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Thankful For Knowing Jane

Bowling balls of the most obnoxious colours, were thunderously slammed onto the lane. The unskilled players waited impatiently as the balls rolled at a snails pace and then gently kissed the pins. Feet kicked in the air, high-fives were dolled out and then the fight began over who was going to use the 16 pound yellow neon ball flecked with glitter.

It was Andrew’s birthday party, a kid who has played hockey with Chunky since they were scared tykes lying on their backs for the entirety of their very first hockey practice. Every year, every sport, they have played on the same team along with Jack, Sam, and Thomas.

Hell hides when these kids get together.

Us moms sat at a far distance from the chaos leaving the dads to deal with the sugared up monsters. We talked about everything and anything just like we normally do; the hockey mom life, strangling the kids, wine. Then someone had said her name and we quickly became silent. It took me out of my body and I suddenly became oblivious to what was going on around me. It’s like taking your hands and putting them over your ears, muffling the noise in the bowling alley.


Jane was 39 years old when she passed away a few weeks ago.

Jane and I met when we caught our sons giving each other crotch shots with their hockey sticks. They were testing their efficacy they claimed. You get to know a lot about a person when your kids are devious assholes on the ice and out of their mom’s reach. Actually, all of our kids are.


They, and us moms, make quite the team.

Hockey Mom Row

I have been thinking of Jane a lot. In the middle of the day, she comes to mind quite naturally while I’m washing the floors or sitting with a tea. I hear her laugh and her voice, so distinct from anyone else I know. She wore boots that I envied. Her stupid love of the Red Wings.

I think of her when Shawn kisses me good-bye in the morning.

Waking up in the “little bit-it of the night time when dad goes to work” (a.k.a kid wants to get up at 5:45 am and he does)

Sharing his excitement over a loose tooth.

Yelling at him for being a diva and taking far too long to pick what he wants to wear for the day.


“You’re pretty today,” he tells me when I drop him off at school.

Getting annoyed that Shawn leaves his boxers in the bathroom and his toothbrush on the sink.

Having lunch with him even though it’s only for ten minutes.


A ton of pointless texts from my mom.

Picking up Chunky from school and hearing about the day in the life of a six year old.

Sitting at the table for dinner and yelling at each other over slurping, homework, why football is on Monday nights too.

In the arena with Jane’s husband and Shawn, watching Chunky and Thomas hitting each other with their hockey sticks.


I don’t hear her laugh anymore nor her cheers when he skates as hard as his little legs can.

I don’t hear her but I think of her.


Even though it was for three short years, I am thankful for knowing her.


But I hate that she liked the Red Wings and she fucking knows that.


*All names changed


Still refusing to make a code for the link up: http://summat2thinkon.wordpress.com/2014/10/24/ten-things-of-thankful-71/

Slipping Through My Hands

Mother Nature wastes no time changing, her work never seizing. Each morning a freshly painted canvas awaits us when we step outside our door. The flaming reds, glowing yellows, and rusty brown leaves cling to their end of days on trees that overhang our street. Gracefully they fell, swirling in the passing winds and landing before my son. He dragged his feet through the piles that had collected overnight.


A car approached us from behind and instinctively I reached for his hand. As it safely passed, Chunky wriggled out of my grip and carried on with the important task of cleaning the streets with his shoes.

“Momma, are you going to stay with Mrs. Amy and Mrs. Christine and watch us at the fence today?” he asked referring to school drop off.

“Why? Do you want me to?”

“No. You can go home. You can go and work on the magazine stuff and have all of that time!”

“You don’t want me there?”

“It’s ok honey bunny,” he joked, “I’m I big kid and I know what to do if I am not ok.”

“Are you sure that you don’t want me to stay?”

“Will you be mad at me? I still love you to the moon and back!” he praised as he rubbed the side of my arm.

I looked down at him, “Ok big boy. I will leave.”

He adjusted his hat with the flat bill to point it to the right and unzipped his fall jacket. He looked at me predicting my stare of disproval, but I let it slide. “If you get pneumonia, it’s because you’re a stubborn big kid now.”  His smile produced the most adorable dimples that are oddly more prominent now than when they were when he was just a plump squishy babe. And like a rabbit set free from a cage, he leapt the rest of the way to school.

Without holding my hand.


Just a few weeks ago, I was putting on his socks and adjusting them so the “bally parts” didn’t poke out on the side and buttoning up his jeans. He makes his own cereal and makes his own chocolate milk with far too much syrup than I’d like. He sounds out words to write them down. Big words like little and fart.

Oh my God, of all the things I’ve been robbed of this year.

My illness makes it seem like the world has been standing still, waiting for me to recover,  while this entire time it has actually been slipping through my hands.

He’s been slipping through my hands while my eyes have been wide open but my presence vacant.

My son, blessedly healthy, wastes no time changing. But each episode, he awaits me as I step outside of the depressive fog.

Every day, I think that I’m losing purpose here, then I see him, skipping amongst the flaming reds, glowing yellows, and rusty brown leaves on the street; looking back at me with an outstretched hand as a car approaches.





Mama’s Losin’ It

The Person Behind The Make-Up

The make-up is sliding off of my face, I thought as I inspected my melancholic features. I spilled a small amount of foundation that didn’t match my wasted skin tone, onto a sponge and then smoothed it on my face. I stood back and couldn’t recognize that woman in the mirror whose shoulders rolled forward under the weight of something that could not be measured on a scale. Her spirit looked dull, even under the bright bathroom lights.

“Where are you?” I whispered to her.

He called out to me and broke my stare. “I’m coming!” I shouted as I smoothed down the flyaway hairs on the top of my head.

