Working your way to a mediocre day - a how-to

If you wake up Sunday morning, miserable and ready to fight with whoever makes too much eye contact, there’s really only one thing to do: see if you can get rid of your entire family for a few hours. It helps if your husband can be convinced that he owes you one. Capitalize on even the faintest hint of imbalance to buy yourself some solitude. You took the kids to a friend’s yesterday so he could work on the floors uninterrupted?

He clearly had the better deal.

Once he agrees to get himself and the kids out of your hair, it’s in your best interest to get them ready and out the door – you don’t need him wandering aimlessly looking for the baby’s shoes. On a good day this can rub you the wrong way. Today? It could push you over the edge.

Once they’re gone, make yourself a second cup of coffee and take five minutes to soak in how rotten life is.

And mental note this – write it down if you have to: The next time you’re feeling vulnerable and emotionally generous, promise to keep your theories to yourself. Telling your already fed-up and cranky husband that you might be suffering from a low-grade depression due to weaning your two-year old will most definitely come back to haunt you. Because when next you are acting irritated and unreasonable for seemingly no good reason, he will wax psychologist and suggest you look into hormone replacement therapy.

He won’t care when you accuse him of having paid attention to that Oprah episode.

Drink your coffee and read a few pages of Anne Lamott or Jon Kabat-Zinn but whatever you do, don’t check your Facebook account. If you do, you’ll selectively hone in on only those friends with suspiciously flawless lives – you know who I’m talking about: they’ve already run 10K, cleaned their houses and are now enjoying some educational outdoor time with their perfectly behaved children. And it’s not even 9 am.

Decide to do something that will make you feel better but keep your expectations low. Feeling even a smidgeon better than this will be an improvement.

I suggest cleaning the upstairs bathroom. Especially if looking at the disarray of downstairs due to renovations is making you crazy enough to commit yourself just to have a clean room to live in. Scrub the toilet. And the tub and the sink. You may have to go so far as the floors.  

It’s possible you’re feeling this bad.

Once you get going, you’ll naturally move onto the bedroom. Vacuum up the crackers next to your bed – stop berating yourself for letting the kids eat in your room. It was the only way to get them to settle down enough so you could enjoy one lousy glass of wine before starting the bedtime routine after a long day at work.

Prepare yourself for their return. Have a plan because your husband will likely storm through the door acting entitled and overwrought – after all, he just had the kids for two hours and will point out that you of all people should know how much work that is.

When the kids get in, bring them upstairs because there is no furniture in the living room. Put the baby gate up, turn on Treehouse and tell them you’re going to take a shower. Don’t feel guilty for putting TV on mid day because they were just at the splash pad for a few hours, they could use the break.

Try to resist the urge to weigh yourself before getting into the shower– it could wreak havoc with your delicate emotional state. But if you do give into the urge, don’t (and I repeat, DON’T) weigh yourself a second time to verify that you indeed are down two pounds. It could be a technical glitch with your digital scale and your temporary high, that sense of possibility that all your hard work at the gym is paying off finally, will be short lived, reinforcing that you do actually have a crummy life because on top of everything else you are bloated, overweight, homely and unfairly afflicted with adult acne.

And because it's now your turn to entertain the kids, go somewhere you can tolerate. Costco has a lot going for it. Woo them with hotdogs in the cafeteria and fulfill your need to restock the things you're running low on.

You were born in the afternoon

Dear Naveen,

Last night after dinner, I was taking a quick facebook break, when you walked up to me and for no reason whatsoever slapped me on the forehead. Surprised, I told you that it hurt and hitting wasn’t nice. You climbed onto my lap, stood until you reached the top of my head, kissed my hair and then peeked back down at my face, one hand still patting my head.

“Feel better Mama?” You asked. (It sounded more like “Fee-oh bettoe Mama?” but I knew what you meant.)

“No,” I said, “I need another kiss.”

I realized that this little exchange of ours was just the right metaphor for how you’ve changed my life. Your advent yanked me out of the romantic lull of motherhood I'd been lingering in, forced me to stretch in ways I didn’t know I could. I’ve become a juggler, an arbiter, a referee, and often the middleman (literally because you and your brother constantly fight to snuggle beside me and oh what a lovely problem that is to have!)

I have become a better mom because of you. You've taught me to ask for help, to accept good-enough some days and most importantly to ease up and chill out.  These days I can watch you pick hardened Cheerios out of the carpet and eat them without saying a word. 


