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.

There are few things I dread more than having to venture into the city to go to a medical appointment. Perhaps because I’ve now spent the bulk of my adult life sitting in a waiting room because of my desire to have children who are either born broken or born with a tendency to try and slice off their digits at every given opportunity.

I’ve done my time with the medical establishment. Which is why it seems a cruel hard fate to know that today I have to make the long drive into the city, pay for parking, wear one of those ugly hospital gowns that never seem to snap shut properly and therefore flash everyone in the room with a delightful view of my arse crack and then lay down on what is basically a metal coffin and listen to the obnoxious clanging of the MRI machine as it takes pictures of my back fat.

It’s going to be awesome. And I’m so not shaving my legs for it.

To say I’m not really excited about my afternoon appointment is a bit of an understatement. Especially since I’ve been down this road before more times than I can now count and it leads to surgery, more pain and me walking around stooped over a bedazzled cane as my dad offers to give me an enema.

(For some reason the man is obsessed with fecal regularity. Especially mine. As a postoperative gift, instead of the typical flowers most daughters get, he brings me a box of stool softeners. I wish I were kidding.)

Let the good times roll!

However, as pessimistic and irrationally cranky about my own experiences with the medical establishment and my mucked up back, I have nothing to say about the treatment my children (dead and alive) have received in their short little lives.

We are blessed with a fabulous children’s hospital and surrounded by expert medical peoples who go above and beyond the call of duty to ensuring all my children keep their digits while ensuring my youngest lives to see another day.

Jumby’s life hasn’t been the easiest, starting from the day he was born prematurely and weighing one pound four ounces. My kid was as big as a block of butter. He survived his size and the plethora of health issues that happen when you are born a micro preemie.

He survived the abuse he received thanks to the medical establishment and he fights daily to overcome his existing disabilities. (For those of you who are unaware, he’s legally blind, deaf, developmentally disabled, and quadriplegic who eats through a tube and will remain diapered for the rest of his days.)

But Jumby is awesome. Regardless of all his impairments, this kid just keeps on thriving. He has a sense of humour that is inspiring and spreads more joy than a diseased tick can spread Lyme disease.

But life isn’t always easy with him (understatement of the week alert!) and there are times I’m rendered exhausted by the sheer enormity of what it means to tackle this many disabilities at once.

This most happens when Jumbster is having a bad day with pain and spasms and there is nothing we can do to help him medically other than love him through it.

It can sometimes suck.

I’d move mountains to make his life (any of my kids’ lives) better. Pain free. Healthy.

Even if that mountain was medical marijuana.

And that is what I’m yammering on about in my latest Momversation video. Which I hope you will take the time to watch.

This year, my husband and I declared us miserable old fuddy duddies and refused to make any plans for New Year’s eve.

Oh fine. For the sake of honesty and accuracy I’ll amend that statement so that my husband doesn’t have a coronary.

This year *I* declared my husband and myself miserable old fuddy duddies and refused to accept any of the plans my husband tried to make to ring in the new year.

For one stinking year, I just wanted to sit home in my pajamas, watch a marathon of Criminal Minds, and do absolutely nothing. I didn’t have it in me to dress up, go out or host a get together. I wanted to start 2012 quietly. I just wasn’t in the mood to play.

My husband and my teens, however, weren’t completely on board with my lack of plans or enthusiasm. They were itching to go out and it wasn’t long before both of my teens had arranged to go over to a friend’s house for an impromptu slumber party to ring out the year.

My husband volunteered to drive them over to their friend’s house because he is friendly with the dad. Fine. Whatever. Go abandon me for wilder pursuits. Go enjoy your night of merriment and frivolity because I am going to enjoy holding the remote control and changing the channel whenever I feel like it, I muttered back at them as they fled our house.

I was just happy to be home, with my Criminal Minds and my television remote.

An hour or so later, my husband came back from dropping the kids off and when he walked through the door and looked at me, he stopped short.

“Um, what have you been doing since I left Tanis?”

I looked at him blankly and waggled the remote. “Nothing. Watching television. Why”

“Um, have you noticed anything unusual about your face today? Looked in a mirror recently?”

“Well, I showered early and I looked fine then. But I think I’m getting an eye twitch. Why? Do I have spinach in my teeth?” I asked as I hopped up to look in the mirror hanging in our foyer.

And then I saw what was clearly freaking my husband out.

My right eye was swollen.

“Weird.”

“Totally. But I guess that explains the twitchy feeling and why it kinda hurts to waggle my eyebrows,” I murmured as I examined my face.

The next morning, my eye was so swollen it was almost sealed shut.

The morning after that, it looked like I was growing myself a third eye.

It’s been awesome. Awesomely grotesque.

I mean I’m used to my face looking like this:

Except lately I refuse to wear my contacts and my hair is blazingly red so I probably look more like this:

Except of course when I’m playing with my computer. Then I tend to look like this:

I like to take weird pictures of myself and randomly send them to family and friends. It freaks them out every time.

But today, on day five, my face looks like this:

I mean, it’s not quite normal but clearly there is no third eye growing like there was a few days ago, so I suppose that’s progress.

So basically I wrote this post just to show you all that my eyelid is swollen, I’m still in my bathrobe and clearly I need a shower and some make up.

Awesome.

Carry on then.