It’s September 1st, 2000. I’m in the bedroom suite of my future in-law’s looking out the window as our guests gather around the harpist, all with a drink in their hand, on the hottest day of the year. My bridesmaids all gather around me wiping sweat off my brow. I’m trying in vain to keep my strapless bra up until my dear friend says, “Tina, don’t take any offense to this, but you don’t really need that bra. Just take it off or it will drive you crazy.” So I did, and she was right. It made no difference. Oh how times have changed.

Kate Cocks catered. Doris Mason sang with her 5 piece band. The police showed up. It was a great party! And we went on a honeymoon…in Lunenburg.

What I am about to say about marriage may shock people, but I’ve never been one to skirt around an issue.

I’m not sure on that day, 10 years ago, that I believed we’d be married forever, for sickness and health, until death do us part. I love my husband. I have absolutely no regrets. But marriage isn’t easy. It’s hard. And while love isn’t an issue, and I’ve never not loved him, I have moments where I like him less. I know he feels the same.

Life is short, but if your miserable, it can seem pretty long. Thats why I’ve never believed that I was stuck to him regardless of what’s happened. Hell no!

Things in our life have changed over these past 10 years. I’ve grown up. He’s lost hair. I’ve gained weight. He’s lost some. His anxiety has gotten far worse. And so has my level of acceptance. And something else has changed. Back then I wasn’t sure it was forever, and who am I kidding, I don’t know that now either, but I do know that I couldn’t imagine my life without him. He’s grown on me. And today anyway, I really, really like him.

Remember awhile back, I wrote about how my kids fight?  And usually it’s just play fight?  Remember that?  Well, that’s important to this story.

So my kids play fight, as most brothers do, and it drives me crazy, in fact, there have been moments when I actually believe I am going to go crazy, and I have to remind myself that right now we’re using our screen doors and that someone walking by the house may hear my screams and call Children’s Services on me.

Anyway, last night, I was desperate to get the boys to bed before 10pm and I sent them upstairs to brush teeth and wash faces and hands, and I heard the play fighting upstairs and I yelled and screamed at them to stop, and then Evan peered his head down stairs, and with all the attitude of a 9 year old boy going on 17, he yelled back, “We’re having fun, Mom, what’s the big deal, God!”  To which I yelled back, “You mean, Goodness! And ok, fine!  Fight!  But don’t come bawling to me when you get hurt!”

Literally minutes later, Evan came bawling to me, and Colin was holding Evan’s big, beautiful, adult, front tooth!  And I stopped breathing.

I hugged both boys who were at this point crying and both asking me to take their life.  They knew they were in trouble and that I was right, someone would get hurt. I knew I could never offer a better punishment than the fear they felt at that moment.

I admit, I didn’t handle it well.  None of it.  You see, I’m a bit of a freak over teeth.  I know how people are judged by their teeth.  And Evan has the most big and beautiful teeth, who his dentist says, with the help of a spacer shouldn’t need braces.  Plus, I had a crazy dentist.  Seriously, she was crazy! So crazy that I didn’t go to a dentist from the age of 10 to 20.  When you take such a significant break from a necessity like dentistry, you learn to take good care of your teeth.

I went back only when I had to and had two teeth removed, and I learned that there are good dentists.  Ones that believe in pain medication.

Anyway, I called my friend and fellow hockey mom who went through this same thing last season, and she advised me to put it in milk and she reassured me that he’d be fine, that his life will go on, and that her daughter now has a lovely smile, which she does. And I sent them to bed, albeit, not at 9pm like I originally planned.

I went to bed at 5 am, the whole time praying to the good Lord to save his tooth, and if it went back on, I’d go to church every Sunday, and I think I promised to go door to door praising him and I may have vowed to give up booze. Desperate times…

Last night in my panic I did the only thing I could think of, and called a dentist friend of a friend and had an appointment the next day.  Dr. Stacey Hughes put his tooth back on.  I defy anyone to tell me that dentists aren’t miracle workers.

So now we wait, we wait and hope it “takes”.  We wait while indebted to Dr. Hughes and if any of you see me at your door to spread the good word, please be kind.

I know you’re home.

I’ve received several phone calls and e-mails from special readers, and I thank you. I thank you and  I wonder what I can possibly follow a post like that with.

Crickets chirping.

Something upbeat, something fun, something easy because I have done absolutely nothing blog related.  Sorry about that, and thank you for sticking with me.  I’ll snap out of it, really.

Today I thought we’d pull some pork.  I’m having fun already!  Because food makes everything better, or at least that’s what I tell my love handles.

