three years ago today

Three years ago today, at 2:02am Briar was born.

Labour had been short and mellow. Jeff and I had gone for walks up and down our road, talking to neighbours along the way. We had gardened and watched a movie (Walk the Line). Jeff had slept beside me while I rested between contractions.

When they were five minutes apart, he insisted that we go to the hospital event though I didn`t feel that it was necessary yet. I immediately got in the shower at the hospital. The water was cold and the jet was flimsy and intermittent. I was entering transition and didn`t have the energy or ability to change the temperature myself. I hated the nurse at that moment....I've often thought of donating a more competent shower head since then....

Suddenly, I got the urge. I actually thought (just like in movies) that I had to use the toilet. Jeff and a nurse half dragged me, half supported my noodle-like legs over to the bed. I was annoyed that Jeff didn`t just carry me....His failure to do so had nothing to do with my enormous, unwieldy pregnant body. ;)

Up on the table, Briar was coming and there was no stopping it. The doctor was telling me to not push. The nurses were asking me to relax my legs. I told each of them where to go and the speed at which to get there.

Within seconds, there was Briar. Jeff cut the cord. They whisked Briar`s little red and wrinkly body away to check him out. He didn`t cry, just looked around. Jeff always claimed that they gave him a smack to get a cry out of him. I missed that. I probably would have lost it on them. He squawked briefly and then settled back into his mellow observation of this new world around him.

After he was handed back, Jeff and I cuddled and inspected our new little family member. We named him Cole.

As the nurses tidied up, Jeff got ready to head home for some sleep and I apologized to everyone profusely for some of the language that I had chosen as approriate for conversing with medical staff during the climax of Briar`s birth.

Jeff left, leaving me to be wheeled by a nurse to our room. As Briar and I rode down the hall, I stared at my little man listing off all the words that rhyme with Cole....bowl, mole, foal, roll, hole, pole....

In the morning, when Jeff arrived to pick us up, I announced to him, Ì hope you haven`t phoned anyone yet. Our baby can`t be named Cole. It rhymes with too many other...words and he just doesn`t fit the name.` Jeff suggested Briar and there and then, our little man had his real name. Although, when Liv arrived, she INSISTED that his name was `Prince Charming`and continued to call him by this moniker for some time....

Welcome to the world, Cole Briar Prince Charming! You are loved so very, very much, my little man!

return

The loss of my love has changed me. My thoughts, feelings, judgements, security and confidence have all shifted. I had thought the damage imposed by this sudden and terrible event would be permanent....In fact, I had even hoped some of it would be permanent.
I enjoyed being driven completely by gut. There was no muss and fuss worrying what others would do, think or say. I was pure instinct. I kept my head down and ran. Now, as the raw newness of my new life brushes away, I find old worries seeping back in.
I realize that to the outside world, I was still 'Jackie'. The same Jackie they had known for ages....Just broken slightly. Like a rake with one missing tine. Still a rake, just slightly impaired.
Looking out through these eyes, the world looked different and skewed - both terrifyingly awful and wonderfully beautiful.
Initially, I was aghast to see just how superficial the world and its' occupants indeed were. It was something that I had suspected and had commented on, but after losing Jeff, I was shocked at the degree with which the world...sucked.
Now, I find myself returning to the world of the fake and superficial. Self-tanners, leg waxing and other stupid crap dot my blog. Worry about traffic, other's opinions, and spilled dirt from caterpillar houses on the floor in life.
I suppose that the return of this ephemeral existence means that life is returning to some form of 'normalcy' and that the trauma is not so acute. I guess that it means that I am 'living' again.
But it also means that I am farther away from him. It means that stupid inconsequential crap is seeping back into everyday life....and that the 'truth and meaning' that I found in the vacuum of Jeff's presence is sifting through my hands.
I am sure that I will always hold onto some of the insight that the loss of my love has afforded me. That the 'blessing' of loss will remain with me always. But it will be diffused and softened....Or maybe, I just need to nurture the thoughts and wisdom that were given to me in the wake of it all. Maybe I can practise and maintain some of the positives that I learned. Maybe I am not losing them at all....maybe they are inside me, I just need to draw on these gifts and use them.
I do hope that some of the changes within me remain. That I can hold onto them and ensure that life has more meaning that it did before. That I continue to clearly realize what a blessing the life that I have and the life that I get to share with others truly is.

our 'wordless wednesday'

imperfectly imperfect

I have a huge nose. Although it was once a real source of 'pain' and embarassment, it now does not cause me to 'shade' the tip in an attempt to conceal the actual length or to ensure that I hold my head downturned slightly in photos in the hopes that I don't go down in history with my grandchildren remarking how cavernous my nostrils were. In fact, I found it wonderfully hilarious recently and loved the fodder for a giggle when a stranger commented that my sister and I had noses that 'any man would be proud of' (you know, big nose = big ....male parts).

