Yet another road block…

To say my life has been easy, or handed to me, would be a bold faced lie. I have had to fight, tooth and nail, for everything that I have. I am a little bitter that it has been so hard for me, when I watch everyone else just cruise and get what they want with little effort. That is not to say that everyone I know doesn’t work hard for what they have (most of them, some of them are just straight up lazy asses who let everything just get handed to them…) but when all you have are the normal obstacles, you never really will understand the larger ones in life.

That’s me – the wrangler of the large ass obstacles. I would like to say that I have done this all with grace and compassion, but that’s straight up shit. I have been angry, I have been mad, I have cried, I have cursed what brought me to this point, I have plotted the conducters demise (yep. I have. judge away.. I care not), I have flipped my shit and screamed at the unfairness of this entire situation. None of that has helped, but I do believe it has helped me maintain a shred of sanity – no one can leave that much hostility bottled up without going bat shit crazy. That being said, I have also kept a smile on my face, I have kept trying, I have kept my kids happy and healthy and well adjusted, I kept my sobriety (which I believe is a feat all on its own!), I have kept my life fairly balanced, and I still have all of my hair! hahaha….

I have fought back and won. I know very few people who could do what I have done… life is not easy when everything is taken from you all at once. Literally, everything. I had me and my kids, and everything else, I had to fight for and get on my own. NOTHING has been handed to me. NO ONE can say that I wouldn’t be where I am if it weren’t for them (except maybe the asshole who fucked things up for me in the first place). Everything I have and everything I am is because I refused to give up, I am tenacious, and I did everything in my power to get back on my own two feet. I mean, my husband helped, but that wasn’t so much a silver platter as it was a partner in crime. Everything I have, everything we have, has come from hard work, grit and determination. Imagine living your life with literally no credit. None. Not even a dollar. Could you do it? I fucking doubt it. But I did, and we did, and now look where we are.

And even with everything we have done, accomplished, fought for, striven for, rebuilt… I am still finding myself facing road blocks. Bull shit from my past that never should have affected me in the first place, but I was unfortunate enough to be tied to one of the most selfish pieces of shit on the planet. But I digress, that was then and this is now.

And while I sit back and watch people go about their lives, spending money like it is not an issue (and for some it isn’t, but for some, it damned well is…) I am sitting here, despairingly, and a bit heartbroken, because I have a plan for my life, something I desperately want to do, something for me, and I can’t. I just can’t.

My life is my own, but I am also living in the shadows of other peoples choices, and it affects my life every day. I have chosen to live my life happily, in spite of the constant shit I had to endure. And I am happy I did. But it would be nice to just live my life, the way I want to, without the constant reminder of the heinous bullshit people pulled on me.

I am happy. I love my life. I love my husband and my kids. I just wish that things were easier, sometimes. But I suppose it is what it is, and there’s nothing I can do to change the past.

Six months. In just six months I will get exactly what I want, once again, on my own. I guess in a way, it is amazing and awe inspiring that I have been able to do what I have done, on my own. Not many can say that. But I can. And that is something that no one can take away from me.

Not just your run of the mill love story.. 


There is love, the kind of love that most people experience. You enjoy being around the person, you choose to have a life with them, start a family, spend your days with them.. this is the way that most of civilization experiences “love”. 

Then there are the people who HAVE to be around one another, or they physically hurt. That’s where I fall. 

My husband and I have a very strange story. It’s the kind of thing that really cheesy summer movies are written about. What kind of person just puts their head in a strangers lap, looks up and quotes Forest Gump, and holds her hand? My husband, that’s who. That’s how we met. And from the day I met him, I knew he was different, and I think he would say the same about me – in fact, he has. We didn’t get together right off the bat. We had years and years of our own lives, own paths, own focus. 

But something life altering brought us together, and since the first time he messaged me, I can’t get enough of him. It’s more than just a want or desire, it’s an actual need. He has told me repeatedly that he’s addicted to me. And I agree. I’ve tried to explain this to friends before and they smile, but I don’t think anyone really gets it. 

When he’s not with me, even if we are only separated for a few minutes or hours, or days (which has only happened 4 times in our entire relationship) I feel like a piece of me is missing. Not in the gross Nicholas Sparks velveeta novel sort of ways, but like there is a literal piece of me missing. 

Trevor and I have spent 7 years discussing our life together. And the best way I can explain it is magnetic. There’s no way I could ever be away from him. Something in me pulls me to him (don’t be gross). He has said the same thing. It’s like two very strong magnets. 

I love him. That is undeniable. But I need him. He is like oxygen. I can’t live without it, and I couldn’t live without him. 

I never really felt like something was missing in my life, per say. But I can say this; the first time I kissed him, a part of me came alive. I knew right in that moment that he was my home. Funny thing is, I wasn’t looking for him. He was just supposed to be something fun, nothing serious. Never in a million years did I ever think that the boy from high school would be the missing piece of me. 

