The Haptic Response Team.

Why, yes, I think I will have t-shirts made that say that.

Visually you're stimulating to my eyes
Your Cinderella syndrome, full of lies
Your insecurities are concealed by your pride
Pretty soon your ego will kill what’s left inside

(Beautiful)
It’s so pitiful what you are (Pitiful)
As beautiful as you are
(Should have seen)
You should have seen this coming all along

I got a lovely email last evening that reassured me that my brother-in-law has no interest in scaring me or ruining my life, he simply wants to maintain an unbroken, unrestricted line of sight to us because we are family. That everything is fine but frankly after considering my actions for a full month, he's decided they should be ignored. Oh and when I wrote about how well the children were doing at school, that entry served as the straw that broke the devil's back, as it were and he's afraid he might miss out.

Mortality is having an interesting effect on this man. What a lovely, public midlife crisis he is going through, because I don't think anyone has ever seen him this unraveled. He blames me. And we could go back and forth forever in public and in private and none of it would matter. He gets to see and touch us and there's not a damn thing anyone can do about it now because I have exhausted all my legal avenues and I have listened to all the ideas and I have invoked every last measure of protection I can find and it was all for nothing.

And I'm relieved but you know that and I don't believe I still have to explain it. It just is what it is. They come and they go and I am the centre axis. Lochlan likes to say I'm the singularly unpredictable haptic girl. Touch me or hell, push me and then stand back because you're going to get a different reaction every time.

I think my life would have been easier overall had they not all figured that out so damned quickly.

Oh hell, there's a million ways my life could have been easier. Regrets are better left on the side of the road, discarded and forgotten, as quick as you can, now, come on, we've got places to go!

Thirty days to breathe.

(You must be slipping.)

By virtue of having more money and more connections to a ridiculously inept justice system, and further compounded by pressure from Cole's family for me to 'do the right thing', Caleb has managed to fuck up my life beyond belief. He now has access to us again. You know, because he moved here to be close to his dead brother's wife and his beloved niece and nephew and get this, has been 'financially supporting' us since last fall, among other things. Last time I checked that was income from working for him which I don't get anymore because I thought I had finally gotten away from him.

In any case, it's been determined that he's good for us and life is great and we should all just be one big happy family and we apparently deserve no protection whatsoever because Caleb is a such a fine specimen of humanity who can single-handedly corrupt anyone he chooses, whether they want to call it that or not.

I wonder exactly how much it costs these days to bend the sympathetic ear of a judge who would rather facilitate the obsessions of a mobster instead of protecting a widow and her two young children who wouldn't hurt a fly. Maybe I'll go down there and ask. Oh wait, I just came from there. They can't answer me because they know this isn't right.

'Love You Forever' still makes me cry.

Not only am I having a devil of a time keeping my happy zig-zagging head in one spot, but at lunchtime I was informed that both my children had extraordinary numbers in the February Reading Race at their school. Extraordinary. Ruth read a third of the total page count for her grade, and Henry's class won the school contest for most pages read altogether.

In a way, I shouldn't be surprised. Cole was a reader. Ben reads constantly. And I started with them from birth every single day, reading and re-reading Are you my Mother? and Love You Forever until I was so sick of P.D. Eastman and Robert Munsch I thought I might turn blue.

We raced through the lyrical The Lorax and Green Eggs and Ham and then in one winter we covered the entire Little House on the Prairie set. We did some CS Lewis and some Stevenson too and now we're currently on book four of the Harry Potter series and that's only counting the books that get read aloud. The children go to bed at night and continue to read for as long as they possibly can, and most nights I am halfway up the steps before I hear the lights clicked off and everyone pretends to be asleep far too late for the average under-ten set to be awake.

But I'm still surprised because I thought everyone read the way we do. I always wonder how everyone else seems so together and so busy and so accomplished. Then I look at my kids and they have all the answers because they read them somewhere wonderful, and then I don't really care about everyone else anymore. Maybe we're the together ones.

