The 98 things before Summer

There is nothing more disheartening than making the kids’ lunches and finding out shortly thereafter that it’s Pizza Day. And that I thought to write an entire post on it, well it might be an indication that I am ready for this school year to end.

READY.

In the last few weeks I’ve had to remember no fewer than 98 extra things each morning:

• $4.00 for chrysalises and tadpoles.
• Interesting but EDUCATIONAL show-and-share items (Not the Droid Gun Ship you got from Gramma and Grampa)
• Reading Log.
• Shoe box to transform into a rock family’s habitat.
• 40 mild chicken wings for the class potluck. (You know you’re raising boys when)
• Doing the reading for the bloody Reading Log.
• Birthday lollipops for the entire class.
• Birthday pin for the birthday boy’s shirt so the class knows it's his birthday on the weekend.
• Signed and dated math quiz.
• Where the hell is that reading log?
• Shin high white socks for tie dying.
• $13.00 for Naveen’s end of the year trip. (Really? $13?  Not say, a nice round number like $10 or $20?)
• $15.00 for Deaglan’s end of the year trip.
• Library books (Every single time the late notice comes, I scratch my head thinking I have never seen this book in this house)

And although I want to weep around this time, each year because it is excruciatingly clear to me that I did not end up with a career that gives me the entire summer off but my husband did, I’ll be glad when I can stop having to remember 98 extra things every morning.

I won’t have to keep up this charade with Naveen (let’s see, what can I put into his lunch today that he won’t eat  because, Mommmmmy, I told you, I HATE pizza with sauce on it!)

I won’t have to ask Deaglan WHY? WHY DID YOU WEAR YOUR INSIDE SHOES HOME? WHY????

I won’t have to apologize for above question because I asked it in YELLING.

Instead I can sneak away extra early to work out.

Or sleep in because NO LUNCHES.

I can put all wardrobe negotiations on hold. Those are pajama pants. You have to wear regular pants.

And beat myself up a little less on the drive to work for the YELLING.

I can expect to come home to a house that doesn’t look like it’s been robbed and ransacked because well, LOOKING FOR THE BLOODY READING LOG.

Instead I can come home to three sun-kissed, shaggy haired guys wearing swim trunks and mismatched shirts who are very glad to see me. 

A sick day post

I left work just before noon yesterday. 

I was sick all weekend and though I’d willed myself to feel better for Monday, by mid-morning I had a fever and chills and could barely make the short walk from my desk to the printer. I sat there looking at my inbox filling up, work piled all around me and laboured over having to tell the team that I was sick and needed to go home.

It’s not that my colleagues and boss wouldn’t understand or that I’m a martyr.

It's this: For us fulltime working moms of small kids, being sick and taking time off for it is anxiety inducing. What if the kids are sick tomorrow? Since Deaglan was one and in daycare, sick days have been earmarked for working from home and taking care of him, eventually Naveen and as they got older often both of them at the same time.

I got home on the heels of both kids’ dentist appointments. I’d scheduled them specifically for this week – Shaune would be off work; it's March Break here– because both boys needed cavities filled, and also because Naveen had never had a cavity filled, and for days leading up to the appointment, nothing I said, no picture I painted could deter his fear of A NEEDLE?!! I’M GETTING A NEEDLE???!! I have no idea where he got this but I wanted to be nowhere near him when the dentist gave him A NEEDLE (!!) to freeze his mouth.

Shaune said it was worse than either of us could have imagined. Even with a sedative that kicked in in plenty of time, he screamed and struggled the entire procedure.

So there I was, inadvertently home on the wrong day. I have never seen anything like it. Naveen was like an alcoholic who’d gotten hold of a bad batch of crack and a loaded gun. The active ingredient in the sedative had him swinging from one extreme to the other – one minute insisting on snuggling in my arms (and only my arms) and then the next pounding his tiny fists on anything and anyone within his reach.

Shaune did his best to keep the kids away from me so I could rest. But when I could hear Naveen crying for me downstairs, well, I couldn’t help but wonder how long it would be before he stopped crying for me for good. I wondered how long it would be until his limbs and body were too big to fit in the crook of my body. I wondered how long I'd possess this elusive power us Moms seem to have. I grasped these last bits of magic and held him for as long as he would let me until the drug released his small body, until he was back to his sweet and feisty self. 

