Love Harder

On the surface, I look normal. Healthy even. My past, it's invisible to most. You'd have to look close to see the cracks in my facade and most people don't bother.

But I can't escape those cracks. There are reminders, flashing like a neon sign on a dark city street, reminding me I'll never escape this path I'm on. A single white stretch mark beneath my belly button. A tattoo on my back with a scar running through the center.

The crows' feet at the corner of my eyes, less from aging gracefully and more from being thrust into a vortex of pain. My nose ring, a reminder of the numbness I carried and a desperate desire to feel anything once more.

Yesterday, a lady asked me how I cope on the rough days.

The day before I received an email asking how I survived.

The week before, a tweet exclaiming surprise and astonishment that I had a deceased child. They didn't know.

My wounds are no longer on my surface, festering with the rage of raw grief. They've scabbed over from time and endurance and the million tears I've cried. They're hiding under the surface of what you see, threatening to rise to again with a sudden memory or a sad song on the radio.

I wear a skin that is too small most days, fitting tightly to leave no room for the pain that follows me around. It is painful to live with a lost child. To hear of your child's antics. To see another four year old thrive. To watch a five year old blow out their birthday candles. To watch other's children live. It cuts sharp like a knife through the jello of protection I've managed to scab around my heart. I wonder, sincerely, if it will ever not hurt to see everyone else's children grow up, when my child did not.

Love harder.

Losing Shale was the most violent experience of my life. His death was sudden, swift and cruel. We were shredded in moments we never knew to anticipate, left alone in the carnage of death, our lives ripped violently apart with the quiet passing of a small child.

I haven't quite figured out how I survived that moment, or how I continue to walk around in various states of zombification. I can't think of that night, or the days that followed without clutching my chest and having to remind myself to draw breath.

But there are moments, more now than ever before, where the pain is pushed aside, hidden behind the clouds of joy I've peppered into my landscape. Like chasing butterflies, I've chased joy because it has been the only thing that has kept the monster of grief at bay.

Laughter rings in my ears now, and happiness is no longer a fiction to wonder about. It is real and it coexists with the stark reality that death is final.

Most people don't see the quiet moments anymore, the ones where grief sneaks up on me and shatters my joy. It doesn't take much. Shale is everywhere with me, imprinted in me as much as the freckles on my nose.

Small moments of wondering what he'd be like now. He'd be ten. Would he be tall? Would his hair still curl into soft ringlets when it grew out? Would he be able to say Mom? Would he look like his brother Frac? Would he like his brother Jumby? Would he walk?

Those questions torment me, haunting me with their answers held silent, and it burns my soul with a physical pain I would once have told you was impossible. Imaginary. But it is as real as the pain of getting kicked in the groin by a little boy on a playground. This pain exists. And worse, it seems to endure. Nothing stops it.

So I've learned to live with it, like a bad limp, or an eye that keeps watering. It is simply part of what makes me Tanis, whether I like it or not. I'm tired of fighting the fact I carry an inescapable pain with me that no one can see. I'm tired of being sad that others no longer grieve for the child that once shined so brightly with the love he shared.

It hurts to see my kids remember their little brother and cobble together their memories of him, hoarding them close in fear they'll forget the love they once shared with him. It hurts almost as much losing my son all over again.

So yes, I have a son you never knew I lost.

And no, I don't really know how I cope on the rough days. Mostly, because I don't cope. There is no real coping in the face of such loss. There is simply existing through the violence of the pain.

My great secret for learning how to survive this unthinkable loss is that I don't have a secret. I've survived and I hope I will continue to, always because it's a choice I've made. To survive this. For myself, for my existing children, for my son who never had the luxury of survival.

But more than survive, I choose to live and to love. Everyday, with great passion and forethought, because I never know if today is the last day I'm going to be able to hold my loved ones.

Death changed me.

It made me love harder.

Which, I guess, is the real secret to how I survive, how I cope.

I love. Even as it hurts to do so.

I hope you will too.

Summer Camp Grown Up Style

When Fric and Frac each turned 7 respectively, their father and I packed up their belongings and tossed them out of the house. Or shipped them to summer camp. Po-tay-to, po-tah-to. They've been attending one summer camp or another ever since.

Our summers have always been fairly lazy, due to budget restraints, that large invisible piano tied to my arse and the fact I truly believe children need the freedom to run naked through the woods chasing their imaginary friends. I like to keep our summers low key.

