Oh the DRAMA!

Every morning I wake up shooting rainbows and moonbeams out of my arse and my offspring are the very definition of happy, well-adjusted children who could easily be mistaken for any of the kids on the Brady Bunch. (Minus the 70's hair.)

Really. It's like this every morning. If you believe this, I have a money tree out back I'd like to sell you, or a brand new truck, in mint condition, fully loaded that you might want to consider buying.

The reality is I loathe waking up and having to pry my aching arse out of my warm bed to start my day. In order to combat this, I like to spread the misery cheer.

Usually by throwing open my children's door and shouting at the top of my lungs "MORNING SUNSHINE! TIME TO RISE AND SHINE!!," just as I flick on their bedroom lights to blind them while simultaneously yanking off their covers. Nothing like ripping the bandaid off the morning wound to get the blood pumping.

I have also learned to make sure there is no books or sharp edged objects by their beds before I do this. Apparently, my ducking reflex isn't as fast as it once was.

But this morning, my children stripped me of my joyous moment and got out of bed before my alarm clock even rang. Apparently they were eager to start school after being trapped alone with me over spring break.

I'm choosing not to see this as a reflection of my parenting skills.

I sleepily listened to them chatter from their rooms about toys, school and the latest political scandal involving Hilary Clinton. As my son wandered to the kitchen to pour a bowl of cereal my daughter puttered in her room, perfecting her outfit and preening in the mirror.

And then I heard a blood curdling screech and the panicked cries for Mom.

Over the years I have learned to detect the subtle difference of these panicked cries. Sometimes they are just code for "Your ass is grass my darling sibling!" and sometimes they are more of the "My last piece of bubble gum just fell down into the floor vent and I think the world is ending!"

This panicked cry was the real thing. The 911 call of a child in crisis. A child who is facing imminent danger of having it's arm chewed off by a bear or a kid who just noticed someone was standing in the closet with a nylon over their head and holding a big shiny knife. This was a "GET YOUR ASS IN HERE NOW MOM! I NEED YOU!" cry.

There was no time for moaning and groaning about having to get out of bed. SuperMOM was needed. As I raced to my daughter's room (buck nekkid) I wondered if she pinched her finger in the door or if she accidentally shaved a bald spot in the side of her head.

My heart was racing. Hell, she really could be hurt, I feared. After all, I'm no stranger to family emergencies. But if I walked into her room and saw a chisel in her eye, well, she'd just have to pull it out herself. I've done that once before, I'm not going there again, I thought grimly.

"What???" I asked while searching for signs of blood. My son calmly handed me my robe. He's oblivious to his sister's pain. Hell, he was probably hoping for a chiseled eye just so he could yank it out and show his friends at school.

"SASSY is GONE!!!" she half cried, half moaned as I tied my robe shut.

I looked over to the hamster cage and indeed it was empty. The little rat had pulled a Houdini and escaped her Alcatraz.

My daughter was beside herself with panic. She had obviously never experienced taking her children shopping only to lose them in the racks of clothing in a crowded department store. Amateur.

Still, I had a rodent on the loose.

Oh, the drama.

Great. Now I have a stinking rat on the loose. In my house. My clean, hygienic house where I allow babies to eat off the floor. You know. The five-second rule, and all. (Plus, they're never my babies. Heh.)

This is EXACTLY what I needed first thing in the morning.

Sighing, I looked at her and said (in my most sympathetic mommy voice), "Don't just stand there crying. Start looking!!"

And so it began. The great rat hunt. The kids started tearing their rooms apart while I looked in the bathroom and in the kitchen. All before I had my morning coffee. I was sooooo happy. Not bitter and annoyed. Not at all.

"Facking rodents. Facking kids. Facking relatives who buy facking kids facking rodents," I mumbled under my breath, while moving the stove to see if the little creature had crawled behind it to seek shelter and food like all the other wild rodents who managed to find a way into my house.

After a few minutes of tossing their rooms into complete chaos, Fric and Frac came out empty handed. Fric was distraught and hysterical. Remind me never to be there the first time she does lose her kids in a crowded store. Sheesh.

"I can't find her Mom," she blubbered.

Just then Nixon, the World's Greatest Dog, Ever, ran through the house and jumped up to his favorite spot on the couch with something small, black and furry in his mouth. The kids and I saw him at the same time. As my daughter's heart stopped momentarily I recalled reading that Boston Terriers were originally bred to be ratting dogs.

