Rules of the Road

"Hey Nash, I'm going to the store. Do you want to come?" I asked him as I walked past him while he was shooting hoops and opened the car door to buckle Knox into his seat.

That's when he said the three words I've come to dread.

"Can I drive?"

It's a special time in a parents' life, those months when their kid is gearing up to take their driver's test and are scrounging for as much practice time as possible. And by special I mean 'slightly hellish.' 

Nothing bonds a parent with anxiety issues to their teenaged child more than being trapped inside a metal box with wheels, as your child hurtles you both closer to insanity or death all while trying to remember the rules of the road.

I become less of a parent and more of a screechy adult, clinging to the dash board, the seat, the roof, to anything, all while trying to keep from hyperventilating and bursting into tears.

I pulled Knox's straps tight and sighed heavily.

"Just get in the car kid."

******

"Your foot must be a little heavy today. You're speeding."

"That's a yield sign!"

"Oncoming traffic! Watch out for the oncoming traffic!!"

"Traffic laws aren't suggestions meant to be ignored!"

"Watch for that dog! Don't run over him! The dog! THAT DOG!!"

"A rolling stop isn't a full stop!"

"You can't stop in the middle of a cross walk! You're supposed to stop before it!!"

"You're taking the corner too fast!!"

"That yellow metal thing is commonly referred to as a fire hydrant. You aren't supposed to park in front of it."

"Um, angle parking means park at an angle. You're taking up two stalls."

******

The car lurched to a stop just outside the grocery store. I leaned my head back against my seat, closed my eyes and took a deep breath before looking over at my son.

I love my children, I love my children, I repeat over and over in my head.

"It's not helpful with all the back seat driving."

"I'm just calling it like I see it Mom. You should have let me drive."

Ya. Teaching your children how to drive is the BEST thing ever. From now on, I'm just strapping him to the roof until he gets his own car.

Living a Lie

Thursday, July 18. 4:17 pm.

That's the moment everything changed. By 'everything' I mean nothing, and by 'changed' I mean 'stayed the same' but I just paid the dues for my poetic license so I figure I may as well use it.

I was sitting in a parking lot, waiting for Nash to finish his basketball day camp and that's when it happened. A glint of something shiny caught my eye in my rear view mirror.

A grey hair. My first grey hair. 

At 37 years old, I sprung grey. I know, I know. Ridiculous. I'm writing about ONE single grey hair. Clearly I need a bigger life. But here's the thing. My mom? She wages a war with white. My brother at 38, has more salt than pepper and my younger sister? Has an enviable skunk streak that I always said I'd pay good money to imitate if I had her colouring.

I was the one without any grey. And now I'm not. My family bragging rights had been revoked.

It's as though my always wheat blonde hair suddenly started darkening on it's own so that's it's a shade of dirty dishwater, not really brown, not really blonde and I'd spend the rest of my adult days trying to find a hair colour that brings any spark of colour to my head.

Oh wait, that already happened.

A grey hair is just another insult my hairline likes to dish out. 

It's like I don't even know who I am anymore. My entire identity was a lie.

(I did say I needed a life, right? I stand by that statement.)

Grey hairz. I haz them.

When Nash hopped into the vehicle the first thing I did was point to my forehead.

"Do you see this? Do you? Do you?"

He blinked rapidly, confusion written all over his face. "Um, do I see what?" he asked cautiously.

"THIS!!" I screeched as I pointed like a mad woman to my lone silver hair.

"Er, I, um," he leaned forward, seemingly peering at the hair in question. "All I see is a crazy woman and a wrinkle." 

"A WRINKLE! Not that! It's not a WRINKLE. It's a parenting line. They hand those suckers out with every baby you get. No, I meant the grey hair! I found a grey hair! My first!"

"I don't see anything. Except the wrinkled crazy lady."

My cheeky son may be myopic but the mirror didn't lie. My first grey hair stood out like a neon sign advertising the tragic end of my follicle youth.

I spent the night telling everybody and each time I got the same response. Ya, so?

It would seem, no one cares about other people's grey hairs because they're too busy hiding their own, or you know, having a life. Whichever.

I consoled myself by telling my reflection that it was only ONE grey hair. I can handle the boob drop, the cellulite, the chin whiskers, the nipple wires, heck; I even accept the loose neck skin, the crows' feet and the wrinkled brow. But the grey hair? Grey hair tips the scales into a direction I may not be able to navigate back from. At least it was only one hair. I had time.

Or so I thought.

As I sat in my stylist's chair on Saturday, shooting the breeze, catching up on each other's lives, I suddenly remembered my new follicle friend as she painted my dishwater hair yellow. 

"I found a grey hair this week! I can't believe it! A grey hair!" Surely my friend, my stylist, would understand my pain like no one else seemed to.

I expected her to stop painting my head and tell me to "Hush up! No! That's horrible!" Or tell me, "No way! Where? I didn't see it!"

