Life lessons 2011 edition

Last night as my feet crunched down on the snow covered sidewalk, the cold air no longer affecting me because I’d reached that point in running where I felt almost invincible, like I could do this all night, I realized Jhumpa Lahiri was right in her short story A choice of accommodations when she said that after the second child the marriage disappears.

Each of you is constantly trying to find time for yourself in the name of self-preservation. Five minutes without the crying. Thirty minutes to zone out to TV. A few stolen moments to read a page or two, maybe write a quick post. Life becomes a series of relays – I’ll chop the vegetables and make the rice, and while you put the stir-fry together I’ll run errands. You start bath time and I’ll do the reading.

And in the midst of it I see that resistance is my enemy.

Instead I practice surrender. I stop asking why. Why on the last day of Naveen’s antibiotics does Deaglan suddenly have a fever? Why on the rare occasion the baby is sleeping through the night does my mind race, leaving me to toss and turn all night long?

I pick two things to get done instead of bemoaning that I never have time to do anything. I celebrate the seemingly inconsequential like finding time to get my eyebrows shaped, organizing a shelf in a cupboard I’d been meaning to get to.

I find peace in laundry, sanity with the vacuum cleaner. I remind myself that this is what there is. That the prayer isn’t please God transport me to an easier time and place, it’s oh hey, I see why this is right and good.

And when the day is long, blind to joy, I stay close to the couch and go easy on myself.

My sister's bird found his way to my shoulder. It was not unlike having a small child constantly attached to you - lovely and irritating at the same time. Oh who am I kidding - it was kind of creepy.

Naveen finally let someone cut the back of his mane. He was sporting a mullet for the last few months. I'm just loving this neck, those ears.

I'm joining my friends Rach and Sara today for Life Lessons.

Life lessons - stealing cookies edition

During a break at a work meeting today, I surveyed a table full of snacks and took two small packages of cookies. I set them next to my note book, sat down, sipped my water and continued listening to the speaker. I looked at the tiny packs of Oreos and smiled, delighting in how excited Deaglan and Naveen would be when I presented them.

And then it hit me.

I’d just pocketed free snacks in front of my professional counterparts. A room full of people I’d met only minutes before.

Does my burgeoning mother-ness know no bounds? I didn’t even have a purse with me for petes’ sake. I was openly stashing freebies for the kids. The realization flushed my face and suddenly the meeting room got much smaller. I felt my armpits moisten. It was like an out-of-body experience.

This was inevitable though.

I was never good at anything before. I once got an award for perfect attendance in grade four. Other than that I’ve been existing sort of C-plus. But this gig has me aiming high which doesn’t always look cool. I’m not going for yummy mummy or that mom who has it together. I'm after the meat. I want very few regrets when looking back. I need to know I pushed myself.

And so every day I pray for the grace to be at least good at some of it. I pray that I get even a tiny bit right.

And when that fails I steal them cookies.

P.S. A lot of you have been kind enough to comment on the photography lately. I have to give credit where it's due. Shaune takes a lot of the pictures I post - I try to label when that's the case. It should also be noted that on the last post, he not only took those beautiful pictures of the kids, he also took them out of the house so I could have a few hours to myself.

I'm joining my friends Rach and Sara for Life Lessons.

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.

Life lessons: mini vacation edition

I have two new bloggy girlfriends. You might have noticed them on my sidebar. Sara and Rach started their own weekly meme called Life's lessons where each Friday they list what they learned that week. I'm joining them with my own list.

1. I'm off for a few days starting today. Wheeeeeee!!!!!!!!!!
2. I'm sitting in my pyjamas in the recliner with nothing pressing on my calendar. I may not get dressed till this afternoon.
3. Thank God it's raining because I don't need any pressure to go out and enjoy the sunshine.
4. Shaune just took Deaglan to the market and Naveen's napping! Do I need to go on or are you feeling me?
5. I want to eat ice cream. Guilt-free. I'm going to suggest it when everyone gets back.
6. I won't be answering the phone. Or emails.
7. I may lounge around like this and read my favourite blogs. Guilt-free. Wish we had some ice cream in the freezer.
8. Which reminds me, I might have to get up for groceries.
9. Or maybe we'll eat take-out all day.
10. I'm going to find out what's been happening in Genoa City.*

*I'm not ashamed to admit I got hooked on The Young and the Restless on my maternity leaves.

