I'll call you back I am having a moment.

Somedays, most days…today. I can not find the rational piece of mind

to sit outside myself and appreciate this moment in life.

Like a trodden nest my impatience overflows

with a thousand frustrated rants.

It is like I have been given the gift to paint but no one told me that I could never have a fresh canvas again…I am never able to clean my brushes and I will have to create forever.

My bones are feeling their history

and today I am not intrigued by life.

I feel as though this work of art will reflect on me, endlessly,

Maybe I just need a cup of tea?

I asked for that profile but I get this in return.

I made my own bed but it was not mine I would learn.

Zen…Zennnnnnn, say it again.

Poisoned from the outside in.

Broken butterfly wings.

I hate unicorns…and any representation of a rainbow. You know?

If only I could lay in solitude. Would you mind leaving? Am I being rude?

------------------

Shifting my focus just long enough to let the anger subside, slowing it’s stride and subtracted not multiplied. Just before I cried.  

yes, there are time outs in camping.

Oh holy neglected post. You suffered in the shadows of our vacation.

We are back from the camping trenches where I took self neglect to a whole new level and the spawn sucked the life from not just us, but other kids and eventually... wild life. I think I even felt the trees breathe a sigh of relief with our circus like departure.

The weather promoted our tirade, being cool enough to relax and then tempting us onto the beach. The rest of nature joined the sand which worked with the icy cold water and wind to irritate us away. And although the beach clung to us with undefeated determination, we simply wore it like a second skin, getting use to the raw crevasses and grainy bites. 

Miracle beach they called this place. Upon arrival I thought wow, it’s a miracle we were able to get in here…when I left I though it was a miracle we survived. Let’s be clear, the holiday was wonderful! Laden with cathartic nuances thick enough to swallow every annoyance. Memories of a lifetime come and gone too fast. No picture I took can explain the hilarity of Bugg racing down the hill on her bike dangerously throwing back her head in a pure fit of laughter. No video can capture the quick camp friendship that solidified my son’s sense of belonging.

But I do deserve an f’in metal. Can I say f’in here? I easily walked to and from the bathroom sixty times. I embraced a moth and removed it gracefully to expel my daughters fear. I white knuckled a hand made go cart around a speed way with my 3 year old precariously unfastened against my loins. I ate approximately 4.5 lbs of smores, apparently. I am just sayin. 

Kite

Somedays I wonder how I will get through this moment...this one small moment in my life. I breathe and look to the universe to guide me. Somedays I am so tired...in spirit. My hope never dies but it wanes.

Kite -

Unfortunate first flight, having not gotten that far

Stuck in the talons of a beautiful but stagnate tree

Twisting helplessly in the wind … strong wooden skeleton

Delicate paper skin

Peacock-like tail sending its sad signal

Wondering why no one came to help

Sure its’ mission will be realized

By some passerby

Eventually accepting its’ invisibility and shedding its’ faded shell and flying pride

A skeleton unrecognized, unrecognizable

Chameleon to its’ captor

Still feeling the breeze

and the hope. 

Rance 101

To "Rance" is Run/Dance on the Treadmill or outside (if you are comfortable with public humiliation). You need Music, Rhythm and Heart. Move rhythmically while you run. It’s fun to watch people wait for the rest of the flash mob.

There is no problem.

What random thoughts haunt the back corners of my mind today? Nothing remotely humorous or even self-deprecating. Nope…I checked my Ally Mcbeal appeal at the door. Too busy to be selfish and so in the moment that I do not care about past, present, presentation…interpretation or even provocation. All I can think about is the weight and warmth of my three year old in my arms, buttercream icing and how comfortable this shirt is. I could work up some past ramblings or reach two elbows deep into the peaceless ocean of my homemade pains. Peaceless is not even a word. But I don’t care. And for a moment I suggest you don’t. Just sit in this space, breath..be grateful for everything even if it just means that breath you took. As my favorite bumper sticker once said to me in darker times “there is no problem”.

As promised with much self criticism...This looked better at 2am.

But I am happy with it and so was she ;)

My baby's bday cake. In the rough...some more assembly required.

one, two, three...

Six years of hard and fast artistic post secondary education has not prepared me for this. A genetic mathematically inclined mind doesn’t help. It comes down to planning, research and learning from the failures of other great artist before me. From whence was born my daughters third birthday cake. It’s not necessarily that exciting…I know. But it is an opportunity to work creatively, which I rarely make time for and it’s baking which I find therapeutic. There will be lots of pink and tons of self-criticism but for one moment if not a day I will be her hero. In her eyes it will be magic….and you can not buy that kind of experience. So buckle up and roll out the butter…My baby is 3. 

