Money Pit

If you have children and own a house, I have no doubt these two words have crossed your mind several times: Money Pit. I need only write these three syllables down as my title on the top of a blank page and a novel can be produced with a list of what our house needs inside, what our house needs outside, and the number of renovation projects that have been started with a footnote at the bottom as to the number that have been completed: two. And, needless to say, the two rooms of the house that have been renovated to completion each belong to members of the family who contribute no income, who show no appreciation for our efforts, who can immediately sniff out a pristine area of the house for immediate destruction, and who don’t hesitate to ask for more.   

Yes, most days I love this house and yes, by law, I’m required to care for these children but I shouldn’t secretly desire a trip to the mental hospital to lessen the number of things driving me crazy in close proximity.

Just like kids, renovation projects start small and then quickly become all-encompassing monsters that wipe your energy and clean out your bank account. It all started with one little project at our first house; we decided to upgrade our kitchen with a discount sink tap we found at a flea market. When we thought about it more, that new faucet was going to make its surroundings look dingy so we decided we might as well change the old laminate countertop from its faux butcher-block pattern to a speckled grey one, still laminate but there was only so much money to go around and this was BK—before kids. The kitchen walls no longer matched the countertop so they needed to be painted, and the curtains were next, and so on. Not long after that, we were given yards and yards of used luxury carpet that we thought would look great in our finished basement, and while we’re at it, we should upgrade the windows and drywall the ceiling...you see where this is going. In addition, just to make one more obvious point, the baby’s room was the first room to be fully finished and decorated in that house, too.

After selling our first house, we banished the illusions of home ownership while we rented a row house in a suburb of Toronto and welcomed a son to our family. We thought we were ahead of the game having already acquired all the necessities we would need for the second child—I now long for the days when diapers were the most expensive thing on our shopping list. As your kids grow,  you send them to school, you enrol them in lessons, you sign them up for activities, and when they are at home you provide on-site entertainment in the form of movies, toys, video games, books, crafts, board games, and sports equipment. Do you want your child to go on the field trip? That’ll be $20. Do you want to watch the hockey game your kid is playing in? That’ll be $3. You don’t want your child’s potential to be squandered, do you? That’ll be $15 for half an hour of music lessons. Do you want one night off this month from cooking? That’ll be $35 for pizza, $70 if you dare go to a restaurant. I would mention the full cost of braces for two children but I may frighten the weak-hearted. Your refrigerator will look like a revolving door, your house will look like a cyclone hit it, and although they purport to be concerned with the environment, they have no regard for the electricity bill. Most of the on-going purchases needed to keep them occupied and fully-supplied, will still be in as-new condition when your kids outgrow them or become bored with them, if they didn’t break within the first 24 hours—at least diapers were well used before you threw them out.

A few years later, when it was time to move on or set up camp, we considered our rental house, built only eight years ago at the time, with its postage stamp-size rooms, flimsy windows and cardboard box walls, and the $210,000 asking price, and said no, thanks. It was at this time, with our memories of the blood, sweat, and tears of home renovation fading, we cheerfully bought another house; the thought process not unlike how we decided to have another kid...well, the first one wasn’t so bad, how much harder could it get?

Although my first impression of our potential home was simply noted on my checklist as scary, we went back for a second look and decided this house had good bones, unique features, a nice location, and, for the right price, was a bargain for the square footage. We wanted this house to raise our kids in, who were seven and three at the time, and we knew we could make a home here.

That was the moment when a black hole formed in our universe and began to suck us dry.

Next month, part 2.

Eating Weeds

Great news! In addition to the food stash we keep in the pantry, we have a bounty of fresh, nutritious food available to us just a few steps away; our survival during a crisis may depend largely on the time of year but it is as close as the backyard—I’m looking at you, dandelion—because instead of being overwhelmed by the tenacious weeds that fill every nook and cranny of our property, I choose to see them as an emergency food source.

And by focusing on the brighter side of things, I can persevere through the days when I’d rather throw in the towel.

From the time he was little, my son was a high energy, non-stop, talkative child who needed constant supervision and an attentive audience. The only break I had was when he slept—or recharged. When he was two, we joined a community play group where, after conquering every climbing structure, he would spend the remaining time running in circles around the perimeter of the gym, impressing the other parents who had their own energetic toddlers. Story time at the library was close to torture for him as he’d rather dig in to the craft materials ready for when the quiet listeners finished the book. And, although I’m sure chairs were available when we visited other people’s houses, I don’t remember ever using one.  