How to be a working parent

It’s five in the morning.

After nursing the baby, I tip-toed him back to his crib, snuck downstairs, put on coffee and sat down to write this post. In an hour I’ll be scurrying around, washing jam off faces, finding socks that match, applying mascara and rushing out the door to the daycare and then to work.

It’s how I’ve had to find time to write lately. By stealing it. Sunday I totally lucked out when Shaune offered to take both kids to the car wash and Canadian Tire.

Being a parent who works is no easy thing.

And although I won’t Dooce myself – thanks Heather for learning that lesson and passing it on, I will say that while my work situation is pretty close to ideal, every day I still find myself scrounging for time, grappling with guilt, and grading myself a big fat C minus on the How I did today scale .

And I say working parent not mother, because I don’t see it being any easier for Shaune. Some nights his job keeps him late enough that he doesn’t even get to kiss the boys goodnight while they are awake.

So last night, while I was preparing dinner for the kids, feeling like an utter failure because I was exhausted and grouchy and in no mood to try and create some shiny moments with the boys, a thought came to me.

It was kind of revolutionary for me. Oh who am I kidding? It was downright insurgent!

What if this sense of inadequacy is normal? I wondered. What if I just accepted it and moved on? What if I gave myself a small break and instead of wallowing in this worry-hole that somehow I’d be caught red-handed for incompetence in every aspect of my life, I appreciated that I was doing the best that I could? That left-over spaghetti wouldn’t ruin Deaglan’s childhood and that it was okay to let them watch a little TV so I could have a few minutes to unwind from my day.

What if I removed the phrase work-home balance from my mental lexicon and pasted in new ones like good enough, and it is what it is?

I wondered. Could it be that easy?

Stream of consiousness Sunday: Saturday night

Last night we temporarily lost our minds and went out for dinner. We got carried away with the excitement of a summertime Saturday night, remembered how before kids, Saturday nights meant doing something fun.

And then once we were sat and Naveen had cleared the table of all it's silverware and was well on his way to holding us hostage with restless boredom before a server could even offer us drinks, I found myself rifling through my purse for a granola bar, a half empty box of raisins or something to restrain him with,  when we looked at each other and remembered why we don't go out unless it's a very kid-friendly place.

We gulped down our beers and asked the server to package up our food and headed to a nearby park where we could freely scold the kids to our hearts' content. It was a park with a splashpad, and playscape. There were ducks to feed and at least a dozen other families with small children.  We laid out our picnic blanket and ate.

Sadly, it was our kind of place.

And then we came home and started the bedtime routine where Shaune concluded that we had a Rhodes Scholar on our hands because our three year old recited Dr. Seuss' What was I scared of? verbatim. We happily ignored what other kids his age might or might not be capable of, agreeing wholeheartedly that there was indeed something extraordinary about our child.

After discussing this at length, with the clear implication that our unique parenting techniques were likely the catalyst for such genius, we opened a bottle of Shiraz, and checked out what was on TV. Eventually I headed upstairs with my book and was out, in a dead sleep by 10. 

I'm joining Stream of Consciousness Sunday at all.things.fadra.

Arrogance does not become me

I was feeling a bit smug at Deaglan’s soccer game on Saturday.

The mother on the patch of grass next to me was close to her breaking point because her two Under Fivers* refused to play. It was quite possibly the hottest day we’ve had this year and her two rascals wanted nothing to do with running or kicking. In a low angry voice she threatened, one-by-one, to take away each of the day’s allotted treats.

“If you don’t get out there and play,” she hissed, taking a break from her Blackberry, “there will be no licorice.” The two didn’t budge.

“I’m not kidding, absolutely no cake today!”

The older one had the younger one in a head lock.

“I swear to God, if you don’t get out there for at least five minutes, I’m taking away the jube-jubes and you can forget about McDonald’s.” She glanced at me sheepishly.

Her boys were now taking turns of body slamming each other.

Oh I know what you’re thinking. I am so going to be there in a couple of years.

