The Greatest Inventor Of All Times

You know when you are hauling groceries from your car to your house and the weather is miserable and you really really don't want to have to make several trips, so you laden as many bags as you can on your arms and in your hands as humanly possible until it feels as though the bags are threatening to rip off your limbs and you can't feel your finger tips any more?

Last night. That.

I stood outside my retina-burning yellow front door, balancing a jug of milk on my hip while bags filled with groceries hung off both arms and several fingertips and stared at the door knob, knowing I couldn't twist it without losing my entire load. I momentarily debated setting everything down to open the front door but then I remembered I had children inside of the house so I made an adult decision.

I kicked the bottom of the door and shouted, "Open up now or I'm not feeding you for a week."

I expected someone to quickly rush to the door to help me like I've trained them to do. Instead I heard the faint sounds of shouting.

Crap.

So I kicked the door a little harder, yelled a little louder and winced as I lost all feeling in my fingers as the heavy grocery bags started to turn my fingers a fun shade of purple.

The shouting suddenly stopped and seconds later, just as I was vowing to never grocery shop again, the bright yellow door swung open and Fric looked sheepish.

"Sorry Mom," she said as she just barely caught the milk jug before it fell to the floor. "We didn't hear you knock."

"Ya, because you two were fighting," I accused her as I gracelessly dropped all the sacks at my feet and watched a rogue can of tomatoes make a break for freedom.

Frac walked in and scooped up the can and grabbed a few bags. "No, we weren't fighting. We were ARGUING."

Right. My mistake for not differentiating between the two as I was having my limbs amputated by groceries.

"And just what were the two of you arguing about," I asked as I started cramming boxes of cereal into my messy pantry.

"Oh you know, just who was the most important inventor of all time was," my daughter responded.

Right. Because doesn't every pair of siblings have that argument? I know my brother and I totally used to fight over that very same historical question.

Oh wait. We didn't. We were too busy fist fighting and hauling each other around by a plunger attached to our abdomens. My children are weird and I'm oddly proud of that.

"I see. And just who is in the running for greatest inventor of all time?"

"Well I have a soft spot for Madame Curie but over all I think Leonardo DaVinci rocks," Fric offered as she opened the fridge to put the apples away.

"Uh huh. And who does Frac think is the greatest inventor of all time?" I asked right before stuffing a rogue Oreo cookie into my mouth. (What? There was only a few left in the bag. Someone had to eat them.)

"Nikola Tesla," he shouted from the laundry room.

"All very good choices," I replied as I tried to hide my cookie breath. "So why the arguing?"

"Because Frac only thinks Nikola Tesla is the best because the Oatmeal said so," my daughter huffed.

"And Fric only thinks Leonardo DaVinci is the best because she liked the movie Ever After!" my son countered back.

"Wait a second. How do you know about the Oatmeal?" I asked.

"Jeez Mom. I can read. And there's this little thing called the Internet. Maybe you've heard of it," my fourteen-year-old dead panned.

"Don't be cheeky. I just didn't know you read the Oatmeal." I stood there, kind of rocked for a second. I keep forgetting my kids know about the Internet.

"Ya, I read the Bloggess too. She's funny. You should meet her," he offered. Sincerely and innocently.

"I'll get right on that, I promise," I said as I stuffed the last Oreo into my mouth.

I have no idea who Jenny is, or why her and Deb are kissing me. Also? This may be the WORST picture of me ever.

"So settle the argument Mom. Who was the best inventor of all time in your opinion? Tesla or DaVinci?"

Crap. I hate when they come looking to me for intelligent answers. Wasn't it enough I gave them life and Honey Nut Cheerios?

I stalled for time by pouring myself a glass of milk and ran through my memory banks about everything I knew about each of the men in question.

They stood in front of me, blonde wildebeests, waiting for me to pick a side. As though my answer would be proof positive I loved one more than the other. I held up my finger to signal to wait as I chugged back my glass of milk.

I really hate milk.

Swallowing the last drop, I turned around, put my cup into the sink, took a deep breath and then turned back to face them.

"Okay, first," I pointed to Frac, "you need to know you can't believe everything you read on the internet. Even if it's from the Oatmeal. Whom I adore. Do your research and back it up with facts. Preferably found from somewhere other than Wikipedia."

Then I pointed to my daughter. "Secondly, seriously Fric? Ever After? You do realize of all the sources on DaVinci, that may be the very worst one, ever? Have I not taught you to have better tastes in movies than this? What next? You'll be quoting Nicholas Sparks for literary purposes?"

They took a second to alternately look indignant and slightly ashamed but only for a heartbeat.

"Fine. But who do you choose?" they asked.

I looked at them, their big blue eyes mirroring one another's, their father's face shining through each of their reflections and I shook my head.

"You're both wrong. The greatest inventor of all time was..."

I paused for dramatic effect...

"The caveman. He invented the wheel."

Simultaneously, as though they choreographed it, they both rolled their eyes at me and whined, "MOOOOOOOM."

"What? What's wrong with the caveman?" I asked as they walked away to resume helping put the groceries away.

"Just think of how different life would be if they hadn't have figured out that wheel? Betty Rubble never had it so good!!"

Where's a pigeon with laser beam eyes when you need one?

That's All She Wrote

I can exactly pinpoint the day I started to go a little crazy. April 27, 2012. It was the day my husband drove a large back hoe into our yard and started digging a hole to China.

A lot has happened since then.

We had a giant pit in my driveway. Nothing says wheelchair safe like a six foot drop where your sidewalk ends.

Then came the lego blocks and the concrete.

And then some floor joists.

And a few roof trusses.

Then the fun began.

My kids in harnesses, dangling in the air, helping get the roof on.

