Crash

Yesterday was Punk Boy's first fathers day. We didn't have much planned, just brunch with my family at around noon. There was crazy construction on the normal route to my parents house, so we took the much slower number nine highway to Lockport, drove through Lockport, past the floodway and to my parents house.

Just before going over the Lockport locks and dam, a girl on a motorcycle turned in front of us. We both noted she seemed to be driving really slowly, then both noticed that she was actually just doing the speed limit of 50 KM per hour. We followed her as she drove out of Lockport, hitting highway 44 and increasing her speed to the posted 90 KM per hour.

We drove over the floodway bridge just outside of Lockport and quickly caught up with the girl on the bike. There was a big bend in the road after the floodway bridge and I noticed I was quickly coming up on the girl on the bike. I dropped my speed as Punk Boy and I both mentioned that she seemed to be slowing completely down. Before I even realized what was happening, her break lights flashed, her leg came down on the right side of the bike, as if to steady herself and suddenly, off she went directly to her left and into on coming traffic. She darted past the car that was coming directly for her and drove into the ditch where she disappeared beyond the grassy bank.

I was surprised I didn't scream. I did gasp and quickly pulled over the car. From our angle, it appeared that the girl on the bike just missed having a head on collision with the oncoming Kia. I was stunned and not really sure what I should do as I put on the flashers. Bruce grabbed his phone and jumped out of the car and ran across the highway to see if the girl was alright and if she needed help.

I sat alone in the car, my heart racing. I replayed the incident in my head, trying to figure out what went wrong. Maybe she hit some gravel? Maybe she just lost her concentration? When Punk Boy didn't coming back to the car right away, I really started to worry. The Kia had stopped as well, along with another car at this point. I could see Punk Boy and the other two men's head above the ditch, but no sight of the girl or the bike. I prayed she was alright, and talked myself into believing that she was. She was going rather slowly when she hit the grass off the shoulder and the ditch is rather a soft spot to land in compared to the hard pavement of the highway or the hood of a car speeding at 90 KM per hour directly at you.

I then saw Punk Boy running across the highway in my review-mirror. He didn't seem completely frantic or upset, so I believed she must have been fine. He got in the car and told me she was alright, a little shaken up, but okay. The bike, on the other hand, didn't fair to well. Punk Boy told me that in the fall into the ditch, she broke the break and throttle on her bike, pretty much cancelling the rest of her bike trip. I asked if we should stay and Punk Boy said no. He explained to the other two fellows who stopped that we had a baby in the car and all assured him that the situation was under control.

The rest of the ride to my parents house, my heart was in my throat. Punk Boy relayed what the biker girl told him - that she just got the bike that day (or was it the day before) and this was one of her first rides. Punk Boy, who used to drive a motorcycle, thinking that the girl didn't lean enough or properly into the turn and the bike wanted to go the wrong way and she was unable to adjust it. Rookie mistake, he commented, stating she is super lucky that the other car didn't hit her head on.

Scary.

Makes me almost glad my scooter isn't road ready yet. I now have 'the fear.'

Heat, Lonely, Pride, and the Cranky Sleeping Baby

Its been a helluva weekend. My back is scorched from being outside in the sun. There is that familiar tightness between the shoulder blades that tells me, even without looking, that my flesh is a rosy pink. Punk Boy is away this weekend - out of town with work, so the sunburn is his fault. If he was here, someone would have been able to grease up my back with sunblock. Instead, I had to try by myself to smear the shit all over and get all the spots. Obviously, I failed.

It's the silly things that remind you of what life would be like if you were alone. With Punk Boy gone these last two days with work, I'm reminded every fucking moment just how much I rely on him and enjoy having him around. When the baby cries and I start to get frustrated, I can pass him off to Punk Boy. When I just don't have the time to take the two big bags of garbage down to the bin, Punk Boy can do it. When the knob on the shower in the bathroom breaks and I can't get it to turn, Punk Boy can do it (I haven't had a shower since Friday. I feel gross. I did sponge bathe myself in our sink yesterday but come on, we all know that's not a full clean). I miss him. Sure, he's gone away with work while we were dating and I've been fine with it. Heck, I probably relished it a few times. But now, with the Sea Monkey here, I miss him more than I realize. Watching some stupid movie last night, and right in the middle I cried because I realized he wouldn't be here to kiss me good night. Fuck, love hurts.