But he is. 

He is my other half. He is my home. He is my forever. Not just my love, he (to quote a really crappy movie)  completes me. He is my soul mate. One soul, two bodies. He is my person. My happy. My forever. My twin flame. 

With everything they have..

I think we can all agree, people are different. And I don’t necessarily mean in a “wow, she has multiple screws loose” kind of different, but different in the fact that we are all fucked in our own special way.

Yes. Fucked. I said it. You know why? Because normal is just an enigma, and it is one that far too many strive for, when they/we should just accept our screwballiness and totally rage in the face of insanity.

Moving on..

When people find other people who fit into their particular funny shaped opening (don’t be a pervert) it is a special moment. And it is one that you should revel in. Make shirts. Throw a party. Crack those obnoxiously messy new years thingys. Do it. You know you want to.

Whether it comes in the form or a friend, or someone who is more than a friend, hold on tight. There is so much ugly in the world, it is amazing to find something that brightens and improves your life.

Friends are so great – they are the family you got to choose. I have some people who I’ve added to my family, and I feel so lucky to have them in my life. And some great family. And then there’s my husband. Damnit, he is my person. My everything. My forever.

(yes this is all leading somewhere)

This is why I get so SHOCKED that people just chuck other people away because they don’t feel like they love them enough. WHAT?!

I’ve heard of the most absurd breakups. One time, I heard a story from my friend, about some girl she knew who broke up her very long term relationship because her live-in boyfriend didn’t fluff the throw cushions properly, or put the cap back on the toothpaste efficiently. Holy shit. Remember when I said people were fucked? Yep. Case and point!

People, just because someone doesn’t love you in the way you feel you should be, doesn’t mean they aren’t loving you in the only way they know, or with everything that they’ve got.

My friends are busy and have their own lives. Do I fault them for not replying to texts in a timely fashion, of which I deem acceptable? No. They are great and amazing people, and they will get back to me when they can. I never expected to be a higher priority than their job, or spouse, or kids!

My husband doesn’t clean the way I do, or obsess over absurd shit like I do. Do I fault him for not being the same Type A lunatic that I am, or doing things the way I do, or expect him to? Fuck no! He is who he is, and he is who I fell in love with. I didn’t fall in love with him because he could fluff a mean pillow, or he perfectly organized the pantry.. I already did that shit, so I feel like if we both did, there would be a power struggle. So this works.

They love me. They love me in the way that they can, in the capacity that they can, in their own special and fucked up way.

Just because someone doesn’t love you the way you think they should, doesn’t make it wrong. We are all fucked, just try and find the people who are the same level of fuckiness as you, and hold on with both hands.

I am back, bitches!

I have taken some time to chill, organize my life, and see how things feel. And what I can say right now is… things feel great! We are happy in our new house – it fits us very well and everyone is loving our new space.

Don’t get me wrong, the move itself was a slice of flaming hell. We had help. We arranged ahead of time for people to come help with the heavy cumbersome shit. I pack the house and clean after it is emptied, so the husband moves the shit. Seems fair. Except this time, help didn’t come. Bunch of hosers just didn’t show up. So who did the brunt of the heavy lifting? That would be us. At one point, my head was pinned between the wall and the couch, and I was not pleased. I know there are other people we could have called, but I have a very good reason for not doing so, which is why I am not bitching too heavily about moving our shit ourselves. Am I selfless? Did I want to give people their time with their families? Did I want to avoid being an inconvenience? NO! I don’t want those people calling us to move their shit. HAHA! Totally selfish, hence only being slightly annoyed.

Moving on…. We are settled and everyone is enjoying their respective spots in school.

Biggest little is thriving in grade 8 and just starting another year of volleyball. He is so good at that game, it is crazy. And it doesn’t hurt that he is very close to being 6 feet tall. Loser. I make him sit down when I give him shit, now. Nobody will take a 5’3″ person seriously when they hover 5-6 inches above them. He is a giant. He has a big heart. But at times I still question every choice I have ever made with him, due to the moron-adolescent big-ass attitude. Just have to remember it happens to the best of us and hope tomorrow is better. But as I remind myself all the time – it could be worse! He truly is a great kid and watching him become this beanpole with a vision for his life is kind of flooring me!

Middle-little (also known as the diabetic) is kicking ass this year. November 9th will be his 1 year diaversary, and he has got such a good grasp of it, our last appointment was mostly just sitting around and bullshitting with his nurses.. they didn’t even want to see his food log. He has grown (physically and emotionally) with this disease and we are blown away every day with how well he has adapted. He is in grade 6 and doing amazeballs with school and with his stupid busted ass pancreas. But he is so much more than just a diabetic kid. He is so funny and silly, and is going to earn a living with his amazing drawing and attention to detail. Just you wait and see….

