Hot Mess

Last week I stumbled upon my husband and four year old son engaged in a very serious conversation. What happened? I had asked, when my husband emerged from my son’s bedroom. Did he throw something? “No,” he’d replied. Did he say asshole again? “No,” he had repeated, shaking his head in disappointment. “He said he wanted an alarm clock for Christmas.” That’s it? He just told you he wanted an alarm clock for Christmas? It looked more serious than that. My husband sighed. “I explained he should never have an alarm clock until he was absolutely ready to – until he had to.” Right, I replied under my breath, did you also tell him he only had one special flower and that once he gave it away he could never get that special flower back? “I just wanted him to understand that waking up to an alarm each morning isn’t that fun.” Perfect, I had concluded, we’ll skip the alarm clock this year and ask Santa to bring him some crack-laced weed instead.

It’s because of this association – alarm clocks are from the devil – that I was confused Saturday night when my husband became irritated to
learn the clocks went back an hour. That’s a good thing, I reminded him, it means you get an extra hour of sleep. He frowned. I wish we set them forward an hour. I glared at him and ran into the curb. You want to lose an hour of sleep?

Fast forward to yesterday morning and it all became clear. Setting the clock back meant that he’d have to wait a full extra hour for football to start. It did not help that he couldn’t find the Halloween candy to eat the time away until kick-off. I reminded him that sugar was from the devil
and gave him oatmeal and a grapefruit while I swallowed a peanut butter cup whole. At 7:00am he had already set his fantasy football line-ups and read the injury report. At 8:00am he had swaddled a pigskin and was rocking it in the bassinette. By 9:00am I feared a scene similar to Ace Ventura Pet Detective – graffiti on the walls, news clippings pasted on the board and traced into the carpet: fall forward. Should have been fall forward.

I, on the other hand, didn’t mind the time change. I reminded myself all day of how the kids would be in bed early and that I might get some time to myself. True to plan, both kids crashed by 7 and I celebrated by staying up late. It was all good until 4:00am rolled around and my son arrived at our bedside. What’s up? I asked him, did you have a bad dream? “I did have a dream,” he replied. “I dreamt we were at a friend’s house.” That’s it? You woke me up at 4 to tell me you had a dream we were at a friend’s house? “Yes.” he replied. Well, what happened? I asked, waiting for the part about the alarm clock that tried to slit his throat. “Nothing,” he said. “We were just at a friend’s house.” Was Meatloaf at least there? “Who’s Meatloaf?” Nevermind, go back to bed. “But I’m done sleeping.” “Me too,” came a voice from the doorway.

Within minutes, every light was on in the house. UFC 39 started in our bedroom and continued downstairs, followed by requests for breakfast and demands to watch The Princess Bride. By 4:30am I had them set up an inch from the TV with snacks and attempted to go back to bed. “What are you doing?” My husband asked disoriented, as though he’d just arrived back from his Avatar body. Fall forward, I said curling up into the fetal position. It should have been fall forward.  But by then he was already falling back asleep and I was falling apart.

I am seven months pregnant. It has been a long ride since my
last blog, which coincidentally was posted the same day I conceived this baby.
Gross, when you consider that April day was characterized by hairy bulgogi,
dirty change rooms and an evacuation from a contaminated wave pool. Not much
has changed since then except that I grew some udders and now wake up at four.
I own those dark hours in the morning.
Before the snooze button starts and the little people descend from
upstairs and assemble in the kitchen.

This morning I sat at the table and reviewed a story my six
year old had composed with a mix of amusement and pride when I came to the sick
realization that I had had a sex dream last night. With Meatloaf. I began
rubbing Purel over my body when my son arrived at the foot of the stairs and
after insisting I breathe on his armpit, asked if I could make him some toast.
I did both, hoping they would serve as distractions from the post-traumatic flashbacks of paradise by the dashboard
lights, behind the customer service desk at the Superstore and in a movie
theatre with really narrow seats.

