The lasts of the firsts..

Tonight is just the same as any other night. It is Sunday in November. But while today is just like any other day, it is completely different – we are about to experience yet another last of the firsts.

My youngest turns 5 tomorrow. Five. I can barely wrap my head around this. And while he has already started school (another last of the firsts, as it was the last time we had a first day of school) this birthday is hitting me harder than most have in the past. Five feels big. It feels like he is no longer my baby, but this little tiny human who has this whole life that I am no longer a part of.

He is my last baby. I am not having any more. He completed our family. He was the last time I would be on the maternity floor at a hospital. He was the last bottle made for a 2am feeding. He was the last first time rolling over. He was the last time learning to crawl. He was the last first steps. He was the last first tooth. He was the last first giggle. He was the last first night in a big bed. He was the last first time riding a bike. He was the last first lost tooth. He was the last first day of school.

He is the last of the firsts.

And I know we have a lot of firsts to go through; not only with him, but with our other 2 boys (and there are firsts coming with them, as they are 11 and 13!! those are new firsts that I am not quite prepared for!!!) it is really sad to be closing the chapter on the first firsts. The baby firsts. The tiny heads and sweet noises, and the immense pride that you can only feel when you watch your tiny human do something for the first time; something you take for granted, like smiling, laughing, talking, walking, not shitting your pants…

He is turning 5. I remember where I was at this time 5 years ago. I had just dropped my older two off for the week, as I knew I was having a C-section on Tuesday morning. My husband (then boyfriend, because we like to do things out of order, and don’t conform to what society says is right and proper, and also because I swore I would never get married again..) and I had our entire day planned, for our last day without our baby. He came home from work, we watched SportsCenter (as we always did in the mornings), I went downstairs to get some cereal and wanted sugar, but the only sugar we had was that stupid paper bag of Rogers sugar, and it was on the top shelf of the pantry. I grabbed it and it fell on me, and exploded all over the kitchen. I remember laughing hysterically as I called Trevor to come rescue me from my current sticky predicament. We laughed, I ate, and then showered. And while he was getting out of the shower, he smashed his baby toe on the edge of the tub, and busted it wide open. This maybe isn’t something normal to remember, but it comes out again in the story. Then his mother showed up, as she was planning on coming to the hospital the next day, as she had never been in the room for a grandchild being born (she wouldn’t again, as I was being cut open in surgery, but she would see him when he was only hours old, which was a first for her) and I had a sip of hot chocolate, but it didn’t taste right, so I dumped the rest out. We then piled into her car to go do my pre-reg at the hospital, as I would be there too early the next day to register. They hooked me up to the little baby heartrate ticker thing (three kids, no idea what it is actually called) and the nurse looked at me and  said “wow. you’re having quite a few contractions!” and I just laughed and told her they had been happening all weekend, but I had been getting them since August. She then told me that she wanted to do an internal to see if I was actually in labor. Trevor and his mom stepped out, only to be called back in by my shouting “as if!” as the nurse told me I was more than 4cm dilated, and would be having my son that day. This came as a shock to us all, as we didn’t have a bag packed, didn’t have anything ready, didn’t even have our truck!! We had planned on going to see Harold and Kumar, and for dinner, then planned on packing our bag that night. Beauty of having a planned C-section; there really is very little guess work. Or so we thought.

Trevor left in a mad rush, as I was taken upstairs and prepped for surgery. I stood in the hallway, pacing while waiting for my nurse, and made a bunch of phonecalls to tell my family and closest friends that our son was coming a day early. It ended up being kind of awesome, though, as my older 2 were both born on the 7th, and now, so would my third. We lived 20 minutes away from the hospital, and he had to pack all of our stuff, and rush back. He got there just as I was being wheeled out of the room ( he would have been there sooner, to you know, support and calm me down, but he stopped for pepsi… ahem) and within a half an hour, our baby was there, in our arms, and smack dab in the middle of our hearts. The 3 days we spent in the hospital was filled with its own drama and bs, none of which needs to be recalled or revisited.. except Trevor’s aforementioned toe, which reaked havoc the whole time we were there, as the nurses weren’t able to give him a bandaid, because HE wasn’t a patient. His toe bled for the whole week. Note to self: beware toe damage – that shit bleeds forever!

And now, here I sit, remembering his tiny perfect head, his beautiful little baby lips, his tiny little noises, and how much my heart exploded when I got to hold him the first time.

The last time I held my baby for the first time. The last time I brought a new baby home from the hospital. The last time I spent hours trying to figure out how to make his formula, work the bottle warmer and the bottle sterilizer (so much was supposed to be done that last night! haha) The last time we would have a brand new baby at home for the first time. The last time we got to show off our new baby.

The last of the firsts. I know there are lots of other firsts, but this chapter is officially closed. He is going to be 5. To some, that may not seem like a big deal, but to me, it is.

My last baby.

 

Ruuuuude is the new black..

This has been bumping around in my head for quite some time, but I hit my breaking point the other day, and here we are.

