) this weekend. My man-cub got up nice and early - so before noon - showered and dressed. Called the she-wolf. No answer. Called her again. No answer. All day....no answer. He didn't say a word - she's still protected space after all - but I would have torn that little @#$! to shreds if I could. How dare she?!! What - does she think she's too good for my man cub? Has she lost her mind?

And why oh why was he so accepting of her behaviour? Why doesn't he think he deserves to be treated with more respect? How does he think he deserves to be treated? His dad and I both treat him with care and consideration, I think...he knows he gets to be treated well, right? And why oh why won't he talk to me about any of this?

Maybe the answer is simple. Maybe she's pretty and makes him feel good. And maybe this is something he needs to figure out on his own. And maybe - just maybe - she isn't as bad as all that. She called him Sunday to say she was sorry. Which was sweet, and from what I gather, heartfelt.

I hope he raked her over the coals though. And I hope he refuses to smooch with her for at least a week.

Hallmark Presents...

2009-12-02T11:09:00.001-08:00

Okay I'll admit it. I absolutely L-O-V-E Hallmark Christmas movies. The made-for tv kind starring some B-list actor. Like Jennifer Grey or Anne Heche. They're on all the time right now, it's just marvellous. I can barely get any work done...the house is falling apart around my ears. But I simply can't resist. They're glorious. Always set in a little town that looks like...well, looks like a Hallmark card. O.M.G. I just made the connection. Maybe Hallmark is selling a way of life.

And it's a life I am fully willing to buy.

I'm ready to sign up for the picturesque little town by the sea/forest/mountains wherever. I'd happily start wearing more fitted plaid tops and faded jeans because that seems to be the universal uniform regardless of decade or locale. My hair is pretty much Hallmark ready. Just long and fairly healthy, though I could use a dose of naturally tossed waves or decent golden red highlights. I would even be willing to start wearing it half up and away from my face like they prefer if that's what it takes.

Hallmark people are like the easier, more PG-version of Harlequin. The guys aren't bossing the girls around or ripping their clothes off and the girls generally don't have to bail their crazy brother-in-law out of jail or anything like that. They lead simpler lives with a few mild little misunderstandings thrown in to spice things up. Like that movie I watched the other night, I think it was called 'His And Her Christmas.' God, I loved that movie. It was all about these two columnists -she a small town sweetie with a big heart and he a big city cynic with big shoulders - who duel it out in their weekly columns. They meet, he falls for her naturally curly hair and well-tailored slacks. She melts his heart so he saves her newspaper from being shut down. They get their crazy families together for Christmas. I cry like a baby and secretly hope he moves in to her messy Victorian house after the cameras stop rolling. His life in the city is too tidy for her.

I'm willing to buy into the Hallmark life even though I'm not leading lady material. I fully realize I will play the role of plain Jane best friend. The character who is married to the owner of the Hardware store raising two kids who say the darndest things. Her best possible story line is when her husband - a frumpy, middle-aged bore - agrees to take her linedancing when she threatens to leave him. See? That's how devoted I am. I'm even willing to be that girl.

I'd do a good job too. When the leading lady needs cookies, I'll bake 'em. When she needs someone to watch her dog so she can take a romantic walk through the woods with her gorgeous man, I'll do it.

And when they get married at the end of the show, snow falling ever so lightly outside, I'll wear an ugly lavender dress that does nothing for my shape and smile and hold her flowers. Then my frumpy husband and I will show them a thing or two on the dance floor. We'll all laugh and laugh. Then fade to black. 'White Christmas' playing as the credits roll.

Sign me up Hallmark.

Lily Needs A Date

2009-11-29T11:48:00.000-08:00

(So who is new? Kate has written a beautiful, melancholy and honest piece about her Dad. Small Town Toys has been updated as has Small Town Eats. And Small Town Laura will be new tonight. As always, check out Small Town Wendi too...sometimes I like to re-read her just because she is her...)

I have a dog named Lily. She is named Lily because I failed to produce a daughter, and my sons thought a dog named Lily was really the next best thing. Lily is one of those dogs that cost around thirty five dollars at the Humane Society rather than one thousand dollars from a dog breeder. I hadn’t really been looking forward to a dog - especially considering I had already managed to kill off a few beta fish and a turtle (which are notoriously difficult to kill though I eventually managed) - but the boys begged. So what do you do?

When we got to the Humane Society there were about a dozen huge, snarling barking dogs who were making it perfectly clear they weren’t fond of doggy jail. I had a feeling one or two in particular might be escapees from real jail by the looks of their scarred snouts and world-weary eyes. The nice thing to do would have been to adopt one of those dogs. Who the hell else was going to? But…there lay Lily. Silent in her little cage, staring up at us with those big sad eyes - boy, that girl knows how to use her big sad eyes. She could give tips.

Lily isn’t a young pup anymore. She has started to give up a little on her looks. Lays around the house all day, sighing and licking herself. She needs a date but fast. She is forty-two now which may seem a little old to just be getting started, but that’s our Lily. She’s pretty choosy, I must admit. Gets it from me. Plus, she’s had a volatile four year relationship with Mattie (our cat) that can be quite violent and emotionally draining at times, so you can see why it’s taken her awhile. I don’t want to come right out and say Mattie is physically abusive, but…I don’t think he’s quite right in the head, if you know what I mean. I myself live in almost constant fear that he will suffocate me in my sleep.

Lily gets looks from the other dogs when we’re out on our morning walks, from both the males and the females. Not that there’s anything wrong with that. I can’t blame them really - Lily is one hot little canine. And I think she knows it. She’s slender with curvy legs, a fabulous black and tan coat and a great looking tail. She’s a half breed, our Lily. I tried to explain to her that being a mixed-breed is cool and exotic, like Cher, but then people ask me what breed of dog she is (right in front of her!) - and there she goes, sleeping on my bed in the middle of a sunny afternoon again. General malaise setting in pretty strong.

She needs to get over it and focus on the positive…all the dogs want her. It’s because she’s very unique looking - sort of like the Catherine Zeta Jones of dogs. Way cooler than those Golden Retrievers - such obvious beaty. The other dog-walkers are having difficulty getting their dogs to ‘heel’ properly - Lily is just too much of a temptation.

I’d like to see her go on a few doggy dates at the park or something. Get out there a bit and have a little fun. Maybe it would help her with her unnatural fixation on not just one, but all four of my boys. I personally think it’s the ‘forbidden fruit’ complex. She knows they’re from a different species but - damnit, they’re pretty cute. Plus they feed her and stuff.

I bet she makes up little revenge scenarios in her head sometimes. You know like “Oh, you just wait and see…one of these days I will find myself a Great Dane - PURE BRED, mind you - and then it will be too freaking late!”

So I think my plan of action will be to get her out for a walk early mornings, around 6:30, happy hour for dogs. The quality is miles better that early, who knows why. She might find herself a decent dog…with a really hot owner

Vampires And Sex And Stuff

2009-11-25T06:08:00.000-08:00

(Wendi's blog is new. New movie review of 'A Christmas Carol' by Laura. New Travel comes out Saturday. Toys and Food on Monday. And Kate's will be new too...or I shall tan her hide!)

So I've been thinking about sex lately. Am I allowed to say that on a mom blog? Oh wait..it's my blog. So I am.

I'm thinking about sex because I went to see New Moon last night. Those boys - they're at least 18, right? Right?? - are too adorable for words. When the werewolf took his shirt off I'm telling you, it was like Beatlemania all over again. The whole theatre erupted in fits of giggles and nervous sighs and lots of fanning of faces. And that was just us old gals. I couldn't help but wonder...how many of the scads of young girls sitting in the dark theatre beside their spotted, awkward, gangly boyfriends were looking at them and thinking 'Really? This is who I'm leaving with?' Poor guys. I'll have to let my man cub know not to go with his girlfriend. She might turn her back on him in favour of the undead. And as much as I hate the fact that he even has a girlfriend (who, by the way, has been smooching in front of the bus loop! The things I never really wanted to know...) I don't want her to dump him on the faint promise that there might be a hot bloodsucker out there waiting for her. That might break his heart.

But I'm also thinking about sex for other reasons. Maybe because I'm in my late thirties and...well, you just think about sex a lot in your thirties. I don't know why. Maybe because you've finally figured out how to do it properly so it's a heck of a lot more fun. Or maybe it's because I have a visitor coming this weekend. A gentleman caller. A Chester. And I think we all know what that means. Hallelujah.

