Better Than Gold

I had barely dragged my carry-on luggage up my deck stairs, thumping it behind me as I walked, and opened the front door when I was swarmed by eager teens.

"How was it? Did you have fun? Did you see your friends?"

"How was your panel? Did you kill it?"

"What did you bring back for us?"

"Ya Mom, what kind of swag did you bring us?" 

It took 12 hours, two planes and one mysterious Aussie band but I was finally home from spending five days in Chicago. I was exhausted and emotionally spent and in the five days I was gone from my home I had appeared to lose any ability I previously had to walk into my house and step into a parenting role before setting down my luggage. 

I stood there, exhausted, and just blinked at the rapid-fire questions being shot in my direction. As grateful as I was to be home I suddenly missed the silence the roar of an airplane affords one. 

My husband, bless his cotton socks, was sympathetic. "You guys, give your Mom some space and let her take her shoes off before harassing her."

My dog, bless his over-sized paws, was not as sympathetic. He eyed me warily; like I was a mirage his mind was tricking him into seeing and just waited. I sat down as the kids hovered around me and Abbott walked over to sniff me. With a great huffing sigh, he shook his body and then crawled onto my lap, staking ownership of me once more.

I'm pretty sure if he could have crawled into my womb, he'd be there right now.

He has not forgiven me for my absence and so I've a 180-pound hairy goiter attached to my arse. God bless the Mastiffs of the world.

"So Mom, what did you do while you were in Chicago?" my daughter asked as I was trying to move Abbott's pointy elbow from out of my bladder. 

"Well, I married you off to the conference co-founder's son in exchange for a goat." 

"You did that last year. I thought by now I'd be worth at least a few chickens as well."

"I settled for a lamb chop." Proof that I've mastered the art of haggling. (And that I was hungry at the time.)

My son, bored by my daughter's impending arranged marriage, asked, "Besides selling your offspring for livestock, what else did you do?" Little does he know I need the goat for his sister so that I can buy him a wife. It's all about planning for the future.

And so, at midnight, with a giant dog snoring on my lap, I regaled my teens with stories of what it is like to attend a giant blogging conference in a far away land.

"Well, I moderated and spoke on a panel with some fabulous women about the power of story telling."

Their eyes glazed over.

"No, it was really interesting. We talked about the importance of voice and connective tissue and there was a lot of talk about stew and how everyone needs a gay person."

They just blinked.

"Just trust me. It was awesome." It really was.

No really. It was.

"What else did you do Mom?"

Hmm. "Well, I ate bad food with my friends at what was possibly the worst Chinese restaurant in all of Chicago and corrupted the mind of a twelve year old in the back of a cab. That was fun."

*Picture snaked from Anissa Mayhew's instagram feed.*

"You eat bad Chinese here and are constantly corrupting the minds of young people all the time. Look at our team mates," Ken pointed out.

Good point.

"I chased some nuns all over a park, trying to get a photo of them. That was something I don't get to do often."

"Did you meet Queen Latifah?" My daughter asked, uninterested with my habit chasing. 

"Of course! Well, okay, no. But! I was on stage at the same time with her and at one point I was close enough to inappropriately sniff her hair."

Neither of my kids were impressed with my celebrity sniffing so I continued on, flicking through my camera roll on the iPhone.

"I played tourist and explored the city and took some really awesome photos of downtown Chicago."

Ya. TOTALLY AWESOME PHOTOS. I have dozens of these epic beauties. My eye is unparalleled. Good thing I went to all those photography sessions to learn how to be a better photographer. 

"Oh! And women kept coming up to me to ask if they could take pictures of my shoes because for once, I had cute kicks. At a women's blogging conference, this is important."

These are not those kicks. But this is yet another awesome photo I took, showcasing my epic photography skills. 

"That's it?" my son asked, while stifling a yawn? "Bad photos, lousy Chinese food and hair sniffing a celebrity? That's what you do when you go away?"

"Well when you put it like that, Nash, sure. But it's more than that. It's about the connections I make with people. Meeting new faces, celebrating old friendships, making new ones. Learning and relating and having new experiences. That's what makes these trips so wonderful. Well that, and I won't lie, Queen Latifah's hair is worth sniffing."

"You forgot the most important part Mom!" my daughter added.

"I did?"

"The SWAG. Everyone knows the swag is the best part of conferences," she explained, talking slowly as though I was stupid.

Right. The SWAG.

"How could I forget?! The SWAG! I brought back the best swag. In fact, this swag was so good I didn't bring anything back but this. Everything else paled in comparison," I proudly stated.

Ken and Nash looked at me, excitedly, their eyes lit from greedy excitement.

"What is it?" they asked simultaneously.

"It's in my suitcase. Right on the top. Go ahead. You can look." No sooner did I have the words out of my mouth were they scrambling to rip open my carry-on bag.

"This is it? The only stuff you brought back?" Disbelief and disappointment rolled off them.

I don't know why they were so disappointed. This stuff is better than gold when you have a 9 year old kid in medical diapers.

Everyone should have an unlimited supply of butt paste. 

*A big thanks to everyone who said hello to me while in Chicago. Thanks for making this trip so wonderful. 

*An even bigger thanks to the staff of BlogHer for putting on such a fabulous event. 

*The biggest thanks to the city of Chicago and all its residents for being damn awesome. Until we meet again. 

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.