Hat Head

The snow is falling outside; majestic in it's quiet as it blankets the ground with its icy embrace. Occasionally the wind picks up and I watch a snow devil dance across the driveway.

There is no sunshine, only a sea of bland whiteness. You can barely distinguish where land ends and the horizon begins. White, white, everywhere you look.

It's my favourite time of year. For many reasons but mostly because it's the one time of year I don't have to worry about my hair.

Hi, my name is Tanis Miller and I am addicted to the toque. It's my Canadian crack, my hoser apparel. It is cozy and colour and I don't really care if my head is too big or if I get strange looks.

My head is warm.

I'm old enough to know that the only important fashion statement a rural Canadian needs to make is not to have frostbite.

My kids don't get it. They'd rather lose digits than bundle up. It's a fight to get them to zip up their jackets, even as the Arctic wind slices through their skin. Their youth breeds a toughness and stupidity that has long since worn off from me. I'm weak. I need warmth.

I need a toque. Luckily for me, I have more than I can count. Literally.

There is my lucky toque, saved for high school game day:



There is the grocery store toque, mostly worn when I realize one of my children chugged the remains of the milk and put the empty jug back into the refrigerator:



There is the silly toque, worn especially for when I know I'll need to wander the halls of their high school and say hello to all their friends:



There is the Great White North toque, for when I need to channel a little Bob and Doug into my life:



The toque for the days a little fierceness is required to face the day:



Then there is the silly:

And the refined:



And the one you keep stealing from your daughter, just to watch her twitch:



I've got a toque for every occasion. And when none of the other toques will do, there is always the traditional toque. The Canadian classic. Because everyone should shake a pompon in life's freak parade, especially when it's below zero outside:



I'll admit it; I love putting on a good toque. But even more than that, I love pulling it off.

There is nothing quite like a little hat hair to make a girl smile and remind her not to take life so seriously.



The toque is the bikini of the North and I'll rock it proudly.

So if you live in a cold climate, have no fear. We're all ego-less as we shiver together. Go forth and shake that pompon. You'll be surprised how good it feels. Especially if your kids are watching.

Metaphor

I sat down this morning, like I have every morning since the new year began, with ideas swirling around in my head, blog posts begging to be written.

But then my new dog, Abbott, started nibbling on my toes, and then on my robe, and then he needed to be fed, and oh is he sniffing? Oh crap, come here Abbott, let's go outside, let's go potty, let's go play, let's do anything as long as it doesn't sound like urine puddling on my floor.

Puppies don't just chew slippers and socks. They chew up time. Puppyhood is officially kicking my arse.

I don't remember puppies being this time intensive or exhausting before. Of course, I have never raised a giant breed from puppydom before and comparing Abbott the English Mastiff to Nixon the Boston terrier is like comparing apples to parsnips. Useless.

It became clear on day two of puppy ownership that everything I thought I knew about raising dogs was absolutely wrong. I was speaking a language Abbott didn't understand. I'm not kidding when I say adopting Knox was an easier transition than bringing this dog into my home.

That's right. Adopting a non-verbal, quadriplegic, blind, deaf, developmentally delayed kid was easier than bringing an 8 week old Mastiff into the family.

I can see my husband rolling his eyes at me in my imagination, but what would he know? He left for work not more than two hours after walking our dog into the house.

It turns out Abbott is less a dog and more a chicken. I fully expect him to start clucking at any moment. It took me a week, A WEEK, to get this damn dog into the kitchen. Apparently the ghosts of both my dog and my kid dance around the kitchen table and Abbott is all "I SEE DEAD PEOPLE" and then can't hoof it back into his crate fast enough. He practically leaves skid marks on my linoleum in his haste to flee the area.

So now my days are now entirely filled up with coaxing this dog to do things he clearly doesn't want to do and introducing him to people he doesn't want to meet, all in the name of socializing the soon to be 250 pound monster he will grow to be.

Such a fierce monster. 

Just yesterday, some contractors came to work on the Zeppelin Hangar and I noticed one had a beard and the other was a dark haired lanky fella. All I could think was "Fresh meat! They look nothing like us! Abbott needs to meet them!" and suddenly I was the crazy lady wearing a bathrobe while clutching a fist full of ham, running out to demand they "Pet my puppy."

