Smelling the Roses. Or the Dandelions. Whatever.

I've sat here at the computer, staring at a blank screen for almost an hour. I am completely uninspired to write.

All I want to do is go outside and run around naked garden.

So I'm going to do exactly that. But only after I immerse myself in a full body dip of skeeter repellant because I have no desire to be eaten alive.

Sometimes life is just too damn short to blog. This happens to be one of those times.

Some of the flowers I intend to sniff. And possibly deadhead.

One of the acres of grass I'm going to have to mow. Or try and convince my children to do it for me. Thank God I only have 20 acres.

Be good my peeps. Be back soon.

How Old Is Old Enough?

My husband and I rarely disagree with how to raise our children. Mostly because he is smarter than that. He has some sixth sense that tells him since I was the one who carried our rabid badgers in my uterus only to have them climb angrily out of my soft pink parts, he would be wise to acquiesce to my wisdom and accept the majority of my decisions.

It's never really an issue with the two of us, however, because we think very alike when it comes to the welfare of our children. Our goals are the same (to keep them alive to adulthood, keep them out of the clink and not to raise their babies. Add in a dash of happiness, success and productivity and that basically sums up our goals,) so we have little to argue about.

But every now and then there is a parental hiccup. Like the time I taught our then two-year-old daughter how to say "penis" and "vagina." Or when I told my then three-year-old son to tell every one that the only bad things in life were "smoking, drugs and premarital sex." (Frac, however, pronounced it 'pwee-mammal sex.' I still giggle.)

I wasn't fond of the time my husband decided my toddler child was old enough to handle a spray paint can and when Frac ripped off his pull-up and spray painted his genitals bright red, I was victorious. If victory included trying to scrub red paint off a wee boy's penis, that is.

We've both made questionable parenting decisions in the past and I am certain we will continue to do so until all of our children are out of the house and on their own. We may be parents but we are first and foremost fallible humans. Who have twisted senses of humour.

Heh.

Our latest hiccup involves my husband's past. Apparently, his parents left him alone, over night, left to his own devices starting at the tender age of 14. Our oldest is just shy of 14 herself and as such, he thinks it will be acceptable to start leaving her on her own when she finally hits that magical age.

My parents never left any of us alone until I was 17. My brother was 18. And the only reason they left us alone was they were visiting a rodeo in a town three hours away and ingested a few too many beers to make the drive home safely.

I still remember the panic I felt when I realized they weren't coming home. Of course, if I had known they were having a drunken good time at a rodeo I wouldn't have been worried. But my parents neglected to inform us they weren't coming home. Until the next morning. I may still be scarred from the worry.

I just think fourteen, regardless of how responsible the child is, (and she's very responsible) is too young. My husband thinks I need to chill out. I think he's full of beans and needs to stop arguing with me on who is right.

Because obviously, I am never wrong.

But after talking with another family member, it was pointed out that maybe I am wrong. After all, my children have their first aid courses, we have cell phones, they are surrounded by family members who live near by and they have been through the wringer. Maybe the problem isn't that my daughter isn't old enough to be left alone over night, but I'm not mature enough to leave them.

I find this hard to believe, as I am the picture of maturity. See my blog archives to prove this.

See? I'm mature.

So I'm taking to the internets to settle the argument? How old is old enough? How old were you when your parents left you alone for the first time? Did a pack of wolves come in and rape you in the middle of the night after a gang of ninjas broke in and robbed you blind?

Could my husband possibly be wrong? Or *gasp* am I being a teesny weensie overprotective over here?

Settle the argument will ya?

Calling God

As a general parenting rule, I encourage my children to get along. As entertaining as running my very own Fight Club may be, my sanity requires Fric and Frac to, at the very least, be civil to one another.

For the most part they comply without my having to knock their heads together. But there are moments when I'm tempted to stick them in a small room together, lock the door and see who emerges victorious. My Darwinian instincts will one day land me in a boatload of trouble I am sure.

Earlier this week my kids tested my instincts. Doors were slammed, voices were raised and tempers were heated. I was mystified to what the latest brouhaha was all about. Since I'm not one to let these things take their natural course and let them pass on their own (read: I was about to lose hearing in my good ear from all the shouting), I asked what was going on.

"Fric thinks she is better than me!"

"Frac is a moron!"

Read those two sentences simultaneously and imagine two blonde teenagers yelling them in my face at the same time.