And speaking of the things you do, I'm lamenting your ever rapidly developing language skills. Your Dad and I quite enjoy your version of words. I know he still refers to potato chips as "pips" even though you don't. And I can't remember the last time I picked you up and didn't ask you if you'd like to "come utts". I know you'll likely role your eyes when you read this someday but it's these specks of your almost two-year old self that I'll treasure most.

A few weeks ago the cover of Time pictured a young woman breastfeeding her three year-old son. He wasn’t nestled on her lap but standing on a chair to reach her breast.  I cringed when I saw it, not because I thought it was wrong, but because I knew what people would say.

I’d never dreamed that (what they’re now calling) “extended” breastfeeding could be so controversial and yet a few nights ago on Piers Morgan a female comedian stated simply that it was wrong to breastfeed for so long, that women who do, are raising weak children. It hurt my heart to hear such a definitive stance from a woman and mother, and one so public.

I thought about you and me, how you turn two tomorrow; how every morning and every evening we spend time so intimate, so soothing, so ours. I know this will need to stop soon, I’m feeling ready and I think you could be too. But I want you to know how it was for me.  

When you are a grown man taking care of your own babies, appreciating maybe for the first time what your Dad and I experienced raising you, I want you to know this:  I loved every bloody minute of it. Even when you were sleeping for only forty minute stretches; even when only I could meet your demanding needs. I loved watching you unfold, discovering who you were in all of your quirky glory - your intense love for Mickey Mouse and rapture with vacuum cleaners included.

I want you to know that I did love it all and was lucky enough to know how lucky I was. 

Happy birthday my sweetheart!

Love forever, 

Mom


P.S. I promise to stop asking you where random things are just so I can watch you tilt your head and answer, "I no-know way it is, Mama, I no-know."


Promise.

 This morning before heading out the door...seriously, I don't think I can handle you getting any cuter.

I should note, we don't even have the Disney channel. I don't know how they do it over there at Disney headquarters, but there must be some sort of airwaves infiltrating our atmosphere, because you are CRAZY about Mickey.

We celebrated with Gramma and Grampa.

And we celebrated with Mimi and Papa.

Confessions of a breastfeeder - the final chapter

A few mornings ago, Shaune, exhausted and at his wits’ end that both the kids refused to eat and were crying for me as I was heading upstairs to get ready for work, spit this out:

“You’re raising these kids to need you every ten minutes!”

It hurt me a little.

I got why he said it – it’s his job in the mornings to feed Deaglan and Naveen breakfast while I shower and get ready. Then once I’m together he can get off to work, leaving me to dress the kids, take them to their respective daytime places before heading to work myself. Dealing with resistance and tears throughout this delicate yet oh so hectic balancing act?

So. Flippin. Irritating.

But his words left me guilty and defensive. Guilty because the statement implied that I’d somehow manipulated my children into needing me all the time to fulfill some inner need to be needed. And defensive because Shaune in a moment of frustration with one badly chosen accusation had taken all the good mothering I thought I was doing and twisted it into something ugly and self-serving.

I tell you this not so you can shake your heads at my husband. I purposely left out the profanities I muttered under my breath in response to his little dig, but also, I am certain you all have similar moments in your marriages where crying, uncooperative kids has one or both of you searching for someone to blame, a direction to point your weary finger because not only are you tired and questioning your decision to embark on parenthood in the first place but the sound of howling kids is enough to make you want to cry or shatter your own eardrums to drown out the sound.

Or both.

No, I tell you because his words gripped me by the throat, making manifest the trepidation that constantly lurks just beneath my surface, the fear that I indeed am doing something wrong in delaying my children’s independence. That it absolutely is my fault the four-year-old refuses to sleep in his own bed even after we moved his brother and a shiny new set of bunk beds in to keep him company. It is somehow atrocious and socially unacceptable that I continue nursing the almost two-year old, the same one who can actually ask for breast milk by name; a name he came up with all on his own because well – he can talk and you know the unwritten rule about breastfeeding a talking child don’t you?

Never mind my internal battle raging about being a full-time working mom of small kids; that it’s just plain wrong to be away from them at these ages for so long every day, and the opposing - we couldn’t afford to live on just one salary and also, I like having a career.

Every day the good and the bad of how I’ve conducted myself on this journey play out in my mind:

No wonder you don’t get enough sleep, you never set boundaries with them!

But they’re so small, how can I expect them to not need me? I work all day away from them, it’s the least I can do to comfort them when they cry.

You’ve never heard of crying it out? Formula??

On and on.

