Sundays are for Dreaming

This isn’t for The Piper Project. It’s just for fun.

When I grow up, I’ll live in a house with quirky charm and character. There will be art everywhere. Each piece will tell a story. Some will be professional and some will be from kids who just think they are professional and that’s good enough for me. There’d be enough bedrooms for two (or five) foster kids. It wouldn’t matter what age. I like them all but if they were old enough to go to school that would be perfect. They’d call me “Aunty.” Or “Mum.” But I’d be okay with Aunty.

At first, while I was still getting used to the routine of it, I’d drop them off at school, and then head to the school I was working at. Then I’d pick them up after and we’d head home. Maybe they’d play for awhile and I’d doze on the couch. Or maybe I’d just get started on supper and maybe I’d be better at cooking by then or maybe they’d know I was a bad cook and already ate a chocolate bar so that they wouldn’t be hungry. And then feed their left overs to the cats under the table. Then I’d leave the dirty dishes till I felt like dealing with them and we’d go do something fun. Maybe they’d have a music lesson or maybe we’d just play board games.

And one day, when the time is right, I’d figure out how to homeschool them. We’d start later in the day. Like, 10am or 1pm. Whenever we felt like it. And I’d re-teach myself grade eight math so that we can figure it out together. And maybe the kids will have a hard time with math, too and maybe they’ll get a little frustrated with me when I get my numbers all mixed up so they’ll start correcting me and I’ll say, “See? You’re getting the hang of this already!” and then they’ll feel really good about themselves.

And we’d learn about all kinds of things. We’d learn about horticulture and beekeeping. We’d read really good books and act them out for fun and it wouldn’t matter if we messed up our lines because we’re just making pretend. And we’d learn how to put computers back together again and how to build anything. When something fell apart in the house, we’d learn how to fix it. We’d create things. Beautiful, bizarre things and each thing will have a meaning but it will mean something only to us and it wouldn’t matter if no one else got it because we liked making it. And we’d have Genius hour. Each of the kids would study something they’ve always wanted to learn or make something they’ve always wanted to make and then we’d do a show n’ tell. And while they are studying, I’d write bad blog posts. They would read them later and ask me why my grammar is so bad and I’d say, “Because grammar is for chumps, children. Grammar is for chumps.” And they’d write that down somewhere in their notebooks so they can recite it to all their employers later in life. And maybe there would be standardized testing but we’d only start worrying about that when the time came. And when we did have to start worrying about it, we’d all groan about it together because only Grammar Nazi’s run standardized testing but we’d do it for the Nazis because we are nice people and live to tell the tale.

And maybe my hair will be blue again. Long mermaid hair. Wild and crazy. And people would think it’s bizarre that a single woman with blue hair was homeschooling a bunch of kids but the kids and I wouldn’t really care because that is dumb.

And if I had a couple of teenagers, we’d build a tiny house together. I’d turn into a lake house for weekend getaways and summer holidays. I know the exact design. Something from a company out in the Yukon. Only I’d add an extension for some bunk beds. Like, four beds high. Or maybe one day, we’d figure out how to build a couple bunk houses so they could stay up late and I could get a good nights rest and eat chips without them calling me out on it because they heard all the crinkling.

And maybe my hair will be blue again. Long mermaid hair. Wild and crazy. And people would think it’s bizarre that a single woman with blue hair was homeschooling a bunch of kids but the kids and I wouldn’t really care because that is dumb.

And I’d tell them every day how I don’t know what I’m doing but I’m happy they are here. And if they wanted to come with me to church, that would make me very happy but they don’t have to if they don’t want to. And maybe they would or maybe they wouldn’t. And if they said yes, we’d drive in from the lake just to go to church. And maybe someone would punch the other one right before we walked in and I’d get mad at the one who punched and the one who punched said that the other one scratched him first and then I’d get mad the the scratcher and nothing would be resolved but we’d already be late for church so I’d say, we’ll deal with this later, and we’d all walk in scruffy faced and cranky. And maybe that day the sermon would be about loving one another and by the end, the kids would apologize without me having to do anything or maybe we’d just drive back to the lake in silence and someone would say, “Pass me the twizzlers.” And the other would roll her eyes and pass the Twizzlers and the other one would say, “Thank you.” And their would be a pause and the Passer-of-the-Twizzlers would say, “You’re welcome.” And we’d all know that the fight was over.

And maybe one day, the kids would have to go home to their real parents. And it would be a good thing. A happy thing. But my heart would be so sad. Sadder than a break up with a boy. And I’d make sure we celebrated big before they left. I don’t know how but it would be a big party just for them. And then they’d leave and I’d crumble. But I’d have a plan, you see, and go traveling. Because that’s what I like to do when my heart is broken. I travel. I’d ask my neighbours if they’d be willing to take care of my cats while I’m away or some tweenager looking for a summer gig. My backpack would be all ready to go and I’d pick maybe New Zealand after my first kid(s) left and then I’d go to the U.K. after my second. I’d stay at hostels and meet new people and remember that life goes on. And when I came home, I’d pray that I would have the strength to do it again.

And if this was the reality of my life for the rest of it forever and ever until I died, I’d be very happy. I’d die a very happy and blessed woman. Single and all.

But let’s say for the sake of dreaming, that I did meet a guy one day who was inked, furry and had a great barber. He’d be confident and strong. Gentle but brave. He’d be brain-smart and heart-smart and the measure of his character would be so solid with integrity that I couldn’t do anything but admire him. There would be no red flags. Our intentions with each other would be clear. And I’d say to him, Before you get too ahead of yourself, I love Jesus a lot. Like a lot, a lot (and I’d really push that point. Almost too far so he has a very clear understanding that it will not change) and he’d say, Good. Me, too. And I’d relax a little and then I’d say, I have children. And he’d say, I know. And I’d say, okay. And he’d say, this is what I want to do with my life [insert his dream here] and this is how I plan to do it [insert plan here]. And he’d lay it all out very clearly for me. And a lightbulb would pop off in my tiny, disjointed brain and I’d see how I could live in his dream. And I’d say, I’d like to help you get there. And he’d say, I was hoping you’d say that. We’d get married. Nothing fancy. Just a nice dress and pretty flowers. And we’d start building our dreams. Foster kids and all.