My daughter arrived at the breakfast table next and began
rehearsing her story and finally my husband emerged from upstairs. You look tired, he commented. I took a
sip of my coffee. You know how Meatloaf
says he would do anything for love but he won’t do that? He nodded,
obediently drinking down his whey protein. Go
on, he encouraged. Well it’s not
true. I said. He’ll do that too.

He finished his shake and tip-toed out of the kitchen likely
wondering how he came to be surrounded by weird people. Have a good day, I said. You
too, he replied, patting my head. The rest of us finished breakfast and
headed to the bus stop where I learned my daughter had left her story at home. She
started to cry so I told her I’d run back and get it. What if the bus comes? She asked, panicking. Tell the driver I went to get your snack. Then I ran, like a bat
out of hell, on Halloween morning in the snow, 7 months pregnant. Body parts
clapped and shook as they had with Meatloaf. When I returned to the stop out of
breath and disheveled, the bus had arrived and my daughter was already seated
inside. The driver reached out her hand.
Here’s her snack, I said. It tastes really good folded.

With everyone gone his or her separate way, I returned home.
I sat back at the kitchen table and thought about the last seven months; the
lethargy of summer, the acceleration of fall, my complete inability to create
anything but human life. I looked in the mirror, examining my bulging shape and
dark eyes and despite it all, felt pretty good. I savored my remaining few
minutes of quiet, then left to pick up both kids for lunch.

My son and I arrived early at my daughter’s school and we
wandered the halls outside the office to kill time. It was then I noticed the
collage of photos posted on the bulletin board from the school’s welcome back
barbecue taken in late September. Families of all sizes and shapes partaking in
the annual tradition and there on the top, my own family spread across a picnic
blanket with me at the helm, legs apart, jamming a piece of processed meat down
my throat. My jaw dropped in horror. The size of my chest and belly. The drool
that appeared to be coming out of my mouth. The collection of used ketchup
packages at my feet. Then I looked over to see my daughter rushing towards me,
arms wide open, her first lunch date with me since the school year began and I
realized I would do anything for love, and taking one parting glance at the
hotdog photo, like Meatloaf, I’ll do that
too.

On Saturday we made an impromptu decision to go to West Edmonton Mall. My husband only agreed to go if it was in lieu of the Chuck-E-Cheese trip we had originally planned to honor our son’s 4th birthday. I was initially disappointed with the trade off. I had already stuffed an extra pair of underwear in my purse in case Chuck-E was planning on making a live appearance that afternoon. Fine, I relented. We’ll go to the water park instead. He packed the bags while I left to pick up our daughter from dance. Three hours later we arrived at the mall with our reusable Sobeys bags, bed heads and hoodies. The kids squealed with excitement while my husband and I moved our banjo s to the trunk and put in our teeth. Don’t you think we should have at least brushed their hair?

The water park was busy, being a Saturday, but still the line ups for the slides were tolerable. My husband formulated elaborate plans on how we would proceed down the slides and in which order. I could not tell if it was from his frantic speed-distance-time calculations or the stairs’ suspension system that shook considerably six stories up, but he looked sick. I, in the mean time, concentrated on subtle flexing in case anyone was watching.

In between slides we hit the massive wave pool – a favourite of both my children, because they enjoy drinking pool and getting pummeled by waves and inflatable tubes. I especially like it when my kids order me to get down while we’re in the shallow end so that I am in such a deep squat I feel like I’m either supposed to give birth to my internal organs or else trawl the bottom of the pool for fungal infections – or in the case of my daughter – for Band-aids.

What are you doing? I hollered, while swallowing a wave. I’m trying to catch that bad-aid over there, my daughter replied, diving into the floating bandage. I looked at her in disgust while a hairy toe jabbed me in the chest. That is disgusting, I warned, drowning. You do not touch anything you find in a pool. The four of us continued to float around dodging people of various grossness before we split up for more sliding.

