Living a Lie

Thursday, July 18. 4:17 pm.

That's the moment everything changed. By 'everything' I mean nothing, and by 'changed' I mean 'stayed the same' but I just paid the dues for my poetic license so I figure I may as well use it.

I was sitting in a parking lot, waiting for Nash to finish his basketball day camp and that's when it happened. A glint of something shiny caught my eye in my rear view mirror.

A grey hair. My first grey hair. 

At 37 years old, I sprung grey. I know, I know. Ridiculous. I'm writing about ONE single grey hair. Clearly I need a bigger life. But here's the thing. My mom? She wages a war with white. My brother at 38, has more salt than pepper and my younger sister? Has an enviable skunk streak that I always said I'd pay good money to imitate if I had her colouring.

I was the one without any grey. And now I'm not. My family bragging rights had been revoked.

It's as though my always wheat blonde hair suddenly started darkening on it's own so that's it's a shade of dirty dishwater, not really brown, not really blonde and I'd spend the rest of my adult days trying to find a hair colour that brings any spark of colour to my head.

Oh wait, that already happened.

A grey hair is just another insult my hairline likes to dish out. 

It's like I don't even know who I am anymore. My entire identity was a lie.

(I did say I needed a life, right? I stand by that statement.)

Grey hairz. I haz them.

When Nash hopped into the vehicle the first thing I did was point to my forehead.

"Do you see this? Do you? Do you?"

He blinked rapidly, confusion written all over his face. "Um, do I see what?" he asked cautiously.

"THIS!!" I screeched as I pointed like a mad woman to my lone silver hair.

"Er, I, um," he leaned forward, seemingly peering at the hair in question. "All I see is a crazy woman and a wrinkle." 

"A WRINKLE! Not that! It's not a WRINKLE. It's a parenting line. They hand those suckers out with every baby you get. No, I meant the grey hair! I found a grey hair! My first!"

"I don't see anything. Except the wrinkled crazy lady."

My cheeky son may be myopic but the mirror didn't lie. My first grey hair stood out like a neon sign advertising the tragic end of my follicle youth.

I spent the night telling everybody and each time I got the same response. Ya, so?

It would seem, no one cares about other people's grey hairs because they're too busy hiding their own, or you know, having a life. Whichever.

I consoled myself by telling my reflection that it was only ONE grey hair. I can handle the boob drop, the cellulite, the chin whiskers, the nipple wires, heck; I even accept the loose neck skin, the crows' feet and the wrinkled brow. But the grey hair? Grey hair tips the scales into a direction I may not be able to navigate back from. At least it was only one hair. I had time.

Or so I thought.

As I sat in my stylist's chair on Saturday, shooting the breeze, catching up on each other's lives, I suddenly remembered my new follicle friend as she painted my dishwater hair yellow. 

"I found a grey hair this week! I can't believe it! A grey hair!" Surely my friend, my stylist, would understand my pain like no one else seemed to.

I expected her to stop painting my head and tell me to "Hush up! No! That's horrible!" Or tell me, "No way! Where? I didn't see it!"

I didn't understand the sounds coming out of her mouth.

It sounded like ... laughter.

"Took you long enough. You've got at least ten percent grey. Maybe more, Tanis."

Ten percent?! 

My mouth dropped.

"Ya, I didn't want to say anything. You've an entire colony right about here," she said as she tapped my head.

It turns out I've been living a lie. 

I have to tell you, I am okay with that. The lie made me feel good. Made me feel young. Next thing I'll find out is my ass is flat.

NOBODY LOOK. I don't want to know.

Now excuse me, I'm going to be obsessing over newly sprouting grey weeds in my garden of luscious locks while I wait to get a life.

Accidents Happen

When I was 8 years old, my brother and I decided to go spend the dollar we had each conned out of our father and go across the street to the newly built strip mall. My brother, Stretch, was riding a bike and I was on foot, and we were racing one another, smack talking and laughing.

My brother was 9.

One moment our laughter was dancing on the wind and the next moment I was shrieking like a banshee. I'm sure if my father hadn't been inside the kitchen frying beef at that moment for the pot of chili he was making, he would have heard my screams.

In the push of a bicycle pedal, time slowed down and I saw my brother suddenly flip over the bike and land on the pavement teeth first as the bike flew up in the air and then landed on top of him. 

His bike had hit an unflagged wire supporting a newly planted tree. 

I've never forgotten that moment or what it felt like to watch in horror as time crawled to a stop and I was rendered motionless as my brother's face hit the ground.

Nor have I ever forgotten what my brother looked like after. 

If I could trade my front teeth for his I would. Maybe. Okay, probably not, but if you are reading this Stretch, I still feel really bad about it. And I'm sorry I ran off and abandoned you and didn't stop to help you find your teeth. It may not have been my finest hour. 

Time always slows when accidents happen.

This weekend, I was out with Knox and Ken and time stood still once again. 

For as long as I live, I'll never forget turning around to get Knox only to realize he wasn't there. He was just out of my arm's reach, slowly rolling towards a cement curb. My fingers were out stretched and almost around his handlebars when his tires bumped against the curb and flipped the chair.

As fast I could move it still wasn't fast enough. Time slowed down as I heard my daughter's screams and we watched her brother's face hit the ground. 

Like me, I'll know she will never forget what her brother looked like afterwards.

Like his uncle, he too was 9 when he kissed the pavement.

Toothy symmetry.

I may have developed a pathological pattern for the destruction of boy's smiles.

Accidents happen.

It was a combination of mechanical failure, bad luck and my stupidity and I could only be thankful Knox rolled toward the curb instead of towards traffic. Bright sides can always be found and perspective was needed, as I told myself, over and over again while holding my bleeding son against me. 

