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I was sure I did half the home chores.
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I was sure I did half the home chores. I mean, I was a well-domesticated 21st century husband, wasn't I? Washed my own laundry, made the occasional meal, cut the grass, took the garbage out, did the dishes, drove the kids to training - in short, I did pretty much everything I thought I was expected to do. And you know what? I was quietly proud of my participation in domestic life. As far as I was concerned, I was a full-fledged player in the daily goings-on at the family homestead.

Jeez, was I in for a rude awakening...

I know. Most of you married women out there are already rolling your eyes. You can see it coming from a mile away. But I didn't. Call me naïve - call me opportunistic - but I was just happy to cruise along in my comfortable little life without analyzing our marital division of labour too closely. Besides, what with research and writing and travel and trying to keep my ageing body physically fit there just wasn't enough time in my day, I figured, to do any more than I was already doing.

Yeah right. And the IOC really has Whistler's best interest at heart. "Tell me another fairytale," I can hear the women in the audience saying.

When Wendy was murdered three months ago, I knew my life was going to change. After all, I knew being a single dad wouldn't be a cakewalk. What I didn't know was just how drastic that change was going to be. Suddenly I found myself up the proverbial creek without a paddle - or even a canoe. Every assumption I'd ever made about the realities of domestic life had to be seriously re-evaluated. Indeed, I was in awe of what I didn't know about the daily goings-on here. Or just how easy my sorely-missed spouse had made it look...

There I was, in charge of a home and looking out for two young women (who simply assumed I'd take over mum's chores seamlessly), with bills to pay, dental appointments to be made, floors to clean, laundry to be done, food to be purchased (and prepared!), school officials to meet, bank managers to placate, gardens to weed, garbage to be triaged and training schedules to be coordinated. Did I mention bills to pay?

In one fell swoop I inherited ALL the household chores. And it soon became evident that my "half" of the work had barely accounted for a third of the things that really needed to get done on a daily basis.

Sounds familiar? I'm sure it is to many Pique readers. But as a late-blooming newcomer to the world of single parenting, I'm still in shock at the unending list of "things to get done" in my current job jar.

At first it all seemed quite manageable. Our escape to Europe was relatively easy. I mean, how difficult is it to stay at hotels and eat in restaurants and swim in the Mediterranean? Although presently the Euro is not kind to those of us carrying Canadian pesos, I did my best to ignore the astronomic cost of living there. Besides, being so far away from home - and all the angst and grief and tension that we'd left behind - it was a good opportunity for the three of us to rebuild our family dynamic. It was also on that trip that I realized how little time I'd spent with my 21-year-old daughter, Maya, in recent years. And as sad as the circumstances were for our reunion, I was thankful for the chance to get reacquainted with her.

And the trip we undertook was spectacular. We were surrounded by beauty every day. Whether it was crossing the Alps to southern France and seeing our first palm tree in the Var estuary just above Nice, or discovering a little-visited Neolithic village on a hike to a remote beach in southern Corsica, or crossing the Mouth of Bonifacio in a 40-knot gale and watching the waves crash over the struggling ferry's bridge, or sailing off the coast of eastern Sardinia in the 35-foot Darwin Sound and catching sight of dolphins, or tramping through the ruins of Pompeii and staring at the petrified body of a 2000-year-old resident (a favourite with 16-year-old Jenna), or even exploring our own private little swimming hole on the Amalfi Coast - the same coast where Homer's Sirens had tried so desperately to entice Odysseus onto its rocky shores - our totally unplanned circumnavigation of the Terranean Sea proved to be as exciting as it was offbeat.

It was the quintessential "trains, planes and automobiles" trip. We used virtually every form of transportation known to 21 st century man. Okay, I'm exaggerating a little. We never used a Segway...

Yes, there were tears (mine mostly). And yes, there were moments of total breakdown. But we managed. And we became stronger together. More united. By the time we were on our homeward journey, I assumed that the heavy lifting had been done. We were a team again - albeit a smaller, leaner team. But we'd proven to ourselves that we could make functional decisions as a threesome. Where to eat, where to stay, what to do with our free time: though these might not seem like life-altering choices, they provided us with an opportunity to exercise our new roles within this new family dynamic.

Still, a dark cloud hovered over my head. While both girls were keen to get back to their West Coast lives and friends, I kind of knew what awaited me on my return. On our last day in Europe, I took a long hike up to the Glacier de Bossons in Chamonix. We were back in the north: we had gone from a temperature in the high 20s (centigrade of course) in Italy's Cinque Terre that morning to the low teens in the French Alps that afternoon. But the three-hour walk did me good. I realized I was in for a psychic shellacking as soon as I got home. I knew the trip hadn't changed anything - just delayed the inevitable. So I prepared myself for the worst.

And I wasn't far off - our homecoming was like hell on earth (at least for me). Suspicious cops to deal with and taxes to pay and media to avoid and bureaucracies to suffer and more taxes to pay. It was truly shocking to realize just how deeply the government sticks its hands in your pocket when a spouse dies. Just how expensive the whole death process becomes. I couldn't believe how quickly money was pouring out of my bank account. Yikes. Where was Wendy when I needed her?

"You're on your own sweetie," she whispered to me in a dream. "But I know you can do it. I have full confidence in you."

Nice. Now if only I could unearth that same kind of confidence in myself, maybe I might be able to get through this nightmare in one piece...

We've been back for a month now. And I still barely have my nostrils above the water. Not surprisingly, my posthumous respect for Wendy has risen yet again. How did she manage it all? How did she get all those damn chores done and still keep smiling? Frankly, it's a mystery to me. My life is a series of lists now - what's top priority today, what can be ignored in the short term, what has to get paid now, what can wait. And of course there are the girls.

I don't know what the experts say, but I've heard it enough from other parents: dealing with a 16-year-old daughter is a challenge at the best of times. Throw in a murdered mum, a muddled single dad and a clever, headstrong (dare I say stubborn?) young woman and the mix is dangerously toxic. So far Jenna and I have managed to skirt the various pitfalls in our ongoing negotiations - forget being the "strong" one here, I'm on full survival mode. But I also know I'm always one decision away from abject failure. What an adventure. What a scary process (and I thought big-mountain skiing was dangerous).

So there you have it. We're moving forward with our lives. Getting on with the job of living. Trying to be normal. Which, for me, means getting back to work and writing good stories. Over the next few weeks and months I hope to get back to more conventional Alta States fare. After all, there are still so many good Whistler tales that haven't been told yet. Still so much about this mountain community that needs to be shared and discussed.

I thank you for your patience. But enough words. I have to go now. The floor needs sweeping, I've got a load of bed linen in the laundry and Jenna needs a ride to swim workout. I'll be back soon...