I really want to sleep but can't. Today was the first hot and sunny day of the summer and the sunburn on my back is only matched by the slight headache being out in the sun all afternoon has caused me. Nothing major, just need to drink more water. It is 17C right now - still fucking hot for night time and I'm finding it hard to sleep. The humidity is rising and I can feel it stuffing my nostrils. Not only am I fighting with sore skin on my back and a slight sun headache, but now I have to fight with a stuff nose as well. Fuck this.

Today was Winnipeg's Gay Pride Parade. I was down at the Legislative Grounds today with a shit load of other people for the Pride Rally and then the official Winnipeg Gay Pride Parade. I didn't march in the Parade as I had the Sea Monkey with me and was worried about the excessive heat and lack of shade on the parade route for him. So I stood back and took pictures of the event.
I'm not Gay/Lesbian/Transgendered/whatever else, but I usually go to the parade. At first I went because it was hip to be a single, young girl in the city with gay friends. It was the place to be. It was edgy. Over the years, its become a little bit more than that. I go because I believe in Gay Rights and I find it awful that people who love each other so deeply can't have the same rights as I do and can't have the same freedom to love as I do. I go to show support for my best friend, Ferocious Sonja, because I love her and support her in all she does. I don't tell her this enough. Shit I probably don't tell her at all, but that girl is a hero of mine. As long as I can remember, she has done things her way, with her head held high. She learns from mistakes, finds great joy in her adventures and just fucking lives, man. She fucking lives. I respect that, I am jealous of that.
I go because of her and this moral fiber shes created in me. Shes opened my mind up to things that I would probably not have given much thought to had our paths not ever crossed. Its rare, really. It's really rare to meet people who influence you so much in so many fantastic ways. I cherish it.

Maybe its my lonely mind talking... Who knows? Even if it is, it's coming from the heart and that's what counts. I miss Punk Boy when he's not here and I cherish my Ferocious one.

Sea Monkey was a great baby through the whole event, making me an even prouder mom. That kid amazes me. I pass him off to strangers and he goes with it. It's amazing. He had never met Ferocious Sonja's girl friend and dang, that baby just took to her. I can't blame the child - she's an amazing women with such a soft, gentle nature.
She seems wonderful for Ferocious Sonja - this calming mature lover. Their interactions are beautiful, so natural.

It's past midnight. The Sea Monkey is still sleeping. He was cranky this evening. Probably the heat, the lack of a father figure in the house. Hall and Oats are playing softly in the back ground. I've had this fucking song stuck in my head all day.

I can`t go for being twice as nice
I can`t go for just repeating the same old lines
Use the body, now you want my soul
Ooh, forget about it, now say no go, yeah

I, I`ll do anything that you want me to do, yeah
I`ll do almost anything that you want me too, yeah

But I can`t go for that, no no can do

I was afraid to put the Sea Monkey to sleep in his crib. I expected it to be a struggle. I laid him down, covered him with a light blanket, read him a short story, kissed him and left the room. There I waited for the battle of wits to begin, but not a peep was heard out of his little room. A check fifteen minutes later proved that the sweetheart was curled up on his side, sleeping soundly.

Peace.

And now I can't sleep.

Will have a tall, cool glass of apple juice, will blow my nose and try it again...

Punk Boy comes home tomorrow - I can't wait.

Hoarding

I've been thinking about Hoarding lately.

Taken from some online dictionary:

• the acquisition of, and failure to discard, a large number of possessions that appear to be useless or of limited value
• living spaces sufficiently cluttered so as to preclude activities for which those spaces were designed
• significant distress or impairment in functioning caused by the hoarding

Peoples spaces fascinate me. I love walking past apartments with basement suites because then I can sneak a peak how other people live. I am almost obsessed with seeing how people live in my apartment block. Right now, to me, nothing is more fascinating that seeing how someone else is using the exact same space I have.