Little-little!! Aww, here is where the changes are undeniable. My baby started kindergarten this year. Not only is it weird that he isn’t home two days a week, but he comes home and talks about this life that we aren’t a part of, and that has never happened before. It is tearing my heart apart a bit, but he is doing really well, so that helps. He attended his first bday party without us today, which is another change. Sigh… My baby. Seriously freaked out by this new development!

My husband!! Seriously… gush gush gush. I love the ever loving shit out of that man! Him appearing in my life was random, and a total miracle. My heart was obliterated before him, and now it is put back together in the most perfect way. He did a course at work this week, and walked away with a 98% which is amazing for someone who despises school, tests, speaking in front of people, has adhd, etc. And now this man, this amazing human that I get to share my life with, is a certified heavy equipment operator, and is certified to train people to not only run the equipment, but to also train other people to train people. In summation, he is a heavy equipment badass, and I am stupid proud of him! Plus, he is total sex on a stick, so there’s that, too.

Me…. I don’t really have a lot to report (at the moment) but shit is changing. My horizon is beginning to look a lot more pink, and the dark clouds are way behind me now. I have a few tricks up my sleeve… lets just say, what is coming next will be revolutionary in my life.

Like I said…. I’m back, bitches. But the me that is back isn’t the me you knew from before… I put myself back together differently this time.

*mic drop*

All the hell that is cardboard..

There are a few things in this world that just drive me up the  wall. It is not the typical stuff like most people, like nails on a chalkboard (oddly, I can handle that noise) But the sound of the old school brushes wiping chalk off drove me nuts. Forks scraping on plates is one noise that I can not tolerate, no matter how hard I try. Try it with me just to irritate me, and I will take said fork and stab you repeatedly with it.

Moving on… (in a second, you will appreciate that pun.. or not.. but if you don’t, you are dead inside)

One thing I can NOT stand is the feel and smell of cardboard. And several times, even the sight of it makes me crazy. Why? Well, partially because I am crazy. But also partially because cardboard is woven of tiny fibers sent here from hell itself (unless you are at Costco, then it is absolute heaven! But that is not what I am getting at). You may be wondering why I liken cardboard to the “welcome mat” to hell, well I will tell you! Because where there is a plethora of cardboard, there is empty spaces on shelves, cleaned out cupboards and baron drawers. What am I saying? If you can’t figure this out, there is no help for you that extends past Judy Blume novels. Moving. MOVING! Lovingly wrapping your nicknacks into paper and bubblewrap and putting them into an array of brown boxes, with hideous orange and green printing on it.

Fucking u-haul boxes filled with my earthly possessions, scattered all over my newly disorganized and increasingly messy house. Tell me something, how the hell is it possible that while all of your crap goes into boxes, you suddenly have an onslaught of filth all over your floor! Where does it come from!? Seriously. Do the boxes just produce garbage and throw it around while you sleep? For real. This is ridiculous.

My husband and I despise moving. But due to some unforeseen circumstances, we just happen to have to move quite frequently. Foreclosures that were forced upon us by our wonderful saintly exes (sense the sarcasm!), landlords selling the house we were living in (those two were rampaging imbeciles, and we were more than happy to move as we learned that the dude was actually a wanted criminal in the states…aaahhh!!!), living in a condemnable shithole, and now! This house has earwigs, a dishwasher that insists on recreating Lake Placid in my kitchen every time I use it, and a multitude of other issues…. so we have found a new place. And every time we get to choose our place, we are taking a step back up and pushing towards our future, and that makes me happy. It is taking us some time to dig back out of the mud, but as of lately, it feels like the mud is only on our feet, which is a nice change from the head to toe shit we were once covered in.

But the boxes. DAMN THE BOXES!! Ugh, cardboard is abhorrent and I despise it. Hopefully after this move, we can sit for a while, until we buy a house.. then onward and upward! Hopefully we can win the lottery and I can have someone pack for me. Ah, wouldn’t that be amazeballs!

But for now, damn the boxes.

 

Diabetes life – More than needles and blood


Let me preface this with: my son has diabetes. It is new to us, but I am already very well versed in it, and don’t take lightly to BS being said about it. 

Now… 

When my son was diagnosed, other than losing my grandmother, it was the worst day of my life. My little boy, who was so funny and outgoing, and so full of life, would be thrown onto a new path and forced into a life he didn’t want. Heart. Shattered. 

But not only was he thrust into this life, we all were. His parents. His siblings. His friends (and their parents). His grandparents. His aunts and uncles. His teachers. His future girlfriends/wife. His future classmates. His future employers. People he has never met before are already impacted by this. 

Would we change our path if we could? No question about it!! But alas, his pancreas is gonna be a useless piece of shit forever now, so this is where we live. And this is where we deal. 

