If I resell my soul can I be well again?

Until this fever breaks I'm trying to move slowly. In this house when we get sick we really get sick. We need to just not get sick right now. As long as Henry's getting better (and he is, though he coughs so) the rest of us can muddle through.

Tomorrow is Father's Day, the day (like every other day) when the boys step in to big shoes and continue (as they always have) to be dads, positive male role models and big brothers, hunkles and good friends to my kids. Our kids. Their kids, in some cases, and better late than never. Kids that have been stolen for their own (right Caleb?) and kids who never for a moment felt fatherless and I am ever grateful, ever floored by that. I'm throwing a big communal lunch, which is the perfect thing to do when one is very ill and has pledged to move more slowly, right? I thought so. To make life simpler and more breathtaking we'll eat outside on the patio and we will have mountains of pancakes and tea, fresh maple syrup and blueberries to toast to the dads, the boys, the brothers, the saviours. The rescuers. The holder-uppers. The ones who are here and have stuck by us, thick and thin.

That's what you do. You mark the moments and you mark the people that bring meaning to them. Thank you boys for bringing meaning to ours. To theirs. They need you, I need you, and you never let us down. And for that I raise my glass (half champagne/half Nyquil/all bad ideas) and salue you.

*cough*. 

(Fuck this getting sick. Just fuck it. I have parties to throw.)

Fevers and yearbooks and groceries, oh my!

Can't even look at a screen. My face hurts. The yearbook made me smile though. Henry's grown up so quickly, so quietly. You wouldn't think a giant blonde seventeen-year-old could be quiet about anything but he can be. 

Turtle princess.

First full day off and I'm running in slow motion with heavy limbs and a sour disposition, not to mention a voice that sounds like a poor radio signal, cutting out constantly with every third or fourth word, only to come back and break. I'm getting Henry's final magnificent public-school cold, something he's managed to pull off and work on getting over with room to breathe here in the middle of exams, dry graduation and his graduation ceremony. Report cards, yearbooks, end of term projects, job searches and learning how to drive.

The slow-motion part bothers me the most, in that I've had to talk myself into everything today. Like everything little thing. From putting on my necklace to brushing my hair to fixing lunch. To wondering if I should have tea and then deciding it was too much work but not wanting to ask anyone else to make it for me.

I wanted to go sit out on the front porch but I need to start dinner. I wanted to draw a little but it's late and that's always one of the things I covet for the perfect moments. I trashed my last painting without finishing it and I feel so unmotivated and unsuccessful right this moment it's hard to blame it on the impending arrival of this cold or on the end of a huge part of my existence (youngest child finishing up public school after being in the system since 2005. That was the year Ruthie started grade two. That was the year I gave up homeschooling. Ironic but I don't count that as a failure or something I dropped out of, moreso it was a decision to give her things I couldn't, including independence and individuality. Henry quickly followed her, though he's had two extra years of school thanks to being enrolled from Kindergarten. Is this how I'm supposed to feel now that they're about finished? Tired? So tired I could sleep while I drive, cook or clean?

Maybe it is.

Naw, it's just the cold. Lochlan says it from the back step where he sits working on getting the old barbecue up and running again even though we've aready got a new one. He coughs before he finishes his sentence. I guess it's going to be a quiet weekend.

The losers.

This should have been easy. I have my hands behind my back. It's cool in the air conditioning. This sundress doesn't have pockets. I am disappointed, surprised and a hundred dollars poorer as I bring my hands forward to give Joel his payout. I came prepared. It's in American one dollar bills. Only seventy-five of them, thanks to the exchange rate. A nice thick half-inch stack. Because if you can't win a bet, at least be an asshole about it.

Joel laughs. It pays to support the underdogs.

Total fluke, I repeat. I learned my lesson. Six Stanley cups already, one won in my lifetime even (unlike my beloved Leafs), so the Bruins should have been a natural inevitability instead of a glaring jolt and so I was cocky.

Lochlan warned me not to bet actual money. I never listen to him of course, generally reaping hundreds from the boys since they make bets with their dicks instead of their brains.

I did that tonight, I guess. I made a bet using my dick as a compass and it pointed me in the wrong direction. Stupid thing. Clearly it's broken so good thing it's imaginary.

I hand him his money and he laughs out loud. At least it isn't pennies. 

I tried to get them. I also tried to get you a hundred dollars worth of marshmallows but I didn't have enough notice.