BBQ’d pulled pork is my favorite thing to cook.  It’s like turkey.  You just rub stuff on it and stick it in the oven for…like…ever, and it comes out awesome!!!  Don’t just count on my recipe, I like to change it up.  But I always include a can of root beer and lots of of slices!!

Grab the biggest pork shoulder you can find.  Even that won’t be big enough because there is tons of fat on it.  Most of the fat will melt away, the rest you’ll lick off your fingers, or it will drop on your shirt. F%$#

Rub on the shoulder

- 1 tablespoon of salt

- 1 tablespoon of paprika

- 1 tablespoon of onion powder

- 2 teaspoons of cayenne pepper

- 2 teaspoons of black ground pepper

Refrigerate overnight of you have the time.  If not, an hour will do ya.

Put 1/2 can of root beer in the bottom on the roasting pan

Mix and rub all over the shoulder.  Bake in an oven at 225 degrees forever, or overnight, whatever you want.  Grab too forks and pull the hell out of it! Keep the bone and put it in your next pot of split pea soup.  Stick it in the freezer.

Seriously y’all…look at this.  Oh, and you can talk with a southern drawl when you’re making this.  That’s the most fun.

I make a big one, and stick the rest in the freezer to have dinner in a pinch.

In the meantime, make the sauce.

Sauce

- 2 minced onion

- the other 1/2 can of root beer

- 2 cloves of minced garlic

- half cup of brown sugar

- 1/4 of mustard

- 1 cup of ketchup

-1/2 cup of rice wine vinegar.

Bring to a boil over medium heat for 10 minutes.

or you could always use store bought sauce, it is the summer after all.

Now for the assembly.  I regret that I don’t have a picture.  I sort of forget to take one and just dove in.

Take a bun, Weagles if you’re smart, blob in the pork, some sauce, some coleslaw and the top.  You need nothing else, except maybe a napkin…or two.

My very first post was in July of 2007.  You wanna know why I started writing it?  I mean really know why?  Well, it was at my mother-in-laws funeral, and you know how people come up to you after a funeral and they tell you what that person meant to them? Well, there was this woman there, and I don’t for the life of me remember who it was, but she told me how she always read Marg’s Column, ‘Egbert and I’.  It was a column about her life with her husband.   She would write about her kids; she would just call them by their age.  She would write about some of the trouble David would get into, she’d write about some of Lynn’s accomplishments, and some of the triumphs and turbulances life brings.  Anyway, the lady told me how she looked forward to this column, and how she could relate as she had kids of her own, and how she always felt there was someone else going through the same craziness.

“And what a gift it is that you all have those columns to look back on,” she said to me.

A few months later, I started this blog.  Yes, so people could relate, but also so my boys could look back on my life and their lives should they ever need to.   I thought they might read about that summer in 2010 and that was the summer they learned how to swing a club, or that year that they played novice hockey and how much fun it was, or the recipe for the meatloaf they always loved.  And maybe, they’d read this post and remember the summer that their grampy got sick.

I don’t write much about my father.  In fact writing this one sentence has taken longer than my last 3 posts put together.  He’s a good man.  A hard worker.  Helpful to everyone.  Kind eyes.  Dirty hands.  The thoughts of living in a world without my father hurts my heart, yet, I can’t say that to him.  Why? who knows.  We’re just not built like that.

I have very few childhood memories, but one I do have was when my father took me on the road with him while he drove a long haul truck for Purina based out of Canning.  He took me because I talked incessantly and would keep him awake, or so the story goes.  My sister was in school and I had not yet started, and perhaps he was giving my mother a break.  Dad would tell me that I would tell every story-tale I knew, and when I ran out I’d make up my own.  He said with me on the road with him, he never needed so much as a cup of coffee to stay awake.

The passenger seat was big enough to be my bed, and he would sleep in the cab.  We would drive to his destination and in-between we would stop at truck stops.  Places like the Turkey Burger and Mel’s Diner.  I met lots of other truckers, and to this day, I hold a soft spot for them; at truck stops, while passing them.  They’d humor me as I’d lift one end of the bag of feed and they’d lift the other.  There is no question that I made their job all the more difficult.

We talked a lot on these trips.  And we sang.

And I thought my dad was the center of the universe.

I remember my dad’s favorite song at the time was ‘The Gambler’, by Kenny Rogers.  My dad picked up many-a-hitchhiker in his day, and I can imagine he could relate to the lyrics.  He’d sing, “On a warm summers evening, on a train bound for nowhere, I met up with a gambler, we were both too tired to sleep”.  He knew every word, still does I’m sure.   Then he’d continue, “He said, “Son I’ve made a life, out of reading peoples faces, and knowing what the cards were by the way they held their eyes. And if you don’t mind me sayin, I can see you’re out of aces, for a taste of your whisky, I’ll give you some advice”.