But Deaglan also refused to stay on the field. He told me early on, very matter-of-factly, “Mommy, it’s too hot for soccer.” Besides he was giddy with the thrill that we had brought the snack for everybody (it was our turn) and his sole focus was in letting the coaches and his teammates know that we had brought bananas, granola bars and cold water. He perched himself atop the cooler, consulting me every few minutes to determine how close to snack time we were getting.

I was feeling pretty self-congratulatory for relaxing, for not getting worked up that my kid wasn’t living up to my soccer-mom dreams.

The universe knocked me off of the high horse I was riding though.

While waiting to see the doctor this morning, Deaglan and I were perusing the kid’s books. The only other person waiting to see the doctor was a lone woman. Her cell phone vibrated and she decided to take the call outside. A few minutes later she came back into the waiting room.

Loudly and to my sickening horror, my three year old asked, “Mommy, why is that man coming back in here?”

See what I mean? I’m back to my humble self.

We went to the Detroit Zoo last weekend. It was brutally hot and we found ourselves enjoying the indoor attractions. While there were at least twenty real live snakes about four feet from where we sit, Deaglan couldn't get enough of this fake one.

*Deaglan plays in the U5 division - under five.

I'm joining Shell today and pouring my heart out.

A moment of grace

We exited the restaurant slowly, our bellies full; asking ourselves why we did it. Why did we order dessert? I'd had more than my share of crab and oysters and those penko breaded shrimp dipped in sweet chili sauce.

And there he sat, on the grimy curb, his baby toe poking out of the hole in his left shoe.

"Can you spare some change Ma'am?"

I squeezed my three year old's hand praying he wouldn't go into the Why mode. The man looked to be in his late thirties. His face was leathered by the sun. A dirty beige baseball cap perched on top of his shaggy greasy hair. I could tell he was good looking even through his disheveled appearance. Anger didn't grip me like it sometimes did when I was solicited for a cigarette on my lunch break at work. I didn't size up the expensive tattoos on his arms and turn disgustedly away.

A softness came over me. A vision of where I'd been a few minutes ago flashed in my mind. Me with a plateful of expensive food at my fingertips. A glass of decent wine on my right. I looked to my husband who already had his wallet out. He grabbed the lone bill, a five, and handed it to the man. 

"Bless you Sir, bless you." His deep blues eyes watered with gratitude. 

We walked to the van in silence. The usual thoughts didn't make an appearance. I didn't care that he might be headed to the liquor store right that minute. It made little difference to me what he spent it on. And to my utter amazement, my inquisitive son did not ask one single question all the way home.

This week the ladies wanted us to push ourselves out of our comfort zone, try something new. I decided to go with a much shorter post than usual. It scared me a little not to over-do the scene, so you'd really get it. But then I remembered how smart and savvy you all are.

The freedom to write Bird by Bird

Shaune tapped my book. “Are you giddy with excitement because The Smurfs are back?”

I lowered Bird by Bird a little, looked at the trailer for the new movie, rolled my eyes and picked up where I was reading again. It had been a mild source of amusement between us since Rosemary had burned me a copy of The Smurf’s Greatest Hits a few years ago. Although she was there, she seemed to have forgotten all the painful parts of my childhood. Her kid-like capacity to paint everything with pink frosting was infuriating.

“Yeah, I’m beside myself,” I replied.

“I can’t believe you guys were so into it.” He insisted.

“It was one of Matthew’s shows. We liked it because he liked it.” I knew this would stop his teasing. I didn’t want to have to whip out the Matthew card but it was the truth.

“Oh.” He left it alone after that. A quick pain stabbed through me to see that I’d turned a light moment so grave. A little over a year after his passing and I still was not able to discuss my brother with anything close to levity.

I looked back down at the book.

In this dark and wounded society, writing can give you the pleasures of the woodpecker, of hollowing out a hole in a tree where you can build your nest and say, “This is my niche, this is where I live now, this is where I belong.” And the niche may be small and dark, but at last you will finally know what you are doing. After thirty years or more of floundering around and screwing up, you will finally know, and when you get serious you will be dealing with the one thing you’ve been avoiding all along – your wounds. This is very painful. It stops a lot of people early on who didn’t get into this for the pain. They got into it for the money and the fame. So they either quit, or they resort to a type of writing that is sort of like candy making.