But this is not why I've been thinking about Hoarding. Growing up I had a friend whose Mother, I am now convinced, was a Hoarder. Their house always seemed dirty and cluttered to me as a child, mountains of stuff everywhere. I used to just think it was hard for them, having a family larger than mine, or chalk it up to just being plain old disorganized. Now, when I remember that house in my head, it reminds me of a hoarders paradise. I have this crystal clear memory of being over once and walking towards my friends kitchen. To get there, we had to cross through the dinning room. If there was a dinning table in there, I never saw it. Basically, there was so much stuff in that room that the only way to get to the kitchen was to follow the small path that someone made through the stuff. As I got older, I remember my friends mother constantly apologising for the mess, the mess that seemed to choke you. The clutter sometimes even spilled over on to their outside deck.

I wonder what it was like to live in that. I lived in a clean, organized house. Not spotless, not show-home clean, but neat and tidy. The difference was just so astounding to me.

I heard someone say once that Children look up to their parents as role models and do their best to be just like us. I sometimes feel like I could hoard everything I've ever touched. Keep everything forever and leave us no place to move, to think. Sometimes I feel like that now in our apartment. But I know it's just a lack of room that's keeping me on the edge of insanity in the hoarding department. I actually purge possessions that aren't needed quiet easily.

Hoarding.. so fucking strange.

Rainy Day

I love writing and reading on rainy days. Its coming down hard in Winnipeg - soft rain. Its been raining all night, so everything is a dark grey color with it's rain wash. Days like today I usually turn off the lights (which are needed due to the dark sky), turn off the TV. I then turn on the radio and either grab a book to read by a window or turn on my computer and write. Something about this weather that makes me want to sit still, listen to the sounds around me and connect with the written word. Today, I am sort of doing that. Right now as a matter of fact. Punk Boy has the day off from work, and is going through the aforementioned box of clutter right now on the sofa. He needs the light, so both the kitchen and the floor lamp are on. Also, the TV is providing background noise. I don't think he's really watching it, (Jon and Kate plus Eight is on and I don't think he's a huge fan) but hasn't made any effort to change the channel - he is too deep into what ever he is doing. I know he woke up this morning to the screams of our Sea Monkey in the bath (he spit up his breakfast all over himself and I had to administer an emergency bath) and stated he needed to get his time sheet done and into work around ten PM. It's ten to ten and I don't think he's even started to fill it out. I should remind him but then I take the chance of being a nag. I think I will.

"Hey, Punk Boy, did you do your time sheet? Its almost ten."

Alright - negative response. Raised voice telling me that's why hes going through the box of crap, tells me I'm not being helpful.

My new response is to cut off the conversation when he yells. I am now refusing to listen to him in said situations.

Worked alright.. hrm, why haven't I been doing that sooner?

The Sea Monkey is six months old today. Can you believe it? Where has the time gone? He's doing crazy things, rolls around the floor like a log and I am pretty sure that any day now, the little beast is going to be crawling. He does these crazy 'baby push-ups,' where he gets up on his very tip-toes and pushes up hard with his hands and will hold his body stiff like a board. He will hold himself in this position for a few seconds before either letting himself go to the ground or trying to move his legs. Soon he will be crawling.
In fact, this morning he was doing these strange push ups and somehow moved himself forward as he fell down. Only a matter of time now.

I'm hungry. Maybe I'll make some eggs and toast for me and Punk Boy.

Tired

My eyes hurt and I know they will be puffy later today. My allergies combined with the massive amounts of dust in this apartment along with the argument punk boy and I had this morning ain't helping matters. Its a lethal combination for puffy eyes. Not that I care. I'm a mother and found that my sea monkey has become the be all excuse for not taking care of myself.

"Wow, your hair is a mess!"
Sorry, I'm a mom.

"Wow, that piece of stir fry tofu has been sitting on your counter for a week"
Sorry, I'm a mom.

"I had no idea laundry could pile up like that!"
Sorry, I'm a mom.

"Wow, you have such bags under your eyes!"
Sorry, I'm a mom.

"Fuck, you look like shit! You alright?"
Sorry I'm a mom.

I've come to rely on it in moments when I just can't (or won't) be bothered to make myself super presentable. No shower for me this morning. I went to the garbage shoot looking a bit more ragged than usual. It's a risk, really, weather or not I'll run into any of my nieghbours. They all know about sea monkey and they understand but part of me just hates that look people give you when you look like shit with a newborn around. Its that half "yuck" half pity look. If you get it from a women, specially a mother, then you get a twing of sypmathy in there.

