I set up a Facebook profile ages ago thinking I would use it once and a while to stay in touch with some of the people I grew up with. It was a way to remain connected even though we’re really no longer in each other’s lives; to remain in the past while life quickly spins into oblivion and before we know it, we’re 30 and have no idea where the past ten years have gone.

I am notorious for updating my status for a day and then leaving it sit for weeks or months on end. Every time I load and refresh that website, I get nostalgic seeing the people I was friends with all those years ago. People who, at the time, were my world. People whom I spent hours upon hours with each and every day for the better part of my formative years. Those that had a significant part in molding me into the person I have become.

The only way I have kept in touch with those people has been through a volatile website which has come under fire for sharing and using our data to their advantage. Not very promising, is it? And it’s not even that I’ve managed to keep in touch with anyone through that website, but instead have managed to creep on their pages, view their photos, and for fear of being too overzealous, I comment sparingly on events in their lives. A few seemingly heartfelt congratulatory messages when someone posts photos of their nuptials or a birth of a baby. Not very personable, is it?

Last night I spent hours looking through photos belonging to those who were a huge part of my life so many years ago. Some of them barely even recognizable, after all, ten years in a long time – especially during the transition from adolescence to adulthood. Had their names or vital information not been included in their profiles, I am almost certain I would not have known it was my long lost friend had we passed on the street. That breaks my heart; the fact that these people, once so very important to me, have become strangers save the history we share.

Facebook has become the bane of my existence. I crave the ability to check and see that a former lover has married, a former best friend still remains that flighty lovable person I remember. That one of my (many) high school crush(es) is still as adorable as ever. What saddens me is seeing those whom have remained friends after all these years and I have been absolutely horrible at keeping in touch. All those relationships which have grown and changed over the years no longer include me. Most of that is my fault. As years have gone by I have become more and more reclusive. I’ve avoided reunions and gatherings. I almost never go back to my hometown to see friends who still live there. They’ve been asking me to come visit and for some reason, I just don’t. Though I long to have even a minute portion of my past life back, I make no effort to make it happen.

I found out a couple months ago that my high school is to be demolished. Years have been unkind to the old building. Its population has decreased to the point it makes more sense for such a small town to amalgamate all the schools into a simple K – 12 school and rid The Board of these older dilapidated structures which are unkempt and underused.

I’ve thought long and hard about trying to host a final class reunion in our old school gym; something along the lines of a 1995 Dance Party. As much as I’d love to do something I’m just not the planner type person. I have no idea where to start or how to even initiate something of that magnitude. Instead, I fear I will sit back and watch as the old high school is demolished and wish I had done something.

Similar to what I have been doing over the past ten years: watching from the sidelines as old relationships slip further and further into the past.

I’ve been staring at the blinking cursor for days. It mocks me with each flicker of black; motionless yet unrelenting. It taunts me.

I don’t feel much like writing today, but I have to get something – anything – out to clear the dust from my mind. I used to keep a journal when I was growing up. I would write for hours about nothing and everything.

Sometimes those entries would turn into mountainous stories of untruths just for the sake of writing. I would elaborate anything and everything in hopes that someday they may become truths.
The Boy I crushed on would realize just how irresistible I really was and we would run away together. The girl I disliked would lose her hair and gain mounds of zits and everyone would hate her.

(Ya, I was shallow like that.)

I only wish that I had kept some of those embarrassing tales to re-read now. I’ve kept quite a few things, but for some reason, those stories – as well as MY stories – never remained. All I have now is what has been committed to memory where I can only hope they persist for a long time to come.

As years go by I’ve begun to feel a sense of obligation to my marriage in that holding on to some of the old keepsakes from past relationships seems as though I long for what I had as opposed to what I do have. When we moved from our apartment to our current home, I unearthed a box of mementos from a past relationship. When I raised the lid, I was flooded with emotions from my once high school romance.

There were old ticket stubs, bottle caps, letters and pictures. Items I hadn’t seen in a few years and some I had forgotten about completely. As I held up a bottle cap, a smile cross my face as I remembered why I had kept it in the first place.

Feelings crept back that I thought had long been buried. A longing for what once was, a passion for the past became too difficult to bare.

I threw out that box during that move.

I have nothing left of that time in my life which shaped me and made me who I am today.

And while we’re packing and purging, preparing for yet another – hopefully our last – move, I’ve been clinging helplessly to items which remind me of other past moments. Items which really hold no significant value except in six degrees of separation.

Mike’s long accused me of being a pack rat. He is not one to hold onto items that in some way remind him of a time in his past. He’s not a sentimental person at all, therefore, he can’t understand why I have hospital bracelets from the kids, or their first hats stowed away in my night table. He doesn’t comprehend how saving the paper from their birthdays is of any importance.