“It’s a good memory.” I offered. “Kinda like our reluctant affection for Dora because Deaglan loves her. You know?”

“Yeah, I get it.”

There.

Another Band-Aid to cover the ugliness. A moment-by-moment discipline: I practiced restraining my ego again, the part of me who would rather have ranted on and on about how unfair it was growing up in that house. I stopped myself from launching into a twenty minute word montage illustrating what childhood had been like for me.

Lamott’s words were now drowning out everything I’d trained myself to believe, everything I’d feared. All that had ever stopped me from writing.

Even if you never publish a word, you have something important to pour yourself into. Your parents and grandparents will be shouting, “Don’t do it, don’t sit down, don’t sit down!,” and you’ll have to do what you did as a kid – shut them out and get on with finding out about life.

This is what I came up with for the prompt: tv show from your past. Maybe you watched it, maybe you didn't and it was just something that everyone else talked about. What feelings does the show evoke? What memories does it trigger?

Do you like how I snuck in a book review of Anne Lamott's Bird by Bird? I wish I could express how enchanting it was. How I wanted to sit down and write every single time I read even one paragraph. How  I yearned to stalk her until I could pinpoint her whereabouts and then insist we discuss everything. I wanted to ask her how she could know me so well to be able to write a book so suited to me and my desires. I wanted to quote several pages at a time in my writing until it became quite apparent what I would be doing. Plagerizing.

If you don't believe me, please read it for yourself. Make sure you buy a copy because you'll find it impossible not to dog-ear and highlight it. And then after you've read it, and you find yourself at the library trying to get your hands on everything else she's written, don't be mad.

I've got all of her books on loan indefinitely.

For a long time we were a family of eight

I nibbled on the sandwich and tucked my seven fries neatly into the saran. We never got our own when we came here; forget even hoping for a hamburger or Happy Meal. My mother packed tuna or baloney in the big red cooler. By the time we got to them, the sandwiches were damp and flat. The loose ice cubes had begun melting and seeping through the plastic wrap.

Soggy tuna.

On rare occasions we were treated to a large coke to split between us all, but more often she asked for water in the plastic cups they served the pop in. Thankfully we ate outside on the picnic tables.

Only a stray family or two ever witnessed my humiliation.

Inside was packed with people who’d ordered full meals, munching on Big Macs and Quarter Pounders. I peeped through the window and spied a girl my age. I watched her laugh, a fry halfway to her mouth. Her wild copper hair was tamed neatly into two braids. I couldn't be a hundred per cent but I was willing to bet she was covered in freckles. And my toes curled inside my dirty old sneakers when I saw the gleaming white soles of her Tretorns peaking out from under the table as she stretched back into her chair. 

Her lunch was spread out on the table, the yellow paper of her cheeseburger flattened to hold the burger and fries, a treat-of-the-week still in its wrapper. An older boy sat across from her, his mouth full of McChicken –I could tell because the meat between the buns was not dark like that of a hamburger. I assessed the little family; mother, father, brother, sister – perfect fit at the table for four. No need to add chairs, no reason to track down the manager for an extra table.

I looked around at all of us. My two sisters were quietly eating their sandwiches, the baby on my mother’s lap was grabbing at a straw. The other two boys were chasing each other around the small courtyard. The red cooler sitting in the middle of the table announced our deficiency like a beacon in a deserted night sky.

 The prompt asked us to write a 300 word piece of flash fiction about Life. I would call mine creative non-fiction. I'm also joining Lisa at Two Bears Farm for Memory lane Friday.

Growing up, there were many aspects of large family life, that bothered me. Now that I'm a parent myself, I know those were the aspects that helped shape me into an appreciative, live-within-my-means, type of person. I realize that no matter how often I wish my kids would take better care of their toys, or really "get" how lucky they are, they will never ever grasp the abundance they are fortunate to be a part of.

I am the mom of boys

The first time I realized that I was the mother of boys was after our fishing trip a few weeks ago. Growing up I was never one of the guys. No one accused me of being a tom boy. I liked dolls. And sewing. I wasn't sporty. I read a lot- mostly Anne of Green Gables and Little House on the Prairie until I discovered Judy Blume and Danielle Steele. And if I could get my hands on a pretty dress, I wore it with exultation.

