Beautiful Boy

Eight years ago today, I was rebuilt.

Everything I thought I knew or believed to be true fell away to become inconsequential dust. You changed me as nothing ever could and I shed the weight of alone when I became your Mother.

rowan 3

Thank you, Rowan. For teaching me true love, what dreams really are and for awakening in me all that had long been dormant. Because of you, I am a better woman. It is an honour to be your mom.

My beautiful, brilliant boy. Every second of every day, I wish you something wonderful.

Happy Birthday.

If My Son Survives Having Me As A Mother, He Can Survive Anything

It’s the new year. Thank God December is over is all I have to say. It was hellishly busy for me, as for us all, and I feel like it passed in a blur.

My son has hung on to his baby teeth like grim death. There is no rhyme or reason to when he loses them and they take their sweet time coming in and when they do, they are chew corn through a fence huge. He went from having the most gorgeous smile to looking like he’s visited some hillbilly home dentist that’s removed his normal, human teeth and replaced them with something he pulled out of a dead Beaver. It’s terrible. I open his mouth, have a look and  see dollar signs gleaming in some Orthodontist’s eye. And I mutter, “Oh! So ugly. My god, look at this!” He just grins, sticks his tongue through the gap and goes off to gnaw down a tree or something.

The first week of December he lost one of his teeth at school. He excitedly came home with it in a baggie lovingly provide by his teacher. The Tooth Fairy came that night. And with no warning (looseness), two weeks later he lost another.

At that time, the Tooth Fairy was tired. She was too busy at work and home, trying to get the stupid Christmas thing together and survive. And she forgot to come.

The next morning, my son ran to his room after breakfast and pulled the tooth in its baggie out from under his pillow. He showed me with a frown. “The Tooth Fairy didn’t come.”

Shit. “Well, honey, she’s probably really busy helping Santa out with things. I think they know each other.” His frown deepened a bit. “Or, Mom, maybe the cat got her when she came! He’d do that, you know.”

The cat got a steely eyed glare and I made the mental note. Tooth Fairy: 10 p.m. tonight.

And wouldn’t you know, I forgot AGAIN! This time when he woke, there was yelling. I heard from the bedroom “What the… Mom, she didn’t COME! What is wrong with her?”

Shit,shit,shit,shit,shit. “Well, Honey, maybe the cat did get her, I don’t know! Maybe ALL the kids are losing teeth right now and she’s really backed up because she’s short-staffed!” He left for school with the angry “what is this shit” look all over his face.

The guilt? I know it well. I made the mental note again. FUCKING TOOTH FAIRY! 10 FUCKING P.M.!

At 10:05, I remembered. And half asleep, I remembered that I had no cash. I frantically searched pockets, the bottom of my purse, hubby’s jeans. Nope. Nada.

And with a EUREKA that was heard around the world, I ran out to my car and searched under the floor mats, and Voila! I found four bucks.

The next morning, he came out of his room smiling. “Look! The Tooth Fairy came! She left me these coins and look! This one’s really dirty! It smells like coffee!” Off he went to school, happy.

And the Tooth Fairy? She and the cat now have a secret. And she always keeps coins in her car, safely hidden under the mat.

I really should win some sort of parenting award, shouldn’t I?

Happy New Year, my Ducks. I hope it is your best year ever. xxoo

And So It Begins

This post might have a lot of typos and bad grammar but that’s only because I’m trying to write it while laying face down on my bed with a pillow over my head. The worst has happened. I may never be the same.

My seven-year old son has a girlfriend.

I knew it was inevitable but still. I asked him how his day was at school and he told me. Quite happily.

“It’s Lana, Mom. She told Cohen that she LOVED me!”

In my shocked mother-mind I thought,“Well, she’s a forward little thing”. But I just said “Okay.”

“Yeah. And she held my hand while we waited for the bus!” Mother-mind yelled “Whorebag!” My mouth said “What?”

“Well, she just kind of grabbed my hand, Mom. I only held it for a little while.” Mother-mind thought “What’s with this little hussy? After ONE day? Isn’t hand holding at 7 like third base?

I calmed down. Spoke rationally.