This is awesome. That's all. Give Bridget her proud mother moment. (God knows, most days I feel like I'm doing everything backasswards.)

Whatever else I planned to write about can wait, for today, at least. Ben and Lochlan have gone to the airfield, Christian is here working in some sunny corner of the house with his laptop and I'm making egg salad for tomorrow and plotting new curtains and dishes because I am bored.

Not a slow news day, just a good news day. They should all be like this.

When you forget what you were going to say.

Today I sat down to write a poetic ode to something or other that involved negative butterfly photography and cherry-red lip stain but I've been ousted, since the space where I currently like write is occupied with junk.

The junk is from Ben's luggage that somehow gets emptied all over the kitchen table, much to my chagrin, but today I found something that made me laugh for half an hour and I forgot to be all mopey and damp about life just for long enough today, and that's a good thing.

You see, the items on the table are the same items that Ben hastily shoved into his suitcase in order to make his flight Thursday night. There are clothes. Everything is black and inside out and maybe covered with some diet coke from the empty bottle I also found, wrapped in a t-shirt and at one point leaking profusely. There are four pencils, eight guitar picks that are a thickness he despises, seventeen loose leaf sheets with words scrawled illegibly on the back only of each one. There's three tea bags (china black) and two snickers bars (melted and refrozen) and a stack of blank CDs. Two silver rings that should be on his fingers (not his wedding band, thank heavens) and the watch he hates wearing. A broken Nintendo DS lite and two matchbox cars that Henry gave him for luck and "if you are bored". An empty lip balm tube and a crumpled and diet coke-soaked CD insert. His phone charger. Four sharpies and yes, another pencil. A vintage John Saul horror novel that he doesn't read but it seems to go everywhere anyway. Two notepads and a picture of the kids in a huge ziploc bag, the only things in the bag worth protecting from the soda, I guess.

I know he was in a hurry but really he pretty much always goes out neat and organized and comes back to me a teenage boy. None of that was the strange part though. The strange part was the drumstick.

Bitten in half.

Just the handle end arrived at the bottom of the bag and I could ask about it but really? It doesn't surprise me in the least. He did say when he gets hungry he'll eat anything.

I think I finally believe him.

Last of the clary sage.

Or, how one city-dwelling transplanted beach girl exists in a land of obstinate Newfoundlanders and ubiquitous Americans.

This morning was busy as all get out. Christian (!!!) reappeared on my radar last evening, home from his very long time away, and we opted for a write-in this morning because wow, he's been busy and I never did slog through all of it with my red marker so he let me bring it home and I will spend the next few days giving him a hand with it.

Then church, with just about everybody and I sit in the crook of Ben's arm, jabbing him in the ribs with my pointy little elbows when he pulls out his phone and starts replying to emails halfway through the sermon and then toward the end Sam abandons his all-capable facade and tells the congregation with so much emotion in his voice that his prayers have been answered, that he and Lisabeth have reconciled and thanks everyone for their prayers and their support and I didn't even have a breath to consider how wonderful that was when I smiled so hard my cheeks hurt and tears spilled out because the happiness for them could not be contained and I didn't know and I wished so badly for that to happen, you wouldn't ever believe it. Problems are just that, problems. Things to be fixed. Things to be dealt with. Nothing is worth being apart when you love someone the way they love each other.

Selfishly, it was also a huge moment of vindication for me. I wasn't the other woman, I didn't cause their issues and I got a very long hug from both Lisabeth AND Sam as they saw everyone out. The whole neighborhood saw those hugs, and subsequently, the whole neighborhood can kiss my sweet little ass.

Sam, true to Jacob-form, is now taking on a second community minister, because just like Jacob, he wanted to come in superhuman and handle everything and the church is a soul-sucking business that will bleed you dry, burn you out and turn you over before you crawl away from it in bits and pieces. At least this one is. The addition of a second in command will greatly relieve the pressure on Sam and give them time to repair the damage that's been done. I wish them so much of everything, they deserve it.