A friend of mine and I were talking about sex the other day. Who am I kidding? My friends and I talk about sex most days. But this time we were talking about what makes sex good. Other than the obvious, of course. No, we were talking about how to get past all the 'Oh God, he's looking at my giant thighs!' and 'Now what does he want me to do?' and 'How do I look in this position?' problems. We were talking about...well, how to please a fella. So that he might want to please us in return. Some of us think it's a tricky thing.

And some of us think it isn't. See here's what I learned over my years of clinical study. Most guys are just pretty happy you showed up. And if you're feeling inadequate...distract, distract, distract. Like a puppy with a bright shiny toy. Keep things in perpetual motion. Keep things focused on the end result. Destination - it's all about destination. No sight-seeing.

The trick is remembering it's supposed to be fun. A whole bunch of fun. And if worse comes to worse...candlelight is universally flattering, ladies. Use it well.

Is Yelling The New Spanking?

2009-11-18T06:31:00.000-08:00

(Kate's is new. Laura's is new...check them out! And FYI, Laura will be writing her VERY FIRST movie review this week for 'A Christmas Carol' with Jim Carrey. I'm anxious to hear what she has to say...I'm feeling dubious.)

Jesus...can you believe this was a headline recently? And when I say it was a headline....what I mean is that it was one of the little subject lines on Yahoo. But still. It was right up there with 'Janet Jackson Blames Doctor For Michael's Death' and 'Michael Moore Attacks Canada'. So pretty newsworthy.

I guess the whole idea is that yelling is awful. Terrible. Capital letters SHITTY parenting. If you have to yell at your kids, you're doing it wrong.

I call Bullshit on this one. BULLSHIT! It's not like I'm screaming at my kid's all the time, not really. But yelling is a useful tool in my parenting arsenal. It's right at the top of my weapons, just ahead of threatening-to-throw-away-their-toys and my raised eyebrow, terrifying stare. The one where I think I can willfully dilute my own pupils until they're pinpricks just to get me point across.

Yelling is what I do to get my point across. To make myself heard over the terrible din that is four boys in the middle of a 'You were looking at me!' 'No I wasn't!' 'Stop picking on him!' 'Mind your own business!' fight. If I didn't yell to get their attention, our little society would devolve into Lord Of The Flies-like chaos, pig's head on the stick et al. Yelling means I mean business.

I think I've heard just about all I can take from this whole 'gentle parenting' movement. Your kids need you to be gentle sometimes, of course they do. But they need you to prepare them for the world too. And the world...it ain't so gentle. The world will kick the crap out of you, we all know it. We've all been there.

Here's the thing. I think we live in such an educated world that we've conned ourselves into believing we can educate ourselves into being perfect parents. If you read a million parenting books or try to remind yourself of everything your parents did that you hated or just keep a little checklist of everything you think doesn't work, you'll raise a bunch of super humans. If they have this many lessons or eat this many vegetables or never taste an ounce of sugar...you've done it right.

And if you never raise your voice...they'll be in a beautiful meditative state their whole lives.

Bad news - I don't think there's ever a point when you get to say you've done it right. You've succeeded. Because parenting isn't a job. It isn't something you apply for or can set deadlines for. It's a life. A whole long life, with any luck. You can't train yourself to do it perfectly because you don't know who these people are going to be. It's like going on a lifelong blind date - you just don't know what's going to work and what isn't.

Four boys live in my house. They're all different. They all need different things from me. The one thing they all need, though, is to know that i'm invested enough to give them heck if they need it. It's my job. It's how I love them. And it's how they'll (hopefully) all grow into productive, happy people.

Although you really just never know, do you?

The Worst Has Come To Pass

2009-11-15T13:30:00.001-08:00

One of my sons has a girlfriend. I don’t think I’m allowed to say which one, but he’ll be easily identifiable by the giant scarlet letter I plan on forcing him to wear.

I just found out the other day. Facebook was kind enough to inform me. A little tip for parents of younger kids…if your kids get Facebook, force them to add you to their friends list. It’s been a veritable font of information for me. Once a few years back, one of my sons was planning on going to an all day party at the beach B.Y.O.B.. There was a group on Facebook giddily giving out all the details about the B.Y.O.B.. My response? O.M.D.B. (over my dead body. Yeah, he didn’t think it was clever either.). I caught my son lol’ing at a mildly homophobic comment on Facebook and let him have it via his inbox. If it’s in his inbox, he’ll read it apparently. Even when it’s from me.

And now…a recent status update letting me know that my Man Cub is being lured out of the jungle to live in the village by one of those girls who can carry a jug of water on her head. How dare he? I’m not even going to delve into the fact that he has been able to use the ‘in a relationship’ option before his own mother. I’ll brood over that one later. With wine and left over Miss Vickie’s chips. Sea salt and malt vinegar should do the trick.

That isn’t what this is about. It’s about…loyalty. I thought he and I were close. I make him all his favourite foods. I watch College Humour skits on Youtube with him and pretend to laugh even though it’s only mildly funny. I buy him cool shirts. What the hell? What does he need HER for?
Oh God…I can’t breathe. She’s going to poison him against me, isn’t she? It’s like that old saying that haunts me every day of my life. ‘A son is a son ‘til he takes a wife, a daughter is a daughter the rest of her life.’ Well that’s bullshit, I tell ya. BULLSHIT! I’m the one that buys him the really good, hypo-allergenic anti-acne cream with a faint hint of green tea. I could have just gotten him the cheap stuff. Maybe I should have gotten him the cheap stuff. Curse me for making him so appealing to the opposite sex.

Suddenly those ‘how to treat girls’ lessons seem ill-advised. What was I thinking? I taught him to hold doors open for girls, to offer to pay for dinner and offer his coat if she’s cold and really listen to her when she talks about her day. It’s like giving plutonium to the Unibomber. What an idiot.

Well, enough of that. I’m about to employ one of the oldest, best gifts my Irish Catholic mother ever passed on to me (besides this new bra she got me…it makes my cleavage look awesome!). Guilt. Good old-fashioned ‘You’re going out again? Oh…I’ll just lie on the couch and let old age kick in.’ guilt. It always worked like a charm on me. It still works like a charm on me.

Oddly, I don’t remember it ever working on my brothers…which could spell bad news for me. Sigh…I’ll keep you posted.

Remembrance Day

2009-11-11T08:30:00.000-08:00

(Lots of updates. New movie, The Men Who Stare At Goats reviewed in Small Town Movies. Wendi talk about sex as an Olympic sport - curse you, Russian judges! - in her recent blog. Laura and her family have 'it'. The flu. Exactly what she's been dreading. Check them out!)

Every Remembrance Day chokes me up. Like clock work. I try to hold it together...after all, who am I to cry? I've never lost someone to a war. I've never had to say goodbye to a son, sending him off to something braver and bigger and more frightening than anything I will ever know. I've been blessed.

But I guess that's probably why I get choked up.

I just got back from a Remembrance Day assembly at the kids' school. It's one of those gorgeous November days that almost never happens. Sunny and clear and the exact right amount of coolness. I walked to the school and thought 'This is perfect'. The river runs under the bridge at my feet. Traffic is fairly light. Two police men stand in full dress uniform at the stop lights looking smart and serious. Everywhere I look - poppies.

I held it together through the assembly, despite the fact that the teachers let the grade fives run the show and they were so solemn and sincere. Despite the fact that Jack's favourite all time teacher came back from her retirement just to play the piano while the entire school sang 'Where Have All The Flowers Gone?' Despite the fact that each and every one of them, right down to fidgety little kindergartners, observed their moment of silence. It was as lovely as it is every year.

So what made me finally break down? The same thing that gets to me every year. Old soldiers in uniforms they've kept in pristine condition despite the fifty years or so. Standing erect, hand over heart, voices still strong. Singing O Canada. Saluting the cenotaph standing watch over the river. Proud and sad and strong and careful. It gets me every time.

And it makes me think of my grandfather. The way he would keep the television on all day to watch Remembrance Day services all over the world. How he would read the paper in his armchair then fold it carefully, rise and recite 'Flanders Fields' with his hand over his heart. His eyes closed to prove he still remembered every word. He died ten years ago tomorrow. He waited until Remembrance Day was over.

Lest We Forget.

