One

It's my baby's birthday today.

No, not Knox. That was last month. The still-dreaded double duty day. Knox turned ten on the eighth anniversary of his brother's Skjel's death. I didn't write about it. It was the first birthday of Knox's that my husband was home to celebrate.

It was also the very first time my husband has ever been home on the death anniversary.

I was relieved to have the emotional support this year until I realized his presence actually destabilized my control and sent me reeling back into a pit of grief. It didn't help that he convinced me to leave the house and go shopping for light fixtures for the Zeppelin Hangar. Every time a salesman would approach us my husband would start shaking his head violently at the sales person and beg them to go away with the power of his eyes. The sales person would look confused and then innocently ask how I was doing and if there was anything they could help us with.

At that point I would burst into tears, snot into a tissue so used it was starting to disintegrate and mumble something about needing a cake and pot lights. 

It wasn't our most productive shopping excursion ever and there are now five lighting stores I can never show my face in again. In the end, there never was a cake but there were smiles. Big tear stained smiles.

One day I'll be able to manage my son's birthday on my other's son's death day, no matter who is home or where I am. I'm sure of it.

Happy tenth birthday kid. Your peoples love you.

It's not Nash's birthday either. His was a week before his brother's. He turned 16. There was no cake for his birthday either. There was a volleyball game that evening and I made the poor boy keep score for his sister's team. Don't look at me like that. Have you seen how short the spandex bottoms are in girls' high school volleyball? I did Nash a favour. It may have been his best present yet.

I also gave him a car. Happy 16th son. Your peoples love you too.

There was a cake for Ken's 17th birthday, which happened three days after I wrote about Knox's hearing aide mysteriously disappearing. (No. His hearing aide was never found. Yes, it's been replaced. All hail name redacted insurance company.) Apparently I was too annoyed with losing my son's ear to write about my other kid's birthday but not annoyed enough to not throw a party for her and a dozen other teenagers.

May you never be too cool for dorky hats on your birthday, kid. Your peoples love you.

Today is Abbott's birthday. His first birthday. And like his human brothers, there will be no cake for him either. There may be a raw steak in his future but I draw the line at sticking a candle in it. Maybe. Hmmm. Suddenly Instagram is calling my name.

(Look at me, taking doggy parenthood to a newer, keener level of obnoxiousness.) 

And even though I couldn't be bothered to honor the birthdays of any of my human children on my blog this year, I'm bothering with my dog.

Yes kids, I do love Abbott more. But only for the moment because he is keeping my feet warm and I'm too lazy to either turn up the furnace or go outside to get more wood to put in the woodstove. 

When Nixon, my Boston Terrier, died on Nash's birthday last year, I thought I'd never be able to love another dog the way I loved him. Nixon kept me sane while I grieved the death of my son. I loved him wildly and passionately. 

But then we found Abbott. Abbott, the world's largest pain in my ass. And man, do I love this dog in an entirely different but equally wild and passionate way. 

Abbott sheds the weight of three cats in a day, he drools in a way that fascinates and disgusts me, he farts more than my husband and he hogs the bed worse than any toddler sleeping sideways ever could. He pees on my new grass with oblivious abandon, steals sips of my coffee as it cools on the kitchen table, and likes to put his head on my pillow while I'm sleeping on it and huff loudly into my face to wake me up at all hours of the night so he can dance in the freshly falling snow.

He sits on me whenever I have to pee, he hogs the couch when the kids want to sit on it and he has chewed holes in all my socks. While I'm still wearing them. He likes to walk through my legs as I'm walking. He steps on my flip-flops as I'm mid-stride and he has zero respect for cats and their personal boundaries. Abbott is entirely incorrigible.

But then this dog, this well-over 200 pound dog who is now actually taller than my husband and my son when he's standing on his hind legs, looks into my eyes, I melt. He's quiet and loyal and fiercely protective. 

Every morning he puts his face in Knox's and lets Knox kiss him goodbye. He stands still long enough for Knox's tight little arms to stretch out and he holds still as Knox tries to open his fists to pet him. 

Every afternoon he stands at the end of the driveway and waits patiently for Knox's school bus to turn onto our road and stop at our driveway. He sticks his nose into Knox's nose as if to say hello and then he walks beside Knox's chair the entire way up our drive.

And every evening, he snores gently with his head in Knox's lap as Knox and I read bedtime stories together.

He even leaves Knox's socks alone. 

(But not his toque.)

This big dopey dog is Knox's gentle giant and my constant companion. 

