I’m usually an in and out kind of gal.  I’ll make an appearance, but I generally do not like to be in the same crowd of people for too long.  It may be an anxiety thing because I feel like if I stay too long, people will notice I’m weird or I’ll say something that will randomly come to mind months later.  

I’m stuck in a splash pad right now.  One of those ones with the slides and water sprayers and kids crying.  I’ve stayed well beyond my comfort time.  In fact, I’ve had to move my plastic Muskoka chair three times now to get back in the shade - if that gives you any idea how long I’ve been here.  

The almost six year old is having fun going down the same slide over and over, scraping the back of her legs each time she goes down.  Enough to complain about it, not quite enough to cry about it. 

I am people watching.  Watching people who have their shit together.  The grandparents.  The workers …and the guy who looks insanely like R. 

It’s not the first time this has happened.  I see lookalikes all the time.  Someone mentioned to me that R really looked like Tim McGraw and now he is one of the lookalikes.  The difference is this one was wearing a tattered up beer shirt. It made me wonder how he would have dressed today.  

Would he have a favourite sports team that he wears? Bright colours? Super heroes? Plaid? 

He died in 2005…even before he could create a Facebook account.  Times have changed so much.  

Such a weird thing to suddenly think of. 

The kid has now scraped her butt over the acceptable amount and is ready to go! 

 Actually twice.  I was cursed twice in my lifetime. 

Once when I was a kid.  I can't recall exactly how old I was, but I was at the age where the highlight of visiting your great grandparents was the doll that went over the toilet paper roll in their bathroom.  I loved that doll.  She hid the spare toilet paper roll with her mint green crocheted gown.  She was a beauty - and I'm sure she had seen some things. 

I'm sure all I ever talked to my great grandmother about was how much I loved that doll.  My memory is not all that great, but from what I do remember my great grandmother was a cold woman - oh and apparently she was a witch. True story. 

On one particular visit to my great grandparents' home I was presented with that nasty little toilet doll - and upon touching her fuzzy mint dress, which was unforgivably toilet roll shaped - even though the toilet roll had been removed - I vomited.  

You have to know, I never throw up.   I can probably recall all the times I threw up and in my childhood I threw up three times - once on TP Barbie, once when I licked a dandelion outside and another time when I went to bed too soon after eating at Chi Chi's and threw up purple on my wall. 

TP Barbie never recovered.  It was traumatic.  Looking back now, I am not entirely sure if it was from excitement or the fact that it was a vestibule for my great grandmother's curse - which may still exist to this very day.  It may have been a hearty bowl of Count Chocula and a long car ride to Richmond Hill, but I am willing to bet it was a curse.

The second time I was cursed was by my first ever roommate.  Actually I'm not sure if she really did curse me because she said it would be worse for her if she did or something like that.  If the curse of my life is from her spell I figure she's probably a gnarled up old troll somewhere if she's three times worse than I am now because things haven't been so great. 

All joking aside. I am writing here today because it's been 18 years. 

18 years is a very long time and a lot has changed

but I still cry sometimes. 

The grief of losing him.  The grief of losing what our future would have been. 

The grief of the best and worst time of my life - how is that even possible?

 

I am writing here today because I cried at a commercial about Smile Cookies today. 

I am cursed. 

Nothing has been normal for me. 

and although that is not always entirely bad - I feel like the curse has never left. 

 

Except the times when I was happy and I didn't think about it. 

When he was here. 

Grief changes. It is never the same the next day, the next year or even 18 years later.  

My grief is not the same as your grief. 

 

All I know is it does get easier because we cope. 

We learn how to live without the person. 

and everything is okay.

 

 

 

PS - I guess I should address not being here for so long.  I had to look up something here and I realized how much writing helped me cope.  I can't promise I will be here regularly.  I even lost my domain and I'm not really that evil anymore - thank you for reading.

 I think a lot of my problems stem from procrastination. 

Maybe it’s self doubt hidden under a friendlier term.

Either way, if I don’t do it now, I’m not going to do it. 

Cooking dinner the moment I walk in the door versus sitting down means the family eats pizza. 

These past few weeks of recovery is compliments of just doing it.  

It doesn’t give me time to think of what I might do wrong or who might be looking at me.  

This approach may not work for everyone - but for me it’s a reminder of what will work - and so far it’s working!

(A photo of the dinner I made. Yes it looks questionable.  I’m not a chef.  Don’t come at me!)

 Well that was a trip!  

I've been gone.  A lot.  I know. 

I've been wallowing in misery...you know, the usual. 

But I miss me.  Or the me I wanted to be. 

I didn't even really get to know myself before I started loathing that person too. 

I decided to come back here...my therapy. 

I'm older.  Fatter.  Not wiser.  A lot grumpier and pretty unhealthy.

So now here I am.  Again.  On a journey to make myself a better person...again. 

I'm already doing pretty okay.  I workout in a gym now - more than once a week!

I'm hoping by coming back here I can keep myself accountable.  

-but for my own mental sake, I am not promising anything. 

please hold while I dig out a photo to make this post more eye catching because my writing is a little  dusty

My daughter.
I never thought I would say those words.
My little girl with a contagious smile.
Exactly what I needed at the worst possible time.

Charlotte 'Charlee' Jean came in to this world on September 7.
Her birth was like any other scheduled birth (other than the med student who fainted).  
She peacefully changed our lives that day and sometimes I still can't believe she's all mine.

Her big brother adores her.
I expected some jealousy, but he is so happy to have a sister.
My son grew up so quickly from the time she was born.
I don't know if it's because I haven't been paying as much attention to him or just that he is more responsible than I ever gave him credit for. 

I thought I knew it all. 
A single parent for 13 years.
Boy, was I wrong. 

Charlee taught me how to love again in a whole other way. 
She taught me that babies have different personalities.
and she taught me that it is possible to function on less sleep when you're an "older parent". 
I also had to learn quickly about baby girl fashion - don't laugh, it's harder than you think.

This post is long overdue.
I've had to write it over and over. 
but it was just never fitting.

My writing is way out of practice.
My mind is tired and occupied.
but my little girl is nine months old today and I have put this off long enough.

The truth is, I was afraid. 
Nothing is perfect. 
It has taken me a long time to accept that nothing ever really is.
I am working on it.
Even though everything feels scattered - this is us and that is not going to change for a long time.
so I am going to embrace it
and enjoy our little life just the way it is.

 

On the frontline. 
The soldiers are in order.
I'm pretty sure Jon Snow is there.
It is a battle...
and it's all in my head.

It's a battle of
Never being good enough.
Never being smart enough.
Feeling like a nuisance to people.
Enhancing my flaws.
Being deceived.
Having trust issues.

Everything changed so quickly.
I panicked and I gave up. 
and then they settled and I somehow forgot who I was.
People are not the same. 
Home is never my home.
It's never settled.

I try to blend in.
I don't want anyone to notice.
but at the same time this is a cry for help.
Starving for attention.
Where is Jon Snow when you need him?

In a way this is one of those blog posts apologizing for my absence.
In a way I'm not sure I will ever come back.
This world is a scary place.
People are offended. 
People are angry.
Being a writer is terrifying.