Most of our past summers have been spent lounging around our pool, jumping on our trampoline, and being sprayed randomly with the garden hose. Ice cream cones and weed pulling, they both equal a summer well spent.

This summer has somehow morphed into an unruly beast and not just because it's been raining almost every day since summer finally began. Somehow or another, I've managed to become a slave to the smalls' schedules. I ordered a lazy summer from the catalog and instead was shipped one jammed with an itinerary that even the most organized and energetic mother would fear.

It would seem now that my children are entering the hallowed halls of high school they want to up their game. My feral little beasties inherited my competitive streak and want to dominate the courts come this fall in every sport known to mankind. After much haggling and begging (along with a few tears, some eye-rolling and the almighty "You just don't understand what it is like to be a kid!") my children have coerced their father and me into signing them up for not one but two sports camps each this summer.

Add to that, the lovely prestigious art camp my daughter was invited to attend and just had to go to otherwise her world would implode and the colours of her life would fade to dull shades of grey (her words, not mine) and a plethora of therapy appointments for the Jumbster and it would appear I'm about to spend the bulk of my summer getting intimate with the interior of my car as I drive my smalls everywhere.

My husband, bless his cotton socks, thinks this is fabulous. But only because he doesn't know how much anything cost and won't be home to ferry any of the kids to and from their camps.

I've already vowed 'never again!' and will book mark this post to read next year as a reminder of how I once lost my ever-loving mind.

As I was explaining (read: whining) to a girlfriend about my poor parental choices for our summer activities this year, my friend looked at me and shook her head in commiseration.

"You need a break," she said. "Too bad there aren't summer camps for grown ups."

And that, my friends, is when the proverbial light bulb glowed above my head and when inspiration hit.

Think Thelma and Louise. Only minus the criminal activities, the cool car or the cliff-diving deaths. And no young Brad Pitt. Okay, so it's nothing like Thelma and Louise. Whatever. I'm totally Thelma.

I'm packing my things, grabbing my friend and going on my very first ever girl friend bonding trip. No children, no conferences, no itinerary. Just two small town hosers in big city New York.

I totally want a Statue of Liberty hat as a souvenir. I'll wear it home on the plane.

I've never been to New York before and I'm a bit nervous actually. With all the traveling I've done this year alone and in the past, I thought I'd become a bit of a travel pro. I've got the tourist schtick down pat. But there is something intimidating and awe-inspiring about a concrete jungle.

I suddenly understand why my kids get so nervous before starting their summer camps far away. It's exciting. And a wee bit scary. Only my summer camp won't involve any arts and crafts, spontaneous musical medleys or sneaking out past curfew to make goo-goo eyes at the cute boys across the lake. (That happens right? I've never been to a summer camp and I only know what Disney's Camp Rock tells me.)

While I'm hoping to see a few of these, I'm more hoping to stay out of one of these.

So wish me luck. And if you've been to New York before, let me know what I should do and what I should avoid. Also, there won't be any actual romance at my kids' summer camps right? Because now I'm totally freaking out and worrying about some strange kids sticking their tongues into my preshus babies mouths and dying a little at the thought.

I Have An Angry Beaver Problem

My husband and I have been landowners for over a decade now. We purchased our little piece of Albertan paradise and we've tilled the soil, pulled some trees and built us a home.

We're modern day pioneers, Boo and I, except for the small fact the bank owns our soul, we never actually participated in the construction of our home and I try to avoid as much manual labour as possible. In fact, I make a really lousy pioneer woman, although I look kinda cute in an apron.

By cute, I mean freakish. Details.

Our yard is our paradise, if paradise is defined by 20 acres of forest, un-mowed lawn and a garden filled with a lovely assortment of weeds. I couldn't ever imagine living anywhere else, somewhere tame. I like my property rough and wild. Just like I like my ... er, never mind. Family blog and all that.

Over the years, we've had a variety of wild life run-ins, and we've learned to live with dogs that bark at everything that moves outside our windows. There is a lot of wildlife that lives outside our windows. Especially that one damn squirrel that literally dances on our living room windowsill just to taunt and torture our dogs.

We've had bear in the yard, cougar, and once, an jailbird wild boar with scary-arse tusks who was on the lam from the law (or the farmer who owned his arse). We've got deer and a herd of moose hanging out in my trees pooping on my lawn. There is a den of red tailed fox living at the end of our driveway, picking off our kittens one by one.

Then there are the birds, the skunks, the porcupines, rabbits and coyotes that all wander around the joint only to wander out again.