Happy

2009-11-09T08:53:00.000-08:00

I have two sorts of happiness in my life. Mutually exclusive and equally perfect to me for different reasons.

The first one has to do with productivity. This one I don’t feel much really. But every once in a while, when I’ve made the beds and put away the laundry and started a roast pork for dinner in a delicious marinade…when I’ve volunteered at the school, played basketball before dinner, read to Jack and Nathan by their night light, talked to the older boys in that new commiserating tone we’re getting used to over popcorn and chocolate milk.

I fall into a deep sleep on nights like those, the sort that you get when you’re full of a kind of satisfaction at how you’re finally getting it done. On those days I feel like I’ve lived up to an ideal. On those days I feel like a Good Mother. I might even feel like a Good Woman.

Then there are days like today. When I give in to this cocoon I always want to build around myself. This selfish little space that’s only about me. When I sit in my favourite chair for the entire day drinking tea and writing every shitty little thought that pops into my head. I write in my journal and dig down deeper into myself so that when the phone rings it sounds like it’s in someone else’s house, it’s so far away. From nine until three I’ll be here, and when the boys come home it will confuse me a little. They will wake me up. And I feel more like myself the way I was probably supposed to, the way I was built.

I’m giving in to days like these more and more lately, despite the fact that they’re not doing a hell of a lot for my bank account. It’s one of the joys/dangers of being single. The lines I used to draw through my days - the half-pasts and quarter-afters and ten-tos- are dissipating. Which is frightening in it’s own way I suppose. No one is here to remind me to get off my rump and clean the bathroom or start dinner or make my bed. No one is here to say ‘What exactly did you DO all day?’ I still can’t decide if that’s good or bad.

It’s just…it feels like there’s a clock ticking. All the time. A clock that started up in my mid-thirties. A clock with no hands but with pictures of all the things I should be seeing, doing. A clock that gongs every hour or so that if I don’t figure out how to be happy soon, I never will. And I need, need, NEED to be happy. I do. We all do, really, but I think some of us are mature enough to understand that you don’t always get to be happy. Sometimes you have to make sacrifices so that you end up being happy. Eventually.

I’m not that mature. And I’m not that happy all the time,. I think. But here, in my little cocoon where everything I do is on the inside…here is where I’ll find it I think.

Because if I don’t find it…Jesus, what’s the point?

Take Your Kid To Work Day

2009-11-05T12:16:00.000-08:00

Yesterday was take your kid to work day here in Owen Sound. I figure my kids get off pretty easy for this one...after all, what do I really do? Not much.

Ben was my helper yesterday. Here's a rundown of what we actually did
- Went to the Rocking Horse to pick up our toy of the month for November.
- Went to the Downtown Bookstore to pick out a book for November (it's for teenaged boys and it's about zombies! Stay tuned...)
- Drank coffee at the Bean Cellar while trying to get some writing done on my laptop (me)
- Ate a brownie at the Bean Cellar while playing guitar (Ben)
- Groceries and pizza for lunch.

A pretty easy gig, eh? So let's here what Ben has to say about it (Editor's note : Despite my reservations I've decided not to edit a word of Ben's blog...just so you know)

Ben- Today I looked forward to one thing and one thing only - sleeping in. I couldn't wait to wake up feeling completely refreshed for once. To actually wake up and not still be tired is a personal goal of mine. But unfortunately my Mom had other plans. She knocked on my door at eight o'clock, breaking my deep slumber and bringing me back to reality.
The reality is today is take your kid to work day. A day loved by children across the country. All they have to do is go to their parents' work for an hour or two. Maybe spend the rest of the day sleeping. Me?
I got to spend the entire day gallivanting around town helping my mother. Enthralling, isn't it? Well, to be completely honest, it wasn't all bad. I got a brownie out of it. And any day that includes a delicious brownie from the Bean Cellar is a good day in my books. Plus, I got pizza. And I'm reading a pretty decent book to review for this very site. Zombies...awesome.
I aslo got the extreme privilege of writing this blog. Although I would love to go into a fifty page long pros and cons list of my day, I'm running out of room.

That brownie was pretty good though. So not a bad day.

Zombie Victim #1

2009-10-31T16:07:00.000-07:00

If there ever is a zombie attack, I'll be the first one to go.

That's what I've learned today. After laying on the couch for hours watching bad nineties horror flicks. I had never made the connection between the nineties and terrible horror movies, but there is one. I think we were all wrapped up in Y2K terror so at the time we were all thinking, "Hey, this could actually happen. Aliens could invade a high school and take over the faculty, their only will being to win the big state championship football game...you just never know, do you?" I watched three or four relatively similar horror movies today with the same heavy thought weighing down on me - I'm a prime candidate to either a) become a host body for some alien organism or b) die in the first wave of zombie attacks. I would never be one of the chosen few to make it into the safety of the mall, hospital or grocery store to map out my escape.

Here's why - I never have gas in my car. Think about it. Zombies come after you, your only real option is to hop in your car and get the hell out of Dodge. Try to make your way to the next town over, hope to God they haven't infiltrated Meaford or Port Elgin (my next towns over...thankfully they both have Tim Horton's) and try to warn the general public about the imminent zombies. Nobody will believe you, of course, but at least you'll have a head start.

If and when zombies make it to Owen Sound, I would probably make it to my car despite the fact that I have a perpetual thirty second delay in literally every crisis situation. Maybe a zombie would trip over my Swiffer Wet Jet or something. So I would get in my car, start up the engine and back out of the driveway. I would probably feel really smug too, maybe flash my highbeams at the zombies to mock them. They would start chasing me and I would make it about three bocks away before my car would crap out. And then...oh Nelly.

Another reason zombies would get me first? Location. Zombies love small towns. I think it's all the cute little cafes and boutique shops myself, our homespun friendly natures. They seem to always start out in a sleepy little town a few hours from the city. And I tend to do alot of hanging around in town...plus I'm just really absent-minded alot of the time. I can't remember how many times I've been sitting in a cafe, reading or writing and had someone come up to me and say, "Jen? Jesus, I said your name about five times!"

So if I were in a zombie movie I would be billed as 'Zombie victim #1', which is a place of distinction, I guess. I'd be the girl who is in the shower when her boyfriend comes in behind her, blood dripping from his mouth, skin melting off, black eyes rolling. And I would say something like,"Bill! What's wrong with you? Why are you looking at me like....aargh!! Choke! Sputter! Die..."

Happy Halloween all. And if I'm turned into a zombie this year...I'm coming after one of you...

The Jen Show

2009-10-28T06:36:00.000-07:00

(Wendi has lady bug issues, Laura is all over H1N1, Kate wants an invisibilty cloak and Bonnie hit a deer. Check them out.)

Do you ever feel like your life is a sit-com? Not like 'Friends' with their fancy apartments and designer clothes, but more like something on HBO...gritty, darkly funny and rather unbelievable?

I do. There isn't a day that goes by in my life without incident. A friend of mine said to me the other day 'You know what I like best about being your friend? It's never boring.' See, for the people around me it's a blast. They make themselves a little snack, curl up in front of my life and let the hilarity ensue. What will I do this episode? Will I fall down the front steps of a church, bringing an old lady - and her cane - with me? Done. Will I have too much to drink and 'drunken dial' an old boyfriend, maybe cry a little and tell him things I never, ever should tell anyone? Maybe. Will I go out on a first date with a lovely boy and snap a bra strap on the way to dinner? I mean, what the hell does one do in that situation? Say, 'Must go, I've just lost half my bra and I don't want the girls swimming in my soup.' No. Just hold tight to the half you've still got and pray for the date to be over. Which was a shame...he seemed lovely.

The thing is, regular sitcoms only last half an hour or so, which is why they're funny. My sitcome never, ever ends. Ever. It's like I'm Lucy, and Ethel and I are running around town causing mayhem but Ricky never jumps in to save me before I fall flat on my ass. We're at the chocolate factory, stuffing our faces with chocolates but the damn conveyor belt never stops. Ricky never asks me to 'splain anything. He just lets me screw up over and over and over again.

And it's not just always me screwing up. Things always seem to happen to me. Or around me. I'm a bad omen. I was in a friend's car recently - a car that seems to work just fine on a regular basis - and her hood came flying up in our window while we were doing, like, 80 clicks. She says she doesn't blame me...