“Son, I’m not sure that’s allowed at school.” I did okay, right? “What do you think about this girl?” (That’s what you say, right? Supportive, interested, not wanting to slap some sort of chastity belt on your son? Right?)

“Well, last year, Cohen was her boyfriend and before that she liked Daniel. ” Mother-mind: “This broad sure gets around a lot, don’t she?”

“It might be okay if she and I went to the same College or University but we’ll have to see.” (Hear that? My boy is planning for his FUTURE! Take that, you grade two HARLOT!)

“Mom? I’m won’t hold her hand anymore. I promise. And you can’t tell anyone! If her brother finds out he’ll KILL me!” Mother-mind filed that piece of info away under Hmm . For later use.

“And Mom? We will never speak of this again. You must tell NO ONE.”

Apparently he doesn’t understand what a blog is. “Okay, my sweet, little, itty-bitty baby boy, my only child, my only one ever. Okay. Please don’t grow up too fast.”

He hugged me and said, “It’s okay, Mom. We’ll probably live with you when we get married anyway.”


I Need A Do Over

Hey folks! What did you get for Mothers Day?

My son gave me the requisite handmade card with a poem, which was beautiful. (I’m a sap. I keep everything he makes me. I’ve kept all of his clothes and I have a tough time washing off kisses. Okay, awwwww.) But the not so good part was that he woke me at 6:30 to give it to me. Apparently his teacher forgot to mention how it’s a law that mom gets to sleep in on that one day. But the even better part was that as he was coming out of his room, he stepped in a huge lake of dog urine and had to freak out and shriek “GROSS!!! Mom, it’s still hot!!! Hurry!” for me to come and clean it up. That was just the start. Our old, suddenly incontinent dog pissed herself again not once, but three more times that day. I wasn’t angry with her. It’s just, come on, Mothers Day? She doesn’t seem to be in pain, but I know I’ll have to make some decisions.

Surprisingly large bladdered dog. She is alive in this pic, but she sort of has a “Please, kill me now” look on her face.

So the hubby, who is just abysmal at gift giving, got up that day and hurried into town. And came back three hours later with dirt.

“Happy Mothers Day! I got you dirt for your flower beds!”

My Mothers Day dirt.

Um, Thanks? Is there a card?

“Shit. No. But here’s a shovel.”

I thought perhaps he was willingly going to let me bury him, but sadly not. It seems he won’t go down without a fight. He’s sort of an asshole that way.

The day was spent with me, alternately, shovelling dirt and wiping up urine. It got so confusing and frenetic that at one point, I strapped the spade to my belt and tucked the roll of paper towel in my bra strap, just so I was prepared. Hubby looked at the vision of his dirty, smelly wife and said “Nice outfit”. To which I bellowed “I AM A MACHINE!!!” and flexed a non-existent muscle.

I think he felt a bit sorry for me so we dropped everything and drove to town to get a cheesecake. On the way back we stopped at our local overpriced beer, gas and condom store, where they have six baby bunnies living under the deck. (Yes, I asked about that. I guess it’s almost impossible to get a condom on a rabbit.)

So the son and I watched these cute little hand sized bunnies hop around for a while. Oh, such a bad idea.

“Mummy, I really, really, really want a bunny!” in his best whiny, nobody loves me voice.

My brain kicked into exhausted overdrive.

“No, you never, ever want a baby bunny. You have to rip its head off and drink its blood at age ten as a right of passage into manhood. It’s just awful.”

“Um, what?” with his best ‘you’re shitting me’ voice. Then his dad chimed in.

“It’s true. And I had to take a bite out of the still-beating heart of the first deer I ever shot.”

To which I replied, “Are you kidding me? You expect him to believe that?”

“And the bunny story makes more sense?”

We argued about which tale would scar him less all the way home. The son sat in the backseat quietly. Rolled his eyes a few times and sighed his ‘you guys are so fucked up’ sigh. Minimal damage done.

The day ended with showers, cheesecake for supper and a movie. But next year? Right after my morning kisses, I’m getting the hell out of here. I think it’ll be safer for all.

Joy: Revisited For Mothers Day

*This was my first ever post, almost a year ago. It’s one of my favorites.*

As the lucky mother of a six-year-old son, I have had the great fortune of experiencing joy on a daily basis. This often happens during the most mundane and private moments of my life when I am least expecting it. And I am thankful every time.