I keep saying “we”, as this is one hell of a team effort. My husband and I do the brunt of the work, but no one – NO ONE – does as much as our son! I’ll touch on that more in a bit. 

My husband and I are the ones who plan all of his meals, his snacks, his injection points; determine his carb to insulin ratios, how much long-lasting insulin to give; who hound him to drink lots of water; who make sure he gets lots of sleep and exercise; who deal with the random highs and sporadic lows. We are his first line of defense. 

Our other two boys help a lot. They help to put his lunches together, help to organize our pantry (which is a finely tuned machine on its own, with all of the food in it stacked in clear order, with the carb count written on top in sharpie) Our 4 year old hugs our DiaBadAss every time he has needles. And we play a game at mealtimes to see who can guess the closest to his blood sugar. It helps us all learn how he acts at different levels, and it helps him to learn how he feels at different levels. Plus, making it like a game takes some of the blah out of it. 

Here’s a “day in the life of” to show that we may make it look easy, but that is only because I am borderline OCD and am slightly Type A, and we work well together as a team. It doesn’t look easy because it is easy! Do not ever for a second think this is easy. We just deal a lot better than most:

On a regular (school) day, my son wakes up around 7:10, does the normal morning stuff and comes for breakfast. There, instead of sitting down and eating like most people are accustomed, he washes his hands, gets his kits and sits at the table. He then takes a strip out and gets his meter ready. Then he takes his lancing device, and patiently blows a small hole into his sensitive finger tip. He gently squeezes, wipes that drop off, and squeezes out a fresh drop, which he then gently places onto his ready test strip. While waiting for that number to appear, which will dictate the dose of fast-acting insulin he will have at that meal, he wipes his finger clean and gets his insulin pens out. Once the number comes up, we then begin determining the carb count for his breakfast, and using the blood sugar we just learned, and using his carb to insulin ratio for breakfast (and it’s different for all 3 meals in the day – something we had to painstakingly determine through trial and error) we figure out how much NovoRapid he will be taking. He then dials 2 units, shoots it into the lid, then dials in how many units he needs for breakfast (usually 4 units). Then he sticks that tiny needle into his tiny belly, and counts to 10, while the life-preserving smelly as hell insulin shoots into his non-existent fat (he has to pinch skin to create “fat” to inject into). Then once that needle is done, he gets his long-acting insulin ready to go. This one isn’t based on carbs, it’s an insulin he only takes once a day, and it lasts 24 hours (so they say). He primes this the same way, but through trial and error and what seems like a constant change in need, he takes the dose that we have determined is his “basal” need for the day. (It started out as 7 when he was first diagnosed, but over the course of 9 months, it’s increased to 14. That’s not to say it won’t decrease once school starts again, as being at school, he’s more active, but for now, it’s 14). He picks another spot on his poor needle torn belly, and sticks yet another needle into his pinched flesh. And only then, can he begin to eat his breakfast. Then we pack his lunch and snacks for the day, all the while counting his carbs, and writing everything down in his food log (including blood sugar tests and how much of each insulin he takes). Snack time rolls around at school, and he tests, texts me his number, and we determine if he can eat the snack was packed, or needs to replace it with a “free snack”(which we also pack, just in case), which is what he has when he is “out of range”. Lunchtime, and he pulls out everything we have marked as “lunch” in his lunchbox (so he knows what is snack and lunch, as it is exactly calculated), tests his blood get again, texts us the number, and we, recalling the carbs we packed for him and what his ratio is, tell him how many of his NovoRapid to take. Then he goes through the whole ordeal with priming and ramming himself with a needle, this time in the presence of his classmates and friends. The same is repeated for his afternoon snack, as well as his test when he gets home from school. Once dinner comes, we have already calculated his dinner carbs (after usually taking the packaging out of the garbage over and over, because we have forgotten the carbs, because that’s just what diabetes parents do!) and he goes through the whole situation again. 2-3 hours after dinner, he tests again, and if he is out of range/high, he takes correction insulin and grabs a bedtime snack (generally something free – he likes Whisps and cucumbers) and goes to bed.. And that’s when I take over. I test him around 10:30-11:00, and if he has correction insulin, again at 12:00. And every night, I wake up at 3:00 in the morning and check him. So on a typical night, I check him twice when he is sleeping. The nights he has insulin, I check 3-4 times. And the nights he is low and needs juice (which he drinks in his sleep)? I check him 5 times. With lows while sleeping, diabetics run the risk of slipping into a coma, and never waking up. While there is air in my lungs, that will not happen to my son. His life means more to me than 15 minutes of sleep. Then we wake up the next day, and round and round we go again. 

