Raising douchers

So I did not post on the weekend.  Sue me.  Sorry for being so belligerent, but seriously, I need to manage some expectations.  But Jason you protest, we are only going on what you promised.  And a promise is a promise.  Well, love means never having to say you’re sorry.

Oh hey 1,112 page views since I started, thanks.

Brief weekend summary.  Big drive to Niagara-on-the-Lake to spend the night at Fort George, a British military post that served as the backdrop for one of Canada’s defining moments in its shaping of a country during the War of 1812.  I was there with 30 six, seven, eight, nine and 10 year old boys and a handful of parents as part of Cub Scout exercise.  Was it fun?  It was interesting, re-learning some of the historical nuggets I soaked in before pushing them out with hot knives and bt’s when I was teenager.

The best part obviously was sharing the moments with the Hud, who remains as beautiful and pensive and wide-eyed as ever.  And if there is one thing you can do to truly appreciate your own child (unless that child is Damien, son of satan) is to spend 24 hours with other kids.  Connecting the dots from any current adult douche bag I know to previous child idiot is pretty easy as the narcissistic, entitled, whiny, braggarts that ran amok through the green fields of Fort George will easily evolve into (likely, sadly, successful) jerks in their adult life.  They push through lines, claim every accolade as their own, boss other, more feckless kids around, and fall asleep easily awash in their own giant sense of self.  Get the Hummers and Escalade salespeople ready.

Hudson, who sits dreamily in afternoon sunlight trying to find the perfect thick blade of grass to put between his thumbs to create a horn is mildly enamoured by these mini-DB’s.  He also does not fully understand my vehemently steering him away from them.  I stood my ground this weekend and he eventually grooved towards some of the nicer boys, with their cowlicks and Velcro shoes.  Even if there was a velour v-necked and brown corded boy playing imaginary Lego during the musket demonstration, I would have preferred Hud join him instead of the boys comparing their…..Ipods.

Sunday morning, time change, and after a night of one kid coughing brown and green phlegm on me all night and the other three kids who woke me up to take them to the bathroom (backlash from choosing the bunk closest to the head), Hud and I bolted at 6am and drove home stuffed with Tim Horton’s chocolate milk and scrambled egg and bacon wraps. We arrived at home, got out of the car, hugged and thanked each other for being exactly who we are.

The remainder of the day was spent helping Hud prepare for his first big presentation of the year.  The Wetlands project.  We had a presentation board, a diorama, a video and a salamander specimen to organize and while a little spotty, I did my best to let Hud drive the agenda without me trying to over communicate to him.  Which is a bit difficult considering what I do for a living.  S. and I vowed not to take this over as with her art direction skills and my communication background, this thing could have won awards (ok grade four awards, but still, oh shut up).   He drove the bus and did the presentation seven times, each time getting better and better.  He was nervous, but hell who doesn’t get nervous presenting presenting to 25 sneering peers? For his snack I gave him some homemade banana bread, a granola bar, a pear, some potato chips and a xanax, so he should be ok.

Ok sports fans – got some good feedback and questionable eyebrows from the last entry – so remember, this is fiction and it gets juicer so stay tuned:

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Laura used to think it was sweet, the sound of Tim’s gold wedding band tapping the headboard in the middle of the night. It was accidental, but a lovely reminder of their marriage. Over the years, as his sleep became more inconsistent, he became a pillow flipper, a head sweater, with the occasional sighs and often grunts of a man trying to find his way back to sleep. His ring would make contact at least four times a night, never scratching as there were no real edges, mostly just a strong tap – one hard substance against one more pliant – startling her awake and intermittently jarring her from her own much needed sleep.

Asking him to remove the ring was a sentence she could not utter without some eyebrow movement, a planted seed that would jolt him aware at some random moment while driving or taking out the trash.  That bitch he would think later, carefully preparing how to confront her with the puzzle pieces now in place.  She was paranoid of course, but not an odd character trait for someone screwing around on their husband.

Looking around, waiting for the inevitable third ring tap, her eyes adjusted to the darkness of their bedroom.  It was so snide in its comfort, all billowy and welcoming, everything soft and so normal. Vanilla candle here, silver framed picture of their three-year old girl Tatum there, cover to the wicker laundry hamper askew, black sock missing its mark on the hardwood floor next to it. Dust bunnies crouched and cuddled in the corner.

Just thinking that in the pocket of his once white bathrobe – the one hanging on the back of the bedroom door – is his bloodstained dental floss, turns her tender stomach.  And she knows it’s there. She is 100 per cent sure. The tiny, coiled, pink snake of floss festering there in its terry cloth cave; gathering time, drying to dust.