These are definitely Western-world (First world?) problems my friends. And I write about them not to complain (especially not to complain about Shaune who is mostly a saint as far as husbands go) or garner your sympathy, but to share my world for a few moments, to put it out there.

Life is tricky, don't you think? 

I have had such a good run of breastfeeding and yet lately I dread the four AM call to task when our pint-sized Naveen, the monkey boy that he is, climbs out of the lower bunk, walks into our room to my side of the bed and asks ever so sweetly, “Mama? Milky-da-da?”.

I spring awake, move Deaglan to make room, sigh,  look  over at Shaune who is often helpful in the night if I ask but is likely snoring very loudly, and think,

What the hell does Da-Da have to do with this?

This was at Easter dinner last week - Shaune's family were sweet in remembering my upcoming birthday this Friday.


If by chance you're interested in what else I had to say about breastfeeding my boys please go here and here.

My first parent-teacher interview

Over the weekend I seriously considered quitting my job, growing a garden and homeschooling my kids. I even Googled some simple pants patterns - wondered what could be so hard about sewing the kids’ clothes. My Grizzly Adams moment came after my parent-teacher interview with Deaglan’s teacher.

Sometimes I think our culture has gone to shit.

We’re too quick to push our kids out the door, short-cut them through childhood because it’s convenient for us. I see it all the time when people marvel over a baby who sleeps through the night straight out of the womb and shake their heads wondering what’s wrong with the one who fusses and acts needy. I get sidelong looks when people hear I’m still nursing Naveen – they make the typical jokes about the need to stop when the kid can ask for the breast by name. All of a sudden the needs of the adults have taken precedence. We expect our babies to work around our schedules.

I’m a little bruised from the parent-teacher interview – can you tell?

Deaglan’s teacher suggested that we encourage his independence in order to boost his self-confidence because when he’s sitting in circle, learning his letters and numbers, he never raises his hand to answer questions. She felt strongly that this was directly related to how we were [babying] him at home.*

Oh.No.She.Di-in’t.

She asked me if I thought this made sense. I was diplomatic even though my mind had taken the first left to crazy-defensive-mother-ville. I asked her calmly how he was doing in everything else. Oh great, he’s cooperative, sweet and peaceful, we never have to speak to him she raved. I told her that it wasn’t important to us to push him to attain some advanced status; we just wanted him to be happy and well adjusted especially in the face of such a huge change in his little life.

She insisted that we needed to work on building his self-confidence.

I resisted the urge to remind her that he was born on Christmas Eve, most of the kids are at least six months older than him, that he had just spent ten months in my womb not even four years ago, went from being an only child to the one who gets less attention just last year. That this time a year ago he was still two for Chrissake – TWO! That legally he didn’t even have to be in school for two more years. I didn’t scream that we were thrilled he was making it through the days without a nap and a meltdown.

I didn’t say these things to her. I know she was just trying to help. But I did notice that the next time Deaglan asked me to help him put on his shoes, I panicked a little, found myself wondering why he couldn’t figure this simple thing out.

And I hated myself for it.

*She didn't say "babying" but she sure implied it.

Here are the outtakes of our photoshoot with the auto-timer last weekend. We're trying to get just the right one for our Christmas card. Shaune and I couldn't agree on any of these, so we'll try again this weekend coming.

Parenting 101 - letting them go

Naveen will be 14 months in less than two weeks. We still have our most special times when he’s nursing. Unlike with Deaglan who still clings to me every chance he gets, I sense this kid will tell me when it’s time to stop.

I have to be honest. I'm not ready.

He’s made tiny steps toward big-boyhood already. Last week two mornings in a row, when I set him down on the floor at the daycare, he looked up at Ms. Debbie, waddled over and grabbed her pant legs to let her know he was ready to be picked up.

Just like that. No thought to me, his own Mama, standing there, crumbling inside.


She peered at me apologetic while I staged bravado. I smiled through tears, and chirped about how grateful I was that he had somebody special he was connected to. The mother of two grown boys, a pioneer in letting go, she pushed him toward me, asked him to give me kisses.

And you know what he did?

He turned his little face away. As if my shift was over.
Punched out.
Not relevant. 

I laughed it off, hugged Deaglan and marched out of there. In the van I slumped into the seat. Felt carved out. Emptier than I’d been in some time. I chatted myself out of sobbing, reasoning that this is what I wanted all along, for him to be okay at the daycare. Worry-free days at work. 

But I knew better than to believe it. I quietly sat at my desk those mornings. I thought about the forever it seemed to take me to get my degree in university, find a decent job, build a life. The millennium each work week felt to reach the weekend.