Sitting on the pot and having small son fly into the bathroom with a Nerf gun shrieking “Gunfight, Mummy!” After the initial physical terror of being bombarded with soft projectiles in the midst of my morning constitutional and when my heart rate has slowed, I take a moment, and realize that having Son in my life has made even my toilet time a place where instead of being alone and bored, I now feel excitement. Also empathy for all our men in combat.

Having a bath and attacking the jungle that nature has given me for a bikini line, and in the middle of dangerous contortions with a razor, the young joy spreader flings open the door in all his urgency to share. The cute little look of horror and shock on his precious face as he looked at me and whispered “Mum, you cut your penis off.” Wow. Just, wow. I cannot describe what I felt looking at this little person and thinking of the adult he’ll become because of this moment. Almost breathtaking.

Giving the beautiful soul a kiss while he is sobbing. And with God’s perfect timing, having him sneeze a boat load of warm gooey snot at the exact second my mouth was aligned with his nose. Oh, the peals of laughter as he watched me gag and run for a towel! I knew then I had made his day.

Joy. Being a mother has opened me to joy. Plus a few nervous tics and a small drinking problem, but mostly joy.

Happy Mothers Day. Have fun!

Spring Break

Spring break sends me into escape mode.

I love my son but I am really not a ‘kid’ person. I used to be when I was younger but now I’m  a parent and jaded. He’s seven. Gone are the days when I could stare in fascination at his cleverness. I am just Lego-ed out. We also know each other so well that we bore one another after eight hours together. Yes, it sounds awful. Yes, you go through the same thing.

When five o’clock hits and Daddy gets home, I look for any excuse to get the hell out of the house.

“Oh Hi! Honey, do you want a beer? Oops. Shit. Out of beer! Let me just run and get that for you!!! Back in a flash, you big stud of a man.” (I don’t really say that last part. That’s what I’m sure goes through his mind. And any other variation of stallion, hero, sex machine, etc. I let him dream.)

Off I go, twenty precious silent fucking minutes to myself!!! Amen! (Can you hear the angels singing?)

I get to the small town country store that sells gas, groceries, prophylactics and booze. We require one-stop-shopping here in the wilds of Alberta. You have to be able to live your whole life in your truck. And apparently, to work in said store, you have to be certifiably batshit crazy.

As a reformed mental health worker, I still carry that wondrous professional demeanor that attracts all manner of folks to engage in conversation with me. I believe it’s the kind look, the tented fingertips and the sympathetic nodding. I look like you can confide in me. I look like I give a shit. Oft times, I’m okay with it. Hubby is too. He stands off to the side as I get my ear bent by a dirt covered street person who is telling his story as I give him money.

But on breaks from school? Yeah. NO TALKYTALKY!!! I am here to get beer, groceries, gas and prophylactics!!!!! Not to fucking VISIT!!!

As I walked into the store, the gal who’s been there FOREVER said to me “Greetings”. Because I was in a good mood from being in the cone of silence (otherwise known as my car) I responded with “Earthling”. That was the absolute worst thing I could have said.

“Oh, did you know that on other planets, they don’t call us earthlings? They call us Terrans”! (oh my fucking god.) “Did you know that aliens with tails already live here??? They’re called shape shifters”! (nod and smile, Leanne. nod and smile.)

That woman blathered on excitedly for I don’t know how long. So much so that she started to get those little pockets of spit at the corners of her mouth.

I have never before prayed for a horrible, slaughtering blood-bath of a hold up. I figured I could sneak away while she was busy with the carnage.

SPRING BREAK!!! NO TALKYTALKY!!! I extricated myself, finally. Got in my happy silent car and with a sigh of relief, headed for home. Ahhhhhhh…

As I was motoring down the road, quite near my home, my car did this weird thing. It decided to spin its rear end around. I thought, “Well that’s puzzling.” A well-trained winter driver remembers to drive through the skid and not lose their shit. I tried that. For a moment. It didn’t work.

I believe my exact thoughts were “Whoops!WhoopswhoopsWHOOPSWHOOPSWHOOPSOHDEARGODTHISISGOINGTOHURT”! 