My stomach is grugling. The noise coming from it lately would scare any person. I'm stressed out and its going right to my bowles. The heartburn seems to be under control (thanks for all the suggestions) and now I'm just working on the other end of me. Fixing me physically is harder than I thought as its the mental me that needs repair.

Sea Monkey is alseep and has been for an hour already. He had a busy weekend so he may nap for a while. I am cleaning house. It's my goal today to get this apartment into a livable state. I realized something about Punk Boy this weekend while visiting his parents house - he lives in clutter. His parents house has pockets of clutter and so, Punk Boy has pockets of clutter. Right now, next to his desk is this annoying pile of, well, clutter. A pile of papers, shoeboxes, various contstruction tools, a half rotten apple (it has been tossed) and more papers and crap. Its been there for a month now and I am slowly learning that this Punk Boy. No matter how clean I make our house, he will have these pockets of messy clutter that he keeps promising to go through. We are carbon copies of my families, I suppose.

Speaking of family, I just got off the phone with my mother after having about an hour long conversation. I was upset, I needed to vent at someone regarding the events of the morning. Punk Boy and I argued over something stupid - a missing key to my car. Its always the small arguments that explode into the big yelling matches. A key, for christsakes! I am using the frustration to modivate me to clean this apartment. Vacumn, dust, wash and if I can, get some laundry going. I am going to do it all today in order to keep myself from thinking about the real things I should. Knowing me, I'll think about them anyway. It usually comes to me when I am lying in bed, right before I drift to sleep. Like last night. Lying in the dark my mind went back to a small incident yesterday between Punk Boy and my sister that pushed me over the edge. Of course, I was to busy to deal with it until that moment. Anyway, once I got home and was in bed, thinking, I realized how much the whole situation just pisses me off, royally. I'm stuck between two children who just both won't smarten up. One doesn't think before they speak and the other got all pissy because they were called on something rude they did. We're adults, act like adults for fuck sakes. Sea Monkey is six months old and he acts more like an adult.. fuck.

I'm pretty annoyed, I guess. I'm sure by this evening, when I go off to do the radio show, I'll be better and most of this will be processed, save that which I need to discuss with Punk Boy. I have to before my intestines explode with savage, stress filled bile.

Just checked on the little one - sleeping babies are beautiful. I know I shouldn't do it, but at least once a day I let the Sea Monkey have his nap on me. I love the way his lips form a perfect little heart and how soft he looks. It's beautful.

Smootherin' Motherin'

I've been thinking a lot about motherhood these days. Kind of hard not to - its become how I 'define' myself. I am now and forever will be 'mother' or 'mom.' Fuck, I bet at one point in my life, I will be referred to as 'my ol' lady' by my little sea monkey.

They say prostitution is the oldest profession. I say screw that, it's motherhood. I am labeling it as a profession because its a fuck load of work. CONSTANT work. Your on the job 24/7 and breaks are few and far between. Mom's need to set up a union. Better rights...

Its incredible that my actions, no matter how small or how grand, are going to affect this babies life forever. Fucking scary concept. I've fucked up, I've lost my temper, I've cried, I've thrown things and I've yelled. I get this way without a vacation, even at my old office job.

Life seems to be put on hold. Punk Boy asks me very so often if I'm regretful about the fact now I'm stuck at home with a 'soon-to-be' husband and baby. It usually does not bother me but sometimes, like today, I feel the smothering affect of motherhood. Is it normal to feel like you need to escape sometimes? Like if you don't get out from the fold, alone, for a good chunk of time, you don't know what you'll do? Maybe pull out all your hair.

But the kicker, the real kicker is when you do get that break, when you get out alone, all you do is sit and wonder about the home life or what baby is doing or if dad is doing things the way you would or if the babysitter is paying enough attention to our son or if they are just putting them in the circle of neglect (AKA the exer-saucer) and gabbing on the phone all night? Horrible double edged sword.

I'm learning to let control go a little bit. Sure I'm a strict kind of schedule person and Punk Boy understands that about me and respects it. I know when I'm away he does his best to stick to that but one thing I've learned about Punk Boy is he is unscripted and unscheduled. He is a 'seat-of-his-pants" kind of guy. Keeps me and Sea Monkey on our toes.