Great. Nixon the World's Greatest Dog, Ever, just became Nixon the World's Greatest Hamster Killer, Ever.

Dammit, how many dead rodent eulogies can I think of?

Fric shrieked and ran to Nixon as I followed in hot pursuit.

False alarm. It was a small black stuffed animal that he was on his way to raping and pillaging, I noted as Fric pried the toy loose from his mouth.








Just imagine a black stuffy instead of his well USED rabbit.

"Oh, thank God," she breathed as she flung the toy down. "If he kills my Sassy I'll never forgive him."

Nixon was unconcerned as he snatched the toy back up and began to hump it. I have to admit, a small part of me was slightly disappointed. So much for the great ratting instincts. Useless dog. Not that I wanted Sassy to meet her maker, especially by the jaws of my beloved pooch, but this still meant I had a diseased house pet on the loose.

A few more minutes of panicked searching and my daughter was done. She couldn't keep it together anymore. She started wailing about how we'd never find her and how her most beloved childhood pet was gone forever and how the rest of her life would be forever scarred because she somehow lost her hamster.

Drama queen. She gets that from her father.

"Calm down," I soothed her, while trying not to laugh. "This isn't the end of the world. She couldn't have gone far." I facking hope. "Show me where you looked," as I pulled her back to the scene of the crime.

I eyeballed the location of the cage and the carnage in her room with her furniture all scattered and moved. I could feel the weight of the world rest on my shoulders now. This was it. This was the MOMMY MOMENT. The moment when your children look at you and believe you could save the world and make all war and peace just disappear with a mere snap of your fingers.

No pressure or anything.

"Did you check behind the bookshelf?" Yes.

"Did you check under the bed?" Yes.

"In the closet?" Yes.

"Behind the dresser? In the clothes hamper? Inside the toy box?" Yes, yes, and yes, she moaned.

All right. Time for mommy's super instincts to kick in. "Everyone calm down and be quiet while I think," I snapped.

Dead quiet for a few moments as I tried to listen for the small wheezes of a rodent only a few inches big. Because, you know, what the hell else was I supposed to do?

Suddenly, I noticed my daughter's French horn was in it's case, but the case was wide open. Immediately, because I am SuperMOM, I bent down to look in the case. It has a shiny blue velvet interior. Maybe Sassy was channeling her inner Liberace.





Yes, I really do look that good in tights surrounded by flames.

No such luck. Damn.

Still, my spidey senses were tingling. I carefully lifted the instrument out of its case while silently muttering curses about my daughter not picking a pretty sounding instrument like the flute. No hamster underneath the horn. I examined the horn and to my surprise, two beady little black eyes stared back at me.

Sassy had found refuge in the horn. Mommy saved the day. As I gently pulled her out (little bitch better not bite me, I thought to myself) my daughter gasped with relief.

"Sassy!" she cried as she rushed to grab her from me. "Mom, you're the best!!!" She said between smothering the rat with kisses. She gently placed Sassy back into her cage, this time making sure all the latches were secure.

(Remind me never to kiss my daughter on the lips again. Not after I saw where she had those lips. Eww.)

So our morning drama came to a quiet end. The daughter had her beloved rodent back and her and her brother toddled off to school like the good kids they are, while thinking their mother was a super star.

Who am I to tell them any different?

Once the bus picked them up and drove off, I wandered back into Fric's room while sipping my coffee, heavily laced with Irish cream. Hey. I EARNED alcohol this morning, dammit.

I looked at Sassy and then I looked at the French horn from Hell.

"I don't blame you one bit, Sassy. If I had to live in this room and listen to sounds of elephant's mating every day like you do, I'd try and find a way to plug that hole too."

I swear she nodded in agreement.

"Do us both a favour and next time just chew the mouth piece. No mouth piece, no mating calls from the animal kingdom to deafen us both."

That damn hamster winked at me and I turned around to start my day.

Maybe Sassy and I will get along after all.

Be Amazed

My family and I know better than most that life can change in the blink of an eye. You know, burying small children and pulling chisels out of eyes and that sort of thing.

Yet I am constantly surprised and amazed by the fragility and beauty our lives hold, even during our most mundane moments.

