It was one of those hot summer afternoons where the heat bounced off the sidewalk in blurry waves. I was fourteen years old and unsupervised and my best friend Jojo and I had this wild idea to hang out in her back yard pretending we were grownups.

After walking to the nearest gas station to each buy a pack of cigarettes and slurpees, we shuffled to her house, the heat licking at our backs and I remember wiping beads of sweat off my brow and onto the cotton dress I was wearing.

We set ourselves up in the shade of her back yard, with our slushies and smokes and we  each ordered our own pizza.  I ordered mushroom and pepperoni she chose ham and pineapple.

We paid the delivery boy for our pies, feeling very much like the grownups we hoped we were and then got down to the business of relaxing adult style in the shady city yard.

We each lit a cigarette and grabbed a slice of pizza and we alternated between smoking and chewing, each bite a little more toxic that one before.

I never finished my pizza that afternoon, or my pack of smokes. I managed to make it through half a pizza and almost as many smokes before I turned completely green and had to run to the bathroom to empty out the contents of my stomach. The heat made me feel worse and the nicotine thrummed in my veins, making me even more nauseous than the greasy cheese and fried pepperoni did.

To this day I refuse to eat pepperoni on my pizza.

And after that sweaty sick afternoon I was zealous in my proselytizing against the evils of nicotine. There was no way I would ever be a smoker and I sneered at those who inhaled the noxious tar with obnoxious disdain.

My body was a temple and for years I pampered it. I was an athlete, who watched what type of food I consumed and made sure to never pollute my body with either the carcinogens of cigarettes or the evils of alcohol.

For 16 years I was obnoxious about it. That single afternoon as a 14 year-old-chain smoker clung to my memory the way cigarette smoke sticks to skin.

And then it happened.

My son died. And I lost my mind in an ocean of pain; the waves pulling me under, only to push me up again for a breath before pulling me back down.

I wasn’t coping, or healing or even really surviving. I rather just existed at the very bare minimum. I was completely numb to everything and everyone, devoid of any sensation at all.

And then someone exhaled their stinky second hand smoke into my face as I was inhaling.

And my eyes watered and my lungs constricted and the world tilted slightly.

It was, for the first time in almost a year, that I felt something, anything, at all.

It was the day before the first anniversary of Shale’s death. On the day marking his actual passing, I went to a gas station and bought my first pack of cigarettes since that hot summer afternoon so many years ago.

I’ve been smoking ever since. I told myself that it was likely better than drinking, or losing myself in drugs, both of which held a certain appeal after my son died. I just wanted to feel. I started chasing joy as I breathed in my nicotine fix.

I started to finally, at long last, heal.

Smoking is BAD yo. I don’t recommend it. Even if I do so love it. Call me Captain Hypocrite

Hindsight being 20/20 and all, I understand now that I was already in the healing process when I inhaled my first cigarette. And if I had waited just a bit longer, I’d likely be in the same relatively healthy headspace I’m in now only minus a nicotine addiction.

But those cigarettes, they were sweet. And some of them, I’m sure, saved my life as surely as they shortened it every time I inhaled. I didn’t just smoke, I savoured. I enjoyed every cigarette I lit up as I rediscovered who I was.

But like a sweet dessert, or a great vacation, all good things come to an end and I knew my time as a smoker had run out. My husband, god bless his cotton socks, puts up with a lot from me but even I couldn’t blame him for not wanting to kiss someone who smelled and tasted like an ashtray. My kids, preoccupied with sudden death, worried endlessly that I was puffing my way into the grassy patch we’ve reserved next to their brother.

And so began my quest to quit. For over a year, maybe two, I’d suffer through the agony of trying to quit only to announce my defeat with a sweet long drag of nicotine and tar. I never lasted more than a week or so without giving into my cravings, listening to my demon. I’d stopped telling people in real life and online that I was quitting smoking because I knew I’d eventually fail.

I don’t know what changed. Maybe it was finally understanding that I actually liked smoking and enjoyed it when everyone around me told me I shouldn’t.  Maybe it was allowing myself the promise that if I made it to 80 years old I’d march myself to the nearest gas station, buy a pack of my favourite tarsticks and smoke myself to my death. Whatever it was, something clicked in me, allowing me to toss away a half pack of ciggies and not look back since.

I still want to smoke. Every day. And let’s be honest here, holy hell this was, is, hard. I can’t imagine struggling with an addiction to alcohol or drugs because I am fairly certain I’d never be sober. Quitting cold turkey was probably the least fun thing I’ve ever done next to burying my child and waxing my own bikini line.

Enough days are now behind me, all of them without cigarettes, that I now want to add another nicotine free day to my history more than I want to smoke.

That’s something, I suppose, even if it means inhaling just isn’t any fun any more.

There is one person in this world who is allowed to call me “Mommy.”

Hint: It’s not my husband. Because…ew. Nor is it the PR flackies who keeps sending me bizarre email pitches addressed to Mommy. My name is Tanis. And if you don’t want to use that one, I’ll accept  Tsarina T.

The only person who could get away with calling me Mommy is, ironically, the only person who can’t. And he gets a free pass because dammit, he’s cute.

