Time, Please Stop

I open my eyes to panic. Everyone seems nervous and frantic and the room is alive with noises and sounds. After a moment, I cry. Immediately it is quiet and a large pair of calloused hands gently grab me and hand me to my mother. Her grasp is strong, loving; I feel hot wet tears upon my back.

Next I feel the warm, spiky chest of my father and I smell the coffee on his breath. His breathing, so deep and soothing - one could fall asleep here. Giant, hairy arms hold me as if I was a rare priceless heirloom. He kisses my forehead, repeatedly, and whispering "thank you, thank you, thank you."

I am here.

Tests are performed, heads are nodded and the doctors and nurses hastily retreat, leaving us. Time passes. An occasional beep or click from the machines briefly disturbs the peace. The three of us lay together on the narrow bed surrounded by monitors - a unit, a team, a family.

I am exhausted. Really really tired. I want to experience it all, my new world, but I must rest. The warmth of my mother's body captures me. I could live here. A door slides open, words are deeply murmured out of sight, before the door slides shut. A phone rings, words are exchanged, I sleep.

I am awake.

It is dark outside, giving the room a brighter look. My eyes struggle to see. My senses, what I have of them, are alive with wonder. I find myself on my own and I worry, am I alone? I cry. Quickly, large hands grasp me and clutch me and rock me. I no longer feel the need to cry. Outside the windows, the world may be dark, but inside this room, it could not be more bright.

People have visited and they insist on holding me. I don't mind this for a while, but after a bit I decide that I am hungry and let out a loud wail. Knowing smiles light up the gathered faces, goodbyes are said and kisses exchanged. The room has become quickly quiet again aside from my whimpering.

Life is simple.

My mother sings softly, rocking me in her arms as she stands by the window. Above our reflection, stars are like shiny dots scattered on a near-black canvas. As my tiny eyes stare at the sky above, I hear the low rumbly breathing of my father who is passed out on a cot behind us.

The time has come to go home. I am bundled up for the journey into the real world. A door opens and my face is struck by the briskness of the winter's air. I gasp and my parents laugh before placing me into my car seat. Though I have only been around for two days, I sense the enormity of the journey ahead. 

Time, please stop.

~~~~~

Sleep ends and I survey my surroundings. I am in the car with my mother who is nervously talking to herself as she drives. While I have begun to speak recently, I elect not to at this moment so as not to disturb her as she seems deep in thought. Even at my early age, I wonder if she is okay.

My mother carries me from the car as if I were fragile. It is a windy, rainy morning and I can just sense that something is happening. I cling to my mother's neck as if my life depended on it as we walk up the steps of a house I do not recognize.

This is spring.

A bright-eyed woman answers the door. Behind her I hear the noises of children playing and I smell something delicious. After a few pleasantries, we enter into a colourful room and my mother places me down in front of some large wooden blocks. She knows me so well.

I play for a moment while my mother exchanges hushed words with this woman before turning to look at me and waving goodbye. "What?!?!" I think. I am hit by a ton of bricks as I quickly realise that she plans to leave me here. I begin to cry.

This is alone.

The woman tries to pick me up, but I am having nothing of it. I crawl as fast as I can towards the retreating steps of my mother. It must be a mistake. I can't stay here. Why would she do this to me, to us? As she exits, she turns back; crying and blows me a kiss before closing the door behind her.

I wail. The other children, though we have just met, decide to show their support for my cause by wailing as well. The walls seem to shake with our tears. How long am I to stay here? Will she ever come back? What did I do to deserve this?

This is two.

She catches me off guard and picks me up; cradling me in her arms. She smells of talcum and bananas and her hair is soft. A lullaby I recognize plays in the background. My tears have stopped flowing, but I am still breathing hard and fast. She whispers the lyrics in my ear as she bounces me in her arms.

The banana bread was delicious. I am sitting on the big red carpet next to my new playmates and we are playing with stuffed animals. I have lost track of how long I've been here for, and while I am still angry and confused at my mother, I am slowly starting to relax and have fun.

Time, please stop.

~~~~~~

It is a fall day. Though warm, summer seems like a distant memory. Baseball practice had ended, I lingered with my friends, losing track of time and then ran home afterwards so my mom wouldn't worry. She did anyways.

Homework was completed, milk and cookies consumed and a cartoon was watched. My brother had called that morning and my mom excitedly talked about his life as if it were her's. I miss him tremendously.

I am nine.

I'm sitting by the windowsill and watching the rain outside as it dances on the sidewalk and jostles the few leaves that are left remaining on the tree in my frontyard. The rain is mesmerizing and I silently listen to the music it makes.

My mother is in the kitchen preparing dinner, chopping, blending, rattling the pans. The delicious aromas are drifting throughout the house, searching for me and, once I am found, wrapping around me like a warm flannel shirt.

I feel safe.

My father is late coming home from work, again, and I am anxiously awaiting the warm feeling of his breath on my cheek, the sharp bristles of his two-day old beard that scrape my face and his hug that I wish would last for days.

Our living room is so cozy and colourful. It is clear that a loving family resides here. There are photos of smiling relatives on the mantle; old drawings of mine when I was small adorn the walls and an in-progress game of Monopoly sits on the coffee table.

I have everything.

This day was like so many others I experienced as a child that it is almost forgettable, and yet it isn't. Funny how the mind works, what it chooses to hold on to, to keep, to cherish. The radio is turned on and the evening news begins.

Dad should he home by now. A small amount of concern creeps in. My mother startles me "Come taste the sauce" and I move to her as if pulled by a magnet, it is amazing and I tell her so, nestled into her woolen sweater, just as we hear dad's truck pull into the garage.

Time, please stop.

~~~~~
Around me there was such nervousness and pentup energy that it was almost driving me crazy. I tried to focus my thoughts amidst the noise and I closed my eyes and breathed deeply and smiled. 

I placed the final dot on the final I of my final essay in school and mentally pumped my fist before abruptly standing, surveying the large exam room and almost literally bouncing out of the room.

I am free.

I crossed the stage proudly in my cap and gown while my family and friends and classmates cheered in the audience. It hit me that after years of hard work I was finally graduating and I welled up with tears of pride and happiness.

Our eyes met across the busy foyer afterwards and the smile she sent me melted my heart. I wanted to run to her and kiss her, but now was not the time. Mom, dad and I posed again and again for photos to capture this moment, this memory. 

I am ready.

We sat in our limo; her in her spectacular red and sparkling dress and me in my rented tuxedo. I couldn't believe we were here in this moment on our way to celebrate our graduation and also say goodbye to so many people.

Dinner was served, speeches were made, photos taken and we danced the evening away. Others spoke of being sad, and saying goodbye but I had never been happier and more ready for the next chapter of my life.

I am eighteen.

Mom leaned against the wall in my now strangely empty room and cried. While dad was helping me pack my remaining sweaters and shoes into my duffel bag I couldn't help but notice how gray his hair had turned.

I was leaving for college, with her, and as I stood outside the only house I had ever lived in, surrounded by my not-so-young and emotional parents, I felt frozen. I wanted and needed to leave, but tears poured from my eyes as the taxi waited patiently as I hugged my parents like I was a small boy again. 

Time, please stop.

~~~~~~

She splashed playfully in the water, full of pure elation, beckoning me with her eyes to come join her. I couldn't look elsewhere even if I had wanted to. Pretty, bright, funny and I longed to hold her and kiss her and be kissed in return.

The beach was hot that day and we lay on white sand-covered towels next to each other. The sun bore down on us as we lay there motionless. I burned slightly, but I was so happy, lying there listening to the water and the seagulls, mere inches away from pure beauty.

This is love.

The picnic basket opened and our senses were pleasantly attacked by the wonderful aroma of freshly baked sourdough bread. Figs were sliced and apples crunched and thin sliced of cheese were delicately placed by her slender fingers to complete perfect sandwiches.

She hit the birdie high into the blue sky where I momentarily lost it in the blinding sun of this brilliant summer day. Everywhere in my memory of this day there are colours; long strands of light green grass, random scatterings of scarlet wild flowers, her purple blanket where we lay intertwined without a care in the world.

This is happiness.

I am pushing her high on the swings in the children's playground. Up and down, up and down, her long red hair flying aimlessly in the wind. She laughed as she would have when she was little. It hurt not to share the depths of my feelings, but I hesitated, not wanting to ruin this moment.

She joins me on the slide and touches my hand, softly. I remember this moment so vividly; it felt as if every hair on my body was standing straight up and if a strong enough gust of wind had come by, it would have lifted me clear off the ground.

This is 23.

She walks ahead of me, daring me to try to catch her. She keeps looking back over her shoulder to catch my eye, only to turn back quickly. I want to catch her, and she knows that, enjoying playing mouse to my cat. She glances once more, over her shoulder, smiling with her entire body.

The sun sets. I lay with my head in her lap and gaze up at the first twinkling stars of the evening. A soft breeze plays with her hair and I see the colours of the sky reflect in her beautiful eyes. A perfect, unforgettable day is coming to an end. As I lay there, I couldn't help but dream of a future with her.