When boys did come into my horizon, I was just like all the other girls - passing notes, yearning for acknowledgement, and completely mystified.

I was never one of the guys.

And yet here I am, surrounded by them. I still like pretty dresses and writing notes. But find myself yearning more than ever for their acknowledgement.I want to fit in. I want them to like me, really like me. I studiously learn the difference between an excavator and a backhoe. I pride myself on knowing all of Thomas and his friends. And because I refuse to be mystified anymore, I devour books on the best ways to raise them and get downright adversarial when people misunderstand a boy’s nature.

I wonder sometimes how I’ll survive a lifetime of fart jokes and bathroom humour. I’m certain I will never enjoy touching the damned toilet seat and even though my mouth will be shut, I’ll likely roll my eyes every time they insist on wrestling it out.

I think it’s okay that I wore my pink frilly blouse to go fishing. I don’t want my boys to believe girls need to change who they are to be around them. I may not be willing to worm a hook but I brought the Doritoes and the sunscreen.

And I made sure all their outfits matched! 

The ladies at the Red Dress Club wanted us to use the prompt The first time I _____ed, after I _______ed.

I'm a walking cliche

I have to tell you a story that has left me struggling in shame. I’ve tried to force it down into that space where such stories can often live for years, sometimes forever, without another person ever hearing them. But this story refuses to hide in the darkness of my heart. It’s been on the tip of my tongue in every conversation. It threatens to jump out of my mouth without my consent.

I see no alternative to writing it down. I see no other way it will set me free.

It began a few weeks ago on Naveen’s first “visit” to the infant room at the daycare which was intended to ease his transition into our upcoming change in routine.

That’s when I met her.

I was hoping she was the mom of one of the babies. She easily could have been one of those moms of an indecipherable age. Maybe a really busy single mom, I thought. With a gaggle of unruly kids demanding every ounce of her exuberance, leaving her lethargic and haggard.

The poor woman. No wonder she scowled when I smiled nervously at her. I knew how much yelling was involved trying to keep one naughty preschooler in line; I could just imagine the shrieking required to bring this mythic tribe of hooligans in her charge to order.

And she was obviously sleep-deprived. The dark under-eye circles were a dead giveaway. I of all people could spot a weary mother. And how selfless of her to bestow such little thought to what she was wearing. A pair of men’s grey jogging pants, dirty scuffed white tennis shoes and a sweatshirt festooned with a kitten and the phrase It’s hard being purr-fect.

I wouldn’t blame her for having a few extra glasses of wine once her wild brood were finally in bed. And our eyes met long enough for me to see that hers were bloodshot, possibly the result of putting her feet up with a few too many cold ones.

“Hey, I’m Gene,” she pushed an un-manicured hand my way. Large man hands. “I’m here on Mondays and Tuesdays.”

“Oh good!” I croaked, “I’m Kim.”

And as I walked out of the building leaving my baby in her care for a full hour, I prayed to God that Naveen not give this woman any reason to unleash the fury she looked to be capable of.

This past Monday, after I dropped the kids off for the second week, I made a shaky promise to myself to not call the Daycare. I knew that if anything was really wrong, they would call me and it had only served to make me feel even more torn and helpless the previous week when I could hear Naveen crying in the background during each of my phone calls.

So at the end of the day, when I rushed in to fetch my baby, you can imagine how stunned I was to see him nuzzling Gene’s neck, smiling peacefully, while she stroked his back. And before she noticed me, she grabbed him by the middle, held him up above her face and the two of them giggled like old friends, like mother and child. I watched her face contort this way and that, making him laugh madly.

I knew in that moment I had a lot more work to do on myself.

I'm joining those ladies at the Red Dress Club in their prompt physical beauty. I took my own approach to it.

I think it's safe to talk about Baby sleep

A friend who has twins a week older than Naveen asked me how many teeth he had.

“Eight,” I told her, “but he’s working on four more as we speak.”

“Wow, I can’t believe that! The twins only have a few each. But then Kiana had twelve teeth by the time she was a year old.”