In my generous and most comfortable times, I firmly believe that everyone is beautiful....Sometimes, it isn't blatantly apparent. And sometimes, that beauty is completely unconventional. But it is beauty. I feel wonder that our bodies work. Amazement that we are alive. Joy in the way science and whatever is 'out there' works and how we interact. I can feel that what you 'look' like doesn't matter. That what you wear is inconsequential unless it is causing you physical discomfort (too cold, too hot, too itchy...).

But in there lies the problem. I am fine that someone else looks different. I can notice these difference acutely, but it is just an observation.....Until it is me. When it is me, I hate to stand out. And when I stand out, I am talking about the near nuclear glow of my doughy, blue hued, transluscent, thoroughly veined skin. I try to be okay with the freckles that dot every visible piece of exposed skin. I joke that I look tanned when 'all my freckles connect'. I try to think of my skin as 'porcelain' or 'peaches and cream'. Really, it's just DAMN WHITE.

So, in an attempt to lose some of the glow-in-the-dark properties that my skin possesses, I bought sunless tanner. I was torn. Really torn about showing my daughter that I am completely comfortable with what I look like. I want her to be proud of what her body unfolds to look like and not feel pressure to change it. I HATE, despise and loathe to think what chemicals lurk in this bottle of orange-ish brown skin dye. I am embarassed to think that my vanity is contributing to pollution by way of causing a demand for these admittedly strange products. Horror that I have bought into the media's homogenized version of the colour that skin 'should' be.

But here I sit, now typing away with my false sunkissed glow complete with streaks and handprints of brown. I feel sullied and deserving of the snickers that my mottled obviously fake tanned skin have afforded me. I realize that my decision to paint myself 'tanned' makes me a hypocrite....a very orange hypocrite. But really, if you judge me, it may just be because you possess that lovely olive sun-kissed glow that us grossly blue-white hued people long for. If you were ghostly, like me, you'd get it...Right? *giggle*

behind the scenes

I've just listed two more dresses on Etsy.
As I was scrolling through the photos of each dress, surveying which photo should be included in the listing, I was laughing at some of the photos that were taken. Liv always allows me to take a batch of 'good pictures' and then hams it up for the 'silly ones'. Sometimes these 'silly ones' become some of my favourite photos of my kiddos. Spontaneous and so full of their little personalities, their whole being shines through! Liv and her larger than life personality. Briar and his sauntering silliness.

What you see in the listings is this...

What you miss is this....


What you see....

What you miss....

non-melting children

I must admit that when it rains here, we all head indoors. At Liv's 'farmschool', they often end up outside feeding critters or stomping in mud muddles for a time in the rain. I would love this for my kiddos. I am able to provide this. I just don't.
I remember enjoying staying outside in a good rain when I was a kid and not feeling like I was hard up for being wet. It was an adventure.
My sister mentioned an outdoor preschool she had heard about on CBC. I have to admit that if we had the means or were in a location to send my kids there, we would be headed of on some mornings to this seemingly Utopian preschool.
Since I can't allow some other adult to brave the elements with my children (I don't enjoy it as much as I used to - Sissy, I am.), I am going to attempt to do this for my kids and my charges. We'll enjoy our romps outdoors, splash in the puddles and come in for a snack. No more ducking and covering when the clouds start to spit! I am all for all-weather children!!!!

acceptance

Remember recently, when I wrote that Freckles was off his meds, hadn't done any undesirable antics in ages and was back a pretty good dog? Let's just say, he's back on the little white pills....I've decided that I have to accept that he will most likely be on this medication for a good long time (and by a 'good long time', I mean FOREVER!) I can't handle the destruction of curtains, baby gates, and door trim with a sprinkling of feces to top it off when we leave the house. It still just boggles my mind that he never, ever had separation anxiety issues before Jeff or Eli died. I keep expecting him to 'get over it' (a phrase that I loathe myself).
I have to accept him as he is. Silly. Soft and fluffy. Great with kids. Crappy with chickens. Lovable and friendly. He's him. He is coping with loss as best he can...just as all of us are too. The only difference is that he is a dog and can't swear or cry or talk out his issues.
So, Freckles, I am cutting you some slack. You'll be on your meds till the end of time, but I will love you anyhow. Silly dog.