And I treated myself to another sick day today. I'm happy to say my lap has been free all morning – the only calls I hear from the other parts of the house are to settle the occasional dispute, fulfill a snack request or view the latest progress of the fort they're building. 

Deaglan is under there somewhere. This is every single pillow, blanket, placemat and foam couch we own.

Still chipping away at perfecting my Selfie skills - where can I get my hands on one of those selfie-sticks I keep hearing about???

Mining

When I get home from work every afternoon, Naveen shouts out from wherever he is in the house, “Mommy?!! Is that you?!!” And when I confirm that yes it is, he lets out a whoop, and in his loudest most joyful voice he lets Deaglan and Shaune know that I’m home. 

This announcement is made despite the fact that usually both are in my plain sight and can see clearly that I am indeed home. And once my arrival is confirmed and properly celebrated, he wraps his arms around my legs, looks up into my face and asks in his most sober - finally I can relax voice if he can have a piece of gum and get into his Batman pajamas.  

He then tells me about his day, each event, a 28 minute long story, in the middle of which, if he senses he’s not getting my complete and undivided attention, scolds me for not listening and starts the story again from the very beginning.

After dinner, while Deaglan and I sit together to do reading homework, he stands behind me against the back of the couch, arms around my neck, chin on one shoulder listening to his brother’s slow and steady telling of each story.

And on my luckiest nights, a few times throughout the evening, he either asks to be picked up or if I’m sitting, plops down on my lap so that he can plant a dozen or so kisses on my face. His small hands cup my face and he tells me over and over that he loves me.

Oh, we have plenty of other moments too.

I tell him he has to take a bite of broccoli.

He tells me I’m no longer his friend.  

I tell him for the fourth time to put his shoes in the closet.

He accuses me of bad mothering (he really does!).

I side with Deaglan in one of their arguments.

He promises to cut me off from all affection for good.

But it occurs to me, in the hustle and bustle of school, extra-curriculars and work where structure and routine must necessarily rule, these moments glisten like flecks of gold in the monotonous terrain of our everydays.

He got new pajamas today.

Often it's about getting out the door

This morning I was able to get Naveen to eat most of his scrambled eggs by promising he could wear his pajamas to the hockey rink. It was my third attempt at bribery. Candy and money were surprisingly ineffective. It’s sad when you’ve used every trick in your book before 9.am.

It won’t surprise you to know that I believe parenting isn’t about achieving perfection.

Often it's about getting out the door. I think it’s also about showing our kids that we are human and just trying our best. Almost every weekday morning, I apologize to Deaglan and Naveen on the way to school. That’s because for the half hour prior, both boys lose their sense of hearing which triggers in me the opposite of good calm parenting. And I know it’s temporary, localized deafness they suffer from, because a few minutes later they hear my apology just fine.

But “Put on your socks and shoes!” at the top of my lungs 28 times? Not so much.

After three years of the same old speech, I feel that Deaglan and I understand each other, the way an old, weary, married couple might understand each other; they don’t always like each other but they know they can’t change the other person either. As soon as I say something like, “Guys, Mom’s really sorry for all the yelling this morning. You’re both really good kids and I love you very much,” he usually responds with, “we understand Mom, it’s okay, we know how hard it is for you to get us out the door every morning.”

That he says it with sincerity and sympathy, well, I think it means he’s not planning on divorcing me anytime soon.

And I don’t think this Arctic Freeze we’ve been victim to is helping me grow as a parent.

This afternoon, I peeked out from under the comforter on the couch and asked in my most excited, positive voice, “Guys, isn’t it great that we have three days off to do whatever we want? Mom can “work” on my computer (aka peruse Pinterest) while you play whatever you want.”

I wasn't afraid to proclaim this several more times over the next few hours to get them fully on board that Mommy sitting on the couch completely ignoring them was indeed great. What can I say? I will go the distance for a cause I believe in.

Oh, in case you're wondering, I look sorta like this guy today, only my hair is a little more Jack than his, my pajamas aren't as cute and I don't have a fraction of his energy.

This weather is making me hungry.