I think back to my time in that truck with my dad and that may have been the best life experience I’ve ever received, and I was 4.

“You gotta know when to hold em’, know when to fold em’, know when to walk away, know when to run, you never count your money, when you’re sitten’ at the table, they’ll be time enough for countin’, when the dealin’s done.”

My father was diagnosed with cancer and he likely won’t be with us much longer.  He’s chosen to live the rest of his life not fighting the disease, but not surrendering to it either.   Dad refuses to allow cancer to take his last few months.

There’ll be tough times ahead for my family.  But I remember those trips on the road in that big-rig truck and I remember what dad taught us about life… and I can’t help but think we’re all going to be ok.

In the event that anyone had any doubt that I was mother of the year, let that thought be gone.

One night, on the boat, we taught our kids how to play poker.

We divided our change between the four of us.

Explained the rules and how to bluff.

That’s their poker face.

And it was only after Colin started winning all our money that we thought we might have created a monster.

Now, before you call Child Protection Services, I have an argument to make.  I know that you will find hundreds of documents to support the claim that kids and gambling is dangerous.  Tell me, what’s the difference between poker and Bingo?  My kids play Bingo at school!  There’s probably a game happening in a church hall right now. What’s the difference?  They’re both games of chance.  You can win something and lose something.  Both are gambling.

But here’s the difference:  bluffing is a skill.  Knowing when to call it a day and give up is a skill.  And spending the evening with your family, happy and excited, no one complaining or whining, not wanting to watch TV or play video games, that’s a gift.

I’ve decided to trust that teaching my kids card games isn’t going to turn them to the mafia, just like buying them a toy squirt-gun isn’t going to turn them into a murderer.

But I’ve had to promise them, I won’t wear my sun visor…anymore.

I think it was 1991.  I was playing in a regional volleyball championship in Claire.  My team, the Hebbville Patriots, stayed in a hotel, we all cut each others hair, ate chips and got ready for the game of our lives.

We made it to the final championship game.  The competition was as thick as the tension.  Nadia broke her arm…and continued to play…with a broken arm y’all…can you imagine that pain?!

Anyway, we went back and forth, a point for them, a point for us, a point for them, a point for us.  Then, in a heartbreaker, we lost.  I remember the smell in the gymnasium, the cheers from the opposing team, and the sick feeling in my stomach.  We didn’t speak.  We shook hands, gathered our things, hugged our teammates, and I hoped upon hope that I’d forget the feeling of disappointment.

I haven’t.

Fast-forward to this past weekend.  We played  in the Annapolis Valley Natal day soccer tournament.  It was hot.  I mean, really hot.  And that was sitting on the sidelines under an umbrella, so I’m betting it was especially hot for the kids.  They did great, winning all their 3 games, allowing them to go to the semi-finals.  They were tied 1-1.

There was a very small part of me that wanted them to lose that tied game.  The part that slept in a tent, forgot my shampoo, had used port-o-potties for the entire day, the part that wanted a cold beer and to sit and watch mindless TV, like Big Brother, that part sort-a wanted to call it a day.  But then, there was that other part of me that remembered what it felt like in 1991, the heartache of losing the game, the part that still remembers the smell of the gym, the cheers from the crowd and them playing “We are the champions”.    And that’s the part of me who became crazy soccer mom.  I cheered so crazy, and so loudly that if you wait a day, you may find me on Youtube.

They then went to 2-5 minute over-times.  Still, 1-1. Then to shoot-outs.  My son was one of the 4 taking shots.  Gulp.  I had my therapist on speed-dial in case he missed.  He got it in, our goalie made some dramatic saves, and we got to move on to the final game.

We lost in a heart breaker, 4-1.  The kids looked very much like we did on that day in Claire.

“You have to learn how to lose before you can really appreciate the feeling of winning,” is how I tried to reassure my sons.  They played great, they should be proud.

And just as I remember placing second in the regional championship, the hotel, the eating, the haircutting, I hope those boys remember camping with their buddies, roasting marshmallows, and swimming in the pool, the glory of getting in the penalty kick, the goalie making that beautiful save and their coach putting the medal around their neck.  I hope they’re proud of how hard they played despite the grueling heat.

We got home at almost 10pm, completely exhausted.  I had my cold beer, watched Big Brother and Colin slept wearing his silver medal.