maniac mama (aka Going to Shit in a hand basket)

I overheard some young women talking the other day about another woman who had chosen to stay home after having her first child because she just wanted to 'sit back and be lazy'. They felt sorry for her husband having to work to support their little family financially.
As the hair bristled on the back of my neck, I tried, really, really hard to see it from their child-free point of view. I tried to imagine how it must look to the outside world as you 'let yourself go' and schlep around in your clothes from yesterday soaked in infant urine and caked with toddler snot. Life on this side of the fence must look like a walk in the park as we seem to be clad in slippers and mentioning a need for 'a nap' so very often.
What is unseen, either for the use of a better bitch session on the part of the non-child people, or just out of naivety, is the hands in constant motion, trying to get a semi-healthy dinner on the table, hang a bulletin board which causes a chain reaction of chaos involving a falling shelf, snow globes and aquarium and lots of water, switch the laundry, hang a load on the line only to realize that the load had not agitated, just soaked and now must be returned to the already reloaded full washing machine AGAIN, kissing crying little ones who are offering their noodle caked tongue as the offending body part in need of a kiss, answering phonecalls from doctors offices while using one shoulder as an extra appendage, handing out gluesticks for craft projects involving the hard noodles that caused the tongue crisis, nodding your head to your eldest when they request a third popsicle just to keep them quiet while attempting to write the newest doctor's appointment on the calendar with the phone still firmly snuggled into your shoulder, trying to listen to AND remember the nurse's instructions, one hand full of dried out felts that you are fervently smearing on the paper hoping to make some legible marks before she gets too far ahead, all while the smallest one is still screaming in your ear that their tongue is bleeding and it needs another kiss. The eggs starts burning, the smoke detector goes off and you are about to lose it. You put the kid down, hand him a popsicle whether he wants it or not, grab the smoke detector after climbing onto a rickety chair with your extralarge sized 'letting -it-go' body, open the backdoor, hurl it across the lawn, bare your teeth at the kids daring them to say anything to you, still with the bloody phone gripped under your left ear, nurse still babbling on about blood tests and the need to fast for twelve hours before hand. The littlest one escapes to the back deck, finds a basket and for some unknown reason takes a shit in it. You suddenly have had enough. You tell the nurse that there is an emergency and you need to hang up. You chuck the phone, turn off the burner, and sprint to the bathroom, slam the door and holler words that you wouldn't say in front of your grandmother. Yes, I say the 'f' word when my kids can hear it. It's not something that I would suggest another parent do in order to calm down, but it helps me to decompress...quickly. I lose my temper. I sometimes scream. I attempt to sleep only to be awoken by someone wanting to tell me that goldfish sleep with their eyes open and isn't that great. Then I lose my cool again and growl that I don't care. I fall back to sleep only to be nudged awake because someone has wet their bed and wants my side of my bed...not the other side. Soon both kids have their elbows embedded my nostrils. They are snoring. I am wide awake thinking of all the things I forgot to do, should have done and wish I had said instead of the bloody 'f' word. I am exhausted but can't help staying up when I am so able to beat myself up and when someone has crawled up onto my head to slumber. Soon I move to the pee covered bed and try again to sleep. As I doze off finally, I hear an angry accusing voice shout, "Hey! Where did you go!!!???" Now in a tidal wave of little bodies, I am covered in both urine and children. I fall asleep for the last two hours of the night to be woken by screams as one of the kids has more granola than the other and the injustice of it all is about to kill them. I lurch out of bed, pour the milk for them, climb in the shower, wash my hair, get joined by two little ones in search of hot water, run them a bath, get dressed, eat the remainder of their breakfast, and start the fucking day again. I'm not a great mom. I am a normal mom. I am a tired mom. And this is NO BLOODY HOLIDAY. It is peppered with some really amazing and wonderful moments that make it all completely (sometimes I won't agree with this statement, but...) worth it. But so many days are like this. Busy, crazy, overwhelming, tiring and...crappy. But it is NOT RELAXING. It is NOT EASY. .
But still, I do love being my kid's mom. And, no, I wouldn't trade my life with these two little ones for anything.

