Six years ago today, my youngest kid married the cat in a beautiful ceremony.

There was flowers, a white veil for the bride, and a formal reading of the vows. I think even a wedding photographer was present, though I’m too lazy to try and find the photos right now.

Today, that same youngest is six years older and is right now making a special meal for her husband. I think he’s getting some canned duck.

She was only a touch embarrassed today that she married him. That I reminded her of their anniversary.

I know that these days are fading fast and soon she’ll say, “moo-om” in that way that kids do when their moms are THE WORST and make them remember their childish ways.

And I was so jealous for a moment. So hard it took my breath away.

Kids make their own realities in ways that we, as adults do not. We set aside our magic for the mundane. The jobs. The bill paying. The dental visits. The car maintenance.

In doing that, we lose our sparkle, piece by piece.

This is how things are, how they must be, put down your joy and be like everyone else.

When I tell people that I only plan on staying in Canada another 7 or 8 years, long enough to see my last kid into post secondary, they are aghast. What on earth am I planning on doing? Why do I think I can buck conventional ways, refusing to whither in age now that my most important job has finished?

Fuck. That. Shit.

I am tired of endless winters.

I said it. I mean it. Winter sucks and blows and the sooner I don’t see -35 degrees Celsius again, plus 5 feet of snow, the better.

My kids are so damn important to me but they are not my life’s work.

Why should it be my job to whither when they are grown and moved out? I fucking did my job, creating functioning adults (woot!). My youth sidetracked to wipe bums, teach manners and make sure everyone got out alive. Don’t I get to choose now?

I am in love with the slower pace I saw in Spain. I want to experience that for more than 21 days.

I want to experience the faster pace, and multiculturalism of London UK for so much longer than a few weeks.

I want to feel the world at my feet again, Paris a quick trip by train. Poland an overnight adventure.

Africa attainable.

Walking barefoot in New Zealand. (Which, if you didn’t know, Google it. I am not shitting you but this Canuck was shocked, and then entranced to see that shoes are so damn optional down under.)

My job, in being alive, is not to lose my glitter but to create my own reality. Make my own rules. Find my place, make my place, wherever it is. I just know that the collective acceptance of reality as we see it in the culture I grew up in doesn’t do it for me.

We are each responsible for our own realities, as fantastic and painful as that may be. I am currently shaking mine up to the core, on purpose, because I do not accept that the reality I’ve slipped into, spent years being resigned to, is the one I have to continue on in.

After all, if my kid can marry the cat, and take it as seriously as anything I’ve ever seen, then I sure as hell can make my own reality too.

Categories: Art