The sheer intricacy of our body's biology working every second of the day to allow us to take our children to badly made comedies or make an arse out of one's self while proving to a bunch of ten year olds that this momma can bowl just as well as that fat dude two lanes over who throws strike after strike (I sooo totally sucked but at least my ass looked cuter than his as I bent over); is awe-inspiring when you stop to think about it.

I have stopped to think about it. A lot. I don't know if it's because I bought the kids a bunch of books about the marvels of the human body, or because I miss my son more than usual or because someone dear to me recently had a severe stroke.

I can't stop imagining this sweet lady complaining about being tired and going to take a sip of her tea only to drop it down the front of her shirt. I can imagine the frustration and annoyance she would have felt as she looked down and saw what a mess she made and then looked across the room to see the television blaring on as her favorite hockey team, the Edmonton Oilers, skating for their chance to play in the NHL playoffs.

I can see her sigh as she started walking to her room to change her shirt. She would have hated to take any time away from her precious hockey game. She may even have waited for a commercial. I can envision her slowly unbuttoning her shirt while wondering if her headache would ever go away.

What I'm having a hard time with is picturing her sprawled out, face down, half on the bed half on the floor, when her daughter came into to find out what was taking her so long to change her shirt.

I'm having a hard time picturing her being loaded into an ambulance and rushed to the hospital.

I'm having a hard time blocking out the image of her slacken, twisted face as she barely clings to life.

I'm having a hard time coming to terms that I will never hear her laugh again or tease me about my hair or hold me tight and tell me again that God will help me through the pain.

In a blink of an eye, the mere whisper of a breath, her life and those who loved her, has inalterably changed. Forever. Her biology failed her. Like my son's failed. Like inevitably, yours and mine will fail us.

I had to walk past the floor where Bug spent most of the first couple of years of his life to say goodbye to my friend. Memories of forgotten moments with my son flooded my senses as I drew in the familiar scent of hospital air and viewed the same tired scenery I stared at for more hours of my life than I care to count.

I was at once saddened and overcome with gratitude to have this small sliver of my son's life back.

Until I had to walk past the same emergency room that took my son and never gave him back.

Then I was just another vacant soul wandering the empty halls of the hospital, trying to keep my grief in check and the tears well held behind my tired eyes.

I had to say goodbye to a dear friend who always had a smile and kind words for everyone. Life has once again changed in the blink of an eye.

The blink of her eye.

I'm taking today to spend with my kids. I'm going to revel in the constant beat of our hearts and other biological wonders pointed out in the books my children like to pore over at the breakfast counter.

I'm going to take the moment to be amazed.

Because life really is amazing. No matter what the next blink brings.

Hall of Fame Hair

The other day as I was getting my jacket on and getting ready to leave, my daughter came around the corner and asked me where I was going.

"I'm leaving to get my hair done," I answered as I bent over to slip on my shoes.

"Oh no!" She moaned.

"What do you mean, oh no?" I asked. I mean, there was no question about it; I was starting to resemble Medusa so I figured a haircut was a good thing.

"Frac! Mom's getting her hair done!" she called to her brother. Then Frac came racing into the room and skidded to a stop on his dirty socks.

"You're not going to do anything funny with it, are you?" he asked suspiciously.

I looked at my ego bruising spawn and then looked in the mirror by the door. I didn't look like a freak. Why were they suddenly acting like I just morphed into one? "Um, no. I was thinking of just getting a trim. But now that you think of it, maybe I'll shave it off."

"As if," Fric said as she rolled her eyes at me. (Sometimes I just want to take those pretty blue eyes and staple them into one place so she can't do the whole eye rolling snotty preteen routine with me.)

Instead I just asked her to define a funny hair cut.

Before I barely finished my sentence, Frac chimed in with "Any of the weird hairdo's you used to have before you decided to start growing out your hair. You're so pretty now." Clever boy, trying to sway me with compliments.

I patted my little minions on the head and hopped in the car to leave them wondering if I was going to pull a Dennis Rodman and come home with multicolour hair and MOM shaved into the side of my skull.

As I drove into the city I started thinking about my hairstyles of the past. Surely they weren't all bad, I thought to myself. When I got to the salon, my stylist, the incredible, amazing and most beautiful Carolyn asked if we were going to try something different.

"I think you'd look really great with that new bob Posh Spice is sporting," she said as she played with my hair.