When I returned, my husband was in a bad mood. What’s wrong? I asked. The lifeguards won’t stop blowing their whistles, he explained. Well that’s how they communicate, I argued looking up at the red-shirted teenagers posted on all sides of the pool blowing whistles and performing sign language. As if on cue, one blew his whistle and pointed in our direction. I made the gesture for me? while flexing my biceps. The lifeguarded nodded. See? My husband said in obvious distress. I think he just likes my shoulders, I argued, as the lifeguard pointed to his upper arms. Or he wants us to take off Hugo’s water wings. When I gestured back pointing to the water wings, the lifeguard nodded. See he wants Hugo to take off his water wings, and for me to flex my back. My husband gestured back to the lifeguard stop blowing your whistle then looked back at me. Why would he pick on a little kid? He said in dismay. Don’t take it personal, I explained. He’s just doing his job.

Suddenly all of the teenagers started doing their jobs by blowing their whistles and moving their arms. For a second I thought we were clubbing and I too started waving my arms like it was 1996 and I was in Leicester Square. Around the world, around the world! Then I looked around and discovered that everyone was being herded out of the pool. What are you doing? My husband hollered with a kid under either arm. Are you gyrating? They are getting out the nets! He nodded towards a group of lifeguards who began fishing for something in the water. It was then I sprinted past everyone, George Costanza style, and took refuge in the baby pool.

On this note we decided it was time to leave and proceeded to the locker room where we were forced into a change room the size of a broom closet. We were naked and hungry. I reached into one of the Sobeys bags and pulled out a container of mixed berries. What are you doing? My husband watched in horror. Everyone is hungry, I defended. The three of us swallowed berries whole while he said we were disgusting. This while he wrestled to put on a pair of damp boxer shorts with more holes in the crotch than the mesh lining of his swim suit.

From there we proceeded with tangled hair and chlorine stung eyes to the food court. Everyone insisted on eating something different and so we ate in shifts, sampling from each other’s plates despite scowls and protests. My daughter grabbed at some rice with her hands. Don’t, my husband cautioned, there’s hair in it. Hair? I questioned, alarmed, who’s hair? The people who work there, he explained. That’s sick, I said, as he stood with the tray. Oh honey, he replied taking a piece of meat from the plate, there’s hair in everything.

With below seasonal temperatures, March came in like a lion and I too arrived with a certain cat-like superiority. The asshole kind of cat that wears fancy boots and eats perfectly cubed meat from a crystal bowl. The kind whose name is preceded by a title.  After five years of flogging my writing, I had achieved a literary pat on the head in being named a finalist for the CBC literary awards. As a result I moved through the first few weeks of March with a sort of flawless execution. Navigating challenges with a certain feline air and cat nip optimism. Then the CBC short list was announced and I learned my essay had not advanced.

 Despite a letter telling me to be proud of my accomplishment – over 5000 entries! – I morphed back into the ali cat of February – the bedraggled kind – mouseless, milkless and according to my sister, fully mustached. I don’t have a moustache, I argued, examining my upper lip in the rear view mirror. An hour later I was perched on my bathroom vanity having it burned off. Why don’t you take out my claws while we’re at it? I have since spent much of the last month wondering if I was secretly the one with the moustache. Is that your mom? No, she’s over there – the one with the moustache. Or, is that your trainer? No, she’s over there doing lunges. The one in the green shirt? No, the one with the moustache.

Rejection, as does the suggestion of a moustache, blows.  The process of submitting your work for publication is highly personal. It’s like showing up at a job interview, butt naked and asking the panel you like? You like?

So here it is, almost the end of March. Still like a lion. Frost this morning. Temperatures below zero. Black ice and fender benders. Cold fingertips. Snow. And me, sans moustache, in my jacket with the fur hood, giving me the temporary appearance of a lion – a sign perhaps that I too may go out like a lion and not a lamb. Meow?

A few days ago my husband and I came across a program called ADD and Loving It! The documentary featured a number of people with ADD who were living successful lives thanks to implementing a number of strategies aimed at managing the disorder in adulthood. You should watch this, I suggested hinting he might find the subject matter applicable. With minimal protesting he turned up the volume. I sat there feeling pleased; a combination of the smiling grown-ups and the exclamation mark in the show’s title made me feel hopeful he might learn something. Then a few minutes into the program the host, clearly an asshole, outlined some of the symptoms of adult ADD. Are you constantly losing or misplacing things (keys, wallet, phone etc.)? Is your car messy? Do you “zone out” in the middle of a conversation, often without noticing it? Do you get bored easily, talk excessively, do a million things at once? Do you have trouble sitting still?