Nobody died. Teeth can be replaced.

Two hospitals and seven hours later, I held Knox in a dental chair, him on top of me, as I used all my strength and my body to restrain him as the emergency dentist tried to remove the fragments of his teeth that were choking hazards and rip out the nerves to deaden the pain for him.

That was the day I learned my son, with his paralyzed little vocal chords, sounds exactly like a lamb screaming when he cries. I didn't even know Knox could scream.

Clarice and I are forever haunted.

It was horrifying and hard, for everyone but most especially my son.

When it was all said and done, Knox had a broken nose, road rash and four cracked permanent teeth.

It could be worse. Nobody died. Teeth can be replaced.

I just kept telling myself that as I stood behind Knox's wheelchair, waiting for the elevator, as I tried to block out the memory of the day's nightmare. Knox's pain was finally managed but he was exhausted from his harrowing adventure and so he sat folded over in his chair, his face parallel with the ground, as he stared at his feet.

I didn't have the heart to tell him to sit up. Poor kid wants to drool on his toes, I'll let him, I thought.

A little old lady approached to wait for the elevator and she saw the back of Knox, folded over, with all his beautiful hair, scooped up into a ponytail on top of his head to keep it out of the carnage that was his face.

"Oh, your daughter has such beautiful hair," she remarked and I just gave her a weary smile, not caring to correct her about my son's gender. Screw it; he can be a girl until we get out of here, I thought to myself.

Knox started to make gurgling sounds, and the grey haired woman stepped closer to him and asked him, "And what's your name, beautiful?" 

As I was about to answer for Knox, time once again slowed down as my beautiful son suddenly decided to sit up as tall as possible and smile as wide as he could at that poor little old lady.

It was a beatific smile, filled with broken teeth shards and blood oozing around his pearly whites. A mixture of saliva and blood dripped down his face and his nose was crusted with dried blood. 

Knox looked at this old lady and I thought I saw him wink.

Of course he didn't, but upon seeing Knox the woman's face contorted in horror and she gasped loudly just as the elevator doors opened. Oddly enough she decided to take the stairs.

I burst into laughter. I couldn't help it. Knox has my sense of humour. God bless him.

A few hellish days later along with some emergency surgery and Knox is back to himself. He looks a little different but I'm still grateful he didn't lose more teeth. It could have been worse. 

It can always be worse.

Of course, I still can't close my eyes without seeing his face hit the cement and I can't stop hearing Knox's lamb-like screams ring in my ears, but I know this will pass.

Eventually I'll be able to look at my son, with his new toothless grin, and I'll be able to see the beauty in it once more.

I'll be honest; it won't be today. Every time he smiles and I see the gaping craters left in the absence of his teeth along with the stitches and his newly pointy side teeth, (chipped then filed and saved, yay!) I'm reminded just how quickly accidents can happen and just how slow time can move so that the brain can fully remember the horror.

Nobody died. Teeth can be replaced.

I will just keep telling myself that for the next 9 years of so until we can have his smile fixed.

Salted Caramels

On my fourteenth birthday, I applied for my first job. Oh sure, I had a paper route when I was 11 and I babysat regularly for neighbours but this job meant I'd be a clerk in an giant clothing store housed within an oversized mall. It was a real job. I was hired on the spot; so desperate the manager was for help. I went home, triumphant and excited, so thrilled to tell my parents my news.

My mom, she was less excited. Her maternal worries about my age, my grades, my childhood in general all sucked the air out of my balloon of exuberance. I remember standing in her sewing room explaining why it was a great idea that I have a part time job while she stood there looking less than thrilled.

She relented and the very next day I started my job. 

I can still remember the smell of the dusty back room and the hours I spent putting clothes onto flimsy plastic hangers and shoving them into over stuffed racks. It wasn't a great job, but it was my job.

It was the first of many crappy jobs. Clothing stores, daycares, hobby shops, movie theatres. I learned that one minimum wage job was as bad as the next and was convinced retail was Dante's first level of hell. 

Fast-forward to a few weeks ago and suddenly my fifteen-year-old son was standing in front of me explaining that he was offered a job and it's a really great idea as I stood there looking less than thrilled. 

But like my mother did before me, I swallowed my maternal worries, nodded my head and sent my baby off to his first day of work.

Nash, the friendly neighbourhood construction gopher, after his first day at work.

Just when I was coming to terms with the fact my son had willingly traded away his summer in pursuit of hard labour and the almighty dollar, my daughter walked into the house and jumped up and down excitedly about a paid internship at the local hospital and could I believe they chose her?

I wouldn't have believed it if they hadn't chose her. 

Ken, the friendly neighbourhood pediatric intern, after HER first day of work.

My visions of spending my summer kicking back by the pool, having the teens wait on me hand and foot, evaporated as quickly as the dollars from my bank account did after purchasing steel toed work boots, comfortable walking shoes and more business casual clothes than I have ever owned in my life.

Having two working teenagers sure cost me a lot of money. I must be doing this job thing wrong.

Every morning I watch Ken and Nash leave for work and every evening I watch them come back home and I can feel the sands of time slipping through my fingers. I'm watching these kids of mine play grownup now but soon enough I will blink and they won't be playing at it any more.

One day soon enough they'll leave for something bigger than me and they won't walk back through my door at the end of every day. 

It's sweet and salty all at once. Like biting into a salted caramel. 

I thought I had parenthood finally figured out but it turns out I have no idea how to do the one thing I need to do the most: Learn how to let them go.

So I'll just keep watching them come and go, new milestones reached with every day that passes and I'll keep holding them tight for as long as they let me until they've taken all that they need to be the people they are becoming. 

In the mean time, I'll always have salted caramels.