I stopped with one front tire almost squeaking over the edge to take me down sideways into the coulee. I grabbed my wallet and phone to jump out and as I did so, the car slide another foot towards the trees. Which hurt my feelings. I was like, “Really, Subaru? 165 pounds? Really? I’m that heavy?”

I rang the hubby and the neighbour to pull me out. Then I tried to call Jesus. I couldn’t get him so I called his dad.

“Hey, Holy, it’s me. What. the. fuck?”

“Hi. Listen, hang on a sec. I have to pause my PVR.” (Yes. God has one.)


“Oh that! Look, I was just fucking around with you! You seemed kinda bitchy to that alien lady in that store and well, I thought I should, you know…”

“Kill me?”

“Aw, no, just, you know…”

“You’re bored, aren’t you?”

“Little bit.”

I hung up. When Holy is bored, there is no point in telling him to knock his weird shit off. If he thinks he’s getting a rise out of you, he feeds on the attention.

When hubby pulled up, he got a strange look on his face. “How the hell…”

“I don’t know! There was an alien lady at the beer store and Jesus wouldn’t take my call and I’m never leaving the house AGAIN!!!”

“Oh. Well. That explains everything.”

I kissed my son. Many, many times. We loved each other hard for the next few days. And yesterday, during a tickle fight, his foot flew out of nowhere and hit me on the bridge of my nose. We all heard the crunch.

Three days into spring break. Not sure if I’ll survive.

My Sweet Blabbermouth

When you have a child, you wait breathlessly for that first word, that first verbal acknowledgment that yes, your sweet baby does indeed have the means to communicate with you, in a way other than sobbing.

Say mama, Poopy! Say Dada! (Yes. I called my son Poopy for the first 2 years of his life. I only quit when I realized that this was one of the major ways I would ruin his ego. Just the first of many, I’m sure.)

His first real word was ‘Hi’. He was 6 months old and the. smartest. fucking. child EVER BORN!!!

Well. My dear sweet little boy became a talker. With a slightly British accent. (I have no idea where that has come from.)

Now, at 7, having been talking, singing and generally making lots of sounds for only 6.5 short years, this child will. not. shut. UP!

I am honest when I say that his dad and I have asked him to please, PLEASE, just talk in his head for 10 minutes. Please. please. please.*whimper*

I hate doing it. But when my ears are ringing and I am so confused  by trying to keep up and respond that I can’t think and he bursts into song for the umpteenth time, I just want  some silence. Or some duct  tape.

I can’t ‘fake’ not hearing him. Oh no. If I do that, I get ‘Mom. Mom? Mom? Mom. Mum. Mum. Mum. MOM! MOM! MUM! MUM!‘ Ad nauseum. Until I bellow something motherly like “Ch my god, WHAT?”. To which he will reply, “May I ask if you heard me?”.

I told you. He’s like a little Brit. Many things are prefaced with ‘May I ask?’.

“Mum, may I ask why there are candy wrappers on the table in the morning? May I ask where you keep this chocolate of yours?”

He wants to be a cop when he grows up. I think he has a grand start on interrogation tactics.

By bedtime, his father and I are exhausted. We barely talk to each other. Just the odd grunt ,nod or point. We’re like Cave Men!!! (Well hubby kinda always was…).

Now my poor sweet boy has lost some teeth. ( Have you noticed how little kids go from being cute to being snaggle toothed freaks for a couple of years? Yeah, we’re in that time. I’m already window shopping at orthodonists offices.)

Release the Kraken!!!

Release The Kraken!!!

Poor guy. Missing all these important teeth has now given him a lisp. And a horrible case of the spit showers.

Sad part is that as much as I need some quiet, in a few short years, I’ll be begging him to talk to me. And I’ll miss my little blabbermouth.

Back On The Horse

Writers Block is a bitch.

Last week, I had the start of my Red Dress Moment, and I had several thousand people visit my humble little place here. Quite frankly, it scared the shit out of me! All of a sudden, I felt like everyone was looking at me. And all I wanted to do was turtle.