His doctors appointments are in a city 4 hours away. And we go every 3-6 months. (Every 3 right now). We are at the drugstore getting supplies every week and a half (his supplies take up over half of my previous liquor cabinet – how I drink less now, I’ll never know!) The pharmacists know us. The diabetic team know us by our first names (including our non-D kids). We do training with teachers at school, and several of them have our cell phone numbers saved in their phones. Our family and friends have been given crash courses on testing, needles, carb counting, radios, how to inject his glucagon for the emergencies in which he goes into a coma and can not eat his fast acting sugar. 

We have done more math in the last 9 months than I have in years. And you know what? He’s worth every tear, effort, sleepless night and frustration. 

There are a lot of misconceptions about diabetes, and I’ll touch on that another time… But what you need to take from this is: it’s hard. Every damned day is hard. It’s hard for us, but it’s the hardest for our son. Regardless of what we do or how much we put into this, it is only happening to our son. This is his life, we are just helping him learn how to make it be best possible. And I will continue to do so as long as he wants and needs me to. 

Period. 

By my side… 


Some stuff has been in my head lately – swirling, like a toilet in Australia (in other words, in a backwards direction which is nonsensical to me). 

Strength. It is a term that is used to describe many things. People use it to describe themselves – their tenacity and ability to handle all the toilet swirling shit that’s thrown at them. But what constitutes real strength? Strength to one may be considered weak to someone else. It is all determined by our own opinions, but that’s not to say that everyone doesn’t have a level of it, it just means that some people are perceived as stronger. 

And I’m not talking about weights. Well, not the tangible kind you lift to build muscles. Though, if we are going to get all deep and pensive, strength comes with dealing with our own weights. But I digress, I’m not going that way this time. 

I consider myself strong.. In a literal and emotional sense. I’ve gone through things that would shake and destroy bigger people than me. I stood, I dealt,  I walked away and lived to tell the tale. That’s not to say I didn’t feel like I was going to drown and die while I was in the midst of the thickest part of my hell, but, I did not! I dug my feet in, stuck my head down, and fought the tornado with a lot of ferocious attitude and an inordinate amount of stubbornness. 

No, I didn’t always think that everything was going to work out. I didn’t envision skittle shitting rainbows. I just dealt. And I did 99% of it on my own. I didn’t ask for help. I didn’t ask for shoulders to cry on. I wept a few times on my closest people, but otherwise, I left my situation close to my chest, and only let it out for air when I felt like I was choking to death. 

But now? I’ve dug myself out into a pretty charmed life. It may not seemed charmed to you, but compared to where I’ve been, where I am going is far superior. I don’t have hoards of money, or brand new everything, a padded savings account, or tons of friends – but what I do have is 100% mine, 100% real and no one can take it away.  

And, I am not alone anymore. My husband is my rock, my future, my heart and he protects me in a way I never knew was possible. He brought more into my life than I thought anyone could, and has given me more security and stability than I could have ever fathomed. 

Does that make me weak? Does leaning on someone else, when I used to lean only on myself, make me any less strong? Fuck no, it doesn’t. Depending on someone, leaning on someone, having someone give you help does not make you weak. It makes you smart. Standing alone opens you up for anything, but standing beside someone gives you a shield and security.  

It doesn’t make you weak to want someone. It doesn’t make you weak to need someone. It doesn’t make you weak to take and appreciate help. 

Having my husband beside me has made me even stronger. Because now, not only do I have my strength, but I have his as well. And when I feel too weak to fight, he steps in for me. And I wouldn’t want anyone else by my side. He makes me better, stronger – happier. 

Wanting someone to stand beside me doesn’t make me weak. It means I’ve stood alone for long enough. 

You and I..

I am currently sitting on my couch, screwing around on Apple Music, listening to all sorts of music I maybe wouldn’t have had I had to actually pay for it. Chances are good that if I had to pay $1.29 for it, it never would have made it onto my phone. But considering I am sitting in the first month of my 3 month free trial, I figured why not! Let my freak-music flag fly! So here we are, deafening bass and treble flowing through my blue beats, and cramming itself straight into my brain. Then it hits me – literally and figuratively. “I got all I need when I got you and I, cuz I look around me and see a sweet life.. stuck in the dark but you’re my flashlight, you’re getting me through the night” and shivers ran up and down my spine, and my husband flashed into my head. A breath caught in my throat and I had to blink back tears. Sure, it may be a cheeseball song from a cheeseball movie, but that line struck a chord with me (pardon the pun.. haha)