Excited that her preschooler experienced a similar first year to Naveen, I continued, “Yeah, I think that’s why he hasn’t slept through the night until now, he’s been teething his whole life.”

“Hmmm, well Kiana slept. Through the night that is.”

Her last statement was like a punch in the arm. Because as parents we are constantly looking for answers, reasons why our child might be different from another. Why he isn’t reaching a milestone when every other kid around is. Sleep has been such an issue in our household.

As if I had to tell you again.

But I think it’s safe to remove that lucky rabbit’s foot I engineered above Naveen’s crib in lieu of a mobile. I can probably eliminate the complicated Swahili sleep jig I’ve been performing from his bedtime routine. I feel certain my combing search of our backyard for four leaf clovers prior to bedtime is no longer necessary.

Because finally the kid is sleeping.

And just like with Deaglan, no amount of reading helped along the way. It wasn’t E.A.S.Y., there was no crying it out, he would not be Ferberized and co-sleeping left me wide awake and co-onscious because he slept for forty minute stretches for the entire first six months.

And it was to my detriment that I demanded every parent of a newborn within a fifty mile radius detail their bedtime routine so I could mimic it step-by-step. It was a dangerous practice because when my baby still didn’t sleep, I began finding reason upon reason to get these people out of my life for good. We obviously had nothing left in common since they’d given birth to seemingly magical sleeping children.

I officially don’t hate you anymore.

Because just as mysteriously as he’d stayed awake for all those months, making me question his sanity and mine, he began sleeping. All night. And sadly, now that I am on this side of it, I have no advice for those parents currently suffering from sleepless baby syndrome. I have not one concrete recommendation. My experience has taught me nothing.

Well that’s not true, I learned that I could have saved a lot of money by using the library and that the Baby Whisperer has been dead since 2004.

But I digress.

And also?

It’s one more thing Shaune and I can stop blaming each other for. If he came home and mentioned one more colleague’s baby who slept for twelve hours straight, I may have needed a padded cell to contain my crazy self in. I am not easily prone to jealousy but knowing our friends and neighbours were luxuriating in lengthy periods of nocturnal bliss had me twisting with resentment.

Now that Naveen is sleeping, I can free up my resentment for other things.

I'm pouring my heart out with Shell.

Back to work reality

This is my non-fiction post for the prompt we'd like you to write a scene that includes a happy ending. So far being back to work has been exhausting and emotional. I know that once we all adjust, we'll likely experience more happy times. I didn't include a happy ending because, well, so far it's been exhausting and emotional...

“How’s he been?” I whispered to Miss Kylie.

“You know what? For his first day, he did great. Like we told you on the phone, when you called again this afternoon, he had lots of moments of realization of where he was, then started crying. But that’s to be expected.”

“Mmhmm. What about food? Did he eat?”

I fired off one question after another, wanting to hear that something went right. It was Wednesday, the third day in my first week of being back to work. Nothing was going as I’d hoped.

“He ate some bread, a little yogurt, a few grapes. But you probably went through this when you went back after Deaglan right? It’ll just take a few days for him to adjust. And, for you to adjust.” She tilted her head, looking at me with sympathy. I blinked back my tears. I walked out to the deck where Miss Sandy and Miss Debbie were watching three of the babies play in the sun on the enclosed space.

“Naveen, look who it is! Is that Mummy?” Miss Sandy chirped. She was Deaglan’s favourite when he was in the Baby Room two and a half years ago. I picked up my tiny boy, who collapsed into my arms, crying and grabbing my face. Where have you been? he demanded with his miniature fists.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, my sweetheart,” I whispered into the warmth of his sweet soft neck.

On Monday morning he woke up with a fever, watery eyes and clogged sinuses. Shaune took a sick day from work so I wouldn’t have to miss my first day back. On Tuesday, Gramma and Grampa drove the hour to London to watch him so I wouldn’t have to miss my second day. Wednesday was his first full day at Daycare.

And each morning, Deaglan had to be peeled off of me, wailing, “Mama, don’t go, mama don’t go.” I pressed my palm against his cheek, reminding him of the Kissing Hand, the story about Chester Raccoon who didn’t want to go to school either. Chester’s mother tells him about the kissing hand, a kiss on his palm from his mother he could access anytime he felt lonely. I promised that I would come back at the end of the day, pick him up and we’d sit on the front step at home and eat fudgesicles.