And yet when it came to these boys, time was elusive and cunning, slipping through my fingers.

Shrewd. Merciless.

I'm pouring my heart out with Shell.

Confessions of a breastfeeder - the sequel

I’ve stopped offering my breast to Naveen during the day; limited it to early morns and evenings. My baby will be one at the end of this month, heralding the close of this maternity leave.

A younger, childless friend of mine said the thought of breastfeeding a baby gave her the heebie jeebies. I got where she was coming from. It’s not something you can appreciate by imagining. It definitely falls under the understood by doing category. And even then, it’s certainly not the same for everyone. I tried to express my experience of it to her. But my words fell short. I had adverbs aplenty but was inept at stringing the thoughts together articulately enough to explain just what a wonder nursing has been for me.

Not everyone has been so lucky. I’ve known a handful of women who’ve found it difficult, painful, and even unnatural. And many who couldn’t produce enough to sustain their babies. As with so many facets of motherhood, we all experience it in unique ways and you won’t hear me preaching.

But oh indulge me. Let me tell you how it’s been over here. Let me gush. Let me get downright sentimental.

There’s nothing like the intimacy of it. I have loved a man. I have loved a dog. But loving a child has undone me. And nourishing that tiny body via my own? Well it has unravelled my carefully constructed ego. Forced me to see outside of myself. I understood again what a miracle life is, what a purpose mothering could be.

Also, it has been convenient and free.

And that it could very well be why Deaglan and Naveen took so long to sleep through the night didn’t faze me one bit. The fact that La Senza* sent me on my way empty handed did not discourage me either. I knew I’d lose the bulk once I stopped nursing. I knew I could hold off having that second or third glass of wine till the kids were eating all solids.

It doesn’t make me Mother of the Year; I’m not waiting for a pat on the back. I’m waxing nostalgic. I’m looking into my future and peeking over my shoulder. I’m inhaling the baby scent of it all because I know it will be gone in an instant. And I’m wondering if I will remember the best parts. Not the exhaustion. Not the desperate need for five minutes to myself.

But the soft intimacy with a tiny being.

The knowing of each other on a heavenly scale.

The warm sound of suckling in the dark.

The ecstasy.

*La Senza told me I'd need to go to a specialty bra shop to find something in my size.


I'm pouring my heart out with Shell.

Mummy

Today both Shaune and I had our thinking caps on overdrive because lately Deaglan's eating habits have increased our blood pressures. Everyone says it's okay and it's normal and he'll eat when he's hungry but I can't help but wonder if something was off in the unification of my egg and Shaune's sperm and maybe by accident their was some sort of mix up and we actually created a lion cub and some lioness in Africa actually has our kid.

Because I will tell you, this kid is definitely a carnivore and a cheese-a-tarion. But vegetation of any sort he will not even entertain.

But tonight we finally pulled the wool over this feral child's eyes. We made a pizza using high fibre low fat pita as the crust, tomato sauce, vegetarian pepperoni and cheese. And he ate it!!

And maybe you'll think this is pathetic but I was so overjoyed I could have cried or at least danced a jig - sober.

So while I'm on this natural high that only parenthood can bring, please indulge me while I brag a little about some of the other milestones we've reached recently.

We are officially weaned! After I wrote this post (and I have to tell you all my blog friends, your support and personal stories helped me so much) I kept going with it because I knew that it was what was best for Deaglan and me. But then a while ago I read this post from my friend Jenn over at T - Rex Mom and Dad Tales, who's gorgeous little guy is just a month or so older than Deaglan, I knew that it was probably time I thought about it too. Jenn also inspired me with her what really should be a published-how-to-article on potty training to start toilet training my little monkey. We're entering the third week when I will start the really difficult part (as I imagine it) where I have to teach him to let me know when he has to go...baby steps I guess.

Deaglan is also now sleeping through the night (on most nights) in the crib with only three sides. We are still on the lookout for a toddler bed set but aren't really in a hurry to go there. It's not like there is someone lined up to take over the crib - yet:)

And finally and I believe most importantly he has begun to say "Mummy". And it is pretty darn glorious. It's like music to my ears. Like all that pregnancy stuff was worth it. Like the fact that I can't even dream of ever wearing a bikini or forgetting to wear a bra without some major surgery, okay.

Like totally amazing how this tiny carnivore could change my life and melt my heart with his every subtle change and expansion.