At this point my husband looked over to find me plugging my ears and doing a headstand. I knew what was coming. This way more applies to you than it does to me! He declared with an over-zealous smile. I pretended not to hear him. I frantically started doing some lunges. You totally have adult ADD. I argued that I didn’t and told him I was going to go get a coffee but I couldn’t find my keys. Clearly the work of a troll. What are you looking for? He asked. Nothing, I lied, performing a kickline over to the front door. This show sucks. I took his keys, and went to the garage. My car is not messy, I asserted to myself while stuffing things I found on the seat next to me into a grocery bag. Who doesn’t have a turkey baster in their front seat? Maybe a troll.

I drove to Tim Horton’s and came back to find my husband still watching the show. I sat down beside him and attempted to act normal but within seconds I was performing back spins on the hardwood. Did you see that? I said excitedly. Thirteen spins in one go – winning!   He ignored me. It says you should write everything down and use post-it-notes so you don’t forget things. I looked down at him from my then perch on the mantle and replied: Duh. He looked at me suspiciously. Didn’t you show up on the wrong day last week for an eye appointment?  I looked up from the Soduko puzzle I was doing while chopping carrots and doing heel raises. Yes, I agreed, but I managed to convince them they wrote down the wrong date on the appointment card. He asked, how did you do that? And I replied tiger blood. Duh.

I’m flying
(Flying, flying, flying)
Look at me way up high,
Suddenly here am I
I’m flying.

High up, and as light as I can be.
I must be a sight lovely to see.

- from the musical Peter Pan

Saturday started with the same frenzied sequence of events as it has since winter began. In separate locations my husband and I rammed small pairs of feet into the footwear of the moment; skates for my son, ballet slippers for my daughter. I noticed, as she rushed off to class, that I still hadn’t trimmed the laces on her shoes.  Next week, I vowed as I returned to the car to muse over the remains of the day. It was then, while idling in front of the studio, I stumbled upon a status update that caused me to spend the next hour wandering around the adjacent mall in a daze. A childhood friend and gym mate had died in a car crash.

I’ve thought a lot about her since Saturday. About the time I shaved the back of her head in my upstairs bathroom or the acrobatic duet we performed during the junior high fashion show. But I spent most of the time remembering the way we spent break time during gymnastics performing random acts of badness – running blindly through the equipment with our t-shirts over our heads, hoisting each other up to the nether regions of the gym’s stage, or crawling beneath it amongst the empty equipment carts and dust bunnies. All of these activities were performed with a mix of trepidation and delight: the fear of getting caught by our coach as we re-appeared from a hiding spot, combined with the incomparable spirit of adventure that seems to both magnify and peak in childhood.

It was only fitting then, that Peter Pan was selected as the theme for one of our annual gymnastics Christmas displays. I was cast as Peter and her as Michael – the Darling’s free-spirited youngest child. To solve the issue of rigging, trampolines were substituted to simulate flying. The dramatic opening scene where the Darling children are told by Peter to think lovely thoughts in order to fly was not a stretch for her to perform. She possessed a rare sense of optimism and joy. But while Peter refused to grow up, we did. We became teenagers, adults, mothers, but what remained in her was a sense of playfulness and hope. A disposition that implied life could be weathered through tenacity, hard work and lovely thoughts.

I lost touch with Leslie in recent years and when I got home for my daughter’s dance class on Saturday, I spent a long time just looking at the photos of her and her two young boys. After the release of her obituary today and the subsequent outpouring of condolences and expressions of grief popping up on social networks, I remember her again. Now, graced with wings she has learned to fly and I have a feeling she’s up there, second star to the right. A tragic, yet shining reminder to hug our babes and to think lovely thoughts: summer, sunshine, Leslie.