It’s not that I don’t feel oh-so-honoured. (Thank you, Jenny!) I do. I’m glad you stopped by. (Oh hey, to whoever accidentally lit this place on fire? You can’t smoke in here!) But I’ve put this pressure on myself to do right by everyone watching and reading me. Which is ridiculous.

I am just me. This blog is a lot of satire, just to make you laugh. Because I love that feeling, making someone laugh. It breaks the tension, eases people. And if you have gas, a big hearty guffaw covers the sound of a big banging fart. (Yes, feel free. Break wind around me. Everyone else fucking does.) This is also my place to be very serious. With the only hope that maybe I can touch someone’s heart, just a little. You will definitely know the difference. I categorize things as Ducky (fun, good) and Not Ducky (shit that bothers me, or means something). Which also leads me to my blog name. (See the segue there? My god, I’m brilliant!)

I chose One Odd Duck because that’s how I’ve always felt. Different. Not quite the same as everyone else. But I’ve realized that this duck? Maybe not so odd. Methinks there are a ton of folks who think and go through all the same things I do. And that makes me feel less alone. Less odd. A bit more Ducky. So I thank you for reading me. For being here. Cheering me on.

A friend of mine tagged me in a meme today. Erin at (Actually, I’ve been tagged in a couple of others that I’ll get to this week as well. Wink.) I thunk to myself  “Self, what better way to start writing again?” So anxiety be damned! I’m back on the horse! (And off the wagon!) YeeHaw!

This meme is called Eleven Things.

First off, 11 Random Things About Me.

1. Wait. My left foot is super itchy. Okay, better.

2. I sometimes have trouble focusing.

3. I wear a robe as a sweater at home. If you are a really good friend of mine, I will wear it to your house. And you will start feeling comfortable enough to start wearing yours in front of me.

4. I’ve become a much better friend as I get older. I fuss over my friends. To the point where I have heard the words “For Chrissake, will you quit it! My bowels are fine!” I guess I really value them. If you are my friend, I will show up at your house with a gun and a spade, no questions asked.

5. My heritage is Scottish and Dutch. That means I really like to drink, but I don’t want to pay for it!

6. My kid is the best thing that ever happened to me. I look forward to every day because of him. He keeps me here, in this life, when my anxiety and depression are so overwhelming that I just want to go. He knows how much he means to me. He also knows that it is not his fault.

7. I almost brought a Bum home today. Well, I don’t know if he was a Bum, but he asked me for money for a loaf of bread and he looked dirty and tired. Was about 50 years old or so. I seriously thought about it because I hate seeing anyone or thing down on their luck. Then the little voice in my head said “You have a child. What if he is a pedophile?” And I hate that we as a society have to think that way. I didn’t bring him home. But I did give him money.

8. I just want everyone to be happy and safe. I know that’s not possible, but it’s what I wish.

9. I worked in health care for years, in all different areas. I was good at it, but I burnt out and started to hate it. I thinks it’s important to know that about yourself and quit when you need to.

10. I would marry my husband all over again. He is my mate. He surprises me all the time. He “accidentally” throws things at me. Like every time we fish, he’ll take an ugly slimy thing off the line to throw back, and it will come flying at my face. I think it’s deliberate. He says not. Sometimes I want to kill him, but I think that’s par for the course.

11. I’m a book-a-holic. I own too many books. I’m very learned on a wide variety of shit that doesn’t matter.

Okay! So, now comes the part where I respond to 11 questions Erin laid out.

(This is long! I’m tired. You probably are too. Go have a nap and come back later. I’ll wait.)

*whistling* *picking nails* I wonder if I can Yodel? *yodeling*

Hey! You’re back! Did you know I could yodel?

1. What’s the last song that made you want to dance? Metallica-Whiskey In A Jar.

2.  Favorite shoes you ever had? In my punk days, I had a pair of kitten heeled zip up boots that were ankle height and had three skull buckles to fasten the across the top of my foot. I bought them second-hand for cheap. I loved them. My mother threw them out 15 years ago. I am still mad.

3. What movie most resembles your life? Hmm. A tie between Steel Magnolias and Fight Club.

4. What is your passion in life? This. Several other things. I’d like to get good at them all.

5. What’s the first thing you would buy for yourself if you won millions of dollars. Perky boobs. Then I’d build a beautiful retirement home for disabled people with the best staff on the face of the planet. Then some Botox.