Thankfully, while he was still young, my outlook about his spirited behaviour was transformed when I watched an interview with The Crocodile Hunter’s mom. She talked about how her son, Steve Irwin, was the same animated and vivacious person as a boy. A light bulb went off in my head as I realized that without an over-the-top enthusiasm for life, we wouldn’t have had this captivating man to entertain and educate us. I should be so fortunate to have an amazing kid like that, with all the potential in the world.

It was much easier to raise his older sister, a child who would actually stay on the porch if you asked her not to wander. That is, until three years ago when aliens replaced her with an evil twin. She was more co-operative and level-headed as a toddler than she is as a teenager, and even though she’s an excellent student and role-model, she’s not easy to live with. What I see in her though is a person who thinks for herself and is willing to speak up and not let herself settle; however, these traits are currently emanating as stubbornness and impatience. I need to squeeze out every bright and cheerful thought I can about our daily encounters and try to look upon her determined independence as a good thing but it’s bittersweet.

My inherent gratefulness goes a long way to being able to see the bigger, brighter picture, along with having a short memory and a little luck. I was born in the right country, I married the right guy, I discovered new information at the most opportune time, I noticed a perspective I hadn’t seen before or I just remembered something interesting that I already knew but had forgotten and it makes me smile. Life is not always a bed of roses but it’s not always a bed of nails, either. There are enough good moments to outweigh the bad, far more good people around than bad, and more love, laughter, and learning than I can fit in a day.

                Yes, in every life, a little rain must fall, but judging by the size of the weeds after a good thunderstorm, I’m one lucky girl.

Open Mike

A young adult story.

It’s one thing to be the class clown. It’s entirely different to be funny and get paid for it. At high school, they tell me I’m going nowhere. At the comedy club, on open mike night, they’re going to tell me that I’m a rising star.

No one is worried that I might be throwing away my chances as night clean-up boy at the grocery store to be a comedian. Maybe, if I had a better academic career, they’d be more concerned about my ambitions. As it stands, the guidance counsellor isn’t beating down my door with post-secondary opportunities.

I can’t help it if I’ve got a rapier wit. Mom hears that and sees a future felon in our family tree. But she, more than anyone, should understand my gift. I’ve made her laugh since I was born—I’ve seen the home movies.

So maybe I’m not going to save the world like my older sister, providing clean water by digging wells in African villages. I have something else to offer: an introspective moment of clarity about how the world works and why we are all screwed. I would argue that both are important. Okay, the clean drinking water issue may be a tad higher on the human needs scale, but can you imagine a world with no laughter. I think not.

A smile has no language barriers—this is good stuff—I’m going to use it in the closing statements to my parents to explain why I need to go to a downtown bar on a Wednesday night and how I may be unable to attend school the next morning, depending on what time I get on stage. Parents love it when you give a mature and rational argument for your actions, especially before the infraction. They’re reasonable people; I’m sure they will see my point and commend me for my aspirations and bravery.

Who am I kidding? They were upset when I mentioned that I was going to wait in line for the latest zombie war game released at midnight three weeks ago. I was throwing away my potential, they said. And since that night, they’ve remarked that for the amount of time I’ve spent playing that game, I could have cured cancer. They don’t understand how the creative mind works. I play video games to release my connection to the outside world in order to channel my intuitiveness. They didn’t buy it. I do keep a notebook and pen handy to write down spur of the moment thoughts that I could turn into jokes. And honestly, most of my ideas come to me while killing a soldier, re-awakened from the dead, who I am chasing down with an AK-47. Every blood spatter is a light bulb going off in my head.

Technically, I don’t need their permission. I turned eighteen last month, so it’s sayonara parental consent and bonjour none of their business. Well, let me make a small correction there. I will need room and board for a little while, until my professional career gets booming—a year or two, tops. I could be the Justin Bieber of the comic world. An overnight teenage sensation from a small Canadian town. Then my parents will be falling all over the paparazzi to say they always knew I had it in me. They’ll show pictures of me when I was two, dressed-up as a pirate, the life of the party. It’ll be sweet.

I'm going to use a few anecdotes from my family to open my act, with Dad giving me loads of material like, “One thing’s for sure, if you can be blessed, then you can be cursed” and a gem he lays on me every once in a while: “Shit doesn’t stick to you, it ricochets off your forehead and hits me right in the teeth”, and, a classic piece of fatherly wisdom: “You wipe your ass with the privileges around here.” If only my parents knew how much material they give me, they’d be even less inclined to support me as I share our private moments with the audience.

But it’s going to all pay off when I’m a gazillionaire who can provide clean water for every village in the world. I’d better rehearse again in front of the mirror; underprivileged children everywhere are counting on me.