 There were a few bumps along the way. Like a wind storm that came and undid everything my husband and my kids had worked for four days to accomplish. I may have cried. I refused to photograph the carnage because it conflicted with my delusions that the zeppelin hangar would indeed one day be finished.

Common sense dictated it would eventually happen, even if Mother Nature did hate us.

But as the days passed, and progress stalled, Mother Nature mocked us and funds ran low, I began to doubt both my sanity and my husband's dream.

My anxiety was, is, at an all time high. I twitch at the sound of an air compressor or a saw. Post traumatic stress of the construction kind.

I learned a few things about humanity along the way with this build. The human mind (or at least mine) is a frail, fickle beast. People you assume will help never actually do and it is the kindness of people you barely know, new friends, that will lend a hand when you most need it.

And sisters? Both mine and his? We couldn't have done it without either the Mouse or D'Andy Long Legs. Girl power for the win. One helped physically, the other mentally and I'm grateful to them both.

In the end there was really only one giant problem with my husband's dream. Time. We didn't have enough of it.  After we started the build, my husband's job scope changed and suddenly all the time he had planned on having for building his little mancave with his own two hands evaporated in the wind. Summer storms chewed up the rest of the precious time he did have.

This meant instead of getting anything done, I sat at home and looked at a wet construction site, a half built garage and quickly lost my ever loving mind. I was often reduced to a mass of hysteria, sobbing, frustrated and mostly alone with a giant oversized stalled project.

Something had to be done, hard choices had to be made.

Oh, and did I mention my husband has done ALL of this work on a shattered ankle and postponed his surgical repair!! until October, just so he could get this damn garage done?

No?

How could I overlook that wee painful fact? Praise heavens for ankle braces, advil and cheap beer.

The zeppelin hangar won't be completed this year as planned. At least, not the interior of it. But we're hoping to get it functional with a floor, doors and power before the snow flies.

My husband did what he had to do to get the outside done. Thank heavens for it. My mental health depended on it.

As of 5 pm this last Friday, the zeppelin hangar not only has a finished roof, but is completely sided and trimmed out.

So she's a tad large. Boys and their, um, garages. I comfort myself in the fact the aliens in outerspace will be able to find us and have somewhere to land.

*Sob.*

At least she's pretty. And I do enjoy confusing my neighbours who currently think we are starting a farming operation in our driveway. I mean, why else did we build the world's biggest barn? IN OUR FRONT YARD.

I'm never. Ever. EVER. doing construction again. You know, at least until next spring when we have to finish the interior. And bright side: At least I have all winter to twirl around a pole to save money to pay for those construction costs AND my anxiety meds.

Something tells me I'm going to need a lot of loonies to cover the expenses.

*twitch.*

A big thanks to Daniel, Neil and Rory for all their hard work in helping my husband's dreams come true and saving my sanity along the way. Be sure to come back next spring when we're ready to do the drywall.

*twitch.*

The Little White House Up on the Hill

It wasn't really ever my house. I only borrowed it. But my husband, he grew up in it. From his birth to the birth of his daughter, he never lived anywhere else. The little white house up on the hill was more than just his family's home; it was a part of who he is.

It was the very first place we lived in as a couple. It's the place I pretended to be a wife, learned what it meant to be a woman, it's the house where I rocked my first infant asleep when I brought her home from the hospital.

The floors, they were old and crooked by the time I was in charge of cleaning them. The linoleum stained and yellowing, perpetually dirty. Green shag rug added a certain charm to the old farmhouse. Handmade kitchen cupboards were stained by time and grease and rust lined the porcelain sink and the tub.

At the top of the shag-covered stairs, there was a stray bullet hole from a rogue hunter's rifle. Every time I passed by it I was tempted to trace the circular outline with my fingertips and I'd shudder with the weight of my own mortality.

The little white house up on the hill, with it's sloped ceilings and the wooden beam. Underneath the big bay window there was a hole in the wall where my husband accidentally put the forks of the tractor bucket through the house. In the ceiling in the living room there was a patch mark from when he was a teenager and was showing off how high he could jump. He put his head through the dry wall.

My daughter had her first accident there, tossed down the stairs one night when she was three weeks old. Her father, weary from lack of sleep, carrying her up to her crib, stepped on the tomcat that laid strewn out on the step. The cat screamed, Boo swore, and the baby was flying. Time suddenly froze. I couldn't get to her quick enough. She landed with a soft thud on the carpeted floor, no worse for wear but her two parents frightened enough for a lifetime. That was the first time I spent the night in the hospital because of my child. It was not to be my last.

When I got home the next day the cat was once again sprawled on the same stair with no remorse.

Wedding plans and baby names were discussed. Dreams deliberated, promises made. A new family was birthed, once again, within the walls of the tiny white house up on the hill.

She wasn't my house, not really, although at one point I desperately wanted her to be. I only borrowed her for a short while. But it was in that heartbeat of time my dreams came true. I had Boo and a family, and I became a thread in the tapestry of history of the little white house up on the hill.

Eventually my husband and I had to push our dreams aside and we left to chase new ones, but there was always a softness in our hearts for the house my husband grew up in, the house that helped create our family.

Time is a cruel mistress and like people, the small white house up on the hill grew frail and decrepit. Her bones creaked under the weight of old memories and weakened wood. Time stops for no one, for no house.

With every pinch of the claw, the dreams of so many were laid to rest. The letting go was loud and rough and violent.

In the end, there was nothing left but dust and dirty cheeks marred with an odd tearstain. The small white house on the hill; ashes, a photograph to fade, a memory of time forgotten.

I won't forget. And I know my mother-in-law won't either. Thank you for sharing the little white house up on the hill with me.