I didn't understand the sounds coming out of her mouth.

It sounded like ... laughter.

"Took you long enough. You've got at least ten percent grey. Maybe more, Tanis."

Ten percent?! 

My mouth dropped.

"Ya, I didn't want to say anything. You've an entire colony right about here," she said as she tapped my head.

It turns out I've been living a lie. 

I have to tell you, I am okay with that. The lie made me feel good. Made me feel young. Next thing I'll find out is my ass is flat.

NOBODY LOOK. I don't want to know.

Now excuse me, I'm going to be obsessing over newly sprouting grey weeds in my garden of luscious locks while I wait to get a life.

Mudder Lover

My yard has been a construction zone for over a year. Since the morning of April 27, 2012 when the first backhoe of many arrived in my yard to dig what seemed then, a giant gate to hell.

If only I knew. 

When the cement was poured, the doors hung and the snow starting to fly, I remember giving a great big sigh of thanks. 

"Thank GOD that's over and it's done," I thought as I watched our new garage doors close for the first time. My husband's dream, his Zeppelin Hangar was now in business.

It didn't take long for a blanket of snow to cover all evidence of construction, covering uneven ground, abandoned pieces of scaffolding, and remnants of six months of toil and trouble. 

I have to admit; Bruce's big beautiful barn sure does strike a pretty picture when surrounded by six feet of snow for half (or more) of our year. 

Eventually, however, snow melts and it didn't take long to realize what a complete disaster my yard was. 

That's wife code for "You broke my yard, now you better fix it." My husband took that as an invitation for fun and didn't look back. 

I should have realized I was in for a rough ride when I woke up to find this on my front lawn a few weeks ago and a husband with a grin so big his face threatened to split in two.

But I'm a big girl. I knew what had to be done. I could handle this. 

I handled it for approximately less time than it took for the first bucket of dirt to be dumped and then I fled the premises. Sometimes it's easier to deal with the carnage if you don't have to witness the proverbial killing.

I made Bruce swear he wouldn't tear my entire lawn up. "Don't dig up past the cherry tree! Leave me some grass! Promise you'll won't kill all the grass I worked so hard to grow!"

My husband always keeps his promises.

Sort of. 

I would have been mad about the entire destruction of my front lawn and my tiny patch of grass but I was too busy being horrified by the giant pit of doom I almost fell into when I walked out of the barn to get to the house.

I promise you all, it only looks like my husband was trying to kill me.

*Twitch.*

Everywhere I looked there was dirt. I couldn't get to my house, let alone SEE my house; there was so much dirt. 

Apparently, when you dig a big hole, you get a big dirt pile. 

I'm told it's basic science. Science sucks.

Once the hole was dug the fun began. And by fun I mean, full blown anxiety attack. We had to hire a crane to lift our cement water cistern and move it ten feet to the left.

That's right. TEN FEET. 

ALL OF THIS DESTRUCTION FOR TEN FREAKING FEET.

I would have killed my husband but I couldn't reach him.

Luckily for us (and our bank account,) the cistern moved with no problem and the hole was filled back in. 

And yet, I was still surrounded by mounds of dirt. 

And it was starting to rain.

I was not happy. 

Abbott, however, was THRILLED. Guess who just found out her dog loves to dig? 

*Raises hand.*

It rained for over two weeks. Northern Alberta flooded, then southern Alberta flooded and my yard turned into one big mud wrestler's delight. The dogs, the cats, the kids, my floors, everything was covered in mud. 

Mud everywhere. 

Which lead to this:

A very broken toe.

This is what happens when one is trying to prevent an itty-bitty dog with muddy paws from running across the living room floor and diving onto your furniture. You chase after the dirty mongrel only to smash your foot against the coffee table and the dog still gets the furniture filthy.

I've since learned mud makes the ugly leather couch look much better. 

Muddy paws are only slightly more acceptable than broken toes.

Slowly the yard started to dry out and the arduous process of trying to grade the yard began. 

Translation: My husband moved dirt from one location to the next. He swears he has a plan, but I'm pretty sure his plan is trying to drive me to madness.

It wasn't so bad. I only had to carry Knox up and down this hill several times a day, like a sure-footed mountain goat, because there was no way to access the house with his wheelchair. 

Not every plan is perfect. And I only almost dropped Knox once. Mostly because after I almost dropped him and fell on my face I refused to carry him over that hill of dirt without someone walking alongside me. You know. Someone I could pull down with us if I tripped.

Because if Knox and I go down, I'm taking as many people with me as I can. 

Thankfully, the rain stopped, the sun came out and my husband moved most of the dirt off to the side. That's a problem for another day. In the meantime, I almost have a front yard again.

Kind of. 

It doesn't look like much to the casual eye, but to me it's the glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel and the bones of what will one day soon be a beautiful end to what has been a very long construction season.

I'll have my yard back.

Just in time for the snow to fly once again.

Argh.