Once upon a time, people sucked much less than they do now. But the world has “evolved”, and rude abhorrent behavior has become the norm.

I am not okay with this.

Yoga pants became acceptable to wear in all walks of life. I am not a fan, but it doesn’t personally affect me, so I really don’t care.

Crappy reality tv is on every channel, in all different genres. I am not a fan, but it doesn’t personally affect me, so I really don’t care.

Using ridiculous slang and abbreviations has become the norm, and is used by not only teenaged girls, but professionals. I am not a fan, but it doesn’t personally affect me, so I really don’t care. (though, the over-use of “lol” makes me feel crazy from time to time, and possibly scream into pillows when I have a slew of them thrown at me.. but I digress)

These are things that didn’t used to be prevalent, but now are. That’s fine! People can like what they want, and I don’t have to like it, too.

BUT!

The fact that blatant disregard for human civility and compassion is now a part of day to day life? Not a fan!! And it does personally affect me, so I care. I care a lot. I give many shits and fucks about this development!

What the hell happened to mankind that it is so socially acceptable to be a flaming douchebag, day in and day out, and no one bats an eye!? What could possibly be so wrong with these peoples lives that they intentionally shit on everyone’s parade, like some sort of vindictive pigeon.

Seriously!

There are rude ass people everywhere you look now. I do not find it acceptable that it is more common to be greeted with scowls and gruffs than a smile. And this just isn’t because I surround myself with grumpy assholes… neigh neigh. This is everywhere! It is a mother fucking pandemic. It is running amok in our society and I am very disheartened by that fact.

I am not so disenchanted to believe that everyone should walk around with a smile plastered on their face and roses shooting out of their ass.. but for the love of god, TRY! Try to be a decent human, and maybe your life will be less gloomy. I, for one, am less likely to smile and be polite to someone who is a giant asshole and is shooting glares or curse words at me. I will not try to turn their frowns upside down. Do it yourself. I am not here to “deal” with your shit attitude… if people insist on being total assclowns and being miserable to be around, they will just be miserable without me. Cuz life is too damned short to be grumpy all the time, to act like someone shit in your cheerios every day, or to be forlorn because someone was a douche to you and you let it ruin your day.

I do not want my kids growing up in a world where it is more socially acceptable to be an asshole than a kind and decent person.

SO! On that note… all of you grumbling asshole pigeons… get your head out of your ass, throw on some yoga pants, watch some shitty reality tv, and TRY!

There is beauty in every day. Fucking look for it!

It’s raining..

And there is snow in the forecast. Not in the far-off forecast, like one would hope, but in the immediate future.

I don’t have shoes. I mean, I have shoes, I am not a hobbit. But my shoes are 6 years old and make my toes feel like a steamroller has run them over and then dragged them over jagged rocks. It isn’t pleasant. I am not a big shoe buyer. I don’t like buying shit for myself (unless it is hoodies, but shut your mouth, they’re an investment.. at least that’s what I tell myself, as many/most of them have yet to ever see the light of day.. again, shut your mouth)

I buy flip flops every spring. Love flip flops. I would wear them all year long if I could, which leads me to believe I was supposed to live on a warmer piece of this earth than I do. But I digress – northern Alberta has its perks. Give me a second and I am sure I can come up with something… but I’ve strayed.

Shoes. I have been putting off buying my shoes, which according to crap I have been seeing on IG and FB, apparently I chose a trendy shoe without even realizing it. Go me. Ahead of the trends. But since I haven’t bought them yet (been putting it off for months) now I will just appear to be another lemming. Sigh. And now my feet will be frozen, and likely filthy, due to the impending snow shit and the lack of coverage I have for my freshly pedicured feet.

So when someone says “don’t put off til tomorrow what you can do today” heed it! Your feet will thank you.

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. 

Where do I fit in?

I have been struggling with this question for a while now. I know I fit in somewhere, but where?

Everyone seems to have their groups, where they fit, and who they kind of just always gravitate towards. I don’t feel like I have such a group. Everyone I know has their people, their constants, and I feel like I maybe just float around the outside, as an afterthought.

It is kind of lonely.

Maybe it is just because I feel listless right now. Maybe it is because I am trying to figure out my next step. Maybe it is because I haven’t slept through the night in 9 months. Who knows.

But whatever the reason, whatever the cause… the question still remains.

Where do I fit in?

 

Manolo vs Nike…..

I have been on quite the Sex and the City binge the last few weeks. I will admit, it is a guilty indulgence of mine. There are a couple series that I will watch – start to finish – SATC and Friends top the list. And in a way, both of these shows apply to this post. And, ironically, both take place in New York, which is a place I have always always wanted to visit. But that little tidbit has nothing to do with anything but a snipit of me. I digress… and here we go…

Both tv shows are filled with beautiful people experiencing normal everyday situations (if normal everyday situations include insane apartments, overpriced shoes and more sex than most people have in their entire life).

They’re filled with Manolo Blahnik, Ralph Lauren, Gucci and Prada. Sex in public bathrooms, blow jobs in taxis, everyone is beautiful and no one seems to ever work. A wonderful life that would be, if it were true for everyone!