Hell, Lis even took a hug from Ben, and she's terrified of him.

And it's March first. And I really hoped when I looked outside this morning that it wouldn't still be -30 Celsius with two feet of ice and snow still on the ground but it was and my little car was plugged in and the trucks were plugged in and everything is pretty much as I left it the last time my brain was engaged this beautifully. Present and accounted for. Fevered with spring and spring missed the memo.

And now I have the last-of-my-garden-herbs bread in the oven to go with the asparagus frittata casserole that I'm going to make shortly and lunch is going to be delicious. Even if I set a place and spring is a no-show.

Proper welcomes.

Angels on the sideline,
Baffled and confused.
Father blessed them all with reason.
And this is what they choose.

Last evening Ben and Ruth got all dressed up and went to a restaurant downtown while I fed Henry and Daniel. This morning Ruth and I ate cereal at the table while Ben and Henry took off for some pancakes down on the strip. It was Ben's idea to help undo some of the more difficult clashes that arise when he's gone for long periods and then comes home and has to fit back in to our family dynamic. It isn't easy but he had smoothed their feathers and quieted their concerns eventually. It will be a learning process for all of us.

It will trigger a new princess complex for a new generation, sure as shooting. Ruthie is doted on by the hunkles anyway. She knows how to manipulate them already. Henry just tries to fit in. But they did enjoy their one-on-one time with Ben and late last night, so did I.

I got ambushed after midnight, over ice cream at the dinner table, Ben took the bowls away and I remained at the table thinking and he returned with a kiss on the tattoo on the back of my neck, the one place that sends shivers to the tips of my toes. He slid his hands around my shoulders and continued the kiss up under my ear and I turned and rested my head on his shoulder as his capable hands pulled me out of my chair and into his arms.

We waged a silent and comical effort to rid each other of the clothing that stood in the way and then when enough of it was on the floor, he pulled me above him into his chair and goddamn it if he didn't just fool me into that coveted moment he's wanted all along. And I let him. But instead of a spectre in the doorway or the sweet and soft warmth of the past, I relished the changes of the present, the cold and angular fierceness of Ben and the strength he keeps inside for these occasions only.

When his hands went around my ears and it was only that epic strength of his keeping me from falling, I cried out and he tightened his hold on me. Before I could voice my preference we were out of the chair and tripping up the steps, kisses falling everywhere and scratches against skin leaving marks to prove it's all real and it is. Once we were upstairs under the warm blankets in the pitch blackness, Ben resumed his unacknowledged plan to take everything back and keep it.

This time when I cried out his hand slid over my mouth. This time when I flinched he held only tighter. This time when I shook with the effort and the exhaustion of the night, he was there with his arms to hold me, and not let go, not leave and not disappear into thin air like the mirage of failed rescues in my history.

This time, we got it right.

Waiting so patiently.

Open up your eyes
Take the devil from your mind
He's been holding on to you
And you're so hard to find

Nolan arrived around six-thirty last evening, a whim leading me to beg him to come into the city for dinner, to bring his guitar and some of the boys would too and I would cook and we could all just embrace the cold night and the warmth we could make within it. PJ stoked up the biggest fire that I've ever seen in the woodstove, and Nolan lapsed into an amusing blend of storytelling, punctuating the action with noises from his guitar that made me laugh.

Soon enough though, the narcolepsy that had chased me through the entire day finally caught up and I remember closing my eyes and leaning my head into the crook of Daniel's arm and hearing the music of the Eagles from Sam's fingers, giving up to the late night because even though I had received a phone call to the contrary, I assumed that based on the hour Ben wasn't able to make it on a plane after all.

I woke up when a familiar stubble brushed against my cheek. I opened my eyes and all I heard was You've had a long day, haven't you? and then he was here and I saw his brown eyes smiling at me and that was it. Lights out.

So while I get zero brownie points for properly greeting my husband after a four-day absence, he's home now and my long week is over.

