All That and Then Some

ALICE - Just Eat It

I TWIST SWEATILY INSIDE the duvet cocoon that I'd spun around myself after Vic crept out of bed to go for his morning run. He's an avid exerciser, and no amount of chiding, mockery or eye-rolling on my part will ever convince him that it's completely ridiculous to work out EVERY SINGLE DAY. I'm a big believer in moderation — especially when it comes to things that I don't personally like to do.

I wouldn't care except that his daily, crack-of-dawn alarm wakes me, dragging me out of sleep hours before I need to be up. On weekdays, I just get up and open the cafe extra early, but this morning I was disappointed to remember that it's Saturday. I'm not needed at the cafe on weekends. In fact, I'm discouraged from coming in at all. Natalie, our cafe manager, and our part-time staff (all former street kids gaining work experience) take care of the weekend shifts. We have it very much in hand, she assures me whenever I drop in just to check up, needy as a helicopter parent. Go spend time with your family.

Only, the more years that go by, the less my family seems to need me. Vic has his run and a time-consuming interest in all televised sports. My son has a seemingly endless obsession with Minecraft and the many, many YouTube stars who discuss Minecraft in mind-bending detail. Maeve, of course, is supposed to be on campus.

Struggling to free a single arm from the covers, I grope for my phone and turn it on to discover that I must have fallen back asleep after Vic left. It's already 10 am! Weak winter sun blooms from behind the drapes. I smell breakfast and hear my children shouting at each other down the hall.

Pleased with myself for managing such an epic sleep-in, I throw the covers back and pull on my favourite sweatpants and PinkFloyd shirt (both threadbare and holey). As I lurch through my bedroom door, I see Maeve standing in front of the bathroom, arms crossed.

"You've been in there for an hour! What are you DOING IN THERE?" She shouts in a voice so barbed with arrogant hostility, I know it has to be her little brother on the other side of the door.

"Leave me alone!" I hear Tim's voice echo from inside the washroom, breaking adorably thanks to the puberty that seems to have come out of nowhere, turning him from a sweet little boy into a smelly, moody, shiny-faced proto-teen practically overnight.

"Maeve!" I wade in, both happy and annoyed to find myself back in the role of peacekeeper between my children. "Give your brother some privacy. How would you like it if we stood outside the door while you were in there?"

"Well, I don't lock myself away in there for an HOUR, do I? What does anyone do in a bathroom for an HOUR?"

I shrug, preferring not to consider what a boy with raging hormones might require privacy to do.

"Don't ask, don't tell," I advise her as I make my way down the stairs. "Just use the washroom in the basement if you're desperate."

IN THE KITCHEN, I find Vic leaning over a stack of french toast. Carb heaven, I think jealously. Strictly not allowed on my current eating plan. I recall the stern warning I received from the Weight Watchers program coach, who set me up on the plan I'm currently pretending to follow:

"So, you eat out 2-3 times a week, drink 1-2 glasses of wine a day, prefer not to have to track your food and you exercise—" she consults the form I've completed, "—Infrequently."

I smiled sheepishly. You don't want to lie on these things, but I couldn't admit that both the restaurants and wine are probably understated by half and the most truthful answer to 'how often do you exercise' would have been: absolutely never unless you count walking to the kitchen for another glass of wine.

They didn't have an option for that. Which makes me think that whoever makes these forms could do a better job of making us feel safe to speak our truth by offering honest options.