For anyone who doesn’t know me or my husbands story, let me just say, it has been a sorted one. It was love at first sight, but also nothing near love at first sight. After a miserable month of school in this catholic high school in grade 10, my mom transferred me to the high school I should have been at all along. A month and a half into the school year, I was, once again, considered the “new girl”. But all of my friends from junior high were there, so I wasn’t all alone. I did a few days in this school, and felt okay. Then one day, rain. My gym class ends up in the drama room, in the dark, siting on the floor, watching a mind-numbingly boring video about tennis. And all of a sudden, there was a head in my lap and a hand holding mine under my knee. I looked at the boy beside me and whispered “who is this?!” and he snickered and said “oh, that’s just Trevor”. And that, people, is how I met my husband. We sat through that entire video, and I can’t tell you a single thing that happened on it, but I can tell you that my heart was racing! I was only a few days at this new school, and I didn’t really know anyone in my gym class. When the video ended, he looked up at me with those gorgeous brown eyes that I now get to gaze into every single day, and he smiled and said “me and Jennie’s like peas and carrots” and then stood up, grabbed my hand, walked me to my locker, kissed me on the cheek and walked away. Other than a few pleasantries for the next 3 years, that was the only real contact I had with Trevor in high school. How much easier life could have been if I had just kept him from walking away that day. We talk about it all the time. Our “what if” moment. We had another “what if” moment at our safe grad 3 years later.. but he was drunk (as all kids are at their safe grads, plus, he was 18, so it was totally legal) and he doesn’t remember telling me he liked me, calling me cutie, saying how sad he was that we weren’t closer, or hugging me like he never wanted to let me go. Funny to look back at moments in your life where everything could have shifted, just if only……

There was zero contact between us over the next 12 years. We became facebook friends in 2007, when facebook was taking the world by storm, but still no contact. Trevor and I lived very different lives, but at the same time, they were scary similar. It’s like life knew better, and just continued grooming us to end up together. I was with someone, and he was with someone. We both had 2 sons, and deep down inside, without showing anyone, we were both miserable, but always had smiles on our faces. We endured a lot, most of which doesn’t require any airing or attention. Lets just say, it was a very sad and empty decade of years.

Then, one night, after he endured the hardest year of his life, closely followed by me doing the same, us separated by 4 hours and what felt like a million years, I made a facebook post expressing how deeply I missed my grandma. And a couple hours later, at midnight, my phone buzzed on my nightstand. I remember my mouth hanging open, and saying out loud in my empty room “Trevor J… where the hell did you come from!?” Of course, I am saying this to myself, cuz I am crazy like that. So, I typed out that very sentence, and thanked him for the nice message. And just like that, a friendship was born. We chatted a few times, nothing too exciting. Talked about our kids, our losses, our lives, etc. I grew to look forward to our talks, because he made me feel like there was a rainbow just over the horizon for me, and that eventually all of my dark clouds would go away. I was, at that point, a year into my divorce and was more lonely than I ever really let on, but he somehow saw through it and made me feel like it was all going to be okay.

There is a lot of stuff that happened in those few months, most of which I do not feel like it needs to be aired, either. All I can say is, we were friends. He helped me through my divorce, helped me smile again, and when the time came for him needing someone to lean on, I helped him see that there was a light at the end of the tunnel. We were friends. Period. I was closed off, jaded, angry, hurt and broken, and he made me feel hope. Then, when some time had passed, we decided to give this love thing a shot. Let me tell you this, two broken people with that much baggage trying to make a long distance relationship work? That, right there, is a recipe for broken fucking hearts. And that is exactly what happened to us. Fizzle fizzle, crack, and we were done before we ever even got going. And it broke me even more. We had a couple of months where we held eachother together with hopes and tears, but it wasn’t enough. Sometimes, love just isn’t enough. I called him my bandaid, but it just proved that when bandaids are soaked enough, they just don’t stick. And our bandaid was drenched in buckets of tears. It just let go.

Months passed after the most devastating breakup either of us had ever endured, and we all but stopped talking. I couldn’t bear the pain, and he, too, just blocks out pain. So we went from being friends, to best friends, to in love, to nothing, in a mere few months time. It would sound like it was no big deal to most, but that was one of the worst pains I had ever felt. It felt like I was losing oxygen and could not breathe. And deep down inside, as much as I told myself I hated him, I still felt like we were supposed to be together. Who breaks up, tears running down their face, and says “I love you more than anything, and I WILL marry you one day”? I’ll tell you who, my husband. We both just knew we were too broken to be a part of anything at that point, so we broke it off, at 2am laying on my hotel room bed, heads on our tear soaked pilows, and fell asleep holding eachother. Almost 6 years later, and it still hurts my chest.

One day, during our “off” phase, I was at my weekend job, and this song came on the radio. I remember listening to a bit of the words, and falling to the floor in a puddle of tears. “I wish Trevor thought this way about me” I thought…then picked myself up, swore I would stop thinking about him right then and there, and carried on with my life. Fast forward a few months, and I went to Calgary to spend the weekend with my best friend. I finally felt free of the pain, and like I was going to be okay, after all. We had a great weekend, and I felt happy for the first time in months. After leaving her house, I texted Trevor and told him I would be swinging by to “get my shit from you, cuz there’s no need for you to have it anymore” So we planned for me to stop and grab my book, blackberry and PVR. I had several people texting and calling me while I was there, to check up on me, and make sure I didn’t get sucked back in.