6. Favorite person in the world? My son. Then the Dalai Lama. I’d like to give that crazy old man a hug.

7.  Sleeping Beauty or Cinderella? Sleeping Beauty. I loves me some good snoozing. If napping was a sport, I’d go for the gold.

8. Favorite outdoor activity? I like doing yoga outside on my grass. It makes me feel like a kid because I get a great upside down perspective on the horizon. And I get to lay down at the end. Maybe have a nap.

9. Person who shaped your life the most? Pema Chodron. Dorothy Parker. Cher. Mostly Cher. This is hard, Erin!

10. What does your dream house look like? Exactly the one I have now. As long as the same people are in it.

11. What is your perfect date night? Date night? Wha- Hahahahahahahahahahahahaha!!!!! What is that? (Actually, me and hubby are going to a Full Frontal Nerdity expo in April. Date night? Date weekend! Hello! Did I mention the whole cast of Star Trek: Next Generation will be there? I’m taking Will Wheaton cookies and Flonase. His sinuses are bad. And I’d like to bake for him. Does anyone know if he has a peanut allergy? I don’t want to kill him.)

So, now it’s my turn to make up 11 questions to be answered.

1. If you could turn water into wine, would you share with your friends? And what’s your address?

2. If you had to be on a deserted island for an extended period with just your spouse, would you consider eating him/her?

3. Do you own a cat? (If not, I’ve got one for you.)

4. Are you ready for the zombie apocalypse?

5. Can you explain why my neighbour’s horses and dogs end up finding my yard to crap in? I’d really like to know.

6. Where were you on the 17th of November at 11:32 p.m? (Your wife wanted me to ask you.)

7. Why is my left foot so itchy?

8. Disco or Death Metal?

9. If Gretzky and Jesus were playing street hockey, who do you think would stop for a beer first?

10. What makes you snort laugh?

11. If I invited you for drinks and target practice this weekend, would you come?

Wow! That was hard. I feel a bit like a cop.

The rules for this meme are that I have to go tag 11 bloggers to do the same. I will, but I’ll just warn you all – you will not see me coming. I move like the wind and I fit in small closets so you won’t be able to get away. To anyone else that wants to respond to these, have at it! Comments are open for everybody and I’d love to see how you answer!

Well, I think I’m getting over my anxiety. Thanks Erin. (You should go read her. She’s pretty sweet.)


Yesterday I had my sons 7th birthday party.

This is how my day started.

Like healthy crack.

I’d had a grand few days of insomnia the week before. As anyone who suffers from it knows, after day 3, you start to function at base level. Left foot, then right foot. Breath into lungs, breath out of lungs. I take a prescription sleeping pill, but had run out with a few days until my dr.’s appointment. So, in all my stuporific wisdom, the night before the party, I took a Seroquel. 

Now, I feel a bit of back story is needed. I’ve worked in mental health for quite a period of time. I have witnessed the effects of Seroquel on the human body. When it was prescribed as a sleep aid, I thought “Well that’s bullshit” and threw it in to the back corner of my drug cabinet. (So you’re clear, it’s an anti-psychotic, also used for bi-polar disorder, and it’s one of those badass drugs that I used to have to give to my schizophrenic patients. When the voices in their poor heads were telling them to do stuff that you wouldn’t normally do.) I don’t know why I even kept the bottle, as I had no intention of ever using it. But my poor sleepy wee brain said “Just take the fricking thing!” I did.

Wow. That is so not a fun high. You sleep, but not a real sleep. More of a” tread water around sleep” sleep. Drugged. Oh so yucky. The next day, the day of the party, I felt like I was wearing lead boots and had the worst case of cotten mouth this side of a Hookah pipe. But that energy booster mix? Totally works. (You alll know what you are getting for christmas. Not hookahs. No.)

Party on. I’d invited 5 of the bairn’s school chums as last birthday, I made the mistake of having seventeen of the little hellions sweet children there. Once was enough. These kids are country kids in a small town school, and out of twenty six Grade Oners, twenty of them have known each other and gone to school together for 3 years already. How awesome is that? They are like cousins. And because they are country kids who know all the moms, they are polite and comfortable to be around. Some highlights.