Time, please stop.

~~~~~

The Return of Suite

Well, here we are or, more accurately, here I am with all of you being somewhere else, most likely at a party I wasn't invited to. After a multi-week enforced period of time on the shelf (no real shelves involved due to my strong dislike of splinters and all splinter removal experiences), I have returned. Questions such as "Where did I go?" and "What did I do when I was there?" and "Why are my glasses so smudged all the time?" will all be answered in due time, but only if you are nice to me and by nice I mean the way one treats their dear old grandmother right up until she is arrested for mail fraud or high treason.

Let me be the first to say "Welcome back Suite!" I could go on and on about how patient I was in your absence, how I enjoyed the break from writing and how I grew as a person, got better in touch with my inner spirit, soul searched and meditated and became one with nature but you and I both know that all of that would be a lie. A lie so vicious, so intimate, so impressive that I dare not make it as I have learned the hard way that living a lie is much harder than it sounds unless properly dressed for the weather. 

In actual fact this break from Suite was a whirlwind of paranoid panicking, crazed checking and re-checking if the update was finally complete, and soul-sucking withdrawal symptoms akin to being forced by my loved ones to finally quit my completely fictitious morphine addiction. I've been tempted to tell people it was like being incarcerated in a white collar "resort" facility as I've always dreamed of telling people as much, but my relationship with these people is so tenuous I didn't want to risk it.

But the key point I am attempting to make is that I am overjoyed to be writing and publishing on Suite again! It is so exciting to be able to once again share my thoughts and ideas without fear of reprisals or lashings. To be clear, there will almost definitely be reprisals and/or lashings in my near future, I'm just choosing not to be afraid of them. There is just so much to say and so little time, although the precise relationship between the two would probably best be described not in writing but on a Cartesian graph, or at least not by my writing and its vastly limited array of adverbs.

Now that Suite is back, I can finally unfurl my brow and look less curmudgeonly. I can also once again write from the heart, or at least from the kidneys as it is so hard to be accurate when it comes to internal organs especially with my kindergarten-level understanding of human anatomy. Now that Suite is open for business, I promise to return to my usual odd, random and funny pieces about food, family, fiction and fleecing those good-for-nothing sheep for all they are worth (I kid, I kid, I kid. I like those sheep, and besides, my beloved great aunt Gladys was 35% sheep). 

With the return of Suite I can now also finally dedicate my time to breaking down the walls of injustice or just pulling back the curtains on injustice or at least asking kindly for injustice to behave itself once and for all. But, in all seriousness, I promise to once again spend my time writing and writing and writing only stopping when the custodial staff needs to lock up for the night or I'm reduced to a quivering mass similar to jello. My resolve is strong, my passion is crazy, my typing skills are still absolutely embarassing and my muffins are cooling on a rack in the kitchen (note: the muffins are totally symbolic).

When I couldn't write for Suite I was lost like a little girl in a corn maze, or like a little boy I guess, but for some reason I often imagine I'm a 11 year old girl lost in a corn maze. When I couldn't write for Suite, I found myself writing pages and pages of random, inane words that would have been a cause for concern except that I surrounded myself with others who were far and away much bigger causes for concern, making me seem much saner in comparison. When I couldn't write for Suite I was but a shadow of my former self, which is saying a lot as I'm often mistaken for someone else's shadow at the best of times. And, when I couldn't write for Suite I stood in my room cast in moonlight bouncing a small ball against the floor humming ragtime songs.

But, here we are. We are here. Suite is back. Suite is finally back and ready to take names. I am ready to resume being ultra-literal, tangential, self-mocking and water-proof. I am ready to make others laugh, cry, think and yearn for a simpler time before this whole world wide web was invented. So draw up a chair or set of chairs if you happen to have a large collection of chairs just gathering dust in the corner. I'll be the writer, you can be the reader and then we will eat a huge plate of digestion-hampering nachos. It will be grand.

Welcome back Suite. I, for one, am happy as a clam. Really. And a particularly happy clam at that and not a regular old down-in-the-dumps clam like we always hear about. 

Bumped into a Princess

Okay, so I was walking down the street the other day, trying to unwind from another long day at the office where I was either being barked at by superiors or by random dogs. There I was striding down the sidewalk, working off some steam, music pumping in my ears, head in the clouds as usual. And I was just minding my own business, as I've learned the hard way that no one wants me to stick my nose, let alone my head, where it doesn't belong. I was just attempting to avoid any and all eye contact or any other kind of contact now that I think about and just when I was almost home, who do I bump into but Suzie from high school! That's right, Suzie! You know, the one with that hair and those cheeks and the legs that everyone said went on for days but I mean how do you even measure that sort of thing without coming across as super creepy.

It was a late-afternoon/early-evening stroll, although some would argue that it was actually solely an evening walk and my desire to connect it to the afternoon was misleading at best and a cause for concern at worst. It was a fairly non-descript walk that I wasn't going to be writing home about, which is an on-going bone of contention between my mom and I, as she insists on me writing vertible essays about all walks I venture on. I mean aside from a few near-miss collisions with cyclists, potentially-scaring encounters with rabid neighbourhood dogs and mace-raising pleasant exchanges with little old ladies, it was completely uneventful. So I was walking just like I do everyday, thinking about the morons I'm surrounded by at work but despite how frustrating they can be to interact with, I do enjoy being seen as relatively brilliant which is a huge step up from how dumb I felt on a daily basis being raised by my adoptive parents who used to scoff at anyone with less than a 150 IQ.

I turned the corner as I rounded towards home and "pow", there she was, standing before me as if we were 17 again or, more accurately, as if I were a pimply-and-freckle-faced 17 year old whose voice was just maturing even though puberty started years ago and people were not only starting to talk, but had been talking for years now and she was a smoking-hot, runway-ready, just-about-drop-dead-but-not-quite-totally-lethal gorgeous young woman. To say we made quite the odd couple would be completely accurate and would lead any passerby to assume I was either filthy rich, she was blind as a bat or both. Despite my best efforts to remain cool and composed and vertical, I momentarily lost all control of my limbs and my ability to speak even semi-coherently. Thankfully, all of those bladder-control lessons as a toddler paid off in spades.

I was just super shocked to see her, and a bit dazed from our actual head-on-head collision and even more so based on what she was wearing - full on glimmering and shimmering princess. What with the setting sun and my light sensitivity and my horrible headache, her costume was so shiny and sparkling that it was nearly impossible to stare directly at. As I shielded my face and attempted to stop blinking rapidly, I gazed up at her from the spot on the sidewalk where I found myself and it was if she were literally glowing as she hovered over me with a look that could best be described as either concerned or seductive, with the seductive part almost definitely a result of my being partially concussed.

For a moment I almost thought I was imagining her, seeing as she was the object of so many of my daydreams and fantasies back in school and I hadn't seen her since graduation. Back in high school, I had spent an embarrassing number of hours planning, scheming and devising how I, someone she barely knew existed, could approach easily the coolest, most attractive girl in school, woo her and whisk her away. However unlikely that scenario was, it didn't stop me from filling journal after journal with graphic drawings and fairy tale-like stories and heartfelt proposals to her that somehow fell into the wrong hands making me the laughingstock of the school for a few weeks until someone else, thankfully, drew the attention away from me.

And yet, despite all of the attention, she always acted as if nothing had happened. She was above it all and attractively didn't care or notice. We never talked and then when school ended, she went her way and I went mine; until today. How I had dreamed of a moment like this - the two of us, alone together. True, I had never envisioned the princess outfit, or me being knocked to the ground or my lip-syncing to 70s disco wearing old sweats at the time or the meeting seeming completely random and unplanned, but I still counted this as a victory.

You know I always wondered what had happened to her after graduation. Everyone had plans - acceptance letters to big schools, plane tickets to exotic locations, pig farms to manage because "they aren't going to manage themselves" my dad wrote in my obviously-scribbled-at-the-last-minute graduation card. But she was different. She was that typical girl most likely type, except that in her case, it was actually true. The world was her oyster - so much talent, so damn good looking, ridiculously brilliant and so over-the-top hilarious. I would have believed anything that anyone said about her as there was nothing that she couldn't do.

The mystery surrounding her sudden dropping off the face of the Earth led to so many rumours. Some believed that she had travelled to Europe and fallen in love with a local artisan cheese maker or that she dropped out of law school and was currently defying local regulations by raising sheep in her backyard or that she had sailed around the world to avoid walking on land for a while. For me, there was always so much regret that I never looked her in the eyes and told her how I felt. She was "the one who got away" and also "the one who "the one who marched to the beat of her own drummer and even went as far as booking an actual drummer every third Saturday"

Long-Term Relationships are Tough: Why some work, when others don't.

Relationships are tricky. Relationships are tough. Relationships work, until they don't.

I ran into an old friend at the pool while we were both swimming with our kids the other day. We chatted for a bit and then after I stuck my foot in my mouth (not literally!), he revealed that he and his long-time wife had been divorced for the past two years. My initial reaction was one of shock, but maybe it shouldn't have been,

This sort of news has always hit me hard. They were one of those couples that, to the public eye, always seemed so happy, so together, so ideal. The kind of couple we all aspired to be, and yet, they were no more. I expressed to my friend how sad this new (to me) news was, and he nodded in agreement. In his face I could tell that, though it had been two years, it was still so difficult to deal with.

We've all been there. We've all been rejected. We've all faced the impossible-to-face words "it's over".

And nothing can prepare you for how hard 'the end' is to deal with, even if you've faced it before. I know, for me, that I always poured my heart, my soul and all of my energy into the relationship I was in and, because of that approach, so much of my happiness, self-identity and self worth was tied up in the success of that relationship. And when those relationships ended, often abruptly (thanks a lot, rose-coloured glasses!), I was crushed.