Thank heavens.

The beach on the kitchen floor.

Manageable with parameters so tight others can hardly breathe, but I do very well, thank you. Open the door and a peal of dissent will rise from my throat, anguish in my eyes. Leave the light off too, if you please, because it's as close as I can possibly get to heaven when I sleep.

I'm not really sure what I'm supposed to do anymore. I think just keep on moving, one foot in front of the other and just keep a lot more to myself and open up just a little more at the same time. Loosen up but keep it together. I don't understand that.

Today I understand some small things that I've attached to. I have a huge crush on Jesse Hasek's voice this morning, I'm plotting a cake run in the morning because it's been a long time, too long, actually, since there was cake in my house. I need to call around for some prices on some work for the house that can't be done by my jacks of all trades and I'm going to manage a lot of editing this morning, if I can, just to get ahead of my future plans to dominate the publishing world under my own name instead of a made-up one.

We'll be driving outside the city tonight with a telescope to take in comet Lulin. I almost wrote Lupin there. She circles the sky like a wayward toddler star and it will make me feel small and full of perspective about my life and that might last until I can fall asleep, if I'm lucky. Dreams would be nice. Longer darkness would be nice. Unprovoked happiness would be a gift and instead it's an effort and I never fully understood why I'm the one who carries this while you all walk along beside me, lighter and happy until further notice while I fight so hard to pull my mood up off the floor where it languishes.

You think time will fix that?

Then you don't know me at all.

Ben is home late tomorrow night if I'm lucky. For a while. I'm so glad because when he isn't in this house I feel that much more lost and so very alone and it just serves to magnify all the flaws that I bite back and fake some happy for him and then he's still happy instead of concerned and wow, is that ever tiring and please don't throw anything else into the mix because I just can't navigate anything but a few simple steps right now.

So conservative fatalistic optimism is what you get even though you probably came for something else. I don't understand it either. But you're here now, so you may as well come in and if you want to go to the beach with me, that would be great. I have some jars of sand and I'm going to dump them out on the floor and turn on all the lights and play music very loud like I always do and then cry because it just isn't the same and it never will be.

Keep changing your mind.
Like clouds in the sky.
Love me when you're high.
Leave me when you cry.
I know it all takes time.
Like a river running dry when the sun is too bright.

Loops of endless avarice.

I'd say your worst side's your best side
I never hurt anyone
I never listen at all

There's a huge campaign to get me to call off the dogs where it comes to Caleb, you know, since he moved here to be closer to us and to provide whatever the hell it is that he thinks we might need from him, and couldn't I try to just get along for the sake of our family? This is the guilt levelled on me by Cole's parents. Which is lovely but I'm finding here as life goes on that the role of Satan has been filled with someone new.

Lochlan.

A hundred million years ago, when I was fourteen years old and he broke up with me (wow, I just realized how incredibly LOVELY it is that I have this twenty-three year long history of rejection from this man and yet he STILL gets whatever he wants.) he promised that he would look out for me. That he would never not be annoyed by me but he loved me still. Just not enough.

Not. Enough.

Bridget likes a challenge, apparently. Or Loch does. I don't know and furthermore this is one of those things I know I'll regret writing about but again it's here inside my head and it won't leave because it's not getting better and maybe if I just empty it all out and shake the crumbs onto the floor then I can wash the jar and store it away empty and things will be okay.

Then again, maybe I won't.

There's a desperate and pressure-cooker mentality to Lochlan these days that makes me want to rip him into little pieces and scatter them in the river because he clued in sometime around after I married Ben and then Ben and I have had some agonizing growing pains and there's a lot to deal with here. Lochlan saw an opening and threw his hat in the ring. Which was too little too late and yet he still thinks he's going to pull a Jake and wear me down. Even though that isn't what Jake did. Maybe it is to an extent but it really isn't, so no. And sure, writing it out once again puts Ben in his place because the weekend was fiercely beautiful and vaguely painful at the same time.