He laughs harder. This is fine. I think. 

One by one everyone pays him. The odds were so crooked here, and he was the only one willing to stake his cash on a team that's never won before. PJ hands over a gift card to the Keg for a hundred bucks and wipes away a tear.

Lochlan hands him a stack of fifty two-dollar scratch cards.

Ben gives Joel a crisp fake one hundred, waiting for him to notice the fact that Justin Trudeau is on it. Joel absently puts it into his wallet and thanks Ben for not giving him a hay bale, as once threatened.

Look at the bill, Ben says.

Joel gives him a withering look. It's fake isn't it? 

Ben claps him on the back. The hay bale is behind your car. I can help you load it in whenever you're ready. PJ can help. We can cut it in half if we need to, right PJ?

PJ  nods. He is full-on crying now. Aren't we something.

Snap. Crackle. Fuckit.

Okay, so I quit today. Lasted fifteen months all told. I won't be detailing the reasons but I also didn't share the reasons with my employer, telling them only that I was moving on to new opportunities.

What opportunities? How much they paying you?

Double. I smile gingerly and keep polishing spoons. They're always water-spotted. I cringe when I give them out.

Oh.

He doesn't say much more. He comes back an hour later and asks if I'll come back someday.

Maybe, I lie. Depends.

You should come back.

I almost felt sorry for him but then I remember that straw, the one that broke the Bridget's back and the one that sent me straight to his desk to give notice.

When I got home everyone was ready with the hugs. Long comforting hugs. Can't believe you lasted that long hugs. What took you so long hugs. You okay hugs. Let's burn your uniform hugs. The best one was from Lochlan who rocked me in his arms, the I can't wait to spend more time with you hug. That was definitely the greatest one.

Merchant of hearts.

I set my price and they paid. I didn't have to stand on a busy corner harkening for the most desperate of cries, able to reach in through my ribs and pull out exactly what they needed, right down to fit, colour and value. I didn't have to work hard at it, for it was something that came naturally. I wouldn't have chosen this path but when I looked down the alternatives this one chose me, pushing me along, tripping me with it's heavy claustrophobic vines and rocky footing, igniting my fear of its darkness.

And then I realized it would show me the way back. And as I trudge along, dragging this heavy case of hearts, given freely in exchange for certain immortality I smile to myself, because I'm almost home.

***

Ben wakes up at the crack of For Fucks Sakes this morning and with that, the day begins. I don't know what it is about Ben where if he gets up for whatever reason that's it for everyone in the bed but it's almost as if the sun rises and sets by him.

Because it fucking DOES.

So it's eight in the morning and I've done two loads of laundry, fed and walked the pets, done the budget (personal and household), written for a while (not here), made lunches for tomorrow, organized all the fans and such (in summer they turn counterclockwise to push air down for maximum effect. Did you know that? I thought I might but BC Hydro confirmed it in an email. Of course I subscribe. I won the 10% less challenge last year and earned a $50 credit on our December bill. That's how awesome I am) and switched to summer quilts on our bed at least. I'll do the kids' beds later when they wake up and encourage the others to switch if they haven't. I checked the garden (watermelons, carrots and radishes in the lead!) and noticed PJ was up and out back practicing his golf swing (he's golfing this evening). Ben took a tea downstairs to work, I ate the last scone and Lochlan is having a forty-five minute shower right now. That or he fell asleep in there. I don't think we're going to church. Sam can give me a drive-by baptism later if he needs to. And then maybe he can take this case off my hands and find a safe place for it. It's much to heavy to carry by myself.

Three weeks.

That's a timeline I've given myself. Three weeks. To accept that things will be a lot busy and a little crazy and just to give myself space to take deep breaths and finally learn that it's definitely okay to suggest everyone find a bagel or cereal or take my damn designated night already if they are hungry for a meal that I'm supposed to cook and haven't yet. To learn that it's still okay to call in sick if I have to because things are too busy or too fragile or I'm too tired. To learn that sleeping pills are okay once or twice a month if I must. That things will get done and if they don't, odds are I'm the only one who's going to notice. To confirm that I don't care who wins the Stanley Cup once the Leafs are out of the running and that it's okay to be a particular team fan if not a full-on hockey fan these days. To look forward to the huge list of horror movies I plan to watch this summer because I'm so far behind.