Sea monkey will be six months in a about one week. Six months. I was flipping through old pictures the other day, looking at ones of him when he was very little, about three weeks and I had a huge rush of how I felt in those days. Helpless, tired, lost, confused, depressed, so on and so forth. Amazing how, somewhere along the way, things just sort of clicked with sea monkey. I suppose its like meeting any new person, you need to adjust to them and they to you. Maybe now we are just comfortable with each other and I know that I can't 'break' sea monkey. He's a tough baby and a good baby. I'm really lucky for that and I count my blessings every day.

Its another grey day outside and I do need to venture out to the bank and the grocery store. I'll do it after noon, when sea monkey should be having his second nap. Maybe he'll be tired and just sleep through all the errands...

Breaking Promises, Saying Goodbye, Realization

Well, I broke my promise. Remember when I made that very obtainable goal to write every day, even if it was just for sixty-seconds? Yeah, well, that didn't happen. I'm not going to beat myself up about it, instead I am going to regroup and focus on things a bit more this time around. When the baby is in bed, I need to making writing my way of de-stressing, not playing stupid flash internet games on the computer. I need to return to my roots. Its very hard, having changed so much in the last five years or so, to return to those roots. They've been augmented and transplanted a few times. Still the same, yet oh so different. I broke the promise to myself but I am not giving up hope on me, not just yet. I am trying. I am able to recognize that I've fallen a bit short and the events of the last week have made me think hard and I think, will push me forward.

Punk Boy and I attended a funeral on Monday. A friend of his, someone he played with in a bad and kept in touch with over the years had died after fighting cancer for 14 or so years. I only met him a handful of times and found him to be quiet, soft, and interesting. I wish I had the chance to know him more, to be honest, as he seemed to have left some impression on Punk Boys life. So much so that we named Sea Monkey after this friend (middle name). He feel ill sometime last week. Bruce and I drove to visit him in Hospital as he hadn't had a chance to meet the Sea Monkey yet and Punk Boy was really wanted his friend to meet the child that carried on his name. We were told by family that the Sea Monkey might not be able to visit, as he was in a very delicate state and all those who went to visit were required to wear surgical gear. We brought the tyke anyway. Punk Boy donned the robe and mask while I waited with the baby. We were allowed to bring the baby to the doorway of the room so he could get a good look at him, but we were not allowed to enter. I said hello, showed the baby, made soft conversation and then left Punk Boy with his friend again.
Two days later Punk Boy received the message that he had died. Funeral to follow in a few days.
I'm not exactly sure what about the whole event, besides the obvious, that made me cry so. I still want to, feel the need to, sit down and just have a good sob about it, away from Sea Monkey and Punk Boy. To see Punk Boy so distraught, to see him trying so hard to hold it together and having that raw emotion sneak through a few cracks in his exterior crushed my heart a little bit. At one point, during the ceremony, they played this song. This stupid, little song that I've heard a hundred times before, but for some reason it just killed me, made my chest collapse a little bit - same with Punk Boy. We both cried together. I felt awful, forgetting the kleenex in the trunk of my car. But some wonderful lady standing next to us handed me a few sheets of kleenex from her purse. Such a kind gesture. Fuck, why couldn't I be more on the ball at times? Kleenex - in the trunk. What good does it do there?
Of course there were other moments of united grief and I do have to say thank god for the Sea Monkey. When I thought I would crack (and what good would I be cracked for Punk Boy?) the little Sea Monkey would do something that we couldn't help but smile at, or would try to grab something he shouldn't and both of us would spring into action, being temporarily distracted from the situation at hand, enough so to pull it back together.
Once we got home, once we were relaxed, Punk Boy had a moment. While holding each other, crying, I reassured him he was an amazing person, a fantastic friend and he just replied that he 'didn't do enough, didn't visit enough.' Ferocious Sonja has a good point, she that we always feel we can never do enough, but we do what we can. She drops pearls of wisdom like that - I love her for it.

So what does this have to do with realization? A lot actually. We can never do enough, it's true. We always think we should have done more, but sometimes, we just need to be happy with what we've done and end the habit of beating ourselves up.
We're taking it step by step - that's how you heal