I got out of my truck, felt really good about myself (helped that my thyroid meds kicked in while we were apart and I lost 35 pounds.. haha) and grabbed my stuff, threw it in the truck (making sure to flash my tiny ass at him) and said goodbye and started to leave. But he wanted to talk… 2 hours later, we were still standing in that parking lot, talking. And before I knew it, he grabbed me and kissed me. It was all over after that. I tried to keep him at bay, I tried to keep my heart locked up… but he is supposed to be in there… he was always meant to be in my heart. Always. He texted me at work later that week and said “look up the lyrics to this song. Every time I hear it, I think of you and miss you” What song do you think it was? Yeah, the exact same one I thought “I wish Trevor thought this way about me” a few months earlier. When people are meant to be together, it always finds a way.

It wasn’t easy. It still sometimes hurts. I still have moments when I let this all in and I cry. But it is part of our story, as sorted as it may be. Had all of that not happened, we wouldn’t be where we are right now. That’s not to say I don’t wish we could have ended up together without all of the hurt and pain. I am so insanely jealous of people who do it right on their first try. I will never know what that feels like. I have an ex. He has an ex. And no matter what we do or where we go, they will always be in the background. I have kids from a previous marriage. He has kids from a previous relationship. I have a failed marriage. He has a failed long term relationship. I have trust issues. He has trust issues. We still fight fights with our exes, with eachother. There is still baggage at every single turn. And I wish on a daily basis that we had a do-over. But that just isn’t real, nor is it ever possible. This is our life. This is what we have built. We have a beautiful son together. He is an amazing dad to my older two boys. We have a sturdy as hell marriage that isn’t going anywhere.

Trevor is my person. He is my oxygen. I have a lot of issues from my past, but instead of wishing them away, he holds my hand and helps me see in the darkness. I would give anything to go back to grade 10, and never let his hand go… but that’s not my life. Nor is it his. We have overcome some insane stuff in our relationship. We have stood together and let life try to knock us down. But with him by my side, I have no doubt in my mind that I am in the middle of my forever, and nothing is ever going to rip us apart. He still gives me butterflies and tingles, I still get giddy when I hear my phone tell me that he texted me, I still miss him every single time he goes to work, we still text eachother any time we are apart, I still get nervous when he kisses me, I still crave his hugs….

I know if we had been together sooner, it would have been amazing and magical and everything that dreams are made of… but it also may not have worked. Because at our core, we are the same people, but we have both changed a lot over the last 2 decades. And in some ways, I think that Trevor and I had to break before we got together, so that we could help each other put ourselves back together the way we were always meant to be.

Ten things not to say to a “boy mom”

I have all boys. It is a lot, some days. But I still love it. My boys are my world, and I wouldn’t trade them for anything. Do I sometimes wish I had a girl to do girly shit with? To take for pedicures and all of that? Sure. Sometimes. Then I think about the bras and clothes and periods and hair and boys and hormones and hormones and crying and tantrums and crying and nails and all of the stuff that comes with girls (just generalizing here, don’t jump up my ass for pigeon holing females.. speaking as a female, I can say this generalization is generally bang on)

BUT!!!! Boys are not easy. It’s not all hot wheels and skittles. To be honest, it is pretty close! But they come with their own list of challenges and issues, they are tiring and exhausting and confusing, just like every kid is. It has it’s moments of being insanely low maintenance, but, there are a few things about having all boys that drive me absolutely bat-shit crazy… I mean, after all, I am a mom, I have a crew off hooligans learning their way in the world, and that could drive anyone to the brink of insanity.

Frequently, in my daily swim in a sea of testosterone, I am repeatedly asked the same questions over and over, and the same remarks are made in regards to the sex of my offspring.

Here are a list of my top 10, but trust me, there are many many more.

#10. All boys? why yes! you are quite astute.

#9. It must get loud! yes, as most children do at one time or another, it does get loud.

#8. Wow, there must be a lot of smells! well, considering my children bathe, and are not cavemen, it doesn’t smell any more than any other human being would. but thanks for the concern for our hygiene.

#7. Boys are so much easier than girls – lucky! really!? is that so? thanks for letting me know.

#6. I am so glad I don’t have boys please come and say this to me when your girls are in their teens and you’re up-stream in estrogen river, and I am happily swimming in my sea of testosterone.

#5. Your grocery bill must be insane! yes, it is quite absurd, as most people’s are these days, but at least I will never have the enormous beauty costs that moms of girls will have.