Confessions of a breastfeeder

When I thought about breastfeeding during my pregnancy, I had no conception of how much it would impact me. I had no idea that it would bring me such joy. I couldn’t fathom that one day I would have to stop nursing my baby and it would break my heart.

Neither Deaglan nor I knew what we were doing that first week or two. The aftercare nurses on the maternity floor tried to teach me. It definitely didn’t come naturally to me or him. Once my milk came in I felt relieved. But still the baby was at my breast for up to an hour at a time. How was I going to get a break this way, I wondered? He eats every two hours or so and at each feeding he eats for an hour. Was this right?

I was exhausted and afraid of doing everything wrong. It was one of the midwife team members who asked me the right questions. How is breast feeding going? How long is he drinking for? That’s too long; show me what you’re doing. Okay I see what the problem is. Here’s how you do it – bring the baby to the breast not the breast to the baby. Keep at it. It won’t feel natural at first but by about week six you’ll be in sync with each other.

And it did feel odd every time for the first couple of months. What a strange sensation to have this tiny human feeding from one of my body parts.

But the midwife knew what she was talking about because by the second month we were in tune with each other and the odd feeling faded. I know that breastfeeding doesn’t work out for everybody; several people I know, who had babies around the same time as me, couldn’t do it for one reason or another. I felt fortunate that the little effort I put in created a successful experience for me. It was so convenient and inexpensive. And the time we’ve spent together has been some of the greatest gifts of my life.

During my pregnancy, I had read that a baby should be breast fed for at least six months. So that was originally how long I planned to do it for. But once the six month marker came and went, I couldn’t even imagine stopping. I did start introducing solids but as a complement to breast milk. My next goal became to stop by 10 or 11 months so that he could be independent when daycare started. But even then I didn’t feel either of us was ready to completely stop. So I weaned him during the day and was able to nurse him from 5pm on. This worked out really well for the first few months of going back to work.

Work was difficult in the beginning. The separation was unbearable. But that’s another story for another time. Suffice it to say that I felt like I was doing something wrong in being away from him. It took several weeks for me to feel relaxed at work.

I knew that I had to think about weaning but none of the reasons seemed very compelling. I loved the time we still spent together while he was nursing. He is such a happy kid. I’d read articles after articles which championed toddler breastfeeding. Studies show that North America is one of the few places that stop so early. Many countries in the world continue until children are four years old. The benefits to the children beyond some well known health benefits such as fewer and less severe infections, decreased risk of some childhood cancers, are an increased sense of security in their own independence, increased sense of pleasure which leads to happiness for both the mother and child.

But too often, mothers who have had a trouble-free go at breastfeeding and who have enjoyed it, feel pressure to stop after a year. There is a sense of being judged or disapproved of if you continue to breastfeed past one year. Yet UNICEF has always encouraged breastfeeding for two years or longer.

My goal was to wean him completely by the end of April. I tried not to think about my own feelings about it, only the technical aspects. He can’t depend on me forever I seemed to be arguing for the proponents of stopping. And I will go back to a normal breast size. But the part of me I was consciously shutting out wanted to scream. I reasoned with myself that our relationship would not change. He would still love me the same, need me the same, want to hug and kiss me the same. But that part I refused to hear threatened to scream even louder.

On the surface a large part of me was ashamed to still be breastfeeding at 16 months old. Was this some kind of a weakness in me? Was I encouraging dependence? The questions and answers swirled around in the back of my mind day and night.

Then I read Catherine Connor’s post one day and finally wept. I cried because she had written about this experience as I had been experiencing it. I cried because the thought of this experience ending for us made me irrepressibly sad.

I read and re-read articles. At the beginning of his life it was so that I could understand him, why wasn’t he sleeping through the night, was he getting enough to eat? Now I wanted to find reasons to continue. I wanted scientific evidence that would give me permission to continue nursing. And all of the articles supported breastfeeding well into the toddler years. So why did I feel this pressure to stop? Who was making me feel this way? Shaune had never said anything to suggest that time was up. And so far I hadn’t discussed it with even my closest people for fear of being judged.

So in keeping with my plan, on April 30th I tried to stop. I was sad all day long at work, more sad than I’ve been in a long time. I cried. Deep sad crying, like when you lose someone. Grief consumed my body; the rationalizations no longer a help.

I called Shaune at work. Sobbing, I told him that I wasn’t ready yet.

“No one is telling you to stop nursing him. I’m okay with it. It’s nobody’s business how long you want to breastfeed for.”

I got off the phone and let relief fill me up. I had someone’s permission to keep going. Why did I need it? It was my body wasn't it?