I wrote a post about how my kid called me Mommy and how I had to resist the urge to laugh and/or shank him afterwards. Click here to read it. You know you want to.

Kids. They are totally weird. I mean, really, calling their mother ‘mommy’? Who would have thunk it?

Also, I just really wanted to use this as an excuse to post this short clip of Jumbster on the net so you all could see how the quiet awesome radiates out of him.

Tsar Knox. He will one day rule the world.

When I was 13, I was convinced that when I grew up I was not going to look at all like anything I currently resembled. Time would work it’s magic and erase the curse of genetics and biology and I’d suddenly sprout to be my dream height of 5’11, have a pert C-cup, thick wavy blonde hair and a face made for magazine covers.

Because, like duh, someone had to look like that so why couldn’t it be me?

I may not have been the brightest child, but I like to think I get points for being one of the most optimistic.

Of course, I have somehow managed to grow up and not look a whole heck of a lot different than I did at 13. At least, not while clothed. I’m an inch or two taller now, I’ve got lines across my face and both my arse cheeks and my breasts dangle a little further south than they used to. If my 13 year old self knew that I’d just grow up to look like a haggard, slightly puffier version of my teenaged self, only with better hair and a working credit card, I’d have spent less time day dreaming about all the fame and fortune my new looks would bring me and more time learning about important things like science, logic and why geek girls will always be hot.

This month, this January, I seem to have reverted back to my 13 year old self, minus the flat chest and firm butt. For some reason, these last few weeks I’ve been hormonal, angst-ridden and mostly delusional with my optimism.

It would seem I’ve either entered adult puberty or I’m pregnant.

Relax Boo. I’m 99.9 percent sure I’m not gestating life. I couldn’t swear on it in a court of law though because my self-esteem refuses to let me think that some holy deity wouldn’t want me to be the mother to his magically conceived love child.

So it must be puberty. I blame my teenagers for this. Their hormones are contagious.

This entire month, I’ve just kept telling myself to ‘give it another day. Tomorrow will be better.’

It is now January 24 23 (dammit, I was really hoping to be one day closer to ending this stupid month!) and I’m now starting to see that maybe there aren’t enough days in January for it to actually get better before the month ends. In the last three weeks, I’ve gained 9 pounds, fought with my kids, barely seen my husband, had TWO tires freeze flat from extreme arctic temperatures, not blogged at all and accidentally froze my wet hand to a metal door outside.

January has officially sucked. I think we should all campaign to have January removed from the calendar.

However, the optimist in me is demanding that I see the sunshiny side of January life.

The only thing I can think of?

I haven’t shaved my legs once this month.

Oh, and that my kid is really damn cute in flannel pajamas.

I almost wish I was pregnant with some mystical, non-sexual deity induced pregnancy. Just imagine how cute that kid would look in flannel jammies.

For years I prided myself on being a hyper-organized neat freak. I’m not talking about the years of early adulthood. The ones where I had my first apartment, or even the ones during my first few years of marriage. No, those years were mostly dedicated to surviving. It was all about scraping together enough money to pay our utility bills, rent and tuition.

Those years were ugly. And well documented with hundreds of pictures of bad hair. My house was in a constant state of disarray, my babies were lucky if they were clothed and I couldn’t see past the mess I was living in.

But slowly, I pulled myself and my household out of the gutter, got a better hairstyle and managed to find a way to survive the early parent, young marriage years.

And I became the uber wife, super mom prodigy I like to mock nowadays.

For about seven years, I had my shit together. I did my Christmas shopping in the off season when I found sales and I carried a list with me where ever I went. There was none of this wandering the grocery store aisles while hungry, randomly filling my cart with whatever I hoped we needed because I forgot to make a list before leaving home, like I shop now.

No, come December first every year, the gifts were all purchased and lovingly wrapped in carefully coordinated wrapping papers and strategically placed bows. I’d laugh at all the suckers who ran around at the last minute trying to score good deals as they purchased their holiday gifts and goodies.

I was obnoxious, really. But I was obnoxious with a ridiculously clean house and a stick up my arse most of the time too.

Ya. I was a total jackass.

And then things changed. I don’t know if I grew up a little more or if what had seemed so important to me before no longer was a priority once my son died. But suddenly, I’m satisfied if the inside of the toilet bowl isn’t brown and there is at least a path to navigate in between the dog fur, the dust bunnies and the kids discarded socks.

Oh how the mighty has fallen.

And once again, I am sorely unprepared for Christmas. I’ve picked up a couple presents for a few people but the reality is, if I don’t get my arse moving soon, there isn’t going to be much under the Christmas tree for anybody. I’m woefully ill prepared for the holiday season. There has been no Christmas baking, no gift wrapping, nothing.

I’m just lucky I managed to throw a couple of loads of laundry into the wash and sweep the floor before falling down in exhaustion. The idea of Christmas is completely wearing me out. I don’t know how real grown up people with real jobs do all this. Because I’m completely faking it.

Oh ya, I’m a holiday faker. But at least I managed to get my Christmas tree up. Small victories.