The women in SATC have amazing clothes, amazing jobs, amazing apartments, and their shoes… OMG! I will be the first to admit, I am not big on shoes. I own 1 pair of sneakers, 1 pair of runners and 3 pairs of flip flops. PERIOD. That is honestly it. The most expensive shoes I own are my Nikes – and while I do not have a problem with that, sometimes I wish that I were a little different. I would love to have a little stash of great clothes, amazing shoes, expensive lingerie.. But that just isn’t me. If I don’t have on a hoodie and jeans, I feel like an impostor in my own life! I have had the same sort of wardrobe for years and years.. It is who I am. I am a jeans and hoodie kind of girl. Whether I am wearing flip flops or sneakers is all dependent on the weather.

I enjoy my jeans and my hoodies, but I have started propping my closet up with some sweaters… trying to fancy it up. Seriously. Sweaters are fancy. Oh jennie… that is lame. So I suppose for the time being, I will just watch these shows and lust after the amazing stuff they wear on their bodies and their feet.. cuz let’s be serious, if I wore that shit, my ankles would shatter.

And I don’t care who you are, shattered ankles fit into Nikes better than Manolo’s. Just saying….

 

What do you want to be when you grow up?

It is an age-old question, that is mostly only ever presented to kids, or teenagers. It is something that you are expected to just know. When I grow up, I want to be…  bla bla. It is something that is asked of us before most of us even know who we are.

And it got me thinking of all of the answers I have ever given.. Ophthalmologist was the first one I ever remember.. I even did a report about it. The two that stuck with me the longest are plastic surgeon and lawyer. I thought it would be fun to suck fat out of people.. there may be something wrong with me. And lawyer… that is the one I have wanted more than anything else. I have a knack for arguing, making people see things my way, and I have an impeccable memory. I would do it still, if I could. But that is a lot of schooling for someone who is as old as I am… I am not sure I have the drive in me, anymore. (I mean, of course, there is writer. I have wanted to be a writer as long as I can remember. Nothing would make me happier than writing for a living.. but it never seemed realistic. So it was never really considered a career option for me.. so I has always just remained a hobby and dream)

But, how can people know what they want to do with their entire lives, before they have even got a chance to live? It seems like an absurd thing to put on someone who still has a curfew. And yet, we do! And it is perfectly normal and acceptable.

Here, in Canada, things work a bit different than in the states (or anywhere else, but my knowledge of schooling in Canada and the US is a bit more inclusive, so that is where I’m sticking) In the US, they take SAT tests to determine what kind of post secondary education they are entitled to. Seriously. I don’t know about you, but I consider myself to be quite smart… and I know for a fact, that I probably would have sucked ass at that test and ended up in some fourth rate community college. Why? Because I second-guess everything when test scores are on the line! In Canada, we just have diploma exams.. and you apply where you want, and hope your high school transcript isn’t total shit.

Then you go, you learn, and you (hopefully) walk away with some form of diploma, and the absurd notion that this is going to be the beginning of the rest of your life.

Now let me ask you this… how many people actually do what their diploma grants them access to? How many people have bullshit degrees that don’t land them with anything but a mountain of student debt? How many people take schooling for something because they thought that is what their parents wanted? Or a boy they liked was going to be an engineer, so maybe I can be too, and we can get married and have kids and be all engineery together? How many people actually think about their life and what they want out of it?

I have two college diplomas. I use neither. One was a pressure-apply, and the other was because I thought it would be a good job to do while I was at home with my kids. Neither of them was my passion. Neither of them made me feel alive inside. And now here I sit, with my laptop warming my lap (see how that works?), and I have no idea what I want to do with the rest of my life!

Sure. I could go back to travel, and come home every night angry. Or I could push for a job in transcription, and sit alone in an office with headphones on for 8 hours a day.. no music, no talking, no outside interaction.. But I don’t want to do either of them. Nor do I want to cut hair (gross). Nor do I want to do nails. Nothing against any of these professions, but it is not what I want do to for me.

I have a few ideas rolling around in my head, and thanks to a new friend, I may have come up with the best option for me. But now it is going back to college! It is being a 35 year old and starting new. Do I have the drive and desire to do that? I am not sure yet. All I know is I have to do something. Not for money. Not for approval (anyone who talks shit about me can suck my ass). Not to feel important. Not to feel equal to my husband. But for me. I want to do something that makes me happy. That makes me feel fulfilled. That makes me feel good about myself. That is what I want…

My life is crazy… any parent of a diabetic can attest to how insane things can get in the blink of an eye. I also have a teenaged son (good times) and a little monkey that is starting kindergarten in the fall. So I feel like this might be my time. The diabetes is under control (well, as under control as that bastard disease can actually be), the teenager isn’t a douchebag who’s getting into all sorts of trouble (he is very trustworthy, thank god!) and my little guy is starting school.. seems like the perfect time for me to go do . Be. Do.

But what?

What do you want to be when YOU grow up?