Then there was my wedding dress, the Mother of all Bad Omens. When I was going through some things years ago, I came across my dress. I have to tell you - my dress was kick-ass. Gorgeous. This filmy sort of thing that was as comfortable as a nightgown and made me look a billion times better than I've looked since. I was looking at my dress and thinking, What do I do with this? It's not like I want to keep it- once you've gotten rid of the husband, you probably shouldn't keep the dress. So, in a moment of pure selflessness, I donated my dress to a local not-for-profit second hand store. Filled my head with dreams of some woman finding that dress for fifty bucks and weeping with gratitude. Sigh.

The building burned to the ground the next day. Seriously. I still wonder if I should write them some sort of formal apology.

Well, that's all for now. Off I go out into the world...gulp. What the hell will happen today? And when does this show end? I'd even settle for a commercial break, honestly.

Lazy

2009-10-20T07:08:00.000-07:00

I’m a big fan of checking out mom blogs, particularly fancy-pants mom blogs as I obviously dream of some day becoming a fancy pants. And I notice that the longer you have a successful blog, the more entries you have that start with things like “Sorry it’s been so long since my last blog” or “Just back from Spain – thanks (place sponsor name here)!” That sort of thing. Which means that if I play my cards right and work really hard and toil as best I can, someday I will be able to write to you all about how I am too busy.

That day has come, though without the fame and wealth unfortunately. I’m sure some of you have noticed that I haven’t been updating my blog as frequently as I should. In fact, I’ve even recycled a column here and there to supplement my meagre entries. Is it because I’ve gotten too big for my britches? After all, I am a whopping seven weeks into the blog...I guess it is time I take a rest, right? I mean who the heck do I think I am?

Here it is - we’re moving this weekend. I am right now sitting in my office surrounded by desk drawers and boxes and a load of junk to take to the dump. My car is out of commission for mysterious-yet-frustrating reasons. And I can barely look around my little house, my adorable little teeny tiny house without bursting into tears. Because I know this place is way too small for us. I know we’ve worn out our welcome. But...it’s pretty! It’s a girl house! And I’m a girl!

We’ve lived here for almost five years – which for me, a natural nomad who doesn’t like to stay in place for too long, is considerable. I started and finished the first draft of my book here. I’ve hosted Thanksgivings and Christmas and the odd girl’s night here...though not in ages. This place is pretty freaking small. And two of my sons are six feet tall, which means they take up half the space.

This new place is going to be great. We will have two – TWO! – bathrooms with actual showers. I have a separate living room for reading and such that I will probably never use but will decorate with pretty pillows just the same.

And I will get more writing done. I promise. On the off chance that there is a single reader out there who is waiting to hear what I will say next...just give me a week. Next week, I’ll do better (why does that sound so familiar?)

Paging McSteamy...Dr. McSteamy...

2009-10-13T13:03:00.000-07:00

Today I was planning on writing about Thanksgiving. I woke up feeling all warm and fuzzy...figuring I have a lot to be thankful for. Four cool kids, a good-looking canine. A belly full of sweet, sweet turkey. A job that pays me to think about little beyond my own existance, which suits me just fine. A Chester who I will see next weekend. Who I hear is planning on pampering me quite nicely, thank you. Great friends, a nice family...pretty lucky.

But then Callum woke up this morning with chest pains. Before all of you caring mothers out there take in a collective gasp of horror – he’s fine. Just fine – a bit bruised from bloody football (and yes, that’s how I see it now...bloody football) but otherwise in tact. And do you want to know how long it took me to find out my son was fine? Six. Long. Hours.

We went to the hospital as soon as I dropped the rest of the brood off. I was thinking we might be there for three hours or so. And I’ll admit it – I don’t mind the hospital. I like the enforced closeness it presses on me and whichever one of the boys is injured. I know – sick and deluded. But there you have it. And I wasn’t too worried about Cal. So I figured, hey. I’m sort of tired this morning. I can escape the dishes, the laundry and making my bed for a few hours whilst proving myself to be an excellent mother to boot.

At first it was kind of fun. Cal has inherited my strange obsession with people watching so we bonded in the emergency room. Watched that guy come in and use the hand sanitizer as hair gel. Tried not to look at the young couple sitting across from us alternating between manic French kissing and texting. Discreetly moved away from the lady with the little girl who was vomiting loudly into a big pink bowl beside us.

We passed the time watching the staff closely, hoping to sense some sort of Grey’s Anatomy-esque sexual tension and/or drama. Would the triage nurse blush furiously and look away when the handsome Paramedic leaned down to talk to her? Would we notice a certain something in the way the doctor took Cal’s chart from the nurse? Would one of them suddenly contract a little known wasting disease and faint in the hallway, causing general uproar and drama? Would one of the doctors turn out to be the long lost love I’d never known I had?

Nope. Nothing. After about hour two of people watching, we got bored. Our doctor was just a nice, normal woman. She and the nurse seemed pretty dispassionate about each other. They closed our curtain. Nothing to see here.

We started re-enacting some favourite episodes of The Office. (American version...we’re so sick of everyone saying the British version is better. Just because they have British accents...) Cal told me about some funny stuff he had been watching on Youtube, causing me to marvel at how much time he actually spends on the computer. We went quiet for a bit, eavesdropping on patients in the next rooms.

About hour four we started getting hungry. Neither of us thought to eat breakfast and Cal was due for an ultrasound so food was out of the question. We were the sort of hungry when all you want to talk about is food. When you start reminiscing, saying things like ‘Remember that beef stew you made? And those biscuits? Those were the best.’ And planning out what you’ll eat once you get home.

By hour five we started thinking about making a run for it. I started to feel claustrophobic, felt like I was never going to be let out. We listened to everyone’s footsteps as they passed our curtain and got to know who was wearing which shoes. (Note to the woman in the high heels who paced back in forth outside our curtain at ten second intervals...I loathe you.) Cal tried using hypnosis on the doctor to force her to come back and see us, but I guess his powers don’t work so well through walls.

Finally...hour six. When I’ve just realized I was supposed to meet a friend for coffee around hour three. The doctor comes back in and tells us he’s fine. Smiles indulgently and tells us we can go and I seriously don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone so beautiful as her in that very moment. I loved her. We can’t get out of there fast enough. We feel like we’ve just been let out of prison early. The world is our oyster. We can do whatever we want.

We came home and ate eggs. Way to take the bull by the horns.
\

Minister Of Magic...and Chester

2009-10-09T07:12:00.001-07:00

Chester is in to politics. He is in to politics the same way I am into chocolate and movies. If Chester had to make a choice between me and watching ten hours straight of political shows on CNN...well, let’s just say that my tender ego would never survive. Which means I’ll never ask.

Now I’ve never been one of those girls who changes what she likes for a boy. Except that one unfortunate boy who liked me to wear baseball caps all the time...maybe I gave in to him a little. He was a very good kisser. Allowances needed to be made. But other than him, it’s just not my scene. I figure you’re not really meant to have all the same interests anyways, right? Like shopping. The last thing I ever want a man to do with me is shop. I have friends who are much more fun and have much better taste to take shopping with me. Plus, they won’t sigh when I say things like ‘just one more store, I promise.’

But Chester and politics go together like peanut butter and jelly. It’s not just a hobby of his. It’s his whole life. He is politics. On one of our first dates we were sitting in a pub and he was telling me a story about a girl who didn’t know who David Miller was. We both laughed heartily at her ignorance. He went to the washroom and the bartender whispered to me ‘He’s the mayor of Toronto.’

So I’ve decided to take a marginal, begrudging and taciturn interest. For his sake. Because it seems to make him happy and I guess I’m sort of a nice person on some level. So the last time I visited him in his disturbingly clean apartment and he wanted to talk politics I thought, fine. I have a glass of wine. The sun is shining. I can afford to be generous. Besides, how boring could it be?

Mind-numbingly boring. Wanting to scream and run from the building boring. Lose my appetite and maybe even take a little nap while he’s not looking boring. Not that Chester is boring...no. Chester if you’re reading this, you are not boring. You are more fun than a barrel of monkeys.

Let’s be honest here – there’s only so much you can say about politics. Particularly if you’re discussing it with someone like me. I have the attention span of a gnat. He was trying to tell me something about a no confidence vote and all I was thinking was “Hmm, his patio door is wide open. I wonder if a bird could fly in here? Would it be rude of me to ask him to go shut the door? I wonder where we’re going for dinner? Should I wear my new black top?” You see what I mean.