(Those are the important items I’ve kept, of course.)

To him, my need to hold on to parts of the past is a nuisance and a hindrance on moving forward.

I see it as reflection, a lifetime is a long time and one cannot be expected to commit it all solely to memory.

Because of that, I regret tossing the box of items which held the key to my high school relationship. It’s not that I’m longing for that time, or the fact that I miss it, but the memory of it is what’s important to me and I fear that in ten, or twenty years time I won’t remember anymore as bits and pieces have already been lost. Because of that I am finding myself needlessly clinging to items this time around.

Needless to say, in twenty years I may be owning self-storage units across the city as my children move throughout their life stages.

Look, at that. Guess I did have something to say afterall.

I dreamt of you last night. It’s been happening more and more frequently which has been driving me crazy because I can’t understand why, after all these years, a simple dream can bring back all those feelings of first love. Those heart wrenching pains which I don’t think can ever be forgotten. The love. The heart break. The loss.

Hit with the pangs of nostalgia, I think about what could have been. How happy we were and if that would still be the case. Would we have survived if we gave our all? Would we still be together? Would we have the fun and laughs we shared back then – would they still be part of our everyday lives? What if I had opened up more; told you how I really felt. Would it have made a difference or would the outcome have been the same?

I can’t help but think about those “what if’s” each time your face crosses my mind. As I remember those butterflies, the longing, I can’t help but want it again. How holding your hand was all I needed. The somersaults of my stomach when you so much as glanced at me. The way my heart would leap into my throat when I heard your voice.

I wanted to be with you so bad. Forever.

Sometimes I think I still do.

Sometimes I feel as though I owe it to myself: to just pick up the phone and pour my heart out. But what good would that really do seeing as we’re both married? I don’t think I even want anything to come of it. I just want you to know that I am continually dealing with this angst of lost love and dammit, if I have to suffer so should you.

I keep telling myself that it was good while it lasted, but it’s over. It will never again be as it was.

My heart won’t believe me.

Apparently neither will my brain because it keeps sending my heart these loving messages of Some Day keeping me longing for That Day. My subconscious works overtime to keep those feelings alive. To keep you alive. To keep the longing alive.

I guess I just want to know if you think about me. Do you have those same feelings rushing back out of nowhere flooding your heart so quick it’s impossible to catch a breath?

Because I do.

Oh God do I ever.

Growing up I was never really counselled in the ways of becoming an adult. Everything I learned about sex, periods, babies, shaving, drugs, smoking, even make-up was learned along the way. I suppose my mom was shy about having those conversations because we NEVER had them.

I remember when I had my first visit from Aunt Flow; I told my mom that I thought I may have started my period as I trust a pair of stained underwear in her face.

OMG I can’t believe I told you that. Seriously, I was twelve. It happens. That’s life; lets move on.

Her reaction; “Yup, you got your period.” then stood up walked away, and returned with a bundle of Kotex in her hand.

That was it. Nothing more. Ever.

I began dabbling in make-up when I was about 14 years old. I remember the older girls wearing blue eyeliner and I wanted to too. I stole a tube from my mom’s make-up drawer and snuck it into my room.My heart raced while I quickly shut the door behind me and help my breath. I walked to the mirror and began testing my technique, then wiped every trace of it from my face when I was called for dinner.

Once the application technique was perfected, I felt I was ready to face the older girls as school. I proudly applied this awful blue eyeliner, only to my bottom lashes before heading to school. I walked from my room and came face-to-face with my mom.

“Get that shit of your face. You’re not going to school like that.” was her response.

I was heartbroken that after all that effort I was shot down so. I refused. As I ran to grab my school bag my mom as yelling after me – I can’t remember what – but I remember the hot tears that stained my face as I ran from the house and towards my bus stop.

I remember that I was too embarrassed I was crying to wait for the bus and walked the entire way to school that day. My eyeliner was gone by the time I got there from wiping away the tears. Instead, I had a messy tear streaked face as the principal met me at the front doors.

“Your mom called, she was worried that you weren’t coming today. Do you want to talk about anything?” he said as he eyed my red face fresh from crying.

“No, it’s okay” I said calmly.

“You know Sam. You don’t need to wear that make-up anyway. You’re a beautiful young girl and in time you can wear all the make-up you want, even though, you don’t need it.” He said as he placed his arm on my shoulder. I leaned in and hugged him, thanking him for being so nice.

“You can wait in my office if you’d like while you calm down. I’ll go to the class and let your teacher know you’re here.” He said as he lead me to the couch in the office.