When I was in my 20s, there was this other couple that also seemed untouchable, as if protected by an impenetrable shield. They were one unit - their names were never said apart - and they almost seemed like a single entity. Who knew that behind closed doors issues and problems had been growing for years and were rapidly becoming the wedge that divided this seemingly indivisible couple apart. When they split up, it was as if someone had told me that Santa Claus wasn't real or that high-fructose corn syrup was bad for me - I was as stunned as one could be without drooling.

I remember wondering that if this "perfect" couple couldn't work, then was there hope for the rest of us sad saps? I remember wondering were two humans even meant to stay together long term? I remember wondering if I should have a snack, as I was hungry at the time.

As my kids and I showered after our swim and we walked back to the car, I got to thinking about why some relationships work while so many other, equally shiny, couples grow or fall apart (but never at the same time). Why some couples that fight and argue all the time last forever and other couples that are in serious need of a room sputter and barely make it out of the gate? And of course there are no easy answers, but I didn't let that stop me, as the lack of easy answers never does.

In my own experiences, as well as in both my professional life as a counsellor, as well as observing the relationships of friends, one thing has always been clear to me - every relationship can work. Boom! That's right, you heard me correctly, I firmly believe that every partnership, couple, relationship can work and flourish. Now before you write me off as a quack, there are a few catches, and then you can write me off however you'd like.

First, there has to be some physical attraction, at least a bit. As much as we all go on and on about not being shallow and loving who someone is on the inside and being attracted to someone's brain, good looks must have a place in every successful relationship. Some degree of "hotness" or "damn!" or "yummy" is needed when conversation lags or when brains are overworked. "It's just nice to have something to look at that makes me happy" I'm always saying to my wife without blinking before she gets up and leaves the room. And I am well aware that looks fade and and are fleeting but, at least initially, they are needed much in the same way hot coals are needed to grill meat. Let this be the last time a relationship is compared to grilled meat on my watch.

Second, both people have to be equally invested in the relationship and seeing themselves together long-term. Usually, from what I've seen, one person just cares more, spends more time and energy fighting to make things work and eventually gets frustrated as the other person, for a variety of reasons, just can't summon up the resolve or emotion to match that. We've all been that first person - buying flowers, cooking surprise dinners, dressing up as a gigantic, fluffy bunny (don't ask) - getting excited and doing all of the great things one is supposed to do as one-half of a successful couple. And it works, for a while, but deep down, in the back of one's head, we all know that we are living on borrowed time. When these relationships invariably end, we are sad, but mostly sad that we are alone again and our friends tell us (rightfully so) that we are "better off" and "that the right one is still out there" and "you need to shave that mustache".

Third, people change over time. I know; spoiler alert or stop the presses. But we do, as much as I've tried to resist all change, of any kind, in any way. The person I am now is quite different than the person I was 5 years ago and incredibly different from the person I'll be next week (big changes in store, I don't want to spoil the surprise - here is a two-word teaser: heal lifts). And if both people in a pair are both changing at light speed, then there needs to be a flexibility, a growth plan (pie charts on flip charts are totally optional), a bond (and not of the mutual fund variety, although those don't hurt either) that always connects them. Change should be embraced (keep it clean, all ages show here). Change should be rewarded. Change requires fresh undergarments on a daily basis. As long as there is love, and both people still want things to work out, then they can.

Fourth, people need to communicate. Communication is so easy, and yet it is also so hard. Why, oh why, is it so hard sometimes? Why do we all feel like we are speaking to a brick wall? For myself, I actually am, but why do other's feel like this? Why can't we talk to each other and work things out when we seemingly care about each other? Cat's got your tongue? (that excuse only works once) Pride? A love for suspense and film noir? Well, once again, it can be so easy as long as both members are committed (note: being actually committed, like imprisoned, so not a deal breaker - just makes face-to-face communication more challenging on a day-to-day basis).

Here is how it should work. Person A feels upset at something Person B is doing. Person A goes up to Person B and says in the least passive/passive aggressive/aggressive way "When you do ____________, it makes me feel ___________". Person B then replies "Why thank you, I had no idea that __________ was making you feel ____________" followed by "Now that I have gained a better understanding, I plan to make some alterations to my behaviour and would love the chance to explain fully to you why I have been doing ___________". Person A would then say "I appreciate both your explanation as well as the opportunity to express myself. I consider this situation resolved. Thank you for your time." Scene.

Here is how it actually works. Person A feels upset at something Person B is doing. Instead of taking the risk of saying something that could risk "rocking the apple cart" or "ruffling any feathers" or "burning the toast", Person A does the "smart" thing and bottles up/represses/saves for a rainy day his or her feelings thus helping preserve the peaceful facade. Whatever Person A loses in not expressing themselves, they gain in helping maintain the status quo even if it means walking on some egg shells from time to time. But as you and I both know, facades can only last so long, until a wreaking ball either real or fictional comes along and smashes it to smithereens. The fallout from a long term lack of real sharing of feelings can be so intense and yet, we've all been there and have wondered while in the midst of an argument full of mud-slinging and hurtful comments and awkward silences why we didn't just communicate better initially.

Since we all hate feeling crappy and we all hate not speaking up when a situation isn't how we like it and we all hate the eventual argument/discussion about "what has happened to us?" or "what is really going on?" or "why won't you tell me how you really feel?" then why do two people who love and care about each other let it get there? I'm not sure. I'm really not. But, once again, if the two people both want to work things out, then they always can. Except that a couple can dig themselves a hole that, while not impossible to climb out of, just requires so much work that maybe it either seems impossible or just to challenging. I think that if you go down the road of poor communication too often, which also invariably involves lack of emotional understanding and intimacy, it ends up becoming the "new normal" and the fixes that worked in the past become less and less effective. It is just easier to blow things up rather than renovate or rebuild with a new foundation.

Some people just weren't meant to be together. Some people are like oil and water. Some people, even when attracted to each other, just don't work together in the long-term no matter how hard they work at it.

(sure oil and water can be correctly emulsified, but that technique is much harder to pull off when actual people with complex emotions are involved.

In the initial honeymoon phase everything is wonderful, spectacular and blissfully easy. Couples all think that their love will last forever and that they could be the greatest couple that has ever existed and they briefly consider writing a series of How To books. But, like the ball that no matter how high tossed will eventually fall to the Earth, all good things come to an end. When the honeymoon phase concludes one of a few things happen to our lovely couple

(1) the relationship was based solely on physical attraction and that there is absolutely nothing else of substance to keep these two people together so things end.

(2) the couple genuinely cares about one another and they sense on some deep biological, lineage-preserving level that they were put on this Earth to buy a shelter* and produce offspring together (*shelter optional).

(3) one or both of the members "needs" this to work out and so they conveniently are able to fight off the voices in their head that the other person may not be right for them.

(4) it's fun for each of them and fun is fun so why not have it (harder to sell this to yourself, your parents and each other once past a certain age).

(5) they shake hands, mutually decide to go their separate ways and agree to "never speak of this to anyone ever again even if offered large sums of money to do a tell all".

Many relationships are over before they start. Many relationships stand the test of time. Many relationships start strong, but blow out like a candle in the wind.

And there are couples that stay together even when things aren't perfect. They hope that taking the plunge and getting a dog, or buying a house, buying mutual fund, having a kid or getting matching back-covering tattoos will gloss over the issues. But, the issues don't just vanish because the couple came up with a timely distraction no matter how large the tattoo. In the end, if it ain't working, it just won't last and I don't just break out the cliched poor grammar for nothing. But, as I mentioned earlier, no matter how frayed the edges of the rug of the relationship are, no rug is beyond repair if the two take some sort of rug-repair workshop together.

I think back to my friend and his failed marriage and wonder what happened. Sure some marriages fail because someone does something horrible - they cheat, tax evade, slash tires, but most of the time the speed bumps of life just get in the way. Each person gets busy while they still love each other and they just don't make time for each other, especially once kids, promotions, extra responsibilities come around. Resentment and unhappiness build as communication and intimacy decrease and the grass starts to appear so much greener elsewhere (optical illusion or some sort of turf builder). Puzzle pieces that once fit are all of a sudden from two different puzzles.

But for all of the couples I know that have not worked, I know an equal number that are still going strong year after year. How do they do it? A match made in Heaven? Hours of expensive counselling? Naked Twister? We'd be lying to ourselves if we believed that any couple that seems "perfect" doesn't argue, go through ups and downs and struggle with the same issues that the partnerships that fail struggle with. I happen to enjoy lying to myself from time to time. The members of the couples that work have learned to compromise, support each other through tough times, and communication with each other. And, in my opinion, the most important thing of all and one thing myself and my wife have in spades, the ability to make each other laugh.

Relationships are tricky. Relationships are tough. Relationships work, until they don't. But when you find one that does they are amazing, like really good gravy.

That Look

In hindsight, I should have known.

The signs were there, I just didn't see them. I couldn't see them.

It should have been so obvious, like a trail of bread crumbs in the forest.

But it wasn't, not for me at least.

There I was, approaching the airport.

I was so excited.

In just a few short hours, I would see her again.

To hold her hand. To hear her laugh. To feel her warm hands upon my face.

Though I'd only been gone for three weeks, I missed her something crazy.

It bordered on unhealthy.

Like an addict, I needed her.

I'd had a good trip and enjoyed my time away, Papers signed, meetings attended, dinners eaten, and yet, I just couldn't wait to return.

To her.

When busy, it had been easy. Mind occupied, tasks to do, places to go.