However I do have a solution. Screw the Liberals, the Conservatives, the NDP’s. We need a Magic Party. We need a Minister of Magic, just like in Harry Potter. How much more fun would that be? You want me to get behind a candidate? Tell him he has to transfigure my cat into a laptop. Michael Ignatieff wants us to support a no confidence vote? (see? I did listen a little) Sure. As soon as he can levitate and use non verbal spells, I’ll be happy to hear anything he has to say about the budget.

After all, why the hell are we voting for these people? They aren’t any different from us. I want them to be significantly better at something before I vote for them. Even if one of them was a superior juggler...I might be able to jump on board with that. Or an excellent thumb wrestler – I bet I could kick Stephen Harper’s butt at thumb wrestling. And if that’s true, doesn’t that mean he shouldn’t really be allowed to run the country? Shouldn’t he have to win at everything before he can run the country?

So that’s my solution. If we want people to get more interested in Canadian politics, teach some of these stodgy fools how to joust. Or compete in an arm wrestling tournament. You’ve gotta trust a good arm wrestler, after all. I bet that Iggy would get thrashed. He looks like a pansy to me.

Every Second Thursday

2009-10-05T10:22:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was a big day for me. First off it was Sunday and I had Chinese food for dinner, which meant I didn’t have to cook. Secondly I worked my way through about half of my laundry pile which meant the boys were all able to wear clean, matched socks to school this morning.

And maybe most importantly...I read some of my fiction for the first time in public. Only three minutes or so and as part of a group of other, better writers. But still...I read. Out loud. With a microphone and everything.

And I didn’t die.

My favourite book store on the planet, The Downtown Bookstore right here in Owen Sound, produced an anthology of short stories called Every Second Thursday to celebrate their third anniversary. (http://owensoundsuntimes.com/ArticleDisplay.aspx?e=1917565) And they let little old me write a story for them. Even though the likes of Joseph Boyden (Giller winner and general fancy pants) and Anthony De Sa (Giller runner-up so less of a fancy pants) wrote stories for them. Brilliant stories, cleverly written and everything. They still let me in.

I used to have visions of what it would be like to do an official reading. Back before anyone let me call myself a writer without smirking or rolling their eyes or saying ‘No really, what do you do?’ Elaborate pictures of what I’d do when I ‘made it’. Fooling myself into thinking that there would ever be a definitive moment when I realized I’d made it.

I was planning on wearing some sort of pencil skirt/fitted sweater/stilettos combination. My hair swept up in a gorgeous chignon and maybe I would even need cool reading glasses. Like those cat-eye reading glasses. So a sexy secretary look....I’m always alot prettier in my imagination. And my wardrobe is significantly better. Also, I wouldn’t be nervous. There would be scads of people there. And I would have driven up in my Mercedes or something, my life a perfect cocoon I carry with me that no one else needs to see.

Well- the beat up second hand Pathfinder isn’t quite a Mercedes. My jeans and sweater, not so much sexy secretary as good old mom. And nerves...Jesus. I was a maniac. I realized my story was ridiculous, not funny and whimsical like I intended. It sounded like a feature in Teen Beat circa 1984. I realized it made me sound like a dumb ass. I realized I probably am a dumb ass.
Luckily for me, I have beautiful friends. Who haven’t quite figured out I am, indeed, a dumb ass. Who are smarter than I am, who are better writers (Wendi from this very website being a notable mention...I had to read my story after hers. Her beautiful, haunting, gorgeous story that reads like pure poetry. Bitch.) Friends who make sure to sit at the front of the pack, who listen and laugh even when I’m not that funny.

And I’m lucky to live where I do. To have a column people seem to like and an editor who tries not to edit out my quirks...I’ve had the other kind before so I know how precious that is. Editors trying to de-quirk me...it sucked. Even though the money was marginally better.

Finally, after seven years or so, I don’t want to move. I am precisely happy where I am, shitty winters and all. I am glad to have a place to write, to have people who think I’m better than I am and shout me down if I’m too hard on myself. Lucky that someone wants to read anything I write, no matter how bad. Happy to just be drinking a coffee with my friends and fellow writers, all of us able to say without a hint of a smirk ‘I’m a writer.’

I’ve made it

What I See

2009-09-29T15:02:00.001-07:00

I'm cheating today. Today was the day for the Clean Water Festival and...well, I'm speechless. It's the end of an era. The last time I have to do that. So I'm cheating and posting my column as it appeared in the Owen Sound Sun Times today. Forgive me.

There are days when I wish I had a camera with me everywhere I went. When I see so much that I will never get back and I think ‘This. Right here. This is what I’m supposed to see.’ Today was one of those days.

First thing in the morning. Driving down 10th Street hill, stuck halfway up behind a line of 9 am traffic. I looked to my right and saw a young woman and a young man in the car beside me. He was staring straight ahead, his face set and miserable. She was turned in her seat, fully facing him. Watching him unblinkingly, her face full of things he couldn’t see. She loves you, I thought. Just turn around and look – you’ll see.

At Dufferin School in the morning. Jack standing in the line-up after the bell has rung, dressed for Spirit Day in head-to-toe green and gold, right down to a crazy hat. He is taller than most of the other boys in his class. He is already broad shouldered – something I hadn’t noticed until just now – and I think maybe he is a little older than I see sometimes. He comes to crouch in front of my friend’s little two year old, his face kind. “Don’t you recognize me, Sarah?” he whispers when she doesn’t smile back. He pulls his hat off . His voice is so gentle it breaks my heart. “It’s ok Sarah, look...it’s just me. Jack.” Sarah smiles.

And I see in that moment the man I am helping build. I watch him turn a little into something new, something older and wiser and even a bit sweeter. It’s only five seconds of time, but I see it.

Later in the afternoon, when I’m writing at Harrison Park. There is a young mom with her son at the new playscape. I don’t know her, but I know her. She is very young – maybe only 19 or so – and she is wearing all of the wrong sort of things. A sparkly top and tight jeans. Lots of black make-up that looks like it might be from the night before. She is there with her new boyfriend, and I watch her play with her little boy for show. I see it’s for show. I see her glance over her shoulder to see if her boyfriend is watching. He isn’t – he’s smoking a cigarette and texting someone, which I loathe.

I watch her play with her son. And I see the moment, the very moment, when she starts playing with him for real. When they are playing tag and he starts to catch her a little. And her laugh becomes real. They run in short stops and widening circles. They collapse in the grass. Her little boy reaches up and cups her face in his chubby hands. She kisses his hair. And I get to see her love him in a new way for the very first time. And I think, I bet they’ll be alright now. I bet the boyfriend won’t seem like such a big deal now. They’ve let each other in.

After school, Ben and Callum’s football game. I watch from the sidelines, not understanding much as usual. But I’m there. I’m there. Ben won’t play in this game – it’s only for the seniors – but he is carrying around a clipboard and a pencil so I guess he feels important. I hear the coach call out ‘Ben!’ near the end of the game, the score so tight no one can breathe. I see Ben’s whole body tense, I feel him thinking, This is it, this is it, this is it. ‘Ben – throw me your pencil!’ Ben slumps a bit. Then rebounds, squaring his shoulders, determined not to give up hope that some day, he will be at the bottom of that pile of legs and shoulders and sweat. Holding the ball tight in his arms, the game won on his back. Callum comes off the field, strutting past his brother a little. But smiles too, friendly. He’s learning.

Jack and Nathan lie spread eagle in the field behind me. I watch them over my shoulder. They are whispering things back and forth not meant for my ears. They are pointing at clouds, their hands sometimes behind their back. Nathan swings his legs scissor-like for a minute and Jack laughs. They are feeding each other something I can’t give them. They are cementing something for later.

I didn’t have a camera at all today. But I don’t think I missed a thing.

Geisha Camp For Girls - Don Draper Camp For Boys. Cute!

2009-09-24T06:40:00.000-07:00

When I was a little girl I spent a lot of time at my grandparent’s house. We lived there on and off for a few years and later...I just liked it there. They always had ginger ale and mint Oreo cookies.

My Nana was a real lady. She would sometimes let me stay home from school with her and we would have little spa days. We would put cool masks on our faces for our complexions (at eight I already had dreadful laugh lines...horrid) and paint our toenails and wash our hair. We would eat butterscotch ripple ice cream out of tea cups with real silver spoons while we waited for our toes to dry. We listened to Fats Domino or sometimes Anne Murray, who I still love to this day I don’t care if she isn’t cool. And she would teach me The Ways Of A Lady.

