“If I knew then, what I know now…”

How many times have each of us said those words? Those eight, futile, little words. If I knew then what I know now…

I’ll admit to having thought those words in the confines of my little brain more than a few times over the past four or five months. I’ll even cop to saying them out loud a handful of times, sometimes to a friend over the phone, sometimes to the empty room around me. Most of the time, those muttered words are expressed in anger or sadness and yes, even occasionally desperation. But all of the time, we mean them.

It is never fair to judge past decisions based on current knowledge (why does that statement seem hollow when we are feeling anger, sad or desperate?). But most of us play the dangerous game of devil’s advocate anyway, ignoring the fact that nobody can hold the knowledge of future lessons learned before they are underway.

And this morning, I can’t help it. I’m playing that game, too.

If I had known how this story would end (and I’m sure you already know, or at least have a guess, as to what that particular story is) I would have done a lot of things differently. For starters, I would have applied for rent geared to income housing (also known as low income housing) a long, long time ago. Instead, I applied this past April and have another year to wait before a three bedroom unit even makes itself available. The only thing that will bump us up on the list is actual homelessness or physical abuse. I asked them if my son routinely biting us during a patented meltdown counts, but they didn’t think it was funny.

I live in the country. Not deep in the country, but in the country nonetheless. I have to depend on a car, which I hate. My car isn’t all that old, but it’s middle age, at least. It’s cranky in the winter and far from dependable in the cold. I can’t afford any of the work it would need to make it more dependable in the freezing weather and if it actually breaks down, it will have a permanent home in my garage. I hate relying on a car for all of these reasons but also for the simple fact that it’s a huge expense every month and I resent the insurance and the gas I pay out, especially since it is only my country dwelling that necessitates the expense. And finally, car culture sucks. Walking culture rocks. I want to return to walking.

There was a bear in my backyard last year. A big, black bear who walked through the entire yard before pawing at the side of the house and finally deciding to pester the neighbours. The pathetic thing is that I wasn’t scared but had it been a mouse scampering across anything of mine, I would have flipped out. But that is neither here nor there. The bear is the top of the food chain of wildlife that have taken up temporary residence in my yard. It’s like a fucking Disney movie most times with skunks and raccoons and mice and deer and finally, black bears.

Heating this house is a bitch. When I was married, we burned wood and that was my husband’s domain. Since becoming a single mother, I have relied more heavily on oil. Last year my children and I almost died of carbon monoxide poisoning because said husband never cleaned the chimney properly and it was totally blocked. Wood smoke creates creosote and because of the way the wind hits my chimney said creosote turns into rock hard, impossible to remove creosote and so I can only burn oil. Which, obviously, is a lot more expensive especially when I have a garage full of free wood and oil also isn’t as warm. My house is often damp and chilly which sucks. A lot.

Add to that laundry list the fact that I am not on public sewer and instead have a septic tank that has to be pumped and prohibits me from using bleach or doing all of my laundry on the weekends, and this house has few redeeming qualities. How about if I told you that the dude who pumps the septic tank couldn’t get the lid off this year and left? It is up to me to find someone who can pry that fucking lid off and if I can’t, then probably the tank can’t be pumped normally, adding to the increasing cost of maintaining this dump while I search for someone to fix the septic tank before pumping it out.

Sigh

If I knew then what I know now…

The waiting time for a house would have started two years ago and we would already be in a house in town. I wouldn’t have spent two years trying, in vain, to maintain this country living bullshit. We would be settled in, ready for another Christmas, able to walk places, having neighbours and an actual community, saving over two hundred dollars every month because we wouldn’t depend on a car.

This life is crumbling down around me and if I let myself, I would cry until my eyes are swollen shut and I would beat the man who led me here to a bloody pulp and I would self destruct.

Good thing I don’t let myself, eh?

Instead…well, I haven’t yet figured out what to do instead. I just know that I am moving. Somehow. I am moving.

Which leads to me the real reason for this impromptu post.

I am moving.

I have outgrown this blog, long ago, which is probably why I have avoided it even when I got Internet at home again and felt the urge to blab about my sad, little life to strangers and friends. The chapter of my life that I started this blog with is long finished. Hell, we’re on a new book from a completely different part of the library at this point. I am no longer the Canadian girl with the American boy. I am no longer janetk. And this is no longer where I belong.

I have been hunting around the Internet, looking for a suitable replacement site. I signed onto blogspot, only to find my sister blogging there (insert uncomfortable pause). Most of the other sites I scope out are way too fancy for my eight year old browser, dial up and dinosaur computer. I started to think that perhaps just as I had outgrown this blog, I had outgrown blogging itself.

And then I realized, all at once, that I didn’t have to move to move.

I will stay here, on mybloggers, at least for the time being, but start a new blog, with a new name and a new take on life. I’d love for you to follow me, since moving doesn’t have to mean sacrificing friendships I built during my stay here, but I wouldn’t blame you in the least if you didn’t. I’ve been a shitty blogging friend…unreliable and distant…and just as my life has changed a lot, I’m sure yours has, too.

But, for what it’s worth, the new blog will be called “Julian’s Mom”.

Now I had better start packing up…