Lochlan told me last night that Ben should have been a fling, not a commitment and that Ben got greedy and jumped for the brass ring when he wasn't supposed to. I fired back that I've had a commitment to Ben forever, that if we didn't go our separate ways after all the awful things we've done to ruin each other then we're not going to now. And for the love of God don't you come back yet again with the same song for the same dance. Fuck you.

And he brings up the damn photo again.

Which was none of anyone's business to begin with and I'm so pissed right now. They resort to going through my phone because the times I am in control of my own life they don't like it. Lochlan saw a picture of me that Ben took on the weekend and in front of me on the table are two glasses, almost empty. Wine glasses. Two of them. Which means the alcoholic isn't on the wagon and they're all mad because I didn't run from Ben, I didn't rat him out and I didn't say a single word about it. I don't plan to say any more about it here.

And wow, she's doing really good again in so many ways, exactly how much like Cole is Ben going to be? They stroke my hair and whisper that I just need to tell them exactly what's going on and they can protect me from repeating history.

I didn't ask them to. And I find it fascinating that the minute I take over my own control again and exert a tiny bit of independence they all lose their minds.

And it looks like Lochlan wrote that letter but he didn't. Caleb did and it found it's way to my inbox because his email is set up to do that, with help, so that I would have records if he tried to contact any of my friends behind my back. And I'd like to know exactly what Caleb did for Ben that helped further Ben's race to my heart and I'd like to know what Loch thinks he's going to achieve by tearing Ben down almost continuously, as always, in my eyes and I'd really like to know why if I did everything right on the weekend, by not saying a word while Ben sat in front of me and drank wine, not berating him, not helping him get any, not making it my problem and instead focusing on getting what I wanted out of my weekend with him, then why do I feel so helpless when it comes to him? Clinging to the times when he's here and fearing for him when he isn't?

But not lost, oddly enough. And that is what makes Lochlan so crazy.

He can't fix a damned thing and oh, boy, does he ever hate that helpless feeling. Tell me about it. So instead he tries other methods. No more yelling, just his glassy-eyed affirmations that I no longer indulge in because life didn't turn out that way. We're reduced to whispers at four in the morning because we can't just fucking drop it already. Just take what I can give you and let the rest go. Jesus Christ, I need to get off this endless loop.

Enough already. You got Ben's supposed role, take it now and play it to the fullest.

Bridget, it was always supposed to be me, and instead I let you go.

There's no room for you here, anymore, Lochlan, why won't you just go?

Is that what you want? Because you keep saying it, Bridget and yet here we are. So you tell me, is that what you really want?

No.

I'm a coward.

A photo begat a letter.

Didn't write it, didn't receive it, don't have permission to post it. Doing it anyway.

Don't kid yourself that things are different now. The eyes are on both of you but it's such a helpless feeling to watch her. She's like a wounded bird. In her eyes it's there. It follows you. It makes you feel inadequate but larger than life at the same time, doesn't it? She wants you to make it better. She wants you to make her safe. Take away all her worries, repair the damage somehow. She has full confidence that you can. That you will. Don't forget who helped you get to this place where this is even possible.

It's a helpless love she gives you and you're exploiting that, deferring her needs but she doesn't withdraw from you. She didn't ask for what she wants, though. She doesn't point out your shortcomings, they're dragged from her. She is always so fucking slow to give up her secrets or tell yours. She is smarter than this. So are you.

You don't even care. What you care about is touching her skin and capturing her heart so that it can be yours. Are you mad? Are you really this stupid? You should be running but instead you're drawn to her like a moth to a flame and you don't change as much as you adapt to this fucked up life, only you're making it worse. You have no idea how lucky you are. None of them ever did, why should you be different? You should have taken what you wanted and moved on.

So now you hold the biggest responsibility of your life in your arms. Smarten the fuck up or live to regret every breath you've ever taken because if you let go of her again, I'll kill you.