But, in the slower moments, the down time on the bus, waiting in lines, simmering in a bath, trying to fall asleep, my thoughts invariably drifted back to her.

Always her.

Like she was living inside the recesses of my brain.

Was she?

As I waited for my row to be called, I sat there among the sea of strangers and I longed to see her again. The others probably had love to go back to, but it could never be like ours. Ours was a young love, full of flights of fancy and lazy Sundays and late night Scrabble games.

I ached to be with her.

While being away was so so hard, it was an amazing feeling to be so excited.

"You're lucky," a friend told me while away "life is rarely full of excitement like this."

True, I was lucky.

How rarely had I ever felt this level and intensity of excitement and I savoured the minutes as they counted down until our reunion.

Take off.

Ears popping.

Her.

Guy in the seat in front reclines too far.

Her.

Dry throat and head aches.

Her.

Being together again. It would be so wonderful.

My skin tingled each time I closed my eyes, and I was instantly transported to her side.

Goosebumps.

Our future together.

Marriage, the honeymoon of our dreams and then kids. The world would be ours.

I could picture it now as I sat on that plane bringing me home, back to her, back to us, back to all of the things I loved and adored about her.

Like a scene in a movie it would be. Couples and families hugging and screaming with joy all around us as I strode confidently, like a general returning victorious from battle, through the silent masses, in slow motion towards her, this dazzling beauty. 

She was mine.

Smile.

And then, after a moment's pause, we'd kiss this long, passionate kiss oblivious to all and everything around us. It would all melt away, leaving only us, the only two beings, forever connected.

And then, the plane landed.

Home.

Could our love bend time and space?

I gathered my stuff, walked off the plane and rewinded and replayed my lines in the dialogue between us that I'd been rehearsing for days.

The airport was bustling and it was if the others around me were also in on it, extras in my low-budget film.

I wanted to share my excitement with them, with anyone, like a puppy who smells a treat.

The passport agent asked how I was and I answered "great" a little too enthusiastically and was met with a smile that seemed slightly concerned.

My heart was pounding as I rode the final escalator towards the arrivals area. It was if I was about to perform in front of a huge audience, take a final free throw, line up a million dollar putt.

I was ready. To see her.

I rounded the final bend. My heart was practicing aerobics, my skin was barely holding on as the tidewaters rose within, my brain was considering taking stress leave.

There she was.

How I had dreamed of this moment, and I couldn't believe it was now.

She was looking down at the ground waiting when I first spotted her; her hair perfect as always, wearing her favourite shoes.

Mentally capturing the moment as a photograph, I paused, and then continued towards her.

Then her head arose, as if she sensed my presence from afar.

Our eyes met.

And I saw that look.

I knew it was all over.

The Argument

"I'm really angry with you, you know! I can't believe you right now! After all we have been through? This? It is the last nail in the casket! And yes, I know the expression usually involves coffins, and I don't care and you know how I feel about messing with expressions that have proudly stood the test of time! I'm that pissed off!"

"Oh? You think you are pissed off? Well, I have news for you and not the usual news I deliver full of topical events from around the world. My skin is figuratively crawling at the sheer sight of you! I'm pretty sure my other organs are not too pleased either, but they are just harder to get an exact read on, unlike my overly sensitive skin. I can't believe you are blaming me for what has gone on here between us tonight. That is low, even for you, and that is saying a lot considering how impressively low you've gone in the past."

"Someone is going to get hurt, if you keep up that sort of talk up! Do you want to guess who? Aarghh! You are making me crazy! I want to punch the wall or the ceiling or, if I happen to be kneeling, the floor. Do you think I'm enjoying this? No! I'd rather be all cuddly with you, making all others in the room highly uncomfortable and wondering about the details of our friendship. But those days seem to be in the rear view mirror which I just happened to bring along this evening either for the small amount of comfort it provides but most likely for its reflective capabilities."

"My brain is making plans to evacuate the building that is my head, something it has threatened before but always kept the rent cheques coming! Do you know what I'm talking about, because I'm not totally sure I do, due to the fact that I am almost literally seeing red right now, though it is hard to tell due to my red-green colour-blindness. Are you actually laughing? Do you think my inability to enjoy deep, passionate reds and organic, forest greens is funny? I dare you to bring that laugh from where you are sitting all the way over there using your face as how else would you transport a laugh and you can bring the rest of your body too if you must! When you come over here, I'll..."

"You'll what? Come on tough guy! Don't hold back on the account that I am a woman, an attractive woman who you once claimed to love. Don't let my close resemblance to Cinderella, your hero which raises at least some questions seeing as you are a man, stop you from coming at me. I'm ready for you! Sure I may occasionally present like a human embodiment of a small piece of partially burnt wood, and I am, but unlike those other cinders, I am for real and I'll end you."

"Do you realize how desperate you sound? Desperate and sad and obviously badly in need of some refresher courses in proper grammar and punctuation. Look, I don't want to fight you. I don't. Not really. Well, a bit. I think my fists do, but my arms are not interested. I also care about you despite your choices and your infuriating grammatical mistakes that are highly correctable if you'd only take my advice and enrol at the local community college. I'm willing to let the past be the past, as long as you will do the same and stop pretending to press your coveted invisible rewind button that we both know isn't there."

"I can't believe you, of all people, are calling me desperate. Ha! That's what I say to that. If anyone here is desperate it's you, although, to be honest, it's usually one of your best features and makes me want to pet and groom you like a cute puppy. You are always calling me something, usually things that are sweet, things I love - like baby dolphin, bananamobile, high fructose corn syrup - to name a few. But not now, not tonight. Why? What is really going on?"

"I could tell you. I could tell you a long, dramatic and elaborate heart-wrenching story. I could tell you lots of things, just like I used to when we first met. I remember we'd sit there, facing each other, taking turns talking, while the other person used their ears to hear what the other was saying. Oh, we were so young and naive back then. I thought things would always be perfect. I wasn't ready for you to change. You've changed, you do know that don't you?"

"I do. I used to be as graceful as an ox, albeit the most graceful ox humans have ever seen. Now I'd probably compare myself to some other beast of burden that is also partially graceful, just incrementally less so. I know it seems similar to you, but inside I feel the difference. I also have grown more serious over time. I used to spend hours and hours laughing and giggling at the slightest thing. It was so annoying! I had next to no control over it. Sure it seemed like I was having the time of my life, but I wasn't, not in the least. How I wanted to be taken seriously and be treated like the 25 year old that I was, but everyone saw me, and treated me, like a clown. And the tips were so small! So, yes I have changed. Your clown has left the building."

"If I had a handsaw for everytime I've heard you tell that story, I'd own exactly three handsaws which is actually one fewer than I actually own right now, so it would be a step backward. Others have wondered, quite rightfully, why does one person, in the big city, who doesn't work on construction projects and is not at all handy around the house, need to own any handsaws, let alone four. "Good question," I answer while admiring my reflection in the blade of my favourite saw. I've changed too. We've drifted like two pieces of driftwood on a river that is cascading down a waterfall. I'm not sure at all how that image relates in anyway to our issue here, but I thought I'd toss it out there. It makes me so angry, because I love you. I love you like a person loves their handsaw collection, although there are probably minor differences, with the safety precautions being one."

"I love you too. I love both the idea of you and the physical manifestation of that idea. I love both you and the collection of puppets I made in your likeness that I use to act out short scenes with during holiday times. I love that our love was both normal and never normal. Sure I could have predicted that as I found you in the Looking for Abnormal Relationship column in the local newspaper that I was reading out of spite one Friday night after working out of spite all day - it was just so easy to keep the spite going and I'm glad that I did, as it led me to you."

"When we first met, I felt like a subatomic particle being annihilated into radiant energy. I remember our first date. The touch of your lips made me burn, though, the lit candle I leaned against as we were allowed our passion to get the better of us burned even more. I wanted to devour you, though, the pizza we ordered seemed even more appropriate. And yet, I am still angry. Things seem so different now. What you did was so insensitive, like you don't love me or care about me or are treating my feelings like lab rats, which I am morally opposed to on a number of levels. But, I know I am to blame for where we are as well and I am angry with myself too."

"Me too. I know I came here tonight ready to yell at you until my voice went hoarse and my brow was full of sweat and needed mopping, but I also need to yell at myself, after my voice has time to rest, of course, as I don't want to do any permanent damage. Permanent Damage, coincidentally, is actually my ironic working title for the novel I am writing that is loosely based on my amazing childhood. But, I just can't yell at you or accidentally drip sweat on you. Can we fix this? Can we go back to how things were?"

"I think so. I also am speaking those thoughts out loud to you as well otherwise you'd be fairly uncertain regarding my answer to your question. You know, maybe this is the blip on the computer screen that is our relationship with our relationship being a computer screen in that analogy just like you used to always joke that it was. Sure, this could be the hiccup that just requires copious amounts of water for us to breathe normally again. I certainly hope so, as I love you, and just so you don't take that the wrong way, my love is the love that many other people use the word "like" to mean and nothing more unless you are into that and then I'm open to any new definitions you want to suggest."

"I love you too. I really do. Just that it feels weird to go from a few minutes ago where we wanted to tear each other's heads off or, more precisely, race to see who could tear the other's heads off first as once one person had lost their head, their ability to then, headless, remove the other's would be rendered impossible. But I am one to quickly forgive, though not forget. Let me make that clear, that I forget nothing and will keep the memory of the beginning of this encounter in the recesses of my brain for as long as I shall live and possibly beyond that if the experimental research my brother is working on comes through in time. But, I do love you; all of you, though some parts more than others, which only makes sense as I think it would highly suspicious if I claimed to love every single little part of you exactly the same."

