Eighteen years.

Eighteen years is a full-grown person, graduated from high school and ready go off to college, spend a year tripping around Europe, or working some shitty job, wondering what's next. 


Eighteen years is a lifetime of memories: albums stuffed with photographs, closets full of childhood art projects, boxes of old stuff in the attic. 


Eighteen years is the leaping-off point, the moment you are ready and expected to go out and taste life, which generally means you will fuck up royally, live to tell the tale and hopefully be better for the experience.


Eighteen years is feeling like you've lived and not yet knowing that you haven't.


Eighteen years is eighteen long years ago, but is also right behind my eyelids. I swear if I'm quiet enough I can hear your voice. 


Eighteen years is the reminder that they will never know you and I will never know you beyond the ridiculously young man that you were.


Eighteen years is the age I was when you died and now I'm looking back, wondering how it's possible that I'm a thirty-six year old woman who hasn't seen her brother in eighteen years.


Eighteen years is not enough time to be used to the fact that you are gone. 

I didn't say a word.

I had absolutely no input and I didn't say a word; I just kept 

pressing the shutter and this is what happened.

The captions were my idea; Sonja was not actually trying to pose, she was

 just talking to herself and playing with Peter's hat.

Time lapse: approximately two minutes...

The "top o' the mornin'."

The "no pictures, please."

The "pay your respects."

The "of course, silly me!"

The "whaddidyousay?"

The "do you like seafood?"

The "woe is me."

The "back off, it's mine."

The "OK, enough of this."

The "give me a minute while I think of some more."

The only "real" girl.

When I was small, I was sure that I was alone in the world, because I knew in my bones that everyone around me was wearing a mask; they were not who they appeared to be. If I could go back in time, I would find out when I first saw the film Planet of the Apes, because I was convinced that underneath their fleshy facades, everyone except me was an ape-like creature.


When I say everyone, I mean everyone; even my Mom and the rest of my immediate family. Similarly to how some kids believed that their toys came alive when they left the room (yes, that notion existed before Toy Story), I sincerely believed that when I exited a room, all the apes shed their strange costumes. I distinctly remember rushing into rooms that I had left seconds before, trying to catch these beasts by surprise before they could finish squeezing back into their disguises.


The interesting thing to note is that I was not afraid of being surrounded by bizarre ape-slash-humanoids. In fact, I don't recall being distressed that I was the only "real" girl in the world, I was merely certain of the fact and amused that everyone was so diligent in keeping up the charade. It became a game: I would try my hardest to catch them uncloaked and they would do their best to keep from being found out. It was almost ridiculous that they didn't realize I already knew their secret; they were working tirelessly for nothing. The question is how did I find out in the first place? If I had to guess, I would say the entire concept came to me in a dream, one that should likely have been a nightmare, but was softened and de-villainized in the expanses of my young, imaginative brain. I'd like to say "you can't make this stuff up", but in this case...


The last time I remember living with the ape-people, I was around five-years old. I think this is significant, because it coincides with my entrance into Kindergarten. I'm pretty sure that once I started school, my mind was stimulated enough to switch gears and start focusing on the realities in my world, rather than the things I merely believed in; the ape-people were entertainment and school, social games and real life were serious business. Interesting that once I saw other people as "real" people, I began to learn what masks truly were.


I often think back to being four- or five-years old, so convinced that I was the sole human in a world of impostors. Shouldn't I have been the one trying to hide and disguise myself from them? Why were they so afraid to show themselves? And what would the answers to these questions say about the kid I was and the woman I am now? Truthfully, I don't want to know; any attempt at explanation would just ruin a fond, if admittedly weird, childhood memory.

Photo essay: Little painter.

Hold my hand and we'll look at the fish.

Sonja and Ana: bestest friends. 

Also known as: cutest thing ever.

100 words: No comfort.

Renee left when the phone rang. She slipped out the door, got on her bike and coasted silently down the driveway. Fuck that, she wouldn't talk to him. No one could force her.

When she was ten, her bike was magic, taking her around the world and beyond. Now it just mocked her and she ended up only at the last places she wanted to be.