Yesterday after the gym, I ordered a heaping plate of deep fried potato wedges instead of green salad with my chicken breast. I doused them with vinegar and on the side plopped a good fat dollop of ketchup for dipping. I was a ninja getting back to my desk; short cuts and no eye contact.
Quiet. Stealthy.
Nothing to see here folks. As you were. Please talk amongst yourselves.

Back at my desk. It wasn’t pretty.

I ate as if I’d come off of a thirty day famine. The wedges were crisp and golden, heftier than their French fry cousins. They’d been seasoned with salt and pepper then tossed with dried rosemary; still piping hot, perfect for dunking into the ketchup. An ice cold pint of beer would have been perfect. I gulped water.

I munched and read through the emails that had piled up in my inbox over the lunch hour. When every last wedge was gone, every last bit of ketchup sopped up, I sat staring at the screen.

Full. Yes.
Complete? No.

Then, the faintest whisper.
Something very familiar.
I typed away furiously, doing my best to lalalalala.
It got louder.
Twenty minutes, I mouthed over and over, twenty minutes.
It started to shout then.
Five pounds, five pounds, five pounds I chanted desperately.
But it drowned me out: CHOCOLATE!
CHOCCCC-LATE!!!!!
DO YOU HEAR ME?????
NEEEEEED. CHOCOLATE. NOW!!!!!!!

My fingers stopped typing. My legs automatons.
There was no drinking water till it shut up. No tricking it into submission with a rice cake and peanut butter.  
Before I knew what was happening, I was running to the escalators, bee lining it to the coffee cart, running my finger over the plastic enclosure on the platter of dessert pastries: Date square? No.
Éclair? No, no.
Oatmeal bar with raisins? Absolutely no.
And then... Yes, yes, yes: Thick chocolate cover, layers of peanuts and rice crispies, glued together with firm hardened caramel.  

Hello Dolly. How do I know your name?

I scurried scurried my ninja-self back to my desk. I sat. Looked around.
Had anyone noticed?
I cut the square in two and sliced one of the halves into thin pieces. I lay the slices out flat on a napkin.
I’ll take the other half home. Dessert for the kids.
I then responded to the emails. Popped each slice into my mouth.

Sweet, crunchy, chocolaty. Salty. Calming.

I looked down and the slices were gone. I cut a sliver off the other half.
They’re so picky, I reminded myself. They won’t like this.
Another sliver. Another slice. And another.  
I looked down and it was all gone.

The sugar was now swirling in my head.
I was dizzy.
Water. I needed water.
Ughhhhh. Oh my geeeezzzzz.
My pants are too tight.
Why? Why????
I need to lie down.
Or throw up.
Oh godddd, why?
Why did I eat the whole thing?
I need the couch.
I need my comfy pants,
To run ten miles.

Why????????

This is the last time.

I.will.never.do.this.again.

I swear.

 

 

I'm yearning for these kinds of days.

 

That post I always write

I’ve been writing this post for a few weeks now. Sometimes in my head. Sometimes on the screen. And I’ve stopped every time at about precisely this point. Because the only post I seem to want to write is the same old one I’ve been writing for the past six years. The same old one you’ve learned to expect from me. The one that tells you how busy life is. The one that admits I don’t know what work-life balance looks like or even if there is such a thing.

It’s essentially the one I’ve written over and over; sometimes laced with guilt, often tinged with feelings of failure. The one that calculates the ratio of time the kids spend in the company of others versus us, making me question, once again, what we first world  societies really value.

It’s also the post where I tell you that I simply cannot find any time to do some of the things that nurture that Me I really like. The Me of my dreams. The one who threatens to take the reins more often. The one who has big plans for me, for no reason whatsoever. She yearns to chip away at those writing projects. She has a hundred posts she’s dying to share with you. She insists I bring back my Saturday morning runs because she misses the serene and rhythm of feet on pavement, small hills and valleys, and the music.

In some ways it’s the post I’ve been writing since that November right before Deaglan was born, six years ago.  

The one where I reflect on motherhood: the little people who amaze and frustrate me every single day, compelling me to share it with you, here in this little corner of the internet I’ve carved out for myself.