“Thanks.” I didn’t look up at him.

When I got home from school my mom made me hand over the eyeliners I had taken from her. I handed her two of the three I had taken without anymore than a glace at her. I was so embarrassed that she had told the principal about this and mad that she wouldn’t even talk to me about it – like every other issue it was swept under the rug and ignored.

I don’t know when or how, but I started wearing make-up shortly after that because I can remember applying lipstick in the girls washroom the day of my grade eight graduation pictures.

To this day I still love wearing eye make-up the most. Mascara is my vice.

Sexy time!

That’s the best I can do at giving you my sexy face. Though, it looks more like I’m giving you the Stink Eye.

I’m giving away a tube of L’Oreal Double Extend Beauty Tubes Mascara at my review blog Glamorous Geek – whether you’re the winner or not, there’s a discount code for you to get $5 off a tube for yourself!

My great-aunt seems to be doing much better since she’s been staying with my Aunt M and her family. Having family around constantly has played a big part in helping her “recover” from her grief. Having people manage her meals, sleep and medication has greatly impacted her ability to cope.

I’ve been so affected by the events of this past week that I completely crashed today. Thankfully Mike was home for the day due to the weather. He took both boys out with him to run some errands as well as spend a couple hours at an indoor playground. They weren’t out of the house for more than 5 minutes before I went upstairs and fell into my bed for a five hour nap.

Emotionally and physically drained by the family drama as well as an infant who is completely against sleeping at night for more than and hour and a half at a time.

Seriously.

I’ve been avoiding talking about it with hopes that it would change, but it’s not. It’s not changing at all.

We’ve tried crying it out a few times and he’s fallen asleep on his own, but only manages to stay asleep for about 30 minutes to an hour. The minute I put him in his bed, he jolts awake and begins screaming. If I leave him scream in the crib Carter is awaken – which starts a whole new set of problems.

The instant I pick him up, his head hits my shoulder and he’s fast asleep. I rock back and forth as I slip in and out of consciousness. I beg him, I plead and pray for even a couple hours of consecutive sleep, but it seems no one can hear my pleas: until today.

Today I peacefully fell into my bed and was asleep the instant my head hit the pillow. I think I could have slept the entire day away, but had enough hours to keep the weepiness and moods swings at bay.

At my wit’s end, I decided to try the very last thing I had yet to try: placing Hudson to sleep on his stomach.

I was / am leary about it. I am terrified at even the prospect of SIDS. I *think* he’s old enough now to be able to sleep on his belly (like his mom and big brother do) and have a restful full night’s sleep.

I’ll let you know how it goes, but for now…let’s just pray that there are at least a few hours of consecutive sleep in my future.

After our first family get together in ten years, I’ve been left numb. Truths have been spoken – at least what I believe to be truths – light has been shed. The image of my past is slowly coming into focus. I’m not sure whether I should patiently wait, watching, as its images become clearer or do I look away and keep the images I have forever burned into my mind intact?

I am beginning to learn things I’m sure I was never expected to find out. I’ve asked that the veil be removed, my life not be cloaked in secrecy trying to protect me. I’m no longer a child. I want to know. I need to know.

For the past three days, my newly re-found family has called on me for support as my great-aunt has not been well since her daughter’s passing (My “Aunt Liz” is technically my second cousin Liz). Her eighty-four year old mind has been affected by dementia and her health has rapidly declined over the past month. Since comprehending the passing, she quickly spiraled into grief so deep she stopped eating, drinking and sleeping.

Her husband, my great-uncle has been trying to care for her himself, while he too grieves the loss of their only child. He’s not sleeping since all his time has been spent watching and following my great-aunt as she leaves lights on, forgets that she turned on the stove or began running a bath. He’s reached his wits end.

My Aunt M called Sunday night in tears explaining what has happened and how – now more than ever- we need family to rally together. We need to help our elders as they cope with their new stage of life; a stage where they are currently preparing to move from their family home into an adult living / retirement home.

So I’ve been driving 2.5 hours round trip each day to help my eighty-four year old grandma (everyone else is working and my cousins are in school during the day) care for her sister in-law while my great-uncle does what he can to clean and organize their home.

As much as I worry about the outcome of this re-found relationship and what it may mean for existing ones, I am more than grateful that I am now there for them.

And with this sequence of events, I’ve began wondering: Why now?

I truly believe there is a reason for everything.

Maybe, without knowing it, I wasn’t ready until now.

Maybe now is finally the time I am ready to stop following blindly; now is the time I’m ready to learn about my family’s falling out; now is the time to be there because they need me more than they have before.

I think I am drawn to people who need help; I think somewhere in me, I believe I can save them whether they truly need help or not.