Like how to walk like a lady. Heel-toe, heel-toe. A Nancy Drew book balanced on my head because that’s all Nancy Drew books were ever good for. God, what an idiot. Nana would practice for me and I still remember the scratchy wool feeling of our couch under my thighs, my knees drawn up to my chin, a towel wrapped turban-style around my head as I watched her. Her hips swaying, her toes tilted up just a little. Her shoulders back. And I felt then that she was passing on to me some of her power. An ancient knowledge that is a gift. The gift of being a lady.

She taught me how to speak to people, how to shake hands and make eye contact. My mother has that same quality about her, something I sometimes just about have but never manage to quite pull off. This direct femininity that is a power within itself. Nana and my mom could pull it off even if they were in their nightgowns....if I’m not in some sort of finery, I’m screwed. They wanted to pass this down to me not because they wanted me to catch a man or throw elegant dinner parties or become a perfect hostess. They just wanted me to enjoy being a woman. Which I do.

In Montreal, there is a new summer camp. It’s a makeover camp – and I’m not making that up, that is actually what they are calling themselves. (http://www2.macleans.ca/2009/06/16/it%E2%80%99s-%E2%80%98wife-camp%E2%80%99-for-10-year-olds/)

It teaches the girls poise, posture, conversation skills, wardrobe choices, make-up application and hostessing skills to list a few. So, like Geisha Camp. I mean – hey. I like Mad Men just as much as the next girl. Retro is in. But this? This is supposed to help a modern day girl struggling to find her identity?

Talk about a confidence boost! ‘You think you’re doing everything wrong and you’re being judged on looks and presentation alone? Well, guess what – you are! But we’ll help you fit into the mould, rather than the mould fitting around you.’

Why don’t we just go the whole nine yards. I could send my boys to Don Draper Camp, teach them to cheat on their wives, drink at work and smoke a pack a day. But as long as their hair looks awesome and their shoulders are broad – oh, and as long as they are good providers too – the world is their oyster.

Girls don’t need to be taught conversation skills...they need to be allowed to become interesting in their own right. They need to feel as though what they are in their skin is perfect and lovely and right. They need to think of make-up as fun paint – not necessary but a blast when you feel like it.

They need to feel the way I did when I was eight years old, soaking my feet in a tub of warm soapy water beside my Nana as she hummed softly to herself with cucumbers slices over her eyes.
That being a woman is a gift. Not a job.

Time After Time...After Time...

2009-09-21T08:44:00.000-07:00

It’s 1987. I am sitting on my bed in my pyjamas, slouchy socks the perfect purple to match my scrunchy. My bangs are huge, my hair is crisp from too much hairspray and swept up into a messy side ponytail. Cyndi Lauper is singing ‘Time After Time’ which just breaks my heart.

And I am waiting for a boy to call. A beautiful boy who I think really likes me. He seems to like me...he laughs at my jokes and everything (I won’t learn until I’m much older that sometimes boys might want to be the ones telling the jokes...). He always picks the seat beside me in class – or do I always pick the seat beside him? I can never really tell.

So he said he was thinking he might call tonight. If he wasn’t busy. I cancelled important plans to watch ‘Desperately Seeking Susan’ with some girlfriends because I didn’t need them around, listening in to what was sure to be an important conversation. I stayed in my room, parents and brothers and cat locked out. I was breathless. For hours and hours.

Of course he never called. I cried myself to sleep that night and for a fair few nights after. But there was one little whisper of hope in the back of my mind...one day, I thought, I will be a grown-up. With my own fridge and everything. And I will never, ever wait for some boy to call me again...

It’s 2009. I am drinking cheap wine purchased from – gulp – the wine kiosk at Zehr’s. I’ve just had a shower and I’m wearing my somewhat famous ‘writing pants’ – pink and purple striped pyjama pants I’ve had forever with an old ‘Molson Rocks!’ t-shirt from my bar years. My hair is long and let’s face it. Streaked with a whole lot of grey. I’m under the blankets of my bed, reading a trashy romance novel with lots of sex in it because I’m out of books. And also because I secretly still just like those books. I have two giant sons in the living room watching the original Halloween, I think because there might be the odd flash of seventies boob in it. They’re glad I’m occupied.

I have two little sons asleep upstairs but one or both of them will be down soon to crawl into my bed. Mostly I’m just pretty happy someone wants to crawl into my bed.

I am waiting for a phone call. From a boy. Who said he’d call...he for sure said he’d call. I think I like this boy. I think he likes me. He seems to like me. He sends me emails alot...or do I send him emails alot? I can never really tell.

I am thirty-seven. And I am seriously sitting here, waiting for a boy to call me. Seriously. And when I give up after only two hours of waiting (I have apparently finally learned a thing or two) I think...

Some day I’ll be sixty. And I will never have to wait for a boy to call me. I will finally FINALLY be a grown up....

No. Time. For. Coffee.

2009-09-17T06:48:00.000-07:00

In two weeks I have to go to the Clean Water Festival with my son’s class. And when I say I have to...I have to. At the school barbeque the other night his teacher used some sort of Vulcan mind-meld trick on me. It must have been that. Because I’ve been on this God-damn trip FIVE times now –count ‘em, five – and there’s just no way in hell I would have agreed to go on this effing trip otherwise.

The Festival is an all day event. I have to ride the bus with the kids. No fun moms go because they’ve long since learned to save their volunteer time for the good trips like apple picking and such.

The Festival sucks ass. And it always has either just rained or is raining while we’re there so that I’m soaked through. Lunch time – usually the time I realize I have not, in fact, packed a lunch for myself – is spent being entertained by a children’s entertainer who forces me to get out of my seat and dance in time to his shitty music. The most exciting thing we see is a toilet flushing from the inside. Seriously.

I can’t believe I’m going on this trip. Again. I think I’ve been on this trip more than any of the teachers. Twice with Callum, twice with Ben, once with Jack and now with Nathan.
At least now when I go I won’t be working a night shift. God, sometimes I forget how exhausting that was. For years I was a bartender. The bad kind, the kind that made you feel shitty for forcing her to serve you drinks. But it paid the bills....sometimes a bit better than this gig, I might add. My shift was three nights a week back then, from 4 pm -2 am.

And the Festival always fell between nights two and three of my shift. My aunt lives down the street from me and she would take the kids overnight. But still...I’d get home from work at around 2-2:30, sit and stare at the walls for an hour then fall asleep around 4 in the morning. Turn around and get up by 7 so I could be at my aunt’s house when the kids woke up in the morning (I remember becoming quite a math whiz, calculating the waking hours I was away from them in a week. If they were in bed by 9 it was fifteen.) We would rush through our morning to make it to school and then get on the bus just in the nick of time. No. Time. For. Coffee.

I would stumble through my day, putting on a big phony smile when my kid was looking so he wouldn’t feel like shit. I would eat an apple out of my son’s lunch and maybe have one of his cookies if he wasn’t looking. The complimentary coffee always ran out before I got a cup so that around 2:30 my eyelids would start to seize and stay at half mast for the rest of the day.

Then on the bus home, it would start to rain. Real rain. I would try to stay awake on the bus but it usually didn’t work. And I would calculate how much time I had when the bus pulled back in to school before I had to get ready for my night shift. Three, maybe four minutes. Then back into my uniform that always smelled like deep-fried chicken wings no matter how many times I washed it, a bit of eyeliner to make me look sexy but just made me look older, my hair in a ponytail and a kiss goodbye for the boys.

On the drive to work I’d tell myself, it’s probably not going to be busy. Sure, it’s always insanely busy when it’s raining but today...it won’t be. Then I’d pull in to the parking lot and barely be able to find a spot. The place would be packed with screaming kids and pervy old guys sitting along the bar waiting to look down my top. And every time I tried to grab a cup of coffee, someone would yell out ‘Hands!’ – which means they need...you guessed it, hands to carry food – and I wouldn’t get a sip. Then of course, because I was such a bitch all night, tips would suck. I would go home and worry about money, and not get a wink of sleep.

I really hate that fucking Festival. This year I'm bringing coffee.

Le Divorce...or at least Le Leaving.

2009-09-14T11:34:00.001-07:00

I asked my husband to move out on August 1st. Seven years ago now, though sometimes it feels like five minutes. Our kids were 2, 3, 6 and 7.