A continuation of the story of Deaglan. Deaglan who lately shines with the wonder and magic of grade one. He can’t wait to get to school every morning and some mornings even insists I put gel in his hair. Most of the time he has just the right outfit in mind and won’t accept any suggestions from me. And it won’t surprise you to know (if you know me at all), that it secretly swells me with pride that just about every outfit is dead-on.

A story that includes how a few weeks ago he stopped me mid-swipe through a fashion blog; a tall thin blonde 20 something.

“You like her outfit?”
“No.”
“You like her?”
“Yeah,” he looked away. Shy smile and that dimple of his. “She has the same yellow hair as Elizabeth in my class.”

It left me fascinated and heartbroken.

And Naveen.

Yes. It’s a continuing of the story on the marvelous yet rascally ways of the three year old. Always a study in heart-melting enchantment and nerve-jangling frustration.  A bittersweet constant where I find myself refusing to correct mispronunced words: “Mum, I want Santa to bwing me a Tweenage Mutick Inja Tuhtul ShellWaiso” (A Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle Shellraiser –their vehicle).  Or refusing to resist the urge to scoop him into my arms any time he’ll allow it, this last bit of lush baby-hood I want to capture somewhow.  But also a study in restraint where on an hourly basis I am on the verge of insanity because this three year old of mine is a sneaky naughty imp of a boy.

It's the same post I’ve written so many times before.

Deaglan did his first Science project. He chose the Little brown bat. It was a lot of hard work for (ahem) him. He was graded on the detailed poster and his presentation of it. I was tempted to call his teacher when I read through the "Grading Rubrick", and remind her, "Uhhh, you do know he was literally in my womb only five years ago, right?"

Shaune's sister asked us to join them at the Sloan Christmas Tree Village yesterday. It's a great place. There were a ton of activities for the kids including a giant stack of hay, a miniature train, a zipline, horses and bonfires. The kind of thing people like us get into.

 Here's Naveen and cousin Layton on the giant stack of hay.

Deaglan would have set up camp on the giant stack of hay if we let him. It's the only thing he wanted to do all day, climb it and run through its secret mazes.

 You'll want to bundle up.

 Here's Grampa Bill looking on as Deaglan ziplines.

 And Gramma Fran feeding the goats with Naveen and Layton.

 Oh, I forgot to mention, you can also wander the tree farm and pick the tree you want then cut it down. Here's the one we picked.

 Shaune sawing.

October and me

The problem with not posting in over a month is that it’s hard to know where to begin.

Should I tell you first about the insomnia or the change of heart I've had about cooking? An update on the kids or gushing about Anne Lamott’s new book?  You see the problem? I’d usually write a separate post on each one of these things.  

Maybe I’ll back it up to September.

That’s when life sped up and forced me to prioritize. Shaune started his brand new permanent job. Deaglan became a first grader and Naveen went back to the preschooler room after a summer with Daddy. I felt the overwhelming urge to hold things together, hold all of their hands through it.  

Sadly, writing was triaged right out. Even sadder, I began waking up every night at precisely 1:30 am and lying awake until the morning.

I knew Shaune needed the freedom to embrace the new job so I released him of home work when I could. After all, he’d given me a luxuriously easy summer.

So, I took over all the cooking, dealt with the kids myself every evening; fed them, cleaned up, read to them, worked with Deaglan to improve his reading, bathed them and tucked them safely into their beds. While I did this, Shaune worked hard to create a foundation for this program he'd likely teach till the day he retired.

At the exact same time, work got good and busy. And then Deaglan's hockey started. I broke a toe which meant I had to get creative with my workouts – workouts that had become crucial to my sanity. Shaune’s partner teacher went on sick leave which meant he had to bring the rotating door of substitute teachers (usually starting teachers with absolutely no experience in commercial kitchens) up to speed almost every day.

The insomnia worsened and hot flashes and night sweats joined the party. And at least once a day I couldn't remember something important, it was on the tip of my tongue, near the front of my mind but I just couldn't find the words or remember what it was I was thinking about.

But every day around 4pm I took a break and googled healthy dinner ideas.  I often stopped in at the Metro on my way home to grab the things I needed for that night’s meal.  I liked the control I suddenly felt over what we ate. Shaune loved the break and he raved about the meals I was making.  