If you need them to shut their yell holes for a wee bit, just make them wear their hats like unicorns for a minute. It doesn't work, but it changes the acoustics a little.Don't ask me why he wore his Superman robe all day. He is 7. He has no fashion sense.

Crowded around to be first to give a present. Because they are so thrilled with their choices. Too cute.

These homemade cards are just the best thing. I'm saving them. So sweet.

This kid is only six but I am certain he is FBI. He carries a piece and goes on unexpected trips for days on end and won't tell his folks a thing about it.

There were many gun battles, lots of screaming and running. At one point, I found four of them playing dead. I called to hubby and said “We’ve had casualties! Get the truck, we’ll load the bodies and dump them in the field!” At which point, they all came back to life and I shrieked “AHHHH!!! ZOMBIES!!!!!!”, which was, of course, the perfect thing to say. Because that started a whole new game were they tried to kill me. (Um, Hello? What 6yr old doesn’t love a zombie mother?)
All in all, a great success. I was worried, I’ll admit. Earlier in the day, I called on the gods of twitter (I’m @3snaps) and prayed there would be no vomiting.  The gods heard me, and no one left their cake on the floor! Yay!!!!!
I hope I made at least one childhood dream come true. For my sweet boy. My only. My seven-year old.



December-Part 2

The week before christmas was oh so hard on me.

First, the bairn ended up with Strep throat. I do believe we ran on about 4 hours sleep for a couple of days, which means I lost a couple of days. Not good when you are the Planner Of Everything, particularly at Christmas time. I have a tendency to plot my days to the hour. It’s bad, I know, but it comes from almost 20 years of being a hairdresser (aka self-appointed Coiffeurist to the Stars)(and their dogs) and having ran late ONE time early in my career with a client that reamed me out and said he could never come back because “his time was too precious to sit and wait.” Read that as self-important prick that scarred 23-year-old me forever. Not really, but thanks, famous old-time CBC news anchor! So the boy went on antibiotics to cure that up. All good.

 At the same time, my friend… Well, I really need to tell you about my friend. I was a bridesmaid for her and about a year later, my hubby and I decided to get married. I didn’t want her to fuss and it was a private affair, so I phoned her and said “Will you be my witness?” Without a beat she said, “Yes!!! What did you do?” Now, there are friends, and then there are friends who will cover for you without thinking about it. She’s one of those. We’ve wept together, cheered each other, and held hands when it felt like no one else was there. She and her hubby tried for a long time to get pregnant and this year, lo and behold, they did. They have a small, impatient little boy, named Noah. He kicked the door open to get out 14 weeks early. He’s very tiny, but he’s a fighter. This is one of those times when I feel so powerless and I know there is nothing I can say or do to make it better. But, my dear ducks, I know how good-hearted you all are. I know you all have hearts as big as anything. So please pray for this baby and his family for me, will you? Take one minute, and send all the energy you can muster. He has great parents and he is much-loved. I can’t wait to see them all at home and happy and healthy.

On to Christmas day. Lots of fun for us to watch the boy with his gifts. Until about four o’clock, when he decided to try to turn inside out. For eight hours. I guess we’re lucky, this being our first vomitous christmas and all. I’ve heard some children actually seem to plan on getting puking sick at every family get together. Just to get attention. And to be assholes.

Sadly, my mother and I both got it on the 28th. Now I don’t know about you, but I personally think that vomiting anywhere but in your own home is best left to teenaged binge drinkers. I like my own toilet, with my own bed nearby. Because I don’t like spewing. It pisses me off. And hearing my mother retch did not help matters any. I lay limply in the bed that night, thinking “This is the shittiest christmas ever and I would like to kill everyone now.”

I didn’t. I was too weak to go on a murderous rampage. But, there’s always next year, right?

All in all, a weird couple of weeks. Emotionally and physically exhausting. The same for all of you, I’m sure. So I think we should make a deal. Lets all say ‘Fuck this shit’ save our money, and meet up somewhere warm and have a few nice cocktails and a foot massage. Sound good? I thought so.

Chill, People!!!

And no puking.