You think after 22 years I’d be used to the spin

I woke up this morning with a funny taste in my head
Spackled some butter over my whole grain bread
Something tastes different, maybe it’s my tongue
Something tastes different, suddenly I’m not so young…

I have a history of being very emo about my birthday. There’s just something about watching another year go by that makes you stop and think about what it’s been worth. In the sum of 365 days, 8760 hours, 525 600 minutes, have you done anything worthwhile?

On August 3rd, 1987, I was born with a red mohawk and bright blue eyes. I was so fair when I was little that people used to ask my mom, who has dark hair and green eyes, whose kid I was. I look like my dad and his side of the family - the Brits and Scots.

And now, twenty-two years later, I sit and think of all of the birthdays that have gone by. I have always been struck by the line from Long December by The Counting Crows, “A long December and it’s easy to believe maybe this year will be better than the last.”

As I stand on the brink of a completely new life, that rings more true than ever. But I’m weary. Because it’s thoughts like these that keep me so fixed in some mythical future, some better life that’s never quite there, and keep me from living in this moment, the today. This year.

It’s taken twenty-two years, but I think I can truly say that this year I am happy with what I’ve done, where I am and where I’m going. So no more birthday emo. Instead, photos of me - featuring my love of cake.

A very intent blowing-out-the-candles face. Birthdays are serious stuff.

An awesome 90s bathing suit, and this time it’s not me making the weird face!

Not only is that an intense expression, but that is one HOT pink and blue baseball-style shirt.

Dear Daddy

Dear Daddy,

To the father of two daughters, content to wander shopping malls in every province and state, to listen to conversations about waxing and sit through dance recitals and basketball games alike. To the man who raised two strong and independent (feminist!) women.

To the one who used to eat Cheesewiz on toast with me at 5am. Who made fish sticks and fries for dinner after skating lessons. Who talked to me endless as a baby, the reason I started speaking full sentences before 2. Whose specialties are hockey puck muffins and Shakey Chicken. Who, 22 years later, still makes me a sandwich for lunch but now hands me a coffee on my way out the door instead of a juice.

To the guy who drove me to Syracuse, Erie and Rochester countless times so I could spend the week with my best friend. Who took us on road trips, dealt with carsickness in Florida, Ohio, North Carolina and countless other places.

To the man who gave me his eyes - the bright blue, but also the ability to see far, and to notice and examine things. To the man who gave me words - the writer, the poet who told me stories and read me books, let me dream and sparked that yearning to put pen to paper, fingers to keyboard. To the reason I know every Beatles song, the reason I love music with every ounce of myself.

To my first boss. Who dealt with all of my stupid mistakes, who gave me my first chance to do something with myself. Who taught me how to load film, print film, talk to customers, use photoshop and most importantly how to take photos, who put a camera in my little hands as soon as I could hold it and let me discover it.

To one of the smartest people I know, who always has answers and insight, who knows a bit about everything. To a person who hasn’t had it easy, who taught me to persevere. Who taught me that you are what you make of yourself, no more and no less. Who taught me to put 150% into everything I do, not for others but for my own self respect. To your ceaseless determination, and the strength I take from that.

For all of this and so much more, Daddy, Happy Father’s Day.

I’ll love you forever, I’ll like you for always, as long as I’m living my Daddy you’ll be,*

Heather

P.S. I love you but I’m not giving you my iPod Touch for Father’s Day. Sorry.

*From the Robert Munsch book he read us over and over when we were little, pictured above!

It’s all about Head

When I moved back in with my parents a couple of weeks ago, we had a chance to go through the closet in my old bedroom. Beside some ancient purses and a few clothes that no one would ever wear, we found this jem:

It’s a laminated (that’s why it was so hard to photograph) list of rules we promised to abide by in our 4th grade class (I was in French Immersion). It says “Be responsible of your actions,” “Be responsible to your friends,” “Be nice,” and “Help others.” All very good rules to follow in life, I think.

Now, let us enhance this a little to a close up of my signature:

That’s right, folks. For about 8 years of my life my nickname was Head. And not just a passing nickname, either. All of my friends called me Head.

You see, I have a large head. After joining Big Heads Anonymous and resigning myself to a life of Tired Neck Syndrome (TNS), I have come to terms with it. My sister has always enjoyed making fun of it.

This is why she decided, one fine day when she was about 8 and I was about 5 or 6, that my nickname should be Head. Makes sense, does it not? I have a large head… ‘Hea’ is the first part of my name. I embraced it, the way little sisters always do, with overwhelming enthusiasm and wild abandon.

I remember sitting in class one day when we had a supply teacher. She asked if anyone had anything other than their name they liked to be called. I raised my hand and announced that everyone calls me Head. I remember she looked like she was trying very hard not to laugh, though I had no idea why. I imagine she told that story for years to come.

I remember my parents told me that someday I would regret this nickname, but they refused to tell me why. And that Kaitlyn would regret her nickname ‘Hairy Fruit’ (From Kiwi, which I still call her. Also given by my sister… notice the trend?)

Fast forward 8 years to middle school. A boy approaches me in the hallway.
“Ahaha, your nickname’s Head. Do you know what that means?” he says.
“Yeah! Of course!” I reply. But the way he’s saying it makes me doubt myself. I won’t admit I don’t know. Minutes later, I ask my friend Amanda.
“Why would Head be a bad nickname…?” I ask. She’s much more worldly than me.
“I bet they mean like blackhead or something,” she says wisely.
“Oh… Weird,” I answer. But everyone calls me Head already, so it’s really not that bad right?

It wasn’t until months later when rumours that “So-and-so gave So-and-So head in the elevator at the movie theatre!” started to circulate that I finally started putting the pieces together. I was named for a sex act.

With things whispered in corners and written on bathroom walls, it didn’t take long for everyone in my grade to figure out what head meant. And needless to say, it didn’t take long for the boys to start calling me “Give alot of head.” Though I promise I never lived up to the nickname!