And then one Saturday morning a few weeks ago, I was scrolling through the digital TV guide in search of a cartoon both kids could agree on when I caught a glimpse of Suzanne Somers on CityLine.  She was listing symptoms to something - I’d missed the beginning – and almost every single symptom she listed sounded acutely familiar. A few hours later I had her new book I’m too young for this in my possession.

As I work through her book, I've begun adding other authors' viewpoints on the topic. Turns out I'm not too young for this. It has become evident that I am in the throes of perimenopause.

So that's it friends. That's what October was all about for us. I've missed this place and don't plan to be away for so long again. Next time I'll post more pictures and go on and on about the kids. And when the time is right I'll give you the lo down of what I'm doing to get myself on track with sleeping and all of that.

The boys got their hair cut and I tried to capture the before and after. These are grainy photos from my phone.

 



 I think I agree with my father-in-law that Naveen is meant to have long hair.

 

I'm no authority

I’m not sure I like being the authority on things.

Lately I find myself defining things I’d rather not. Naveen is full of questions all the time. Like last week he asked, “Mommy what does “part” mean?”

Huh?? Really? I wanted to ask. Right now? While I’m trying to hurry your brother into the school to sign him in so I can get you to the daycare and get to work? After I had to bargain with chocolate to get your shoes on? I have to now define the word “part” to a three year old with no other context?

It’s part of the parenting gig, I know.

And I enjoy it most of the time. I really do. But last week when I caught wind of Deaglan humming to himself I was sorry I asked what he was singing.

“Heyyyyyyyy,sexy lady!”he repeated louder, zooming Lightning McQueen up a couch cushion ramp. Then as if it was the most natural thing in the world, “Heyyyyyyy sexy Mommmmy!”

Gulp.

“You know what honey? Sexy is an adult word. Let’s not say that word.”

“That’s the song Sara plays for us at school in the program (the after-school program). Why can’t we say it? What does it mean?”

“Well, it’s just a word adults sometimes use to describe each other.”

Naveen suddenly interested: “Heyyyy sexwee Mommmy!!!, hahahaha.”

I was thinking about this on the drive this morning when Tom Power told the story about a time when he ducked into the Ship Inn Pub, in St. John’s Newfoundland for a pint and found the patrons eerily quiet, eyes fixed on the stage. He said when he scanned the bar he noticed that almost every person was mouthing the words to the song the band up front was singing.

The band was the Skydiggers. They were singing Fire engine (Red explosion). He then played the song.

A small thrill ran through me. I love the Skydiggers. I first saw them at the pub at Brock University in my second year and instantly became a fan. I had their album Restless within arm’s reach for the next 15 years.

To this day, track 12 still slays me every time I hear it.

Maybe when they’re old enough I’ll explain to the boys that that song is the definition of sexy. Come to think of it, by that point they probably won't want to hear me say the word sexy.

Totally unrelated but if you have two minutes watch this video I got of Naveen at bedtime tonight. He's explaining why he's angry at Deaglan. He has a lot to say on almost everything all the time these days.

 

 

 

60 one hundred lasterdays

If I’m going to be completely honest, I’ve resisted just about every new phase of parenting.

There was that initial few months with the first new baby where a part of me couldn’t help but think – this is a bloody nightmare, and though the strength of this sentiment eventually rounded and fuzzied itself out in my heart and mind, there was still a fair bit of swearing under my breath when both kids began crawling, and then again when they needed to be toilet trained and weaned from the things they didn't want to give up.

I almost always trip a little when my sense of control is challenged.

Three years ago when Deaglan first started skating lessons, I again felt light-headed at the thought of spending every Saturday morning of that winter shivering behind dirty glass watching him fall and then get up, fall and then get up.

Each fall a physical blow as if to my own body.

We’re a bit seasoned now, two skating sessions and three years of soccer under our belts, some baseball and swimming too. And so it should be no surprise to you that this weekend we entered into that rite of passage so many Canadian families enter willingly – we suited up our skinny kid, handed him a stick and hoped for the best as he slowly made his way onto the ice. We again stood watching and cringing and this time I saw Shaune vomit a little in his mouth when a more experienced parent mentioned that the hockey season includes every Saturday and Sunday right into March.