Animals, I have them. It's like I live in a damn zoo, really. And that's not even counting the teenagers inside the house that like to rattle their cages and make me twitch.

But there has been one animal that has never caused me any grief. It's never pooped on my lawn, nibbled on my garden's bounty, sprayed my dogs, ate my kittens or tore open my trash.

This animal has been the perfect neighbour, silent in its proud majestic nobleness.

It is the mighty beaver, Canada's national animal and my imaginary spirit guide. (That is, if I had a spirit guide.)

On the back edge of our property, our forest stops and the water begins. What was once a tiny lake is now just a giant pond, filled with goose poop and cattails. For the first time in years, we've our very own beaver dam.

For the most part, we've always been able to cohabitate peacefully with our wild life neighbours. I expected nothing different when I learned the beaver had set up camp in our muddy waters. After all, the beaver are a peaceful creature and surely they would know how I worship them.

Oh, my pretty. Doesn't everyone love a good beaver?

My husband was less than certain the beaver would make friendly neighbours. Personally, I believe it's because he's carrying the guilt of many years of blowing up beaver dams in his heart. He has no real respect for the buck toothed kings of Nature and secretly, I'm sure he fears these wild animals and the retribution they seek on behalf of their deceased ancestors my husband has blown to smithereens.

Boo insists I need medication and informs me it is because the proud beaver have built their dam dangerously close to the pump we have down there to suck up the pond and water my garden and my flower beds. Something about the noise of the motor combined with the fact we are stealing their water would anger the mighty beaver.

"Carry a stick down with you when you go down to start the pump," he warned our children, thereby instilling a fear of beaver into our kids.

"Ignore him. You never have to fear a beaver. They are a peaceful loving creature," I argued against my wildly prejudicial husband.

My children have all but refused to go down and start the pump. Turns out the image of an angry beaver out weighs the image of a loving docile beaver. Damn you Boo.

So it's been delegated my job to go start up the pump,  make peace with the beavs, and then wrangle our hose to water my weeds.

I wandered down to the swamp, with out a stick (because I am a brave beaver lover) and marveled at the majesty of the dam my flat tailed friends had so beautifully constructed. I swatted mosquitoes and hummed softly to myself as I bent over to start our water pump.

And that's when I made eye contact with my proud and noble friend.

I do believe it hissed at me.

I backed away slowly as the pump started up with a furious roar and kept track of my new friend out of the corner of my eye.

And the little shit charged me. For the record, the beaver moves a hell of a lot faster than those nature shows would lead you to believe.

I hotfooted it out the area, laughing while a beaver scampered behind me, smacking his (her? how can you tell?) tail loudly behind me as it gave chase.

Never underestimate the power of an angry beaver.

Once I made it up to the house, I was sweaty, out of breath from laughing and slightly annoyed with my new neighbours. After years of paying homage to my beautiful friend and this is how it treats its number one fan? I was indignant. And grateful my legs were longer than his.

My kids saw me run into the house like my arse was on fire and immediately asked what was wrong. Laughing I told them, somewhat sheepishly, that their father had been correct and instead of having peaceful new pets we literally inherited a clan of rabid beavers.

"Didn't you carry a stick like Dad said to?"

"No. Stick schmick. I don't need no stinking stick for protection. The beaver is no match for me," I declared like the arse I am.

Fric eyeballed me in my ratty shorts and dirty tee, sweaty, out of breath, with scratches on my legs and twigs in my hair and raised her eyebrow.

"What?" I asked, while surveying my image in the mirror hanging in our front entrance.

"You know, you shouldn't taunt the wild life Mom. It's not nice."

"Excuse me? I did no such thing. There was no taunting. I went down, quiet as a mouse, started my pump to get my water and the greedy beaver decided he didn't want to share the natural resources your father and I rightfully purchased!"

"Really Mom? Really? Have you looked at your legs? The poor beaver probably caught one look at your unshaven stumps and thought to himself 'Wow, look at those furry trees. They'd make a mighty fine addition to my home.'"

I looked down and realized exactly how hairy my unshaven legs were.

"Whatever. That beaver was just blinded by my beauty and felt threatened."

"Ya sure Mom," my kid dryly replied as she rolled her eyes. "That or it really couldn't see the forest for the trees."

The next day I found a new razor on my bathroom counter with a note attached: Do it for the Beaver. It's Be Kind to the Wild Life Week.

Damn beavers. They always ruin everything.