I forget sometimes. How it felt. To have one life and suddenly to have another, even if it was my very own choice. I forget that I loved him. I only remember the little things. Like how we had just painted our family room a weird shade of cayenne pepper that didn't go with our brick fireplace. I remember the way the paint was still so fresh it smelled like it might taste good. I remember thinking 'Two weeks ago I must not have thought it was so bad...we were painting our house."

That look in David's eyes behind his glasses stays with me. Angry but not. A mask he slipped over his cheeks so I couldn't see his wounds. The sound of Jack and Nathan's deep, rhythmic breathing through the baby monitor. Crickets outside our kitchen window and congealed dish soap crusting it's dispenser. An episode of the Simpson's in the background...I think it was the one where Patty married Sideshow Bob.

I was wearing pyjama pants and a tank top. Ordinarily we would have been having sex instead of breaking up. It was a hot night. All the boys were sleeping in their own beds. The dishes were done. Prime conditions.

I wish I could tell you why I decided it was over. We were fighting all the time. I remember that. Though I can't remember what the major fights were about. Mostly it was stupid stuff. Like what would we do if we won the lottery - he wanted to build a house with a fieldstone fireplace. Which is so not my thing. We fought about movies - he is a Charlie Sheen lover. I am not.

We fought about the kids. About the amount of milk he put in their cereal bowls and haircuts and bedtimes. He pretended to treat the older boys - mine from a previous relationship - the same way he treated our two and I pretended along with him. All the while thinking 'They're mine, they're mine, they're mine...'

But the truth is - I was young. so young. And I was stupid. I wanted to hurt him, to claw at his skin to see if I could make him feel...something. Anything. I couldn't see past hurting him, not then. I wanted him to love me enough. And he just couldn't.

The truth is I wanted him to beg me to stay. To kick down the door I hid behind and tell me I had to stay. The truth is I wanted to move back to my hometown, but I wanted him to come with me. The truth is, maybe I thought I could do better. Be better, with someone else sleeping beside me.
The truth is I knew, deep down further than my own toes, he just wasn't for me. And I wasn't for him.

The truth is, I'm glad I did it now. But for a long time - longer than I care to remember - I didn't know the truth. At all.

What A Man-Eater!

2009-09-10T09:44:00.001-07:00

OK - here is what I hate about living in a small town.

My boys just started back into school. I love their school, actually. It's like a Norman Rockwell painting - happy teachers who I know on a first name basis, gardens, trees...parents playing soccer with their kids before school starts in the morning. Moms and even a dad or two standing around with their coffees after the kids have gone in to class, talking about things like pie or the Fall Fair.

We're super invested in that school. I know the kids and the moms and the teachers. I volunteer sporadically. I'm there. Almost all the time.

So they know me. Or at least, I thought they knew me. See, Jack and Nathan have male teachers this year, which I love. I think it's great for boys to have male teachers thrown into the mix. One of them I haven't met yet. I was asking around the playground about him, since Jack threw his backpack at me after school and took off for a rousing game of four square without saying much. One of the women said,
"Oh he has Mr. __, does he? Hmm...wait until you see him. Yummy."

Being a normal red-blooded woman I said, "Oh - he's nice eye candy, is he?"
And then more than one of my married friends jumped in quickly with, "But he's got a girlfriend, Jen."

Jesus - like I was going to go and attack my son's teacher! Like I am so desperate for a man that they have to keep me on a tight leash, make sure I keep my raging mid-30's hormones under control. This isn't the first time that's happened either. Whenever one of my married friends points out a good-looking man, they usually follow up with a quick "Oh - he's married, though." Like they're warning me off.

The kids have gotten in to the act too. When we were talking about the aforementioned hot teacher who I have yet to see, Jack ignored the other moms as they waxed poetic about his manly attributes. But before I could say a word, Jack said, "He's too young for you, Mom. You can't date him."

Even though Jack has never seen me go on a date, hit on a man or have any male friends who aren't married to my female friends. I guess I must come off as a bit of a maneater. In my yoga capris and old t-shirts. Carrying backpacks and a large double double. With my hair in a ponytail.

Maybe it's time to shed my mom coat, throw on some stilletos and do a catwalk through the playground. Give everyone a show. Shake things up a bit. As the song says...let's give them something to talk about...

Note - check out the What You're Thinking Section when you've got a second. We're posting questions every day and we want to know...well, what you're thinking.

Tragically Un-Hip

2009-09-07T20:16:00.000-07:00

The kids are on their way back to school in the morning. First off I'd like to say I was morally and physically opposed to writing a 'back-to-school' blog. Just because...I mean, c'mon. Isn't that what everyone is talking about? Couldn't I come up with something just this side of more interesting...like sex. I could talk about sex. I've had it, after all. More than once. Everyone likes talking about sex, even people that hate it. I think saying 'sex' in your blog probably ups the number of hits you get by about 200% or something like that.

Sex, sex, sex.

But unfortunately, I am a simple sheep bahh-ing along with everyone else, lining up at Staples for foolscap and Post-its and pencil cases. So here I am. Writing about sending the boys back to school.

Now, I've noticed a subtle shifting in Mom-speak lately. See, for years we all talked about sending the kids back to school the first day and potentially having a champagne breakfast to celebrate the minute they were out the door. Maybe do a little soft shoe. At the very least, chocolate and/or massages were in order.

But lately it's all about 'Oh, I hate sending my little cherubs back to school! We so enjoy our time together - all the freedom to just be together and bask in the glow of our communal love.' A few years ago I could have called 'Bullshit' on that one, but it's a trend that's picking up steam. Too many moms are saying it now. Which means I'm going to sound like a right bitch if I laugh or mock them or question their sincerity.

It's like U2. You know, the band? When I was in high school, everyone loved U2. In 1987. I started loving them in 1988 when everyone thought they were lame. The same went for acid washed jeans and Corey Hart and perms. I was always at least six months off the trend. The tide shifts and I'm standing on the beach with my water wings on, waiting for it to shift back when I know damn well it's never going to.

Well I'm sorry, but I'm sticking here. I'm glad the boys are going back to school - there, I said it. I'm glad that I get six uninterrupted hours a day to work or drink coffee or do whatever I want except maybe housework. Now before you start thinking I'm a rotten mother I'm glad for them too. Glad the two older boys are psyched for football try-outs and my two youngest are jazzed to see who they get for a teacher (I know who Jack is praying for but I don't want to jinx him just in case).

I'm glad we get our normal lives back. That I actually feel like cooking them a meal instead of McGyver-ing something for them out of soup, Lipton's Sidekicks and ground beef (I say again - I swear I'm a good mom). I'm looking forward to making them a giant breakfast in the morning, to baking cookies for them after school. To roasting the good chicken stuffed with lemons and garlic for our dinner.

And I'm glad they won't be home. Because...I just am. C'mon admit it.You're glad they're going back, aren't you?

Let's all have a champagne breakfast tomorrow and let the good moms cry their crocodile tears and listen to U2. I hear they're cool again.

Candy

2009-09-05T06:36:00.000-07:00

I miss candy. I miss the way I used to feel about candy…see, now candy is such a complicated relationship for me. I know we should break up, I know it’s not good for me. I know that it’s never going to change, even when it keeps telling me ‘I’m sugar free!’ or ‘I have half the calories of a cheeseburger!’ Candy is what it is – it can’t really do anything about it. It’s my own fault for loving it the way I do.

But I miss the way it felt when I was still just a girl. When I was newly discovering candy. And it was all so – surprising. Varied. I remember the first time I tasted Pop Rocks. It was in front of our little town house we lived in for awhile, and we kids were all lined up on the curb with scabby knees and sticky Kool-aid fingers, hoping one of the adults would turn on the sprinklers for us so we could cool down. And my friend Christina said “Hey, I’ve got some Pop Rocks. Want some?”

Never before had I tasted such a thing. If one even really tastes Pop Rocks, that is. I mean sure, I’d already been experimenting with Lik M Aids. I had been eating Tootsie Pops for years and fake smoking Popeye cigarettes (the REAL ones, mind you, not those fake ones they have out now. The new ones don’t even have a red tip to make you feel like you’re really smoking!). Chocolate bars were already old friends of mine, especially Big Turks. Those were such a great deal, like licorice and chocolate in one.