up and down and all around

When someone asks me casually, "How are you?" I often feel that I am being honest when I say "fine", "okay" or even "good". The truth is that many times, I don't give it much thought, not even out of negligence, but out of a need to cope. I am doing SO much better than I was a year ago. Somedays, I think I'm a bloody master of grief. But I am always, always too cocky for my own good.
The waves of grief and shock still smack me upside the head unexpectedly. I am always surprised when I am forced to my knees by sadness again. I am always missing him. I am always aware that he is gone. That I will never feel his love again. That I have lost him forever. It's always there in the background, running like the far-off sound of the fridge in the kitchen. But now, I am getting somewhat better at muffling it. So when that 'appliance noise' gets loud again and drowns out everything else, I've always put my ear plugs away and am left reeling with surprise when the caucophenous noise erupts within my patchwork heart.
Why am I surprised that it is hitting me again?
I have told others how I think that these waves are our way of coping with grief. We can't take it in full-force. We need small sips or the strength of it will destroy us. Like a horrible tasting medication that you loathe, it is necessary to heal. But, I always wonder if I've taken my last dose. That I am 'better'. That maybe I can be whole now. I'll have to keep reminding myself that this medication needs to be administered again and again until I no longer need it...So I must need it now. I must relish that this pain and sadness is in someway healing this broken heart. I can't turn my head away. I have to take it or I will become even more ill.
I have a sneaky suspicion that this medication is now a lifetime prescription, but at least it doesn't need to be administered as often as it was initially. Right?

story of stuff

I need to start watching this before I leave the house....This is also the dilemma I have with buying a new bike when we have a pink one downstairs unused. Ah!

what now?

God, I miss you. Losing you still breaks my heart constantly. Will the hurt found in these pits ever stop being so sharp? Will it one day be a dull ache instead of this all-encompassing stabbing sensation? Will I ever stop having this sudden and unexpected sensations of shock that you are, indeed, gone? Will I ever be able to put away your toothbrush? Wash your final load of laundry? Open your dresser drawers or fish bag without being doubled over with sorrow? Will I ever look at photos of us and not have these completely irrational feelings of jealousy for my former self and the time I got to spend with you? Will my inability to save you or my 'surviving' losing you ever stop filling me with guilt?
I need you so badly. I need to know that it's okay. That it is all going to be okay. I need to tell you that 'I love you'. That I want you. I want you back. I want to put my chin on your chest and cry. I want to hold your hands. I want to talk to you. I need to talk to you. I am so lonely without you, Jeff.
I feel like I should be better. That often, I have no reason not to be better. That I smile and tell myself that things are good. That we are okay. That I am coping. That life without you still contains the sun and the sea and that I can still feel the rays on my face and the cool of the ocean on my toes. But, often, too often, although I can feel them, they don't mean anything without you. They just mean the change in temperature or texture - not that you are somewhere out there on a fish boat touching the same ocean and feeling the same sun on your face...connecting us.
I wish there was someway to know. If? Where? Do you see me? Is there anything? Will I hold you again? Will you always be 'you' or broken up pieces of love thrown into a big melting pot? Is there nothing? Is all that was 'you' gone?
I am so tired of feeling sorry for myself. Of feeling sad. Broken. Lonely. Scared. Does it ever get better again? Do I get to hope for happiness, confidence and wholeness once again? Or do I just wait for the timer on the clock to run out?

boys and their cars

Briar often asks me to 'play cars' with him. This question always fills me with anxiety. My attempts to do so are always very clearly awkward and incorrect. "Oh! It's easy," you smuggly say. But you must have figured out some trick, some unspoken car-playing truth that has eluded me. I think my problem is that I always make them 'talk'. My little red firetruck drives up to Briar's flame-emblazoned muscle car and says in a deep and kindly voice, "Hi. I'm a firetruck. Do you want to play with me?" "No!", Briar shreaks, "You're doing wrong!!" I feel defeated and slightly embarassed. My poor boy doesn't have a parent to play cars properly. He didn't give me any tips or assistance until the other day when my feeble attempts were again thwarted by the 'Car Master'. "JUST DRIVE!!!", he yelled. So now, I keep my vehicular conversation to myself. I. just. drive. The only sounds that escape my lips are "bbbbbbwwwwwwww". Briar is content. To me, this seems...well, boring. But I am more than happy to comply with the politically correct car rules if it keeps my boy happy and filling some need that little boys have to 'just drive'.

But I worry that my boy is missing out on some testosterone specific secret code. Something that is ingrained in their boy brains and doesn't need to be vocalized....Goodness knows that cars don't speak - Why should boys?!