I was listening to the CBC radio a few days ago when it was -25 and the host read a letter from a couple in Cardston or Vulcan chastising fellow Albertans for complaining about the cold temperatures. It was the kind of letter that detailed all the great things the couple still did despite the weather, like taking their dog for a walk, snowshoeing, even building a snow man with their grandson. It was clear from the letter’s tone, the proud couple hoped for some commendation regarding their collective this- is-Alberta- in-winter-what-do-you-expect attitude. It was mildly reminiscent of those hockey commercials when Sydney Crosby talks about how it’s our game and part of our identity and we should make a circle and hold hands and sway side to side while eating Dempster’s sandwiches. It’s -38 in Alberta – let’s all make a snow cowboy and cause an avalanche.

I suspect the couple from Vulcan or Nanton did not, on the day they composed their letter, discover that one of their three year old’s winter boots had disappeared resulting in his wearing water shoes to the car before he could change into his sneakers at preschool. Further, that the water shoes had been ditched en route to preschool, along with his socks. That when they arrived at the preschool one of the socks had vanished and they were forced to crawl through the car atop hockey bags and gym bags looking for it.

I bet it also wasn’t garbage and recycling day and that trips were made in pajamas to the end of the driveway as to not miss collection, during which time their left nipples froze and bounced down the front steps and behaved like bubble gum when picked off the landing. That hours later they backed out of the driveway and discovered the garbage had been picked up but their giant over-flowing recycling cart was also missing and upon further review learned that they had backed into it, pushed it down the street while they reversed and knocked its contents onto the street. Later that the plums they’d bought at the grocery store didn’t fall out into the snow when they opened the trunk. That their truck wasn’t on empty and required a fill up. That their severely chapped lips could be mistaken for clown make-up, their toque for a bathing cap, their sensibilities for those of a guppy’s.

So props to the couple, wherever you may be in Southern Alberta, for embracing the cold with a parka and a smile while I admittedly whine and complain and hurl abusive slurs at plums. May your days be merry and bright and may all your Christmases and your Premiers and your Dempster’s sandwich bread be white.

We’ve nearly completed our trip to Orlando. It’s a dizzying spot. The Disney parks in particular. It’s the only place on earth where a couple’s engagement can be captured on camera with an entire family dressed in hunting gear gnawing on turkey legs in the background. Where characters perform step turns and sing about magic and dreams and shapeless people commandeer scooters, Wall-E style, over the cobblestone pathways. Where dreams are realized and strollers cost thirty dollars a day to rent and your son won’t stand, let alone walk and your children appear to be the only children in the line with ADHD or OCD or Tourettes or jock itch or a learning disability. Where, my husband voted, I would be most likely to get into a fist fight.

 Me? I replied drinking my third beer from a sock after a day at the park. What do you mean? He proceeded to detail two accounts from earlier in the day. You hated that older family in front of us in the Toy Story line. I didn’t argue this. As soon as we arrived in the 45 minute line and my kids began their we have no self control/we’re really excited/we have no spatial awareness routine, the mother in front of us announced that she had to move to the front of her party. From that point forward I made my kids stand a half an inch behind them and told our daughter to continue practicing her various bird calls. Do the sea gull one, I encouraged. The more they sighed, the more insults I imagined hurling at them.  Why don’t you line up for something more age appropriate? Or can’t you see you are the only people in line not accompanying someone under the age of five? I was so angry by the time we got on the ride I spent the entire time shooting my laser at the mother.

 You also called Woody an asshole. My husband reminded. I scrolled through the pictures on the camera and brought up the one of Woody’s backside. See? What was not in the picture was my poor dejected son’s reaction to Woody’s swift departure. Come back here Bitch! I called after him. None of this had anything to do with the fact that I had spent nine hours in the Magic Kingdom wearing flip flops equivalent in quality to the disposable ones they give you after a pedicure. Or that we spent almost an hour in line at Splash Mountain when they closed it for technical difficulties. Or that I slipped on one of the aforementioned turkey drumsticks in Frontierland.