Between Jumby’s complex needs, boys basketball, girls basketball, club volleyball, musical theatre, broken in-laws, an absent husband and blogging, I don’t have much time to do anything but drive, write and scatter some dry cereal around for the ferals to eat. I used to think I was busy when I had two toddlers and a baby. Apparently I didn’t know what busy meant.

So when my husband called to ask me what I wanted for Christmas, I blanked. Apparently he didn’t like my suggestions in the post I wrote for him. He’s got some personal rule against buying me dead stuffed animals or pots I will never use.

When I couldn’t come up with anything he deemed reasonable he was hard pressed to believe I haven’t spent time crafting a very long wish list like I have in years past. (Because the best way to ensure you get what you want for Christmas, I’ve learned, is to write down very specific items including locations in which he can purchase said goodies. Works like a charm every year I tell ya.)

Without my Christmas wish list I’ve apparently spiralled my husband into the depths of Christmas misery alongside me.

Welcome to the club sweetie.

So I got to thinking. What do I really want for Christmas?

The list? It’s not pretty.

I’d like a set of boobs that don’t flap around like tube socks. But I don’t want to have them surgically altered. I want them magically fixed. It’s less painful that way.

Speaking of boobs, I’d like the none whiskered variety. Because nipple hair? It’s not attractive on any one. Especially on a 36 year old woman. And I’m tired of plucking.

I’d like the waist I had back when I was 20. Before children. You remember the one. It was narrow enough both of your hands could fit around it and touch. I miss that waist.

I’d like a butt. I miss having one. And I’m too lazy to exercise to get one. I hear they make padded underwear. Sounds fantastic to me.

I want legs I never have to shave again. And toe nails that never grow. Because the current set I own of each require me to bend over to trim and shave and to let’s be honest, I’m too lazy for that type of maintenance.

I want a car that fuels itself and never needs an oil change.

Children who don’t require feeding. Or driving. I’m so tired of driving.

I want floors that don’t have a rip in the linoleum or scratches in the laminate.

How about some extra cupboards so I can store the zombie head cookie jar I’m coveting?

I want socks that never get dirty and never need folding. Shirts that make me look like I’m actually trim and fit and pants I can button up with out sucking in my gut and then having a lovely roll of muffin top hanging over the edge.

I’d like a self-cleaning refrigerator.

My best friend to move back to Canada. Preferably next door.

How about a job for Boo that doesn’t require him living under a different roof?

I’d like my back pain to be cured, my dad’s rheumatoid arthritis to go away and for Jumby to be able to sit independently.

But what I really, really want for Christmas?

I’d like someone to come and finish all my Christmas shopping for me and then wrap everything so I won’t have to. Because at this rate, I’m seriously considering wrapping up potatoes and frozen bags of peas in old newspaper for everyone and calling it a day.

Happy shopping Boo. I hope you have better luck with your Christmas shopping than I am mine.

You know that feeling when your stressed and it seems like life just keeps piling up more crap to get stressed about and you want to just roll over and play dead with a blanket over your head until life finally forgets you exist?

I’m totally playing possum right now.

Under my roof I currently have a quadriplegic child with a raging skin infection. His cheek looks like it’s about to fall off. I have a husband who has a broken ankle and is hobbling around like a geriatric one legged bum. And then there is Frac who’s abdomen is being held together with tape. Tape! Not stitches. Not glue. Just little steri-strips that are threatening to fall off so that the wound reopens and his innards fall out.

Add to that and I can’t stand up straight because of my crippled back and we have one healthy member of the family. And she’s currently trying to kill herself by taking volleyball shots to the head.

And my dog needs knee surgery.

Life is awesome.

I should tell you, before you invest any more time reading this post, that I have absolutely no point in mind as I type this. I’m rambling.

That’s Fric. Dressed up for Halloween, as get this: Me. She’s wearing my grade nine grad dress and styled her hair and makeup after some of of my junior high pictures.

I’m still laughing.

Also, I guess hanging onto that dress (that my mother made for me) all these years finally served a purpose.

Ah, to be 14 with a corsage once more…

It’s sad when you realize your 15 year old daughter makes for a better version of your 14 year old self than you ever did.

In other news, I’ve joined iVillage Canada and their team so that I may spread my inane ramblings even further. My first post is live and I’d love if you would go check it out so that the powers that be that hired me actually think there was some merit to bringing me aboard. Click here to learn whatI have in common with a rat farmer in Alabama.

Over on Babble Voices I’ve been busy with my blog Hogwash From a Hoser. I wrote a post about teenaged hoodlums. I know all about teen hoodlums because I was once a hoodlum myself. Not that I’d admit that in a court of law or to my children’s faces. Ahem.

I also wrote about my hatred of Halloween and how this one particular holiday keeps kicking me in the arse. Between dead kids, exploding appendixes and people who refuse to give disabled kids in costumes any candy when they are trick or treating I’m giving Halloween the bird. And not the nice type of bird if you know what I mean.

Now, if y’all excuse me, I plan on spending the rest of the day surfing the net, laughing at Lindsay Lohan and eating enough ice cream that I’ll eventually grow udders and moo.

In other words, I’ve got work to do.

What my daughter’s future looks like. Poor thing.