The night felt too dark and as she looked up, the street lamp on the corner turned on. Renee smiled, but the light held no comfort; her smile was simply in honour of coincidence.

Little terrier.

The perspective in these photos perfectly illustrates what Haven believes to be true: she is, in fact, a big girl. If Haven were a puppy, she would be that spunky little terrier with the loveable personality who is sure she is bigger than the Great Dane. 

Yap, yap yap.

100 words: Faded ballpoint.

"Thomas, you were looking at something in that book during the test."

"No Ma'am. I wouldn't cheat."

"Please open your textbook and show me what you're hiding."

"It's nothing, Ma'am."

"Nothing because you didn't cheat, or nothing because you don't want to get caught?"

Thomas looked down. Dirty shoes. His ears were burning; he knew she was looking at them.

He handed her his textbook.

She flipped through and pulled out a dogeared napkin. It read Mommy loves you in faded ballpoint.

"Oh..."

"Can I go, Ma’am?"

She handed him his book and nodded.

"Thomas-"

But he was already gone.

Trajectories.

Sometimes I talk about my kids and I think, “Holy shit, I have two kids.” When Sonja was a baby, I used to think, “Holy shit, I’m a Mom.” I've grown used to the idea of motherhood, now it's the reality of my kids' existence that blows me away. 

As a friend pointed out today, once you start referring to them as kids and not babies, you realize that they are their own little people, out there in the world, separate from you; they’re on their own trajectories and all you can hope is to guide them a little. 

More than that, you hope they'll let you.

The spell.

When she's awake she is all wiggles and grabbing and screeches and mischievous giggling. She never stops moving and never stops trying to get anything and everything you don't want her to have. You almost can't imagine her ever being this still. I can't, which is why I needed photographic proof.

Look at her. She's probably dreaming about finally getting her mitts on the remote control, or figuring out how to get the cap off the glue stick. In her dreams she is huge and we are all her tiny servants, but she is far from being a heartless master; she showers us with lots of sloppy, snotty kisses and vice-grip neck hugs. Huh... her dreams and my reality are uncannily similar, aside from the size thing.

And then she's awake and the spell is broken. Well, somewhat broken. I won't be cheesy and go on about how she has me under her spell or wrapped around her finger or whatever. You get it.

Dancing in the air.

I wasn't sure if I would remember how to make those accordion-style paper dolls, but I was fairly certain that I would screw them up. Once I made them, I realized that the words "accordion-style" should have given me a clue about how they are made. ...Sometimes I wonder how I make it through the day with this brain.

Sonja and I taped the dolls to the window and later on I thought they would make a nice photo. I took a couple shots and then Sonja started getting into the frame, trying to get a closer look at the dolls. My initial reaction was, "Sonja, could you get down for a sec while Mama takes a picture?" But I stopped partway through the sentence and changed it to, "Sonja, could you get up and try to touch the dolls?" I have to be careful to not mention taking her picture, because once I do, she usually doesn't want to oblige. Ah, three-year-olds.

There is something so whimsical about seeing Sonja in silhouette against the sky, reaching up to those paper dolls. The dolls look like they are hovering, or dancing in the air; they look like they are trying to play with Sonja too. TImes like these, you know you are just lucky to be in the right place at the right time.

Not a bad idea.

The magic of eating with a group of their peers; it never ceases to amaze me. At home, particularly with Sonja, we have to remind her over and over to keep eating and practically have to beg her to stay at the table to finish her meals. But sit her down with a bunch of other kids, and she'll eat and eat with absolutely zero coaching.

And it's also astounding to watch Haven and Sonja eating side-by-side without any drama. No pushing, no grabbing, no screaming and crying. They just hang out and eat and pretty much leave each other alone. It's downright magical.

Maybe I should just invite a bunch of their friends over everyday for supper. And breakfast and lunch. Hell, maybe a few of us Moms should get together and we can all host meals on a rotating schedule so that our kids can eat together and make our lives easier. That's actually not a bad idea.