Dream.

I dreamed it last year in a nightmare.

Dead asleep and fully aware.

Founding, Fawning, Awake with fear.

Not here…but not sure where.

Wrote it, booked it, bound it

Somehow lost and found it.

So grossly tired of monotony,

Not who you or I expected me to be.

I touched a ghost and she was so afraid

She shifted from where once she laid.

She offered no condolence or genuine protection.

Then forced me to look at my own reflection. 

Dear Lawyers

What are my rights as a parent? 

As a Canadian I am told I have the  

1) freedom of peaceful assembly. Well this household has not assembled peacefully since its addition of tyrant one. 

2) the right to vote in an election of members of the House…if I have true vote in this family would we really be eating at Chuck e Cheese? 

3) Everyone has the right not to be arbitrarily detained or imprisoned…okay do I have to explain the irony of this right as it relates to the duties of a Stay at home mom…I have to STAY AT HOME.

4) Everyone has the right not to be subjected to any cruel and unusual treatment or punishment….Look up the definition of parent to find “person who willing conceives cruel and unusual treatment or punishment." 

So what are my rights as a parent? I am not sure…I know they do not comply with my basic rights as a Canadian citizen but thankfully the benefits are similar.

Fake campfire?

How did I get here? I ask myself as I scour the store for its last propane campfire in a can. I am not sure camping is my thing anymore but it is a fairly common rite of passage. One that I cursed my parents for not conforming to, robbing me of that very vital part of Canadiana childhood. It is also just about all I can think of doing (with my kids) that would not drive me completely insane with stupidity…then again maybe it will. I know for sure it will if I have to go another year without a campfire. Along with campsite reservations, fire bans seem to be the local way of doing things around here. Just to make me feel more alien to these foreigners. Don’t get me wrong before kids all I needed was my man and patchwork tent and a couple of matches. Now, like all things parent related, “FUN” as I once defined it seems to be sucked from the lifeblood of every well laid plan and absorbed by the ignorant selfish bliss of the mini kin folk. A fake fire?? Maybe the world is coming to an end after all, incase the floods, tornados and earthquakes did not indicate that we are camping on the precipice. 

To "Rance" or not to "Rance"

rance  (rɑːns) as it is defined traditionally is a type of red marble, often with white or blue graining, that comes from Belgium. Also apparently from French ranche = rod, pole. All of this is irrelevant to my RANCE. A nickname I have come up with to define my new sport of choice; Run + Dance. I have always been a dancer..not like a naturally good dancer but someone who is comfortable moving to music when the mood shall strike. I have also been a runner..not a dedicated drop everything to run runner. Anyway. With the children and age and a thyroid problem under my belt I have turned to running as it is the easiest thing for me to slide into my schedule. My running motivation comes from my archaic ipod shuffle given to me by my parents that proudly rotates all 90 songs religiously. The thing is I need the music to run and the music moves me. Now I don't recommend trying this at home but doing a body roll running full speed down hill is an art and I am quite certain it does not look as sexy as I feel. But lost in a rance no one can see me. Now I am sure there are streaming you tube videos of me out there but I don't care. *Warning, when attempting your first rance never remove your earphones or let the song change take too long for the break of silence will make you fully aware of your precarious situation.  
Now in hindsight I imagine somedays I do look like a red marble with grainy bits that comes from another country. Thankfully there have been no poles around to support the French definition. Everybody "rance" now. 

Ohhhhh...I get it.

I don't necessarily have to be tragic to captivate an audience and tell my story. I just have to be narcissistic enough to believe anyone could give a crap about it.

What is this?

What is this? My story. I am not tragic enough to captivate an audience. I am aware that there is more out there for me. I am actually quite angered at my inability to act on the knowledge that I am headed for something big. “BIGGER at least.” I am okay if it doesn't come easy but my procrastination builds from ignorance. I can not for the life of me see through the forest to what it is I am suppose to do to get there. Or even where “there” is.

I have my stupid journals, three in my side drawer that I carefully edit to sound more dramatic and challenged than I am. It's kinda fun because you can live a different life in those journals. When you die someone will read them and believe that I really thought that way...I mean I must have if I wrote it. I have another little book of dreams. I committed to it wholly for at least 6 mons of one year.  I hold it close to my heart seething when my children reach for it for fear that they may taint it’s message. I believe it holds the answer somewhere in its broken words and hoarded imagery. Pasted together like some savage ransom note. It is like a key to some unknown treasure that I do not bother to search for. Worse, it's like the map to the X and I fear it will actually lead me somewhere so I choose not to decipher it.