 By the next day things improved. We mastered the FastPass (a way to reserve a ride and reduce wait times), packed sufficient snacks and water and rented a stroller. Then I noticed at the entrance of one ride a happy extended family of fifteen or so sporting matching red t-shirts being escorted to a secret line. Within minutes the sea of red were tumbling down Thunder Mountain. Did you see that? I asked my husband. They pretty much went straight to the front of the line. My husband watched from the queue as they climbed off the train. That’s because one of them is in a wheel chair. Seriously? Then why the heck did we rent a stroller? You can’t just rent a wheelchair, he reasoned. Right, I agreed. But it didn’t stop me from dreaming up ways I could convert my tube top into a cast. Zippity doo dah, Zippity aye, my oh my I have broken my leg, plenty of sunshine coming my way; I’m now in front of you, Zippity aye.

My essay, Asshole Homemaker, has been long listed for the CBC Radio Literary Awards!

On Monday half the family played hookie and I wish I had too. My daughter was getting over a cold and my husband was supposed to be getting over Super Bowl. But much to his chagrin it was stitches – not a hangover – that he spent the morning nursing. By lunch time we were bored and decided to go to Deercrotch. Deercrotch is a grubby mall next to Walcrotch. It is home to the Yangtze Buffet and half a dozen kiosks where you can choose between plush football sneaker-slippers, pan flutes or big-eyed ornamental cats that wave. There are a few big box stores, but most are small independent retailers with simple signage and non-descriptive names that should be replaced with names such as the all this merchandise came from Moldova and I paid fifty cents for the lot store or the more appropriate I don’t know what the hell I’m selling store.

My husband went to Flight Centre to book Disney passes while the kids and I browsed for shoes. After several minutes he met back up with us. Where are the passes? I whispered, as we have kept our pending vacation secret from the kids. They were too expensive, he argued. That’s not what we had in the budget. Discouraged, we decided to check elsewhere. I went to Sears Travel while the kids climbed on the rides looking for some flu viruses to take home, but Sears was no better. Let’s just go to Walcrotch, I suggested. He agreed but wanted to go back to Flight Centre. We parted ways and agreed to meet at Walcrotch, but on the way there, the kids and I got distracted by a large pirate ship with touch-screen games. Can we play? they begged, unzipping and tossing their jackets on the floor. Just for a minute, I agreed. We have to meet Daddy at Walcrotch. It was then I noticed I had said Walcrotch out loud, that my son was still wearing his pajama shirt, my daughter’s hair was fashioned to look like a nest. That I looked like Relic.

This is awesome! My daughter announced, destroying groups of coloured bricks with her finger. My son wanted in and started playing the same game beside her. I coached them from behind. You want to get the most bricks with each touch, or start from the bottom. After watching for several minutes, I too wanted in. I waited impatiently for the other patrons to leave but when they didn’t I shamefully sat down in front of a free touch screen and started playing the brick game. I pretended not to notice the two mothers exchange glances at my expense. I was frantically removing bricks, competing against my children, when my cell phone rang. Where are you? My husband called from Walmart. We’re on our way, I lied.

We suited up for the short walk across the parking lot when I turned to see my son’s nose was bleeding. I searched my purse and pockets for Kleenex but came up short. I did, however, find a giant maxi pad. It was so long it hit me in the face when I unwrapped it. I quickly began sopping up the blood. Why are you using a diaper to clean his face? My daughter asked. It’s not a diaper, I replied. Then what is it? I told her it was a medical pad and shoved it in my pocket. Sick, she said.

Later in the evening I debated whether to go to class. The roads were covered in ice and there was something attractive about staying in my leg warmers and eating stew by the fire. I also hadn’t done the homework, but after wasting an hour deliberating, I put on my boots and ventured to class. We did more stuff with Amy and Brett and I squirmed through the whole thing. I thought about coloured bricks. I thought about Florida. I thought about the Beachcombers, and the colour of the flesh that hung from my husband’s chin before he had it stitched. I thought about assaulting Amy and Brett. Then I pulled out my phone and stuck to the back was the giant maxi pad and I thought about disappearing.