I had a boyfriend in high school whom I think I subconsciously believed needed just that. Me to save him. Coming from an abusive home, he was continually verbally and emotionally abused by his father. Physically even. At seventeen he had seen more violence then any child or young adult should ever see at the hand of their parent. Threats of violence could be heard on the other side of the phone most nights before he would abruptly tell me that he had to go.

I never thought about running away from that relationship. I thought I owed it him to stick it out and be there for him since he family was not.

One particular summer afternoon his father was home from a business trip and began yelling and screaming that some of the tasks he’d left in this boys’ charge had not been done. He blamed me. He said that I was the cause of this boy abandoning tasks that he was left with and that because of me he had not been contributing to the family as he should.

A screaming match ensued; I stood and walked from the room and straight outside. His mother and siblings stood by terrified to interject, as always.

I should have ran. I should have gotten in my car and left. I didn’t need to be apart of this, nor did I need this in my life.

But neither did he.

I stayed, I paced outside the house. I waited.

He emerged a little while later in full hysterics cursing his father and saying how he would love to just grab the shot gun they kept for killing gophers in the farm fields. He told me he wanted to kill his father.

I should have ran.

Never to look back.

But I stayed.

I tried to soothe him and remind him that there was only one more year before we were to leave for college, together. I tried to remind him that I loved him and that I was there for him. Always.

Stupid teenager.

Weeks passed, the tension in his home had subsided a bit. I only ever went there when his father was not expected home. This particular time, the boy had come to my house.

As we sat out front in his car we began to fight. I can’t even remember what the fight was about but  I do remember him threatening to hit me. The words stung so bad, but I quickly forgave him, blaming his upbringing for this change.

I convinced myself that it wasn’t his fault.

I convinced myself that this was okay…

What are you doing in there?! She used to yell to me as I held up in the washroom.

I’m poopin’! I’d call back.

I could sit on the toilet for hours when I was younger. Not that I had anything better to do really, aside from homework or household chores and frankly sitting on the can still sounds better then washing dishes.

I used to make a big production out of my jaunts to the washroom. I’d bring my book and plop my butt down on the toilet, sitting there until my legs went numb from the circulation being cut off by my elbows resting on my thighs. I even went through a stage where I would make sure to have my ghetto blaster (ha! I still love that term – ghetto blaster) and my favourite Madonna tape to sing along to. (Like a Prayer, by far the best Madonna, EVAH!)

Getting comfortable on the toilet always seemed to pose a problem though, the seat: hard and uncomfortable and leaning back against the tank always felt unnatural for some reason. (Apprently they’re not made for lounging. Who knew?) I’d sit sideways so I could rest one elbow on the top of the tank using that hand for propping my book. Chapter after chapter I’d just sit there and read while I – well, you get the picture.

In hindsight, there were much more comfortable places to sit and read, but for some odd reason the toilet seemed to be where I’d find the most peace, with least distractions.

Of course now, I’d do anything for solitude I used have in the washroom. Now there’s things to do and children to care for making sitting on the throne, for the most part, nearly impossible.

While Carter’s been potty training, I’ve spent more time in the washroom over the past three months then I had since I was young. I try and find comfort on the ledge of the tub or the floor while he sits practically spread eagle on the toilet. We talk, read books and laugh while we wait for him to pee. He’s become far more efficient these days, so much so that he climbs up on the bowl and is practically climbing down midstream because he remembers that he was mid-play with McQueen and company.

I’ve read and heard that the thought of pooping in the toilet can be frightening for a child – and if he’s not in a pull-up he’s not pooping, so he seems to fall right into the statistical realm of a regular toddler.

saturday morning, Mike and I decided to conserve water by having a shower together.

Don’t judge. Carter was adequately supervised by the television and the baby was asleep.

That was until I heard a shrill scream and he came running into the bathroom in tears screaming that his poo hurt him.

Yup. Constipated.

Awesome.

Off and on throughout the day he’s complained of stomach pains and how his poop can’t come out. It’s a horrible feeling when they suffer in pain like that and you can’t do anything about it, but we’ve managed to keep him drinking some prune juice and gave him a warm bath which yeilded only a teenie bit.

My first thoughts for looking for advice to deal with toddler constipation was my faithful twitters. I can’t believe I even live twittered a portion of my son’s struggles with shitting.

New low my friends. New low.

It seems the prune juice worked its magic because Sunday morning, at 3AM, Carter came creeping into our room reeking to high heavens. The smell, permeating the room let us know right away that everything was going to be alright.

And that, my friends, is my stereotypical mommyblogger post about my child’s shit.

Am. Awesome.