"So where do we go from here? Do we just move on? Do we attempt to hug it out? Do we just pretend it never happened? Do we spend the better part of the evening breaking down our disagreement to its component parts and then analyze each with as much detail as we have the collective brain capacity to do? I, for one, vote for ordering pizza with extra cheese as well as extra dough and extra sauce, mostly so the other components don't feel left behind or marginalized. Now some would argue that I am suggesting just ordering a larger pizza, and while I don't disagree or refute that point, I just don't choose to agree."

"You are such an extremist when it comes to pizza and, while it freaks me out something fierce, I also respect you and hold you in higher regard because of it as well. I say we move on, only first to the next room, and then regarding the issue as this room feels so...dirty to me now. Then we can spend up to, but not exceeding, 5 minutes hugging. Any less and it will come off as yet another half-assed attempt on our part to follow through on a solution to a problem and any more, someone will invariably suggest that we get a room, which will compel us to rent a space together and we already rent this space and we just can't afford to rent two apartments what with our current financial constraints. And then if we still feel like pretending it never happened, then why not? And sure let's order that pizza! Let's order it together, like old times."

"Oh, the old times! How I miss them so! I remember that you used to call me "Junior", which made very little sense, as I both older and larger than you and had absolutely no one else in my life who I consider my senior, no matter how inaccurate that perception was in reality. I'm not sure if you are suggesting this, but I am in total favourite of living a considerable amount of time in the past, including, but not limited to, changing our hairstyles and caloric intake. I can't believe I was so angry earlier! You are so important to me and I need you like someone who loves chicken nuggets with honey mustard sauce needs napkins especially if they are anything like me when I eat those with my outright disregard for the precise location of my mouth on my face."

"And you are so important to me! I would follow you wherever you go as long as you don't do anything crazy like walk 40km in the rain. Yes, I'd follow you, walking about a half block behind you, wearing a black trench coat and sunglasses and possibly a wig. Sure some would call me a creeper and others would consider reporting me to the authorities, which has only happened a couple of times before, thinking of me as a "threat", while I always claim to be a triple threat, especially when playing basketball. That reminds me, I never said sorry for trying to dribble you that one time when you were curled up like a ball in that orange blanket you love."

"I forgive you. I forgive you completely, or more accurately, I forgive you as much as one entity can forgive another which is fairly unquantifiable, but it probably falls somewhere between completely and not at all. As you know, I'm quite oblivious towards all quantities in life. Anyways, all of this arguing has made me hungry. Or, I entered not hungry, we argued and now I'm hungry. Hard to argue cause and effect here, I know. Anyways, let's go get something to eat."

First Date

Wow am I excited or what?

That was an incredible and amazing evening!

It was beyond awesome from the opening "hello" all the way to the closing, and quite lengthy and dramatically presented good bye that I couldn't quite make out due to our proximity that guy at the bus stop screaming about the end of the world.

I don't think I've ever had more fun in a 5 hour time period aside from that one time when I was 15 and I locked myself in my room, covered myself in margarine, put in some mood music, and created conceptual art. My parents were so concerned, until they saw the art, and then they had to return to the den to read their thesaurus as "concerned" was no longer apt. I also never thought our first date would last 5 hours, though that's mostly because I never think anything will ever last 5 hours. It's how I was raised.

I just couldn't be happier than I am right now at this very moment. Not even if I tried, which I haven't. You know, it's just not as easy as it sounds to try to be happier than one is when one is already happy, and I should know, due to those two years spent with my annoyingly gleeful roommate that I often playfully refer to as "The Bludgeoning". I learned, years later, that he was actually an extremely unhappy person back in those days, but just spend an inordinate amount of time standing on his head.

Finally a date! 

I just can't believe it!

I have wanted to go out on a date for so long and I am still in a state of disbelief that it just happened! Can you believe it? Me, in a state of disbelief? I know, I know, that's incredibly easy to believe. I'm in such a state on a bi-weekly basis. But, me on a date? With a fellow human who, in this case, was an attractive female as well? And to believe that she didn't need to be coerced or fooled with shiny objects or bribed with rare concert tickets? Wow! And to think my parents told me over and over and over again that this would never happen. They even took out a full page ad in the local newspaper, which seemed excessive and a touch mean, to let me know how unlikely my dating would be. Don't get me wrong, my parents were as loving as caring as two individuals who kind of, sort of chose to get married and raise a family could be. But, they also believed in being unapologetically up front and frank all the time especially when it came to their one and only son's social life, or lack thereof.

I am just on cloud nine or at least in the nearby vicinity, and I don't care who sees me almost literally dancing down the sidewalk right now. And that is saying a lot as I'm usually quite shy or bashful in public places and some would even go as far as saying I'm 'afraid' or 'paranoid to the point where I feel like I need to duck behind random objects as if I'm being followed'. What can I say? I have a vivid imagination and was taught by my elementary school to believe that I would one day be worthy of being tracked or stalked by others.

But tonight, tonight was so amazing! I don't think it could have gone any better aside from a few things that I am attempting not to dwell on as whenever I dwell on small things from the past in counselling sessions, my therapist shakes his head repeatedly and begins frantically taking notes and it ends up costing me a minimum of $500. The only obvious way it could have gone better would be if I hadn't accidentally scalded her with hot water when I insisted on pouring her tea even though she really was set on pouring her own. I did apologize, though, to be honest, she should have allowed me to pour it for her as many friends of mine refer to me as the Mozart of accurately pouring hot liquids from one vessel to another. I have no idea what that really means.

It was clear that she was having a great time even after I misunderstood her somewhat feeble attempt at sarcasm and literally wrestled her to the ground. And she didn't seem to mind too much when I both slapped and tripped her repeatedly on the dance floor at the club after dinner when I got bit to carried away when they played my favourite song. As I tried to explain, I can't be held accountable for my limbs when my favourite song comes on and I have the notarized legal paperwork to prove it. 

I could just see the glee in her eyes even when I took out my calculator to make sure that the bill was not only split evenly but that we also took into account precisely how much each of us consumed proportionally relative to our weight as well as indirectly proportional to the density of our entrees. My calculator work was impressive to say the least, which is why I usually don't take it out of its protective cloth until the third date.

And to think I was so nervous of making a good first impression! I was. Really nervous - I was gerbil-like in my obsessive desire to gnaw anything that came anywhere near my mouth - plastic containers, pumice stones, loose items of clothing - anything! I see now that first impressions, albeit quite huge, only last so long and that all of the impressions that come after the big opening are as, if not more, important. Thankfully, I practiced and made sure ahead of time that after the initial glow of the opening wore off that I would have a series of impressions that would keep her in an as-close-to-constant state of awe as possible without having to bring my expensive sensory equipment from home.

I used my nervousness to my advantage just how my passionate and oppositional drama teacher from high school always told me to. I came out "guns a blazing" almost literally, until I remembered the strict firearms ordnance that had just been passed. I was "hopped up on goofballs" which, in hindsight, was fairly poor judgment, and not a good message for the kids of today, as about an hour into the date I literally crashed and snored loudly for the next 45 minutes which thankfully went undetected as we were in a dark theatre watching a vivid dance/chainsaw performance that is so hot right now.

The rest of the date was wonderful and spectacular and she is such a great person! I just can't over what an amazing and caring woman she is. For example, when I pretended to go into anaphylactic shock, her response was as textbook as you can get and I should know seeing as I had brought the textbook with me just in case she appeared to be up for that sort of test. 

The weeks of lead up to our first date were full of high anxiety, dangerously low metabolism and a rash that nearly covered my body from head to toe. I lifted weights, usually by choice; I brushed my hair daily, longing to brush someone else's hair just for variety's sake; I treated my body like a shrine, although I did find that exercise to be quite futile as my previous experience with shrines was mostly as a place to hide the raw broccoli my parents were trying to force on me as a child.

Then we finally met and it was just so amazing and I can't wait to see her again!

It may have been just me, because it has been in the past with other girls, but I really felt something click like there was a real connection between us. I am so excited! 

An actual date! 

Yes!

Launching a Podcast: Part 1

So, I've decided to launch a podcast. I'm pretending the silence I hear at this moment is actually a huge crowd of non-relatives giving me a standing ovation. "Finally" and "Yes!!" and "Podcast?" are among the things this totally imaginary crowd are saying to me as they shake my hand and other random parts of my body.

It has all happened so fast.

And yes, I totally realize that I am not listening to the common adage about not rushing into the recording of your first podcast.

But it is all so very exciting - I feel like a young schoolgirl again...I mean, for the first time.

You may be wondering how it all started or you may be wondering a variety of other things, how would I know what you are filling your head with if you insist on constantly ignoring my requests?

Well, this fairy tale began, as many of my real and fictitious ones do, on Christmas Day. It's a scheduling nightmare!

My parents, sister and her boyfriend were over helping us create the illusion of a large family gathering. Our girls were literally shredding wrapping paper as well as opening actual presents, while he adults were enjoying watching our two girls opening their gifts while doing their best to not be overly jealous, or at least less jealous than an average day.

Amidst the revelry and squeals of joy, I was rushing trying to get every last part of the elaborate Christmas dinner finished in a timely fashion. While no one was crying for food yet, I was operating on borrowed time as any moment the animals/inmates/sleeping giants would start losing it if their feed wasn't presented to them.

As I was attempting to avoid burning myself and/or the precious food while also giving the impression that I was above carrying about burning anything, my sister turned to speak to me, as she has turned so many times before (143 –I’ve kept track) and exclaimed “You have to start a podcast!”

I didn’t respond right away as I didn’t want to give her the satisfaction. I've learned the hard way that if I respond as soon as someone speaks to me, then they will always expect that rapidity of response. It's just not realistic - let's say I'm tired or recovering from dental surgery or involuntarily under the influence of hallucinogens! I also needed time to decode and re-code what she had said only to realize that codes were wholly unnecessary at the moment.