To not care about basketball but desperately want to have some We The North merchandise because I am a proud Canadian, after all. Yes, even if I don't watch basketball. Right now my casual clothes are all band t-shirts and hoodies and plain black leggings. It's so boring but also funny because I can go to the grocery store in my best Goatwhore shirt and be surrounded by people in high-cost athleisure wear judging me up the wazoo and you know what?

I don't care. And that's okay. I don't have to learn that lesson though. I already did.

I need to care less and self-care more. I know this. We said goodbye to our guests this morning. Two night visits are the best. Just enough time to catch up and get ahead without feeling as if your space is shrinking. We need to go grocery shopping again but PJ, Ben and Henry are going to look after it.

I learned to let them, even though they just buy chocolate everything. Sometimes that's okay too.

But in three weeks my insular world should open up a little more with the promise of a slightly less intense pressure. The grip that life has on me will lessen slightly and I'm going to learn to be a little bit selfish. Everyone should be once in a while if it means self-preservation and regaining the ability to push through the tougher parts of life.

I'm so slow with the lessons though. Takes me forever. 

They're from Denmark. Oops.

I think the rain might hold off for a little bit longer. Which is good. Our guests weeded the garden, did all of the landscaping, detailed all of the vehicles and then cleaned the house top to bottom. With five of them (and us) working the whole thing was finished in under three hours and we have grand plans to invade some poor pub for beer and not-beer-but-pop and chicken wings this evening before returning to watch movies in the theatre.

A relaxing day, finally. I'm so tired. It's very nice to have company when you don't have to lift a finger.

They brought us real halloumi.

Blueberry scones and biting wind mark this Thursday, the scones only present because Ben's friends are here for a couple of days from uh..Oslo? Turku? and Ben went and did a quick grocery shop because there are five of them and they're going to eat everything.

They always do, except now they eat like Ben. Instead of cigarettes, broken glass and women, they eat whole grains and vegetables. They juice. Instead of drugs they weigh legumes and instead of dealers they have grocers who know them by name.

It's kind of nice. And they've always been a respectful, sweet bunch who manage to pull off one major renovation every time they show up. One year they cleared out all of the deadwood from the three properties and neighboring woods. One year they painted five bedrooms in a day. One year they did a months' worth of freezer meals for all of us. All of us. Freezer meals for fifteen people. It was amazing. Especially since toward the end of this particular project they discovered we don't have a deep freezer and so everything was divided up between the other houses and I don't think I ever did see any of the food but the boys next door didn't have to cook for months.

They like the pool though I doubt it will be warm enough to use it during their stay. They love Ben, love seeing him so content. Love the property and all the boys. Love seeing Duncan and Daniel too Love visiting with Corey and Dylan. Love seeing the kids grow up. They love me too, being supportive and also weirdly talkative, as if they want to impart as much comfort as they can into each visit.

And it's getting a little crazy around here. It may be this way until Saturday afternoon, but I will see if I can get time to post. If not just know I'm somewhere on the point wrapped in a blanket, listening to death metal and eating cheese.

Holy.

Lochlan did indeed find me last night after finishing off his whiskey. I was pulled down and turned over, his hands around my knees, pulling them apart, putting his face between them, making me squeal with the sleepiest joy you can wake up with, I think, if you were to put it to a vote. He was relentless, violent even. He got an unfortunate knee to the face at one point because me being flat on my back apparently wasn't good enough and he didn't seem like he thought this through so by the time he was really off and running (with me in tow) I was sitting up and he was flat on his back, and I don't know if you've ever sat on the face of a Scottish man, but they still have an accent. You can't quash it, literally or figuratively.

Because they talk. All the time. Constantly. I was a human megaphone only it was muffled and I had no idea what he was going on about, clearly yelling into the wrong end.

But I enjoyed whatever speech he made. Probably something about William Wallace and freedom. Maybe something about Independence or smartphones ruining the mystery of Loch Ness.

He finally throws me back down to the bed and declares me conquered.

What the fuck ever! I'm nothing of the sort. 

Give me five more minutes. 

Five minutes? You can't conquer someone in five minutes! 

But 1) I'm still drunk and b) of course he can.

Done and done.

Slept like a baby again last night. I did not wake up hungover. The Collective made bets. I can't drink wine. It's unpredictable. But at least it's fairly harmless.

Like you, Lochlan says, and smashes a kiss against my forehead.

Did you wash your face? I ask him.