I Have A Sickness And So Might He

You'd think that since my husband was only home for seven hours (three of which he was sleeping) he'd have had little time to actually do anything but cuddle with his children, pack his suitcase for his week long man-cation in Vegas and maybe try and rub up against me a little.

You'd have thought wrong.

He found time to yell at me too.

He's a big meanie that way.

In his defence, I may have done something I said I wouldn't do anymore.

I bought more eyeglasses. And I may have, accidentally, forgot to mention it to him.

What can I say? I have a sickness. I'm addicted to eye wear.

He gave me the side eye when he walked through the door but with our kids climbing all over him and me batting my eyelashes at him, he refrained from saying anything. I knew he could tell something was different about me but I figured since he didn't outwardly acknowledge the new optics on my face, I wasn't going to point them out.

But when he walked into my bathroom to fetch toiletries for his trip, he noticed several new glasses cases on our vanity.

"Um, Tanis? Do you have anything to say about this?" he asked as he came out holding three different pair of new frames.

"They were pretty?" That's always my excuse.

"Uh huh. They always are." And then he rolled his eyes.

"But since you noticed Boo, wanna see them on me?" Because nothing gets this geek's motor running like modelling new glasses.

It's a sickness I tell ya.

"Um sure," he shrugged as he walked back into the bedroom to continue packing. Oh sure, he acts noncommittal but secretly I know he was just dying to see how I looked in my new glasses.

No really.

So I put on the first pair of new glasses I bought online.

"Well, what do you think?"

His response?

"You look like a knob."

Ok then. "Well, hang on a sec, what about these then?" I asked as I slipped on the second new pair I bought.

He looked up from stuffing shirts into his suitcase (side note: He wasn't even FOLDING them! He was balling his clothes up like used socks. And he judges me by my eye wear. Puh-lease.)

His reaction?

"Dear lord, it'll be like having sex with my Nana."

"You have no taste."

"Apparently, neither do you. No wonder we're married."

Haha. Funny guy.

"Okay, what do you think about these? I bought them on a lark."

He looked up and I braced myself for more negativity.

His response?

"Oh! Now those I like!"

Wait, whaa?

"Really? You like these? I mean, so do I, but why do YOU like them?"

He stopped and looked at me for a second as I pushed the glasses up my nose and then he smiled.

"I like them because they totally remind me of your friend, Mr. Lady. She's hot."

Great. Now even my husband thinks I look like her.

Which would be fine, except when I was getting into bed he looked up and said, "Wait, I was kinda hoping you'd wear the red glasses to bed."

Um, think again buddy.

I'm burning these suckers.

Somebody Had Better Change My Bed Sheets

Five years ago when my husband decided to leave me, er, I mean, work away from home, I told myself our situation was only temporary and I'd see him soon. I told myself the quantity of time we spent together didn't matter as much as the quality of time we created.

Five years ago I may have been a bit of a raging dumb arse.

Half a decade later and I've decided I want quantity of time over quality. Because, frankly, I'm tired of solo parenting two teens and a disabled boy while being singly responsible for having to change the bed sheets every time my dog decides to barf on them. Which happens about every other night.

The upside to my husband's continual and seemingly perpetual absences is that I'm saving a truckload of money on razor blades. Personal grooming has flown out the window and our heating bills have been reduced. When one grows a yeti-like coat of fur one tends to stay warm. My glass is always half full.

Still, I'd rather have him home, zoned out beside me watching documentaries on insects or war (his two personal favourites) or lost to the cyber world of online gaming than 600 km away, where he has his own personal housekeeper/chef and the luxury of yak-free dog vomit-less sheets.

I'm petty and selfish that way.

I shouldn't complain really. I mean I just saw him a week ago. For three whole hours. 3 hours after not seeing him for 31 days.

Three hours.

You know what we did in those three hours? Nothing fun, I can assure you. He sorted through the rubble of laundry for clean clothes and I yelled at him that his sprained foot wasn't sprained but actually broken. "Why haven't you gone to see the doctor??"

"I did! Three weeks ago when I fell! They said it was sprained!"

"They're morons! You don't have to be a trained medical profession to see your damn ankle bone is practically popping through your skin! Get to the damn hospital!"

So he did. And what do you know? The ankle is broken.

The sad part of this tale, besides the fact my husband now requires orthotic surgery and is hobbling around on crutches on a painful break, is the fact I wasn't even able to lord it over him that I was right. Because he had to go back to work.

His damn job is robbing me of my gloating privileges.

Never mind that it allows us to put food on the table, a roof over our head and a computer for me to whine to the internets.

So when my husband called last night to tell me he'd be home this Tuesday night, I was a little giddy. I started to mentally prepare a honey-do list to hand to him the moment he walked through the door. His presence would mean I wouldn't have to be responsible for getting our daughter to a volleyball tournament half way across the province, the garbage would get taken to the dump, and I could sleep on freshly laundered sheets that I wouldn't have to change.

"Um, don't get too excited there Tanis. I'm only home for 7 hours. And then I am gone again."

Wait. Whaaa?

"Did you forget? I'm going on vacation. I have to leave at 3 in the morning to catch my flight to Vegas. Remember? My annual boys trip?"