I looked at her, looked away and then looked back just wishing an appropriate song was playing that I could turn in time to. It was an interesting idea and I said as much, but not interesting enough for me to stop cooking dinner for the family and race out into the night, only returning when I had either followed her command or allowed an appropriate amount of time to elapse.

The evening ended and I presented her with a parting gift as is tradition in my family. As "goodbyes" were dramatically spoken, "safe travels" sing-songingly insisted upon and "thank yous" comically mimed, my mind worked overtime. "Me, Tommy Paley, or just Tommy if we are on a first name basis, make a podcast?" I was inclined to ignore the suggestion on principle alone, or at least allow principle to be part of the process.

Many days passed.

It was New Year’s Eve and my sister and her boyfriend had decided to throw a party and we were all invited. While I was seated on the couch in their living room and attempting to remain vertical, my sister mentioned the podcasting thing again and her boyfriend proclaimed to the room (quite regally I must add - remind me to hire that guy for those moments when I need to proclaim something) that “I HAD to do it!” They were nodding their heads in unison and smiling like people who had just been bitten by a non-poisonous snake smile if they had just been told a funny joke.

The idea was still intriguing to me, as it had been the first time it was suggested, only more forcibly this time, I must add. I worried that they would only get incrementally more forceful each time, so I decided to cut my losses and just give in to their demands as I do with door to door salespeople and doctors.

We got home after the party and I instantly Googled "starting a podcast" followed by "cute pictures of kittens" before remembering that I can't multi-task. I was tired and badly in need of sleep and overwhelmed by the foreign languages I had to spend hours learning in order to start a podcast before I decided to cop out and just have the page translated. To call myself a beginner would have been apt. To call myself uninitiated would be correct. To call myself naive would just be unfair and unnecessarily adding insult to injury.

As I lay my pretty head on my slightly prettier pillow that evening I was filled with equal parts resolve, excitement and vegan tofu cheesecake. I had what it took, I was going to do this, it was going to be glorious and the world would finally have to stand up and pay attention to me. Kidding! (Between you and me, that world has zero sense of humour or an interest in any podcast not discussing bluegrass music).

A few days later fate played her hand (I had to wait so long that it felt like I was playing by myself). My long time tall friend and I were having a mutually agreed upon dinner together. As we were taking turned biting our food (two people biting at the same time is WAY too loud if you know what I'm saying), I mentioned my desire to podcast and I will always remember that moment as if lightening struck us as we sat there, eyes locked.

Initially he aggressively insisted on producing me which sounded vaguely like a recurring nightmare I'd been having since I was 12, but after some discussion we realizing that you just can't teach or learn to develop the rapport that we have. Our conversations could be described as "funny" or "fun" or simply "un" if you choose not to use whole words to describe things due to being that busy and important. Excitedly, ideas and suggestions starting flying across the table and room on similar trajectories to the pieces of rice that were also flying.

While we collectively knew very little about how to make podcasts, we more than made up for that with sheer gumption (it had been accumulating for years) and boyish charm. We had a tough road ahead of us, but had a real appreciation for tough roads especially those that lay ahead and didn't require any excessive neck turning. We mentally shook hands and signed lengthy contracts full of non-disclosure and morality clauses before I got in my car and literally drove home. 

I checked my pulse. I checked my ego. I checked my coat even though my wife is just not interested in being a coat check girl, but did she really want me to wear my coat inside all the time? That's what I thought. This podcast thing was going to happen. It was about to get real. Really real. 

stay tuned for Launching a Podcast: Part 2

Writer's Block

I am a prolific writer.

My father is so proud.

For years now, every chance I get, ideas just flow out of me like I am a faucet or a hose or some other instrument that water can gush out of. I sit, I pause for dramatic effect and then my fingers dance all over the keyboard often creating words and other times allowing the spell check to work it's wonders. It's never been hard for me to think of what to say or how to say it or even who to whisper it to on warm summer evenings in dark alleys. 

My problems (or at least the ones pertaining to writing) have always been finding enough time to write as well as picking and choosing what to write about when time presents itself. There is usually just never enough time and I've been meaning to complain to someone about this for a while now, but I'm always just too busy and unshaven. Time, as someone wise once said in an all-together-way-too-condescending manner, is fleeting as is money, chocolate sprinkles on my daughter's ice cream cone and the sands of youth in the hour glass that is life.

And when there is time to author a new piece of writing, it's not like I can just drop everything (especially when transporting miniature glass or porcelain figurines as I often am) and write. I have to cook, bathe, exercise and groom bonsai plants in that order. And when there is time? Well, where four hours could easily be filled, I often have to make do with less than one and am forced to almost literally throw ideas at the screen (making sure said ideas have wiped their feet at the door first).

I often feel like a hydroelectric dam (for reasons I contractually am not able to expand upon at the moment) in that I have so many ideas and thoughts and drafts and ideas for what to do with that huge block of feta cheese occupying prime real estate in my fridge and just a small chute for all of those to come out of. I like to call the chute "Fred", while my friend Fred is wondering how to feel about that.

The types of pieces I love/am compelled to write naturally change as time goes on. Sometimes I try to resist change and other times I just wear tighter shirts which, oddly, has the same desired effect. Sometimes I write about ridiculous scenarios or relationships; other times I want to discuss aspects of my work and then there are the other I write to give all of the voices in my head a turn before they fly south for winter. Pieces vary from the super short to the grossly long with each type occupying a special place in my heart - I believe it's the left valve.

But, as I have said and am running the risk of repeating myself which is good as I am trying to live more risky (or was that risque) in my 40s, I have never had nary a problem of knowing what to type. My desire to maul readers with my writing is akin to how a bear desires to maul my readers too, if given an opportunity (are you free next Thursday?). The only times in my past when I just couldn't produce creatively were when I was so tired or so hungry or so...let's just say that straight jackets are not my first choice of writing attire.

Until it happened.

I'll never forget where I was at that moment, as it just happened a few days ago and I was at home and I live there and it's just so easy to remember and would be more of a concern if I forgot. Don't get me wrong, I forget tons of other things, just not this; not now, not here, not with all of those hungry mouths depending on me.

So, one day, at a regularly scheduled time, I sat, opened my computer, scratched a few places on my body, barked inspirational slogans at myself in the mirror until I began to weep uncontrollably due to the sheer amount of inspiration as well as how angry I seemed in the mirror. And then I began to write.

Except I didn't.

I kept starting first sentences that were amazing in their horribleness. I kept coming up with ideas before berating myself for how mundane and simple and lacking any "funny" they were. Other times a seemingly "bad" idea could be turned and twisted and played with, sort of like diapering an infant or an older child if they are still having "issues". But that day? I just sat there, intensely staring at the screen almost as if I was pleading for the screen to do something about this. But screens are notorious for being silent witnesses, and deep down inside I knew that.

I sat there. Frozen as if an ice queen. Damn soothsayer! I looked at my ghost-like reflection in the white word processing screen and wondered how my life would be if I really was that white. It's not as if I wasn't excited to write. It's not as if I had anything else better to do (something my loved ones are always reminding me of). And it's not as if I didn't have tons of drafts in various stages of completion that would have loved to have been worked on (I like to see my drafts like little children that need to be fed or like cubes of cheese that need to be eaten or even like small little half-child/half-cheese creatures that are super fun to play with until summer hits and then they are at serious risk of melting).

As I tried to get started I felt myself sinking deeper and deeper into a hole of my own creation (little known fact - I am a veritable virtuoso when it comes to digging holes). And then it hit me (with it being my hand, or at least I thought it was my hand)! This was entirely my fault, just like it was my fault those tomato plants died in my garden when I decided to withhold their water as some sort of social experiment. I have, at the moment, between my two blogs, well over 100 drafts and it's getting out of control and I obviously need some sort of intervention or support group or a good spanking (hopefully, due to a busy schedule and lack of funds, all at once would be ideal).

Maybe, just maybe, I have so many ideas and so many drafts and so many allergies that I have hamstrung myself (which is quite different from all of the times when I hammed myself - it takes so much scrubbing to remove the smell of cured pork from one's hair). Once it hit me, it was all so obvious! I had fallen into the most obvious trap, or more accurately, I had fallen and the obvious trap had been left out on the floor when someone should have just cleaned up after themselves. My inability to focus on one thought or piece at a time had contributed to this state.

But, it wasn't all my fault (it never is, I'm always telling my gerbils - there is no way I could have gnawed all of that plastic on my own). The rapidly vanishing time, the rapidly decreasing dexterity in my fingers, the rapidly increasing weight of expectations to "blow people away" and "use proper punctuation" and "cut out all slurs" have all played a role as well.

How I yearn for the days gone by where huge expanses of time combined with the relative youth and naivete of 2014 as well as a diet consisting of huge amounts of insoluble fibre! Back in the days when writing was something I "did" instead of something that is "done to me". Back in the days when I could be happy with a "good" idea that was "mostly" funny and "sort of" sensical. Back in the days when boys would be boys and Tommy was just being Tommy and feedback rolled off my back (never hurts to ask for feedback to be inserted into a cylindrical tube first).

As I sat there on that fateful day and all of these thoughts crystallized in my head (note to self - think less sharp and pointy ideas next time) I discovered a resolve that I thought was unachievable. This resolve shocked me and threw me for a loop, which is not nearly as impressive as it sounds as I am almost always mid-loop.

I stood, as I had stood many times in the past (only this time how I imagined an important executive or circus clown would stand) and then I sat, as I had sat many times in the past (only this time with a certainty that the chair was real) and then I started writing, as I had written many times in the past (only this time with a verve and panache from an era gone by). 