Happy first birthday, Abbott. Your peoples love you. Even when you chew holes into our socks.

Abbott, 8 wks old, the day I brought him home.

Nap buddies.

"I am the one who knocks."

My baby. I wub you widdle man.

It's a Mystery

I won't lie; this back to school routine is kicking my arse. Between the school sports, the paper work, the never-ending lunch making, I'm about done with school. 

You'd think after doing this for so many years I'd have mastered the art of parenting during the school year. Of course, you'd be wrong. I thrive on disorganization. Well, not really. I just can't seem to escape it.

It's been a particularly rough week around here. 

Knox's ear went missing.

Well, not his ear so much as his brand-new-only-11-months-old-so-not-really-brand-new-but-newish bionic hearing aide, but to be honest, it would be cheaper if he lost his actual ear and not just the insert.

From all accounts, his hearing aides were freshly inserted at 3 pm. He was loaded on to the bus and an hour later, just after getting off the bus his ear was gone.

It's not to be found. No one can find it.... Which, you know, is the definition of 'not to be found.' (Clumsy writing for the win!)

It's a mystery. A mystery worthy of Agatha Christie and Arthur Conan Doyle.  

In the span of sixty minutes I am out THOUSANDS OF DOLLARS (please please please let insurance cover this cost) and everyone is like *shrug, whatcha gonna do?*

Let me tell you what *I'm* gonna do:

YELL.

Then pout.

And then YELL some more. 

I may even kick a rock. Down the driveway.

Then kick a rock again. Back UP the driveway.

And then I'm gonna YELL some more. Randomly. And, possibly, at strangers.

But only old people strangers. Old people who aren't wearing their hearing aides. So they can't actually hear me yelling at them. Because I don't want to seem rude. I'm fine with seeming crazy but I draw the line at rudeness. 

And then, after all the yelling, pouting and rock kicking, I won't lie. I'm going to cry. Crying makes everything better.

I just don't understand it. He went on the bus with both of his ears and got off the bus with only one of them.

Are kids these days selling hearing aides on the black market? Melting them down to snort them? 

Hoarding them to build a giant robot that they will set forth upon the world to rule it with the super power strength of its bionic ears?

DID ALIENS BEAM ABOARD THE BUS AND MISTAKE KNOX'S EAR FOR A NEW LIFE FORM AND CARRY IT BACK TO THEIR SPACE SHIP FOR OBSERVATION?

No.

And before you ask, no, Abbott did not eat it. He's an arsehole but he's a fussy arsehole that way. Also, he was nowhere near Knox when it was discovered the hearing aide was missing or even before. He was too busy chasing the Chihuahua who is in heat.

Did I mention my dog is an arsehole?

I'm not an arsehole Mom. I'm a HORNY TEEN.

I only wish he ate the hearing aide because I would gladly excavate poop than pony up the THOUSANDS of DOLLARS it's going to take to replace this necessary equipment. 

I don't have thousands of dollars. I'm jobless and I mooch off my husband.

My husband who is GOING TO BE SO MAD.

I'd rather excavate poop than tell my husband. AND I DON'T LIKE POOP. 

Google is going to forever think I have an excrement excavation fetish. Hello perverts brought here by Google. Welcome to the party!

So. To sum up: Knox's shiny bionic ear disappeared into the realm of 'never to be seen again,' shoulders have been shrugged, the dog has been cleared and the insurance people are going to be uncommonly kind and generous because if they aren't, the poor kid who lost all his teeth not two months ago and can't get them replaced will also have to wheel around deaf as my 66-year-old father who refuses to get his hearing checked.

And I already have to cope with one relative yelling "WHAT? I CAN'T HEAR YOU," I can't handle another.

Please universe, bring back my kid's expensive medical equipment. The aliens don't need it. But Knox (and my bank account) certainly do.

*Kicks rock.*

Time Warp

Long ago, in a land far away (or rather, just meters from where I currently sit), a great saga was about to start. An epic journey (of sorts) began. It entailed many bagged lunches, forgotten permission slips and tears over homework.

It was the start of the school years.

When it began, all those years ago, it looked like this:

Now, with a senior beginning her quest for the end, it looks like this:

Of course, in between it mostly looks like this:

What? YOU try taking first day of school pictures with these hoodlums. It's impossible I tell you. Impossible.

Happy back to school day, yo.

(Now excuse me as I try to wrap my head around the fact my daughter is graduating this year when I swear it seems like only yesterday that I, myself, graduated. Weird.)