I'm fairly certain the bearded dude thought I was speaking some sort of weird sex talk until he noticed the puppy hiding between my legs.

That's right, Boo. You think you are paying service men to come finish your garage but really, you are just paying random strangers to play with your wife's pet. I can only assure you, it was money well spent.

Yet, as much as I adore Abbott, more than once I have sat down exhausted and defeated. This dog has reminded me of things about myself I'd rather not remember.

Things like how I get bored easily. Repetition drives me insane. I have no patience. I actually fell asleep on the dog bed yesterday as I was working with Abbott.

How I can't stand bologna and yet I reek of it from all the time I spent doling it out to my damn dog.

There's a voice in the back of my head, whispering doubts and fears, as I go along. "He's too much dog for you. You made a mistake. Nixon was easier." More than once, I've nodded in defeat and wondered if I could do this.

And then Abbott comes over and sits in front of me like I've been training him to do, and tries to lick my face, his breath a mixture of sweet puppiness and sour bologna. His fur is so soft and as I pet him, I'm reminded that life is always hard and messy but so far it has always been worth the proverbial puppy kisses.

I believe that, really. And it's a good thing too, seeing as how house breaking is still a work in progress.

Puppyhood. One great metaphor for life. And one giant advertisement for paper towel.

Puppy breath. Better than crack.

Twelve

There is an emptiness surrounding today which fills my space with hurt.

It's my son's birthday today. He would have been twelve. 12. ONE-TWO. My mind is blown. Somehow, if my son had lived, he'd be in double digits. He'd be a preteen.

It's weird. For the first time, in all eight of the birthdays he missed since his death, I feel a bit closer to him than I have before. 12. Twelve is a language I understand. Twelve is tweenager language and that is a language I'm fluid in. Twelve makes me smile and remember his siblings at that age, while nodding my head as I stare off in space.

'What ifs' and 'would he's' taunt me more today with their cruel mysteries and I'm having more trouble than normal with eyes that leak unexpectedly. Like a dripping faucet in the night, keeping one awake, that's how my tears feel today.

In all honesty, for the past few years now, I've handled his birthdays and his death days with a tug of sadness. Mostly they are just grim reminders that life moves on when love ones don't. I've been filled up with love and life and I refused to allow room in my heart to let this hurt seep back into my life.

But pain and grief ricocheted back this October when my dog died. I was scared to write these words, for fear of feeling the wrath of anyone's judgment, but Nixon's death hit me as hard as Shale's death did.

Only, it didn't. Not really. What my dog's death did was rip me back into the centre of my memories and force me to relive wounds that I had long thought had been sealed tight; welded shut by all the tears I've cried.

The unexpected cruel death of my dog brought back all the terror and pain I had felt years earlier. It was less about my dog than it was about my child. Timing really is everything.

It was about a mother who never got to say goodbye to the child she loved more than anything in the world. I never got to say goodbye. To my son. To my dog. Everything was conflated, a puddle of oozing wounds and bad memories.

These past few months I have learned I'll never really be far from that moment my son died.  Love and laughter and life will heal me and move me forward, but it only takes a second to be sent tumbling back into the abyss of loss and fear once again. I will never really escape the scars of burying my son.

I wanted to be done with this chapter of my life. I'm tired of having to bear the burden of this pain. This epic ache of a mother longing for a child that no longer exists. Life is too short for this; I'm too fragile.

But there is no escape from that reality. There is no escape from January fourths or October twenty-firsts. My son's death as much as his life, has shaped me into the person I am, the people my children are and life as I know it.

I didn't choose it, nor did I want it, but there it is.

I can't wallow anymore. And I've no real words for this sorrow of mine any more, other than I really miss my kid and it sucks he's dead. It's as ineloquent as that.

I didn't want to wake up on my son's twelfth birthday and think about his death.

Twelfth birthdays are about hope and joy and possibilities. All of that still exists even if the boy does not. That is the gift of love and of life.

That is the gift my son gave me.

 

Happy birthday Shale. Happy birth day, me.

Hope and possibilities await.