The block was smashed to smithereens. I was back. A wry smile crossed my lips and, unlike a regular smile, I allowed it to linger for a moment. Was I ready for this? To be unleashed creativily? To be unchained (figuratively this time) mentally? To be unbelted as belts just don't go well with track pants? Yes, I was ready. I flexed my fingers, took a deep breath, and then plunged headfirst into the abyss.

So Many Ideas, So Little Time

I have lots of problems (stop nodding your head!), but thinking of things to write about just isn't one of them. Sure I will go through short periods of time where I just can't think of something witty or brazen or intelligent enough to say which is akin to having periods of time where I just find socks so unwearable and funny (you want actually want me to put those on my feet?!?!?). Everywhere I look, everything I see and every person I meet and am tempted to either tickle or high five or buy broccoli from gives me endless ideas for characters to create, plots to thicken or soapboxes to mount (a dying art).

I could just sit there in some public place, minding my own business, eating jar after jar of pickles or honing my miming skills and transcribe the actual words coming out of the mouths of the people around me (just not babes, I never take words from babes - it seems cruel, for some reason). The pieces of writing that stem from these jewels almost write themselves with the word "almost" being fairly generous and wholly inaccurate.

So yes, thinking up topics or opening lines or a funny character or a wacky scenario for a short story or a recipe for new soothing balm is the easy part. The challenge for this writer is actually finishing the story or piece itself while the fire still burns inside (completely an expression for those unsure of any experiments I may be forced to participate in with my chemist of a wife). I will have these days where ideas almost literally shoot out of me like bullets or freckles that have just had enough already.

It is almost hard to contain myself as I am stuck standing in a yoga class or sitting in traffic or paying my overdue library fines for a book that I never even opened. I must look somewhat crazed/overstimulated/in need of a heavy duty tranquilizer when my brain is full to the brim of writing thoughts that are ready to bust out and escape from the prison of my mind which, if I'm being totally honest, is more of a day spa.

Those moments, and they are plentiful, when I am unable to create the moment I am smacked upside my head with a thought are painful (you have no idea) akin to someone continually and repeatedly squeezing lemon juice into my open wound no matter how many times I say "please stop dad". I'll attempt to put the ideas on an endless loop running in my brain so that I can reproduce them when I'm able to. By the way, endless loops don't get anywhere near the amount of appreciation from the general public that they deserve. There I said it.

But then when the moment finally presents itself and I'm either able to take out my laptop or my phone or my pad of paper or my Exacto knife, and I am able to furiously type/write/engrave my new, brilliant ideas the release invariably leaves me as a puddle of emotions and sweatpants on the floor. Once the ideas are out, I do feel a small amount of remorse as my brain feels a tad empty and in need of some new furnishings like a fig tree or an antique globe that will just sit there gathering dust.

Many days I will open and start 3, 4, 5 new drafts in this blog. New post, new post, new post I continually click with a gusto that is quite cute and endearing I often tell myself. I'll start a new post, pause momentarily full of something approaching pride and then, using my unique, improvisational style of typing, I will insert a short, grammatically-weak title followed by a line or phrase or two that will help me remember the quote unquote brilliant idea that I currently have inside me, just in case I don't actually have the time/energy/artistic flair/alone time at the moment to expand upon it.

These new posts will each be created enjoying their brief time in the sun and then, then they will sit in my "drafts" list of my blog like monks in some far off monastery who believe that some head monk is going to pop in at any moment and check up on them to make sure they are "behaving properly." As each successive new post is started and each old draft disappears further and further down the list inevitably being banished to a second page and out of sight, a small part of me feels sad. I believe it's my right ear.

Why can't I finish what I start? (allergies)
What am I afraid of? (bears)
Why can't I focus on one thing and one thing only? (genetics)
 Why do I insist on asking myself series of questions instead of actually accomplishing something? (ouch)

It's just so easy to start things and, despite appearances, my intentions are good. I mean so well when I sit in front of this screen and make click clack sounds with my fingers on the keyboard as well as with my mouth to the great enjoyable of absolutely nobody who has ever heard them. When I create new posts I fully intend to finish them to the best of my ability, your honour. No part of me is just "creating to fill quotas" or "keeping busy to stay off the streets" or "avoiding doing the dishes". I would love nothing more than an extra hug, but not the limp-obviously-tortuous-for-you kind as well as to have zero drafts.

That's right you heard me or read me or read this sentence that I am typing or all of the above if you are looming over my right shoulder as per usual. I don't want to win some prize for amassing the most incomplete drafts because I am fairly certain that I created that prize in my own mind and, because of that, it is most likely not being awarded anytime soon unless I do all of the legwork. If I opened up my blog one day and saw no orange words "draft" next to any blog posts I'd be as happy as a little boy who has been given some unstructured time and permission to dedicate some of that time towards achieving happiness.

Therefore, the question still begs to be answered - why? Why create series of drafts? Why allow myself to keep creating new series of drafts when other perfectly new series of drafts already exist and they are still in their original boxes? Why don't I force myself to break out of this rut/routine/ritualistic hamster wheel like exercise that is all my own creation when I know what I know and can't unknow no matter how much milk I drink? I guess I am comfortable, or as comfortable as one could be given our family decision to lower heating bills. I am also not one to complain unless given some rewards for complaining. This method of writing is the devil I know and I go out of my way not to anger or frustrate or ruffle the feathers of that devil (yes, he/she is feathered and of an currently-undetermined gender).

And maybe, just maybe it is all part of the creative process. That's right! Maybe I must create 5 never-to-be-finished-or-even-touched-or-looked-at-again drafts in order to create one stellar (read: serviceable) piece of writing? Possibly. Maybe all of these drafts is my modern style of brainstorming where I throw things at the proverbial wall and see what sticks, which is much less expensive and time consuming to clean up than my previous methods of throwing actual things at actual walls and then having no one raise a finger to help with the clean up. Maybe I must create many many drafts that will sit there and be replaced with newer shinier models that make one want to laugh derisively at the silly old drafts whom no one in their right mind would want to touch with a ten foot pole (who owns such a pole, I've always wondered, what are the most common uses of said pole and where would you store it?). Maybe I am lost in the forest, figuratively of course.

I'll occasionally look at old drafts and wonder what was wrong with me when I thought up that idea? I'll make a face like when I go to friend's house for dinner and they are attempting to serve me overcooked cabbage or expired dairy products. Could I, someone I think is fairly funny (we share a good laugh now and then we do), have actually thought of that horrible and disgustingly boring and pedantic idea on my own? No! I must have been forced/commissioned/promised free movie tickets to create that crap. Or, it is just evidence that I continue to grow and evolve over time and become the writer I was always destined to be. Like a toddler learning to walk or a driver learning to drive or a baby bird learning to fly only to realize that "why fly?" as I can just sit here in this reasonably comfortable nest and my mother will come back and chew up my food for me.

Sometimes, late in the evening, when everyone else is asleep or mysteriously out of sight, I'll open these old drafts and read the writing within them and shake my head disappointingly at what I see. Did I actually believe those were good enough ideas to release to the hyper-critical public? Didn't I recognize the sheer level of retribution and raw-egg throwing people are capable and able to afford given the uptick in our local economy? Or was I writing out of spite in quite the same way that I exercise and select slippers?

But, if I only had more time to write the situation would be so different. I honestly believe so. Old drafts would be edited, improved and read the riot act (riot acts, by the way, are very long and are supposed to lull the listeners and intended-rioters into a trance like state where they are easily put to bed afterwards without dessert). New ideas wouldn't just sit there, but they'd be tossed to-and-fro, coddled and swaddled and bathed in a warm bath rich with Epson salts and lavender oil. If I had the time, my numbers of drafts would remain in the single digits (it's literally approaching 100 right now), thus allowing me to cut down significantly on all excessive number typing in the short term. With drafts being finished and posts being published I'd achieve my goal of being a well-oiled machine or at least a more-oiled-more-machine-like reasonable knock-off of a human.

And yet, more time isn't coming down the pike anytime soon (nothing is - should call a guy about fixing that pike sometime). Life is busy and there is just only so much time to creatively write unless I was to decide once and for all to stop attempting to groom myself. Or if I was to quit my job, bid adieu to my family and live in the hills with the mountain goats and write (I'm not sure why that is the place I always escape to in my writing-more-often fantasies, sounds cold and rocky which are my two least favourite types of real places to visit)?

But instead of worrying about finishing all the drafts or cutting back on the drafts or placing my wife's hand in a bowl of cold cereal while she is sleeping, I must focus on the positives. Instead of dwelling on what I can't do (juggle) and what I don't have (access to juggling abilities), here I am. In the flesh, covered by a thin layer of whispy hair (and clothes! Don't worry, I'm wearing lots and lots of clothes, mismatched, but fully clothed), busy, full of ideas, equipped with fingers and keys to type with those same fingers as well as keys to lock doors with. Ideas will continue to come into my brain, gather and mill about and, after a process similar to steeping or roasting or decaying, they burst out into the world for all of you to read. As my grade 3 teacher always said to me when I was about to go home "if it ain't broke, don't fix it". In hindsight, she was pretty weird.

Why Won't My Kids Just Get Along?

"She punched me!"

"Get her to stop staring at me!"

"You should give her consequences!"

"I wish I didn't have a sister!"

Once again, in the blink of an eye, yet another peaceful afternoon has dissolved into war.

I am the father of two young girls and my wife and I are so amazingly fortunate to have these two cute, funny and wonderful girls, but I'd be lying to you if I said it was cute, funny and wonderful all the time. After careful consideration, I decided not to lie to you...again.