Anyhow, with Briar's thrid birthday coming at the end of the month, I am struck with a fear that I am going to do it 'wrong'.

I had been thinking that I would get him a bike. He loves to ride his cousin's bike with the training wheels. He looks so proud atop this little red steed as he wobbly pedals around the driveway. I began to price out bikes thinking that if I put a few dollars away here and there, I could afford one for him. Especially, if I bought a secondhand one. I've even thought that I could put the training wheels back on Liv's little pink sparkly bike, put a few car stickers on it and we're good. Then, I saw it. A Hot Wheels bike. I am tormented and torn. Briar LOVES Hot Wheels. I hate that he is a 'brand lover' but he is....Although, I try not to be one myself, there are times that I will purchase certain brands for their quality, where they were made, or there environmental or employee practices. But he sees the little flame insignia on the bottom of a miniture car and nearly bubbles over with glee. Not for any 'politically correct reasons, just cause they're cool. "Hot Wheels, Speed fast!", he and his buddy, Brody, belt out.

I would love to provide this bit of joy for my son. Isn't this always the parent's dilemma? Can I afford it? Does it go against my feelings of consumerism? Doesn't he deserve a new bike after all his little life has held so far?

We make all the sane justifications about why we should not do certain things and then go against our own moral convictions and financial impediments in an attempt make our children smile. Before I had children, I would have scoffed at the idea of going against personal ideals to please a child. Provide what is needed. Not necessarily what would be 'wanted'. Now I just want to see grins and hear giggles of excitement.

Now I have to figure out if what I pay for a 'boys' bike in the short run would be a better investment than paying for therapy for a young man who feels angry that he had to learn to ride on a bike that says "Magical Fairies" or some equally flowery phrase....I should ask my brother. He wore our hand-me-down girl jeans unknowingly for years, until I delightly announced it to him as he entered the most awkward and self-conscious stage of his life. Early adolescence. So kind.

Should I forget the bike thing and get a kid's camera for Briar? He loves taking photos. Oh, how I wish Jeff was here to help with this decision. I can only imagine that as Briar gets older, these solo decisions regarding 'boy issues' are going to get tougher. Lord, help me.

Happy Mother's Day

"It was she who planted and nurtured the first seeds of good within
me."

~ Immanuel Kant

It's up!!!!

My new Etsy Shop is up and running!!! *crossing my fingers* I hope this works! Thanks for all the encouragement everyone!

fairies in your hair

Liv is convinced that this photo shows her fairy friend, Violet, and Violet's big sister, Sandy, playing in her hair! I love the stories my little peanut tells me and the wonderful world that she lives in. So full of magic and wonder....

i know i'm cool....my daughter says so.

I am at the age where teenagers scare me...maybe not scare me, but I feel horribly inferior and dorky in their presence. I am always aware that they are talking in some slang language that I don't quite get even when I smile politely and nod as if I know what the fuck "Emo" means. I avert my eyes when I pull up to the row of mailboxes near the local highschool to retrieve my mail while "Abba" or some parenting CD plays loudly over my car stereo. I wonder if they're snickering collectively at my handknit wool sweater or my bumper sticker that says, "In the time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act. - George Orwell". I am the epitome of 'mother' and all that negatively implies to teenagers.

But then, I think, my kids are the next teenagers. When the current rash of too-cool-for-you teens have been transformed into playdough encrusted, Raffi listening, milk scented parents, my kids will be the ones hashly judging their convenient and comfortable attire, their choice of vehicles and their lack of knowledge in current events while using strange and foreign 'teen speak' to communicate when with their cohorts.

And you know what? For now, my kids think I'm cool. So at this present time, I must be really stinkin' awesome. Really. I am. A six year old and a two year old tell me often that "You are the best mommy in the whole world!!!!" while bestowing upon me wet and occasionally snot-filled kisses. My son thinks I can fix anything. My daughter thinks I can make anything. This phenomenon will last too short a time.

Because of this impending deadline of hipness, I am always willing to try to make any of my children's requests come to fruition...at least in the fix-it or craft-it department.

With May Day just having passed, Liv asked for a daisy chain crown. "Oh! A daisy chain crown!!", I thought, "Yet another thing I can do for my sweet little peanut before she realizes what a truly flawed human I am in the 'hip-and-jiggy' department (a shout out to you, Marn!)! Hell, of course, I'll make one for each of your closest buddies too! You can be the 'Daisy Chain Club and I can be the coolest mom in the Universe!!"