I was tempted to weep that hockey would rob us of any overnight weekend plans but then I remembered how we felt at the end of this last soccer season: A part of something with the other parents. We all cheered our kids and the kids on the other teams; we didn’t care about goals and winning. By the end of the summer all of us parents knew all the kids’ names, cared for them as if they were our own, unwrapping granola bars and wiping chins, bringing extra treats for the younger ones that weren’t old enough to play.

This morning Naveen came into our bed and asked if we were going to the hockey balrena like we did lasterday. I squeezed my eyes shut tight. A few minutes later Deaglan crawled in, cuddled up close to me and whispered I love you Mom, I love you 60 one hundred times around the world. You’re the best mom a kid could want even when you’re mad at me. For no reason whatsoever.

I sunk into acceptance. What else was I going to do this early on Sunday morning?

Teachable moments

The best part of my summer was having Shaune at home.

A home feels complete and balanced when one person is allowed to focus solely on it and the kids while the other person can focus solely on work. And if the working person takes on some of the routines in the evenings and weekends, well then you really have something. I tried to imagine a more ideal scenario but couldn’t.

Okay, that’s not completely true.

Ideally we would have someone come in to cook and clean. And iron. Oh, and run through sight words with Deaglan a few nights a week because I’m learning that I’m just not cut out for the patience it takes to teach a little person how to read. Come to think of it, I could also use a hand doing my hair in the mornings. I’ve painted myself into a corner with this new cut and frankly, I’m exhausted. So is the blow dryer and straightener.

I worked from home yesterday so I could be flexible for the first day of school. Both kids did great and I think, so did Shaune. He said it was surprising how much more respectful and not mouthy the teenagers are when they know you’re their full-time legitimate teacher versus just a supply.

One of the educators at Naveen’s daycare asked me if I was sick. Before I could answer, she continued by clarifying that she was only asking because my face looked tired and swollen. That’s likely the last time I’ll make eye contact with her. Coincidentally, I’ve looked into the curriculum for the Early Childhood Education program over at the college. I’m seriously thinking about lobbying to make Social Skills 101 mandatory in the first year.

Unfortunately I don’t know when I’ll find the time.

It’s five in the morning and this is the only time I could find to update my blog. I did however, remember to take a picture of the kids yesterday. I even made a sign. I also reminded both of them that they were to listen to their teachers and be good and kind people. 

I thought hard about reminding Naveen again that he was not allowed to say “What the fuck”, but decided against it. I think I made my point the day before. I’d even patted myself on the back when Deaglan piped in to really cement my teachable moment. In a wise older-brother way, he told Naveen that those kinds of words were pretty bad and that he had to wait until he was a teenager to be able to use them but even then he could only say them to himself or his friends. Never teachers. Never bosses. And never ever to Mommy and Daddy.

It’s nice when you can witness first-hand the fruits of your parenting labor. Don’t you think?

I don't even know why I bother to ask them to smile. Naveen decided that this was his new "cweepy, picture face."

 

I also found these pictures on the camera.

 

Deaglan lost his first tooth and got five bucks from the Tooth-fairy. I don't see any hopes of us becoming a single-income family any time soon. Five bucks!

If Shaune isn't thinking about us or work, then he's thinking about Hallloween. I'm not sure when he took this but I'm not surprised. Both my boys have inherited the "Halloween should be a national holiday" gene. Naveen could imitate a Zombie even before he could fully pronounce his own name. My husband was never more proud.

Tuesdays in late July

Last week Shaune took the kids to Manitoulin Island to a cottage with his parents. This was the first time in six years that I have been alone in the house for more than a few hours. It was lonely and glorious at the same time. They were gone for four days and three nights.

On the first night I was lost.

The house felt too big, too empty. My plans to enjoy takeout and whatever I wanted to watch on TV lost its appeal when I realized they were not coming back in a few hours. There’s something about freedom in those small doses. I ate leftovers and channel surfed most of the evening. When Shaune and the kids called, I had a hard time swallowing the big lump in my throat.

Pathetic. I know.

On day two I received a total of four phone calls and one video chat, two of which were spent trying to console Deaglan, reminding him that we’d be together again in no time at all. When I was sure he was finished sobbing I reminded him that he was with just about all the best people in his life: Daddy, Naveen, Gramma and Grampa.