I was tempted to try it, but my children's faces and their looks of horror flashed before my eyes. "No, let's just stick with a trim," I sighed. So boring.

When I came home my children peeked behind their hands that were plastered over their eyes and sighed audibly with relief when they saw I didn't do anything drastically different to my hair. "Nice 'do," they called as they resumed whatever game my entrance had interupted.

Still, I couldn't stop thinking about my hair choices in the past. I decided to crack open the photo albums and walk through time. Nothing like a little photographic evidence to prove my children wrong. That I am indeed, a high fashion guru, whose style choices are always bang on.

Snicker.

It started well enough. I was a cute kid, if I say so myself.

 
 

 

Of course, my mom was in charge of my hair style back then. 

Then I moved onto grade school pictures and remembered the time in grade five when my best friend Jen, cut off all her beautiful hair. I had to have the same cut. My mom pleaded with me to change my mind but I was adamant. I wanted a boy's cut.

 
 

 

My tenth birthday. I look like my son. 

So I may have made one bad choice. Big deal. I was ten. In the eyes of the law, I can't be held accountable for my actions.

Fast forward several years (it took that long to grow out) and I was 16, almost 17. It was a lovely day out on the Pacific ocean, just off Vancouver Island. Not bad. Not great, but not bad.

 
 

 

I pined for Boo the entire trip, only to break up with him a week after I got home. I blame my hair for my idiocy. 

Then I found this. Ouch. I was twenty. And decided I no longer liked being blonde. So I switched to strawberry blonde.

 
 

 

Reason #564 why my brother-in-law is not allowed to have a camera near me.

 

Which led me to this photo. It was Fric's first Christmas. Try and ignore my lovely 'do, and focus on the cute bald baby.

 
 

 

To think I conceived Frac with hair like that. My husband must have been blind.

 

Shortly after Frac was born, I decided hair maintenance was too much work with a thirteen month old and a newborn. So I made the decision to hack it all off, just days after giving birth.

 
 

 

>This is why you never hack off your hair when your hormones are in flux. You could look like me. 

I actually didn't mind the short hair, but my husband hated crawling into bed with a carrot-topped boy who sprayed milk from her boobs. He found it disconcerting. So I promised to try and grow it out.

 
 

 

That's when I discovered wings really can't help you fly. 

Turns out the length wasn't really the problem, but the colour. Boo wanted my blonde back. So I hacked it all off to try and get the orange out and start growing it from scratch.

I'll do anything to please my man. Heh heh.

 
 

 

I was going for a sexy brillo pad look. 

But I was easily bored and schizophrenic. When it finally got long, I quickly tired of the bland blonde and decided to switch things up by going dark.

 
 

 

Bug wouldn't come near me for weeks. Either would Boo. 

The brown wasn't rocking me. Turns out this gal has more fun blonde than brunette. But I was feeling bogged down by motherhood and heck, I was still young. I decided to try something more spastic trendy.

 
 

 

This is what my best friend calls my Oreo Cookie days. She's supportive like that. She had to hug me to keep from crying. 

Alright. That was definitely a bad choice. Compounded a few weeks later when my mother went out and got the exact same cut and colour. We were two Oreo's from the same package.

My husband threatened divorce if I didn't fix my hair so I hacked it all off and went back to blonde.

 
 

 

He was much happier with me. 

My hair was threatening to mutiny so I decided to let it be for a bit.

But then I got restless. Nothing like changing your hair to make you feel like a new woman.

 
 

 

I can't decide what's worse, the hair, the colour or my double chin. 

It was shortly after this photo was taken that my son died. I remember coming home from his funeral and looking into the mirror and not recognizing myself. I looked so empty. So sad.

I decided right then that I would never dye my hair another hideous colour again. I know it's ridiculous to correlate hair colour with death, but I'll never be able to be dark haired again with out being reminded of the worst time of my life.

So I stripped it and went back to my normal colour.

 
 

 

Much better. Even if I'm not sitting up straight and every guy in the room can see down my shirt. Heh. 

As I gathered up all the photo albums and put them back on the shelf, I realized my kids were right. I have made some facked up funny hair choices.

(Literally. The kids won't stop laughing as they look at these pictures. Ingrates.)

No wonder my husband lives in fear every time I tell him I am going to get my hair done.

Heh. That's half the fun of being a girl.

It's my hair and I'll do what I want to. And right now, I want to look, er, normal.