Most of the time we have so much fun together and, as I have written in the past, I will miss these days tremendously when the girls are grown up. My two girls spend so much time together and generally get along really well. They create intricate games of make believe and could spend days on end at the beach, in the backyard or at the local park as if joined at the hip. Each other's partners in crime, they are super silly and funny together and can get so crazy and full of laughter as they cackle at something random. Or they can easily spend quiet time together like just before bed lying next to each other on the couch quietly reading without a care in the world or playing with their large stuffed animal collection or helping me prepare dinner. As I said, a huge amount of the time, they are best friends as well as sisters.

Except when they aren't.

At the drop of a hat and for no obviously good reason, they fight. One moment they are the closest of sisters and the next, they are pinching and pulling and smacking and kicking. I'll look over at them on the rug and they are playing a game and having a great time, then I'll look away and, in a heartbeat, I hear yelling and screaming and crying. And it is totally random and unpredictable much of the time too - one second, no issues and literally seconds later one is crying and the other is screaming, and both are wanting dad to punish the other.

I have spent so much time wondering and exclaiming aloud in varying degrees of frustration the age old question "Why can't you just get along?1?!"

When things are going well, it all seems so easy, eerily so. They are usually so well-mannered and caring, which elicits responses from passersby what wonderfully polite kids they are, complete with a nod towards the parents who made it all happen. When things are going well, a monkey could parent them, and not one of those well-trained monkeys either, a regular old plain one. I've been known to take a step back and give myself multiple pats on the back for yet another day of incredible parenting. Which are not to be confused with the pats on the back that I get for being a good boy. 

I love when they get along, but those times also have a slightly-unsettled, calm-before-the-storm feel to them. I'm often reminded of what a fellow teacher told me in my first week of teaching all those years ago after I complained about the challenging behaviours in one of my classes - "if your classes were all easy all the time, they wouldn't pay you". To which I replied "we are getting paid?" I was so naive in my youth.

As much as I like to believe that my dream of us spending all of our time dancing together with flower crowns of posies in our hair, surrounded by birds chirping, harps playing, bunnies hoping and plentiful free high-quality sushi, I know that just isn't real. It's probably impossible for any number of people, no matter how much they adore and love each other to get along all the time. Especially when those people spend disproportionate amount of time voluntarily confined in a relatively small roofed shelter. I blame our roof for lots of stuff. 

We could be easily confused for the most loving, caring family in the world, especially if the viewer is easily confused at the best of times. Until something goes wrong, someone is tired or somebody decides to bother the other as a form of sport or leisure activity or way to pass the time until dinner is served. Now, we all have our bad days, our overly sensitive moments, and our fleeting thoughts of running away to join the circus (do people still do this, and if so, approximately how much running is involved?). 

We have all spent considerable time and therapy hours wondering how we got here - trapped in a small townhouse with a large mortgage surrounded by crazy animals and Barbies. We have all had those moments where we miss our single days with huge expanses of free time where the toughest decisions revolved around how much chocolate should one unshaven man in his 20s consume while watching hours of basketball in his underwear or if I should go to the gym before meeting my friend for coffee or after seeing a matinee. 

Don't get me wrong (unless it brings you pleasure), I love having kids - I often tell people, a bit too aggressively at times, that fathering my children is easily the best thing I've ever done, even if I don't totally understand the intricacies of the science behind it (I feel the same way about wireless printers). It's just that when you have a headache and the kids are attempting to bounce each other off the walls against their will like some sort of game of European Handball and you have to rush to prepare a dinner that neither will eat when all you want to do is hide inside the linen closet, I sort of long for a simpler existence. 

And, if I allow myself a moment of selfishness (each Thursday between 4:00 and 4:15pm, to be precise), haven't we parents earned plenty of stress-free weekday mornings, peaceful afternoons and easy bedtime routines? Yes, we have! In our day, we changed hundreds of absolutely disgusting diapers; we treated dozens of a-little-too-much-information rashes on nether regions; we have cooked meal after meal after meal when all we wanted to do was curl up in a fetal position in the corner of the laundry room (it's a great back stretch). And do we get thanks for all of this? Yes, if you consider the girls pulling each other's hair, occasionally wishing for a different set of parents and piercing each other's skin count with an ever-growing list of objects (they do in my books).

Or maybe it's all our fault (stop nodding your head!). Nobody trained us to be parents. It's not like we had any special qualifications or degrees to prepare us for all of this. I still remember returning home from the hospital with our first born and looking everywhere for an owner's manual. Sure we read books (or more accurately, skimmed through books to look at the pictures  -so that is what a C-section is!?!?), did Google image searches (it's research, sicko!) and hung around other parents at the playground who looked like they knew what they were doing all the while attempting to not appear too creepy. But in the end, we just figured it out, worked hard and did our best (I recently decided to get a t-shirt made saying "I'm doing my best!" in large letters). But seriously, I believe we've done a good job, but then again, that could just be a result of years of brainwashing - thanks mom!

But we are trying to pull off something quite challenging - spending a lot of time together as a family in this day and age of smart phones, YouTube and Netflix. It would almost definitely lessen the strife and stress and in-fighting if we interacted for only a few minutes a day. But, like war heroes, we parents are constantly having our family do things together and we are literally in each other's faces all the time, in the most positive way possible. Both my wife and I come from families that believed in regularly scheduled and regimented family time - eating pancake breakfasts together, playing games together and shopping for discount sporting goods together. Like many of you, I spent hours as a teen dreaming of future family dinners full of laughter, witty retorts and tofurky. I never thought I'd be a dad compelled to write blog posts about my kids not getting along. That would have been a very precise, odd and ahead-of-one's-time thought to have back in 1987.

Maybe the sheer amount of time the girls are "forced" to be with each other naturally produces some meltdowns? Possibly it is like we are trying to operate a nuclear power plant and no matter how adept my wife and I are at running the power plant (I took notes!), as we all know, there are bound to be horrible, horrible environmental disasters. Maybe brutal sibling conflict is just unavoidable, and instead of trying to avoid it as we have been (again, remember, no parenting training at all) we should embrace it in all of its loud, screaming glory? Instead of getting frustrated and raising one's voice with demonic anger and becoming a part of the problem, I should sit back, relax and light a cigar and enjoy the extra musky masculinity juxtaposed with the youthful cries for help.

Another truth in all of this, is that we are often toughest on those we love. For example, I am a strict taskmaster with all of my cousins. No one gets off easy. The girls are always well behaved at school and we receive glowing reports of how helpful, lovely and nice they are when not around us. I want to reply to the teachers "what have you been smoking?", but then I remember that I really don't need to know the answer to that question anyhow. Many of us operate with the mindset that our loved ones will always love us unconditionally no matter how crappy we treat each other. I blame Adam and Eve for this misconception (I blame them for everything). We also know that we can't treat friends and acquaintances and Social Studies teachers the same way. So, when we leave the house, we put on a happy face, draw pages of happy faces to show our teacher/boss/parole officer or just "pretend" to like everyone. And then after a long, exhausting, full day of "acting" nice to everyone, we let it all out at home.

My wife and I were initially quite worried that they would act towards others as they did with one another, but, aside from a few tough days, they have always been able to be civil in public and reserve their emotional moments for mom and dad to deal with. Now, I'm not suggesting this is totally a conscious decision, because that would require a whole lot more consciousness then our family is currently capable of. Mornings and evenings are the worst times for the two girls as far as getting along with each other is concerned because that is when they are the most tired, and when the most tired, the least good at biting their tongue or turning the other cheek or some sort of expression involving one's elbows. Not that I love this, but I'd much rather them be difficult with each other around me and easy for all other adults and kids, because it is contained and, when necessary, I can just hose them off (when I finally get that fire engine hose installed in our backyard). 

Due to my wife changing careers and my always having summers off, the three of us - myself and my kids - have spent a lot of time together - getting ready for school in the mornings, at dinner and bedtimes and throughout weekends and school breaks. I drive them to dance classes, practice squash and piano with them and spend hours on the floor playing games. I'm teaching them how to cook, helping them with homework and have been reading them bedtime stories since they were babies. So, having spent so much time with the two of them, I can see that each possesses an intricate knowledge of each other's weaknesses. They know each other's sensitivities inside out; the buttons to press, the feathers to ruffle, the chalkboards to scratch with their nails. As close-knit sisters it's as if they each have a Ph.D in the other's emotional states, detailed blueprints of the weaknesses in their defense strategies as well as having the code to access the nuclear missiles needed to start World War 3.

But, even though the know each other as well as any two people could, and though they can get to the other in ways no one else can, they absolutely love each other. So, back to my original question, why can't they just get along? Why must they sprinkle in these seemingly random annoying moments of vindictive knit-pickiness? Why can't they remember, just when they are about to hit, bug, annoy, ruin, scratch, rip, hurt, break something the other cares about or owns, that this is their only sister in the world whom they were just laughing and playing with? My wife and I have pondered these questions for hours, with no great answers. We've learned over time some strategies for mitigating the disasters and how to apply timely and meaningful consequences that have an impact. We've also discovered the wonders of purchasing large vats of industrial strength glue. Don't ask.

One hope I have is that they are always close and are always friends. It means a lot to me and I believe that it will happen. And there is some progress, if one looks closely enough and chooses to ignore other details. As the kids age, that they are slightly more receptive to advice and teaching and figuring out more proactive ways to cope when the other starts frustrating them. Not that it is easy. Just as I started writing this, the younger kid decided to would be funny to break the Lego house of the older one without asking, so the older one decided to scribble all over a beautiful drawing the younger one spent a lot of time on. And they both ran to mom crying.

I'll miss this one day, right?