It felt good to be missed though.

I got the hang of it a little by the second and third nights. I went out for dinner with friends and couldn’t believe how good the food tasted when there was nobody to discipline. It felt a little like old times; before kids.

I wished Shaune was there to discuss the food and enjoy the conversation.  

It’s always times like these, times when I’m out of my element, that I realize just how much my regular life satisfies me. I realize that home is where my three people are, not the vessel that holds us. I realize that despite the chaos and constant feeling that I’m not doing enough, there is a comfort for me in the everyday ordinary of my life.

On Thursday when they got back, I wondered if I’d measure up to what they thought they were missing.

Naveen hung onto my neck into the next day. Friday morning, when I told him I was going for a run but that I’d be back before he knew it, he put on his sneakers and cried when I told him that I’d be running for too long for him to join me. Deaglan asked a hundred times if I loved the necklace he’d bought me at the gift shop. And when I told him that yes, it was just the perfect one for me, he asked if I thought I would wear it every day for the rest of my life.

 The boys on the Chi-Cheemaun,  the ferry from Tobermory to Manitoulin Island.

 My mother-in-law (have I mentioned how much I lucked out in the in-law department?) building what looks like an amazing mote.

I think this is what the hip kids would call a selfie...I'm surprised though because I can usually never pry the camera out of this guy's hands long enough to capture him in a picture.

You'll notice I gave my blog a little makeover. I used Pic Monkey to create the new header. It was easy (obviously, if I could do it!) and free.  I tweaked the about me page and updated a picture or font where it seemed to need it.

I've been seriously considering changing the name.

Lately I get a lot of creepy visitors looking at the pictures of my boys. I can see what they've typed to find my little space here...things I'd rather not repeat but things that worry me nonetheless. And I can see what pictures they focus on.

I started this blog a month or so before Deaglan was born; five and a half years ago. We were told prior to that, at our 20 month ultrasound, that he would be a boy but something in me did not trust the technology. I didn't believe that they could be accurate in predicting his gender by looking at those static pictures of his bone structure.

Clearly, I was wrong.

But when it came to naming the blog, I had decided to keep it simple: The child. Little did I know that it would open me up to giving all sorts of perverts a peek into my world.

What do you think? Would you change the name?

Making peace with hard

This morning I ran nine kilometers.

It felt like early May. The sky shone clear, blue and showed off with the most liberating  breeze. The sun was gentle and warm; not it's oppressive self, like last week. Even by the midway point, I was thankful I hadn't opted for a running jacket, although I know if I’d been walking I would have wished for one.

It was one of those runs.

I noticed a hundred different shades of green, emeralds and jades, olives and khakis. Lush and healthy from all the rain. And even though I’d woken up feeling tired and failing, I ran my course and remembered that my grass was just as green. The trees seemed to cheer me on, their branches dancing in that gentle wind. It was hard to believe we were deep into July.

It was a hard run.

I took last week off from the gym; I embraced my vacation that way. And the week before that I’d been able only to find enough time to scramble to the cycling classes over my lunch hour. My lungs did not like this sudden wakening, the kind only running seems to induce. But I’ve made peace with this kind of hard in the past and I refused to let it stop me today. Sometimes, like this past week at work, I remind myself that hard is like good strong coffee on a cold dark morning. Necessary.

I let Shaune do all the parenting this week.

And along the way, I collected guilt and a dwindling self-esteem. Each time one of the kids asked me to play or take them to the park, I laid paralyzed on the couch and explained that sometimes Mommies don’t have what it takes to do it all. I leaned on Shaune. I’ve never been happier to have him at home with the kids. A temporary kind of leaning made sweeter by the fact that he's been hired as a fulltime high school teacher, set to start in September.

I explained things to Deaglan. How sometimes work takes all of your energy when you get older. I explained it to him because I knew Naveen wouldn’t understand yet. I tried to buy myself some understanding.

After my run, I ate leftover steak and a handful of strawberries.

I told the kids to get their helmets on and we rode to the park. We played soccer and then they rode circles all over the park’s paths and driveways. I sat on a bench, warmed by that mild sun and watched them make tracks with their wheels from riding through the patches of leftover puddles.

I talked myself into believing that they’d remember only this.