Monday, Late January

I wish for storms.

The weather channel warns of inclement weather, heavy snow, winds. I cling to the thought of a snow day, ignoring the possibility of 2 hours spent pushing snow around in the driveway. I sleep in, anticipating transit not running, and I am happy to take the extra hour.

I wake up to a slight brisk wind, and some grainy snow in my face. I’ll be going to work.

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It’s been cold the last week or so. Bitterly cold. That cold that makes a canadian a Canadian, a hoser with toque in hand and beaver on back. It’s also the cold that makes me wish we’d accept the Turks and Caicos as a province.

My father meets me for lunch. Or rather, I sense that he’s forgotten my cell number yet again, and I go out in search of him. I hear him muttering in the distance before I see him. Sitting on the steps near the phones is an obviously homeless man-I’ve seen him around, here and there. It’s a cold cold day, and he’s warming up I imagine.

I crack a joke about my father, and smile at the man. He stares blankly back at me, and I feel it then. He might not have eaten today, and we’re trumpeting our meal, a meal we likely don’t really need, and won’t die without.

All day, all weekend I think of this man. Of what I could have done. How I’m afraid to offend, and so never ask. How I want to help, I want to, but I’m disabled by fears of hurt, fears of offense, lack of money, time. Those things that keep us apart, and really shouldn’t. I’m anchored by the sense that I wouldn’t really be changing anything anyway.

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Over the weekend, my daughters were disgustingly well behaved, making me question my sight and wonder about my abilities. Loving, helpful and giggly, so giggly, mountains of giggles. Pretend “I’m Dash, and Viv is Violet and you’re Elastigirl Mummy!” streaking through the house as I attempt to bring order to their room and their things.

She runs and runs and runs my Rosalyn, holding her big red Flash in her hand, pretending to speed through the reeds as Dash. She’ll be a track star Mogo laughs.

Hands high, voice carrying, she’ll be a star all right.

Later, we watch To Wong Foo, and Vivian is perplexed.

“Why are those boys dressed like girls?” she knows right away, no question, that something isn’t what she’s used to. I try and explain that some people aren’t what you thing-that they might look like girls, but they’re really boys inside, where it counts, and vice versa.

She looks dubious. I try to convey to her that there’s nothing wrong with not falling squarely under the header of “boy” or “girl”, that there is room for a middle ground, and some margins. If she turns out to be as I am, I don’t want her to ever think that something is wrong with her because she does not sit well with either pole.

The boys aren’t afraid to be themselves, to be true to who they are I tell her. This mollifies her. Which is good, because the questions raised by watching Marie Antoinette were much more than I was ready to answer.

We watch a bit of Austin Powers later, a treat for her, and she laughs and laughs and laughs at Mini-Me, and the sheer joy and pleasure on her tired, growing face makes the long weeks worth it.

And it reminds me that this joy should be shared.

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That’s really why I wanted a snow day. I wanted more giggles.