I tried.

Spoiler alert: I did not write every day in June. I did not even complete a full week. I fully intended to and then last night I fell asleep sometime during hour three of Poppy’s endless bedtime shenanigans and now here I am. Starting over on June 7th. 

I’m refusing to consider this a failure, though. One of my first thoughts when I woke up this morning was “I have to blog!” and I haven’t felt that way in a long time. It didn’t feel like an obligation, it felt like a spark. I’m stretching my writing muscles and it feels good.  

Stay tuned for more riveting content where I commit to something, mess it up, and then refuse to feel any shame. I’m going back to my personal blogging roots of a decade ago and it feels good. 

Trust Issues

Today is Camp Day at Tim Horton’s so after I dropped Grady at school I decided to zip through the drive-through for coffee. Camp Day is kind of a big deal, though, so there was a lineup of cars and I had lots of time to read about the new lemon Timbit. Lemon anything is my jam so when I got up to the intercom to place my order, I requested a box of assorted Timbits with lots of lemon ones. The person on the other end asked if I wanted a box of assorted Timbits or a box of lemon Timbits and in that moment I realized it was kind of a dick move of me to make special requests on Camp Day when the lineup of cars was literally backed out through the parking lot and into the street. I told them assorted would be great, pulled up and paid, and went on my merry way. 

But it reminded me of a drive-through incident I experienced probably 15 years ago, which I believe is the root of my drive-through trust issues. Tim Hortons used to have a full-sized doughnut and a Timbit called the Dutchie, a glazed doughnut full of raisins. The Dutchie was bullshit. My drive-through order always included the caveat “no Dutchies” whenever I ordered Timbits or a box of doughnuts. 

One day, I placed my order at the drive-through window, specified no Dutchies, paid, and drove away. I was blocks away before I cracked open my box of Timbits and found nothing but Dutchies. It was the day my drive-through innocence died.  

Now I am 100% that bitch who opens her bag and checks her drive-through order before driving away and I do it completely without shame. I’ve been burned before, pals. I’m not going to let it happen again (even though the Dutchie was discontinued years ago for being pure trash).

Three

Three is not my favourite kid age. When Grady was three, I’d lament that anyone who had complained about the “terrible twos” had obviously never met a three-year-old. Poppy is a week into three and she’s already outdoing her brother in the big emotions and loud opinions department. 

Three does have its perks, though. Poppy’s gone through a bit of a vocabulary boom, and the stories she tells are often hilarious. Today I picked her up from daycare and when she asked where Shawn was, I told him he got stuck in a meeting. Her eyes got wide and her voice got loud as she told me we better go save him. It took me a beat before I realized she thought he was physically stuck. 

Three is a test of my patience and my endurance, but it’s also the shortest season between toddler and big kid. I’m trying my best to savour it and focus on the funny bits so I don’t grind my teeth into dust. 

National Cancer Survivors Day

Today is National Cancer Survivors Day and you will be shocked to hear that I have some feelings about this day.

On one hand, I see the value in celebrating survivorship. I have benefited from the visibility of other survivors, and I’ve been told by others that being transparent with my story has helped them. Hope, when paired with a healthy dose of pragmatism, is a valuable tool when facing a diagnosis. I think talking about cancer openly removes some of the fear and misinformation. Cancer doesn’t always mean a death sentence.

But sometimes cancer is a death sentence and celebrating National Cancer Survivors Day feels a bit itchy and uncomfortable when I start to think about all the people who aren’t here today, who don’t get to call themselves a survivor, who receive the unfortunate label of “lost their battle with *insert type of cancer here*.”

This post by Lisa Bonchek Adams is forever etched on my heart, especially this line:

When I die don’t say I “fought a battle.” Or “lost a battle.” Or “succumbed.”

Don’t make it sound like I didn’t try hard enough, or have the right attitude, or that I simply gave up.

Today I’m thinking about my fellow members in this crappy club no one wants to be a part of, and remembering those who would give anything to be part of this club if it meant one more day with their loved ones.