I walked him to school, walked home from school, cleaned the bathrooms, made beds and then I chopped apples with a sharp knife.

I stood there for a short while, transfixed at my fingers gripping the half of a cut apple and the other hand with the knife.

What if I…

Horrified, I hid the knife under the plates in the sink and ran to the bathroom where I nestled myself in a corner.

Just thoughts.

Just thoughts.

Just thoughts, I muttered in my mind, willing the image of what I could do out of my mind.

When my breathing slowed and the thoughts dissipated, I picked up my head from in between my legs. I smudged my mascara as I wiped the tears off of my cheeks, staining my fingers a dark black. I stood up and turned the faucet on. I splashed cold water in my face and caught my reflection in the mirror.

The make-up is sliding off of my face, I thought, Don’t let them see how much of a morbid monster you are on the inside.

I opened the drawer and pulled out the bottle. I shook the foundation and spilled a small amount onto a sponge. I gently smoothed it over my melancholic features.

“Where are you?” I asked the woman.


I don’t think that I’ve ever written about my intrusive thoughts of self harm here because I am afraid of them and their morbid nature and am afraid of what you will all think of me. This post has been in drafts for a long while and I felt compelled to post it this morning. I think it’s because I need someone out there who is dealing or has dealt with the same. If so, throw me a bone.

I don’t understand these sorts of horrific thoughts that are “common” but you can read about them here.


This is sort of morbid so I’m going to leave you with this:


Annnnd this just made the post more awkward.

Annnnd this just made the post more awkward.

Turn The Lights Way Down Low | Netflix #StreamTeam Does Halloween



That’s the boy child dressed as his favourite cartoon Scooby-Doo.

Because he was so adorable, I made him pose for an obscene amount of photos like this one:


And this:

scooby and scrappy

Wait this one too:

mystery inc scared

And then he got tired and looked like this:

scooby hates ghosts

Surprisingly, he is still a fan of the brown four legged eating machine.

This month, our boy was excited to see that Scooby-Doo was on the list of Netflix’s Halloween releases. Along with Scooby-Doo, you’ll find titles like these for the big kids:


1. Scooby-Doo!: Mystery Incorporated 
2. House of Anubis

3. Black Hole High
4. Spy Kids: All The Time in the World

And for the wee ones:



4. I Spy

So break out the old costumes, crowd around the T.V with a hot bowl of popcorn, turn the lights down way, way, low, and watch these Halloween classics with your kids.

What are your kids dressing up as?

Are they dressing up as their favourite movie/show character?

Disclosure:  I am a member of the Netflix #StreamTeam and received a one-year subscription to Netflix and a Roku media streaming device in return for posting Netflix updates and reviews, however, all opinions are my own.

Trouble With The Meds

Drinking and mental illness go together like old people and Swiss Chalet. It’s true. I have a raging case of depression and I drank half of a bottle of birthday cake vodka in four weeks. I didn’t think that it was a problem until I realized that it is not normal to celebrate the day my mom shot me out of her vagina like a cannon ball for that long. In my defense, there have  been other birthdays that I have celebrated this month, like the random “I don’t really know why I accepted your friend request on Facebook because I have no idea who you are Jimmmm Something Something but happy birthday you son of a bitch.”

Life tastes good with cake and life is made better with booze.

It’s only natural to marry the two in my mouth at the same time.

*Said your mom*

The trouble with medications for depression is this: they can take weeks, I’m talking 4 to 6 weeks, for them to work at their full potential. Do you know what that’s like for someone who is in death’s grip? It is excruciating. Some days I feel like lying down and giving up on life after an hour of being awake so living like that for an entire month, wordswordswordswords.

I know that drinking isn’t the cure for depression and in fact it does make it worse in the long run. Sometimes, however, you just need that extra hug to help get you through.



I’m not saying that I drink until I can’t feel feelings every day, I just do when the bottle is within my reach.


It’s only here and there  just like anyone who has had a bad day at work every single day of the week.


All jokes aside, I’m afraid of this place in my head; that constant negative feedback keeps picking at me and my thoughts are now shifting in a direction that I don’t want them to go. They are settling in comfortably and making my body feel as though it is weighed heavily on the ground. It’s like gravity was all, “F*ck it. You’re now a cinderblock.” No one wants to feel like a cinderblock.

While I feel hell’s heat at my back and wrapping around my throat, there is nothing wrong with what is in front of me; hope in new days.

When I lose hope, someone better f*cking come pick me up.

These were new days that I am thankful of experiencing:

Pumpkin picking

Pumpkin picking


Apple Picking

Apple Picking

This book is happening....

This book is happening….


Thanksgiving card Chunky made. "Dad and me are playing baseball with Champ. You (me) are sitting in the chair watching because you have a crippled back"

Thanksgiving card Chunky made. “Dad and me are playing baseball with Champ. You (me) are sitting in the chair watching because you have a crippled back”

Thanksgiving with my siblings who are the Lithium to my crazy

Thanksgiving with my siblings who are the Lithium to my crazy


Chunky was one of a few six year olds to try out for the hockey travel team. I was so proud of how hard he worked next to 7 and 8 year olds.

Chunky was one of a few six year olds to try out for the hockey travel team. I was so proud of how hard he worked next to 7 and 8 year olds.


He's bad ass

He’s bad ass

cups that tell you what you need to do

cups that tell you what you need to do

And there's always this

And there’s always this

Do me a favour this week…

…call that friend who needs a smile.



As always, the button never effing works. Join here: http://summat2thinkon.wordpress.com/2014/10/17/ten-things-of-thankful-70/

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