#4. Boys aren’t as affectionate as girls, my girls always snuggle and want to cuddle well, that is interesting to learn. I will be sure to contemplate this remark the next time I have all three of my boys sitting on or beside me, giving me a hundred hugs and kisses every night, and telling me they love me more times a day than I can count.

#3. Bet you wish you had a girl – all that pink and pretty stuff is fun! nope.

#2. Gonna try for a girl? FUCK NO. I am fixed. My husband is fixed. We are done done done.

#1. Guess you will just have to keep trying for a girl! listen to me very carefully, I have 3 boys. I adore my boys. My life is complete. I do not feel like I am missing anything. I do not feel like I was shorted in life. I do not feel like I am less whole without someone with pigtails and attitude sauntering through my house. I am sure people adore their girls. But you know what? I adore my boys. PERIOD.

 

Maybe people should just stick to their own business and stop trying to tell me what sex of human to have in my house. I am a single female in a house of males, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.

“baby” always applies…

I read this article the other night, and before I knew it, tears were involuntarily pouring and running down my cheeks. This lady was talking about her boys, and how they are no longer chubby cheeked toddlers, but these little mini-men who were pulling away into lives of their own, and my heart shattered.

I have three boys, spanning in age from 13-4. There is a big gap in there because the youngest is a product of my second marriage, and what I fondly call my “second chance at a happy ending”. My husband swooped in and saved me from myself, showed me that love is real, how it feels, and how swollen a heart can get when it is literally overflowing with love. I have ALWAYS adored my boys; for the longest time, they were the only source of my heart swelling feelings. Then I had a third little boy and got remarried, and now my heart is so full, it feels like it couldn’t possibly fill any more. But then I think about everything these boys are going to do and become, and I’m reminded of just how much more love I am going to encounter in my life.

My oldest is about to turn 13. A teenager. Really? How did that happen? I realize time has passed, I’m not that daft. But it feels like just a few months ago I was bringing this tiny little thing with a white-blonde mohawk home from the hospital. My first kid, at the absurdly young age of just 22. And there we were, learning it all together. He was a lot of firsts for me, the biggest being the first time I felt true, deep and real love. Until I held him in my arms, I just had no idea how real love felt. 

Then came my second bouncing baby, a mere 2 years and 3 months later. This one was a bit more of a struggle to get into the world. He’s been a stubborn little shit from the get-go. But again, I held him in my arms, and my heart pounded in a different way than it had even earlier that day. Having kids changes you. You don’t make room in your heart for them, your heart grows to accommodate all of the new love for these tiny little pieces of you. 

It was many years before my uterus housed another rib-cage orangutan. My oldest was 8 and middle was 6 when the final addition to our family came into the world. After my first two boys, and my husband and love of my life, I didn’t think my heart could grow bigger or pound harder than they made it, but I was wrong. My littlest guy was the final piece of our puzzle, and my heart finally felt complete. 

These little humans, these little pieces of me, they will always be my baby’s. From the moment they were a thought, until this very second, I have been around for every single moment of their lives. I know their looks, their tones, their noises, their laughs, their snores, their souls.. They are the best pieces of me and the biggest part of my heart.

Every time I refer to one of them as my “baby” I get a fresh serving of hell from certain people in my life. I’m not calling them a baby, nor am I being a clingy helicopter mom. But let’s face it, whether anyone approves or agrees, those three will always be my baby’s. When I look at them, I can still hear their baby noises in my head, remember my first scary moment with them, remember their first laughs, their favorite first foods, hear their tiny little cries, remember when they crawled, walked, ran, jumped, hurt themselves, said mommy.. Even typing it, my heart is pounding differently. 

People may get defensive and combative about mothers and their “special” bond with their children. That’s not to say that dads don’t feel things, too. But at the end of the day, my bond and attachment with my kids will always be a million times different than anyone else’s, because regardless of how much daddy’s love their baby’s, my kids heard my heart beat from the inside. Sure, they are half their fathers, but kids physically take, and keep, parts of their moms from when they were in the womb. I will always have a special attachment to my kids. And it will always be something that no one but me will understand or feel. 

Thinking about them growing up, not hugging me anymore, never being home, choosing their girlfriends over family time, going off to college, getting their own homes, having their own lives.. It makes me proud and excited, but it pulls at my heart – the heart that each of them helped build and expand – and it turns on my eyeball faucets. I’m so excited for their futures, because I know I’ve raised them to be the best versions of themselves.. But for now, for the time I have left, I’m going to kiss their foreheads while they sleep, rub their heads while they have breakfast in their pajamas, let them hug me a million times a day, smile when they call me mommy (mom is not far off), watch cartoons with them on Saturdays, laugh at their really silly jokes, listen to their stories, and look into their sweet innocent eyes – the same eyes I looked into when they were only minutes old. 

They’re my baby’s. They always will be. And even when they’re too old to call me mommy, that’s who I’m always going to be.