But Pop Rocks…well, there’s just no going back after Pop Rocks. I laid back in the grass and let the chemistry experiment explode in my mouth, not tasting anything other than fizz and a faint bit of cherry but just knowing this was a big step. Pop Rocks are the French kissing of candy. No going back to a peck on the cheek after a really good French kiss.

After that it was no holds barred. I became a massive Sweet Tart junkie. I wore candy watches, candy necklaces and Ring Pops like I was Willy Wonka’s version of Elizabeth Taylor. I even got in to the hard stuff for awhile – black licorice cigars. That didn’t last though. Real black licorice tastes like dirt, even when they shape it into a cool cigar with little red sprinkles on the end.

Of course, my addiction was expensive. My allowance was only fifty cents. And my mother was forever trying to push broccoli or cauliflower on me. Luckily, I had a dealer. And I called him Grandpa. He was a Jersey Milk addict from way back, so he knew how to fix a girl up. We would go out ‘for a walk’ that always took us to the corner store. He would help himself to three or four of those Chunk bars that were always sitting by the cash register, and I would outfit myself with Red Hot Lips, Big Feet and purple candy shoelaces.

Candy was the universal language back then. If you met a new friend and didn’t know what to talk about, you could always mutter, “So, what do you think of those new Skor Bars? They’re something else, eh?” And your new friend would know exactly what sort of person you were. If you were fighting with your little brothers and felt really bad, nothing said ‘I’m sorry’ like some Bazooka Bubble Gum with the mini cartoons inside. And if you felt really bad, a Pop Shoppe Pop always sealed the deal.

Eventually, candy stopped seeming so mesmerizing. I ate it, sure, but it wasn’t the same. I might snack on some Cracker Jack when I was on the phone with a boy I liked, but I didn’t taste it. Not like when I was little. Candy wasn’t the side dish then. It was the main course, the whole point. And even though it was terrible for me, could have rotted my teeth and my brain…I miss it being the point. Because there was something incredibly sweet and innocent about it back then. Something pure. Something to look forward to, even on a rough day.

Something maybe even a little poetic about it. Like when there was a boy on your street you really liked and you didn’t know how to tell him and your stomach was in knots…half your box of Razzles said everything you needed to say.

I miss that.

Nathan

2009-09-01T10:23:00.000-07:00

Today my youngest son turns nine. I don’t know what is significant about nine...nothing really, I guess. It’s not like he’s turning double-digits or anything. Or heading into his first year of school or graduating into high school or anything momentous like that. All it really means is that I have all ‘big kids’ now.
Like most of my friends have littles. They get to bond over diapers or picky eaters or not getting enough sleep. And here I am, over in my boring old house getting eight solid hours every night. All my kids know how to use the toilet, although they have yet to master replacing toilet paper, so I guess that’s something. I guess I can complain about that at the next mom get-together.
Sometimes it sucks being a ‘young’ mom – as in, starting young. I sure as hell don’t look/feel young these days. My kids are all old now. I struggle to remember what it was like when my oldest Callum was two and keep falling back on the same five or six stories. “Oh, I remember when Callum took a permanent marker to my parent’s spare bedroom...” and then my friends are like, “Um – yeah. We’ve all heard that about seven thousand times Jen.”
Nathan was two when my husband and I seperated. In fact, we seperated seven years ago today, essentially. Wow, that just blew my freaking mind. I never made that connection before. We moved here the weekend of his birthday and my aunt and her daughters brought over pot roast because I was too confused and preoccupied to cook. Actually, I think I was too confused and preoccupied to do much when Nathan was two. I hate that his baby years were swallowed up by Le Divorce. I hate that I can’t remember the precise day he was toilet trained, or when he went on his first playdate or what he liked to eat best for lunch. I hate that he’s nine now and I don’t get any of it back. He doesn’t get any of it back.
He’s managed to turn out decidedly...original at least. Nathan is what we like to call ‘maniacally extroverted’. I don’t know if that’s the clinical term, but I also don’t know if anyone has his particualr brand of Nathan-ness either. He loves – LOVES – talking to strangers. The other night at our launch party for this very website, Nathan was like Miss Universe about to greet her public. He practiced his affectations in the mirror and gave himself a kick-ass combover. He asked me over and over ‘So – I get to talk to whoever I want? Really? You promise?’ I had to keep reminding him that he didn’t need to tell everyone about how he knows what a tampon is or how I usually work in my pyjamas (“And sometimes she works in bed! My mom can work laying on her back!”). Nathan is full of charm and wit and spunk.
So I guess I did something right. Maybe letting him sleep in my bed every night wasn’t so bad after all. And maybe...
Oh wait! I just remembered something. When Nathan was three he stuck a Playmobil toy up his nose so far we had to go to the Emergency Room. They kept referring to me as ‘the mother of the toddler with a foreign object up his nose’ and the doctor – who had to be cute, of course – was forced to McGyver a special tool to get the toy out. We almost missed Jack's very first Christmas concert because of it...and Nathan wanted to keep the snot-covered toy as a keepsake.
Happy Birthday, Bubs. I’ll remember this one for you.

Who Knew?

2009-08-20T07:39:00.000-07:00

I always wanted to be a small town mom. Actually I guess I always wanted to be a mom, really. I can remember being about eleven years old and saying to myself – ok, I’ll try to hold off getting pregnant until I’m fifteen. It’s probably sort of important to have a bit of a childhood and stuff. Plus, I hadn’t really met any boys who were cute enough to father my children. They were always missing that certain something in their eyes. That was before I knew how people got pregnant. If I’d known...well.

The funny thing is, I can’t really remember why I so desperately wanted to be a mom. I always liked babies, I guess. And toys. I liked baby paraphenalia in general – like strollers, car seats, cradles. Sweet smelling baby shampoo that never smelled as good in my own hair. Baby powder. Onesies. But why the hell was I so kid crazy? Was it dressing them in little overalls that had me salivating? Naming them cutesy little names with imaginative spellings like Kaerein? Good God – was it a control thing?

Who knows. All I remember is a general tug in the region of my womb, this gravitational pull thing that had me wanting a baby. Then another. Then another. Then...that’s right. Another.
Unfortunately I didn’t feel the same sort of gravitational pull towards marriage. Marriage – well I guess it was more a means to an end than anything. It got me what I wanted – namely Callum (15) Ben (13) Jack (10) and Nathan (9).

When my marriage ended seven years ago it turned out I could finally be a small town mom. My husband wasn’t much for the small town dad scene...seemed he thought viable employment and security were more important.

Jack ass.

Within four weeks of asking my husband to move out I had packed up my unbelievably small children and our entire big house, driven the two hours or so to my hometown and settled in. To be a Small Town Mom.

I thought I knew what I had coming to me. I would become someone who preserves things. I would become a pickler of various vegetables like carrots and beets. I would learn to build fires in my real wood-burning fireplace and walk a dog I didn’t have and grow flowers in the garden I swore I would tend. I would join water aerobics....because I just assumed my small town had water aerobics. It would be perpetually autumn, and the boys and I would walk home from school every day – possibly holding hands in one long, loving line – kicking up leaves and wearing browns and oranges from the J Crew Fall Collection.

I would instantly look thinner in a small town, I was sure of it. My ass would always look great in my mom jeans. My hair would have natural blond streaks and would be thick and lustrous. I would look like Kelly McGillis before she got her hair cut and starting looking like a dude.
The boys would be the star of every school play. They would have lessons in really cute things like the mandolin and maybe one or two of them would learn to play the banjo. They would take to organic broccoli and we would do family yoga together every night. After I’d gotten the fire going in our hearth.

We would have a hearth.

And there would probably be some man who lived on our street...some guy who looked like George Clooney but didn’t know he looked like George Clooney. I hadn’t quite worked out how we would work out...I was still a crumpled, bloody mess from my marriage after all. But even through the months of insomnia and throwing up and long lonely walks when I poured over every bloody conversation we’d ever had just so I could turn all of our problems into his fault, I knew that eventually I would want a George Clooney. Even if it was just for sex – most especially if it was just for sex.

The kids left to see their dad every second weekend. I was planning on using that time to explore the town, go for hikes in my LL Bean hiking boots and stop at local cafes for a green tea in the afternoons even though I loathe green tea. The staff would know my name. And I would belong for the first time ever. Because I would be the quintessential Small Town Mom.

I’m an unmitigated moron.