If this thought ever comes to you, if this ego-centric idea of becoming the BESTEST mommy ever because you have created a masterpiece ever enters your clog-loving mind, shoe it away. Forget it. Leave it. Be cool in some other less....fucking insane and frustrating way. Make a paper airplane. Have a food fight. Scoop your eyeballs out with a grapefruit spoon. Hell, buy a bloody fucking Webkinz if you need to. But don't sign up for this.

I stupidly agreed. I let my momm-ego drive the bus. I even thought, "Hey, this is the perfect opportunity to do a tutorial on the blog! So fun and so crafty! I'll just take pictures along the way, do a bit of an explanation and Voila!"

Well, I took pictures. The initial ones are nice, sweet and happy.
They grow a bit harried and imperfect but I figured that I would just explain that it was more finicky than I had hoped.
Be happy that I stopped the photo session at that point. If you could see the nasty words that hung in the air for much of the sewing bits, you'd have trouble catching a glimpse of the damned daisy fucking chain.

Anyhow, I finished one. One only. It WILL be the only one. The 'Daisy Chain Club' will have to take turns wearing the headdress of horror. Sorry, girls. I am not the Coolest Mom in the Universe. I am just a wannabe. And in highschool, we all learned that wannabes are the lamest of all....But if it means that I never have to make another one of these atrocities, I am truly cool with being a lame wannabe. Don't all of us mommies wear this title sometimes?....Yes, I think we do.

$7 on the 7th

I just wanted to remind anyone who has a chance to do the $7 on the 7th. My kids and I were one of the first families to receive financial help from Matt's foundation in memory of his wife, Liz. As you all know, things haven't been exactly flush around here and this support helped so very much. I'll be donating tomorrow and I hope, maybe, you will consider it too. Together, we can help SO many more families who are living this tragedy and reeling from loss. If you can, please, send $7 their way....

makin' it single income style

Even before Jeff died, I was home with the kids and we were a 'single income family'. It was often ridiculously tight and there were spots that financially were frightening.

Since he's died, we just squeeze through each month. There are small pockets of money delivered in the mail such as widow's pension, baby bonus, etc. But it just covers the housing and a few bills. So providing childcare to some kiddos whom I love has been how I've been putting the food on the table and keeping the wolf from the door. I consider myself lucky that I am able to do this 'job' while staying home with my little ones, homeschooling Liv and spending time with some of my favourite little friends as well.

But, unfortunately, it doesn't loosen the belt as much as I had hoped. After paying for increases in insurance for having a business in the house, fuel for driving to schools, extra food, etc. there isn't much left in the 'black'. SO I am challenging myself to a contest. I am going to see how little I can spend in one month. We will use what we have. We will clean out the freezer. We will get creative with activities. We will only drive when absolutely necessary. We'll drop off our outgrown clothes at the consignment store. We'll sell our 'extras' and tidy up our 'haves'. If you'd like to come along and try as well, I'd love to have you along. We can compare our scores!

Also, in the spirit of trying to create a less tight budget, I have one more thing I am going to attempt.....I'll give you one clue and then you'll have to wait until I get all the ducks in a row (p.s. it is something that I have mulled over before...)

a day at the beach

We spent the day at the beach a few days ago. Geocaching...
Beachcombing...
Walking....
Picture taking...
Exploring...
Puddle jumping....


Lookin' at male crabs (lighthouses)...
and females (beehives)...
And spending time together. A fabulous day.

some days...

Some days, you feel crappy, you can't help but to feel sorry for yourself, you lament your constant state of crazy busy-ness, and your inability to feel patience and at peace. Life seems to be fraught with discord, angst and frustration. Then, as you drive dangerously fast to yet another appointment that you're late for in the pouring rain with a crying little one in the backseat, life throws an unexpected moment into your path that slows each breath, reminds us that life is not to be taken so seriously and causes you to laugh out loud with the joy of the unexpected and the odd....This time I just happened to have my camera posed on the passenger seat to record my moment....I'm thinking that I may have the photo printed on a t-shirt, a mousepad and a poster for my ceiling.

The funny thing is that I used to do this when I was a teenager. A friend and I would run naked in the pouring rain (although in the middle of the night in a golfcourse) and I remember how fun, free and silly it felt. This guy, however, was running up the road near a shopping centre alone with a huge grin on his face. I'd love to send him a thank you card for making me giggle and reminding me just how ridiculous it all is!