I forgot the cardinal-parenting rule about 'one at a time.' It took a few minutes but eventually I was able to get to the root of the problem. While the two kids were out building rafts to sail on the giant slough on the back of our property, they started talking about their dead little brother which morphed into a conversation about heaven which then turned into a giant argument about Christianity.

"Frac says he doesn't believe in God!"

"Fric thinks she's better than me because she is saved!"

There are moments when I'm wholly unprepared to be the sole parent on duty. This was one such moment. It's not like we have never talked about God and Christianity and spirituality in general. The months directly after Shale's passing, we spoke of little else. Mostly, since the kids were only 9 and 8 at the time, we talked about what happens when someone dies. Where they go. Does God really exist?

I'll admit my husband was much better at this aspect of parenting than I was. He was raised a Christian and finds comfort in his beliefs and has no problem explaining or defending them.

But I came late to the Christian game, as I was raised in a largely agnostic home. One parent was a quiet believer and the other was a quiet atheist. There wasn't much talk about God or spirituality at all in my childhood home and it wasn't until years into my marriage that I found myself calling myself a Christian.

My fledgling faith took a beating when my son unexpectedly passed away. I found no peace or solace with my beliefs and I was mired in a game of 'what if'. It was hard to reckon a merciful God with the reality that my son died a painful albeit swift death for no discernable reason. (His coroner was unable to find cause of death and his autopsy was a complete failure.)

Our community did little to help resolve my grief and my pain. More often than not I found their religious platitudes and pithy well-meaning words to be annoying or insensitive. I was pissed at God and I wasn't in a place to forgive Him for taking my son away from me.

Apparently, my son is struggling with the same issues. While I still grapple with my faith, not prepared to give it up completely yet not ready to accept it completely either, my son has abandoned all pretenses and refuses to contemplate any sort of spirituality.

My daughter finds this wholly unacceptable as, much like her father and her extended family, she has wrapped herself up in her faith and finds great comfort and joy in it.

Which of course, led to raised voices and heated arguing and both of them looking to me to resolve the debate. It was as if they both think I know everything. I guess they haven't hit the teenaged stage where they think their parents are dumb as rocks.

The problem is, I can't resolve this issue for them. I don't want to do anything to jeopardize my daughter's faith and I certainly don't want to do anything to drive my son further away from it. But at this moment in my life, I can't honestly encourage a belief in God when I'm not sure I have any myself.

Between my son's death, my other son's violent past and now, more recently, that which I am prohibited from blogging about I'm having a really hard time jumping from the Christian ship while flipping my saviour the bird.

The blanket of faith I once wrapped around myself is now shredded and tattered and threatening to fall apart completely. I'm too busy trying to mend these rips myself that I find myself unable to sew together my son's struggles.

It boils down to I'm still angry. I'm still hurt. And those two things alone can undermine the strongest faith. Add to the mix scientific rational and let's just say, I'm pretty sure Saint Peter won't let me pass through the pearly gates anytime soon.

Well meaning people have tried to help minister to my shaky faith. But when I hear all the platitudes and promises, all the "God only gives you what you can handle" phrases, I want to kick them. How can I explain to my son how God thought he was strong enough to lose his brother, or how Jumby was obviously strong enough to be saddled with enduring hardship due to torture?

Why are some children born disabled when others are not? Why do some people get brutalized and others not? Why did I lose my child when you still have yours? I have no answers to any of these questions but that doesn't stop them from rattling around in my brain.

For the most part, I try not to dwell on the whys, and I focus my energy into the joys my life is enriched with. But I grapple with my fears and lack of faith every day. The truth is, I have no answers. I ping pong around spirituality in a way that must give Jesus Himself a headache.

If it weren't for the pressing sentimental need to know I'll see my son again one day in the after life, I'd likely throw my bible away and fornicate with Santa Clause. But there are some nights when the grief is so raw and consuming the only thing that keeps me from jumping off a ledge somewhere is the idea of being reunited with my child. I can't deny the comfort that idea of faith has brought me.

With my children waiting for me to impart lasting words of knowledge and to side with one or the other, I floundered.

I looked them square in the eyes and told them, "That's enough. Neither of you are completely right, so stop fighting."

The squawking resumed full force. Apparently my children didn't like the kernel of wisdom I had just imparted.

So I did the only thing I knew to do.

I called their father and handed them the phone.

My faith in his parenting abilities was the only thing I believed in at that moment.

I only wish I could resolve my own spiritual problems so easily.