Curses. I can begrudge the man a lot of things, like having a housekeeper/chef/ample free time but I can't begrudge the man his annual man's trip. Every person, regardless of his or her sex requires some good old-fashioned friend time.

"Seven hours?"

"Ya, and that's if traffic is good and I can get home quickly."

I mentally tabulated the amount of time I'll have spent with him before I actually get to see him for a whole day again.

"You realize that means in 62 days we'll have seen each other for 10 whole hours?"

Silence.

"That kinda sucks dude."

"Ya, I know. I'm sorry."

There is no reason for him to apologize, not really. We're lucky he has stable employment and we're even luckier that we have managed to remember that we still like each other through all the absences.

But still.

10 hours does not leave a lot of time to scratch things off the old honey-do list or allow for me to comfortably gloat that I am always right.

"I'll make it up to you. I'll bring you an awesome souvenir."

"Oh goody. I like things that sparkle. Or that are named Siri."

"Oh. Well then I guess I won't bother with that key chain I was planning on."

Good idea Boo.

Aim higher. Or at least spring for a matching tee shirt.

Either way, I'm totally not going to bother shaving my legs.

See? My glass? Still half full.

 

Six And Eight: Hell By Numbers

I put on a happy face this morning when I woke up and greeted my children like today was another regular day.

I picked Knox up and held him tight and whispered birthday wishes into his ear as he squirmed for freedom. "You're eight today, cub," I announced as I slathered kisses on his cheeks wet from drool.

I hugged Fric and Frac and told them to try and enjoy their day and to remember it's their little brother's birthday and I promised them it was okay to feel any way they wanted to. My daughter blinked back tears as she nodded; clutching her Shale bear tight and bravely smiled and said "Today's the day we celebrate for Knox."

Frac was remained quiet but I caught him singing Happy Birthday to Knox as he wrestled his brother into his splints and shoes. Frac is the only one who can seem to get them onto Knox's feet.

I watched all three of my children walk down the drive, somber and confused, and then I cried.

I was surprised I could hold the tears back for as long as I did, to be honest.

I feel like a failure as a mom, because what type of mother can't celebrate the birth of her child?

The type of mother, I suppose, that watched her other son die on the same day her other child was born.

Beginnings are hard, endings are harder. And it's all too much when they fall on the same damn day.

October 21 took one son away from me and then later gave me another. The irony of this is lost on me as I struggle to maintain my composure for those around me. I don't know how to graciously accept birthday wishes while listening to hushed whispers of condolences. It's the hardest thing to do and it's my own personal version of Ground Hog's day hell for every calendar year to follow.

The gift of my beautiful child Knox and his life has been marred by the loss of the brother he will never know. Nothing in life is free or fair. My new son came with a price tag, one that we were willing to accept but without really understanding the cost.

One day of hell for a life time of gain, I suppose. A deal with the devil, a fair trade.

But it's so fucking hard, and I haven't found the balance yet. I don't know how to weep for the loss of a child I loved so dearly my world collapsed in his absence while celebrating the birth of another son who I love so dearly my world is righted by his presence.

I can't wish October 21 off the calendar because without it my son wouldn't be here.

But with it, my other son is lost to me forever.

I haven't found a way to reconcile the two just yet and I don't know if I ever will.

Six years ago I watched as my Shale died, uselessly and without purpose or warning, taking with him a joy I've never been able to replace. Our family fractured forever and there is no glue in the world to fix the cracks we all collectively share. That Tanis, that mother, that person, she no longer exists. And I'm learning six years is still not long enough to dull the pain that flows through my heart and cripples my soul.

I miss my son. Wildly. I still wake up at night to be crushed with the realization he isn't just down the hall from me, snoring softly in his room. He no longer exists except for in my heart and the memories of those who loved him.

But eight years ago, my son Knox was born, unbeknownst to me. A culmination of circumstances and horror lead him to our family, and his presence breathed new life into all of us. His unrelenting joy and loving spirit has brought a peace to all of us as we listen to him snuffle in his sleep.

A bed that was empty is once again filled.

But the memory of who is lost haunts me, us, and casts a permanent shadow on our lives.

Six years and the shadow is still long and dark. I was foolish to hope this grief and sorrow would be a terrible memory by now.

I'm so sorry Shale that I couldn't save you. And I'm so sorry Knox that I can't celebrate your birth with wild abandon and joy. I'm still broken inside. There is not a day that goes by that I'm not gripped with a fierce love and thankfulness that you exist and that I can call you mine. But for one horrible day of the year I am all yours. Completely and unreservedly.

But today, today you have to share me with the brother you never knew. And I am so terribly, absolutely sorry for that.

Happy eighth birthday my beautiful Knox. We love you more than any words can ever express.

I'm so sorry Shale. What if's and wishes tear at my heart and we, I, miss you so much it hurts to breathe. You are not forgotten. We love you still. Absolutely. Always.

One day I'll be able to let go.

But it likely won't happen on an October 21.

Happy Birthday Knox. We love you to the moon and back.

We miss you Shale. Every day. Look for our love; it's brought to you by an angel's wings.