This morning I got into the van after dropping the boys off and drove the three minutes to my parking space, wondering how I would ever get used to being away from them for eight hours each day. I thought long and hard about those mothers in primitive cultures who kept their babies on their bodies in packs for the first year, nursed them right into and through toddlerhood. A pain shot through me, remembering Naveen’s incredulous crying when he realized that I was leaving him there that first morning.

And as I stepped out of the van into the small puddle I’d parked beside, the buckle on my black sandal broke off and fell into the muddy water. I fished around, found it and climbed back into the vehicle to slip into the heels I was saving for the soft carpet of my workspace. When I stepped back outside, I lost my balance for a second and dropped my envelope full of snapshots of the kids into the same puddle.

I don’t know what I was expecting this first week back to work.

On needing a bullet proof vest or better communication skills

I was bashed pretty good by a few commenters on Yummy Mummy for my post I wouldn’t be a good stay at home mom. I wrote it in hopes of being published specifically on this site for May’s topic – write about being a “bad” mommy. And since I’d been thinking non-stop about going back to work in the next few weeks, I realized that I wasn’t always a hundred per cent proud of my performance as a mother every day. I wrote it in an effort to convince myself that going back to work (which is not an option but a must for me) was for the best especially since I’d been lucky enough to have a year-long maternity leave with each of my sons.

Deaglan driving Grampa's "tractor" (riding lawn mower)

I entered motherhood thinking that I should strive to be a “supermom” but the experience of the last three and a half years woke me up to the truth that it’s more important to be a good mom. I wanted to be honest about how challenging being a stay-at-home mom was for me. That despite my best intentions, there were many times I didn’t get them outside on a snowy day, I fed them food out of a box, and let them watch more TV than I was comfortable with. In response to my post one reader wrote:

I'm all for women staying in the workforce for a myriad of reasons, but this article is sad. It's not that hard to make sure your kids get to play outside 90 minutes a day or to feed them a healthy meal. Sad that she would rather outsource spending time with her kids because she's too lazy to cut up some veggies and put some outdoor clothing on.

Sheesh!

I re-read my post to determine what I’d written to warrant such a conclusion. My limited experience in motherhood has taught me one thing that I carry with me every single day. That I have no idea what anyone else is going through and it’s not my place to judge. Before I was a parent I used to let slip (what I’m sure was beyond irritating to whoever was unfortunate enough to be listening, especially if they had small children themselves) gems like:

My children will be vegetable eaters because I will introduce them to veggies right from the beginning. If they don’t know about sugar and fat, how will they know to like it?

and

My kids will NEVER watch TV period.

I hereby give whoever had to listen to me back then permission to slap me.

Because obviously I'd not yet met my match – namely Deaglan W. McNamara, the KING of refusing to eat it unless it was sweet, salty or fried. I hadn’t thought that TV statement through especially since later I’d have a baby who slept for measly forty minute stretches throughout the livelong day and night which meant that for six months, the only sleep I would be getting would be an hour or two when my husband could relieve me.

Had I known that, I would have reconsidered saying something so slap-worthy.

But now that I am a little more well versed in the joys and demands of parenting, I try to keep my big mouth shut. I am certain that I know nothing about parenting the “right” way. I try only to speak about my experience.

This little heartbreaker turns one tomorrow!

 And I listen to the advice my Dad tried (but couldn’t) to post on my Yummy Mummy article: Staying at home may not make you a better mom and going to work may not make you a worse mom. Loving your kids will make you a great mom. Love dad

Thanks Dad. I know you’ve never heard me utter these words to you. But I think you may be right.

Naveen with Aunt Laura (my youngest sister)

This is me pouring my heart out with Shell early. I will be posting twice a week from now on. I hope you will keep coming back! Please, if you have any suggestions (posts too long, too short, too many pictures, not gossipy enough) let me know.

Oprah guilt

This was absolutely the last time I’d shift uncomfortably when Shaune walked in on me watching Oprah. It was her last episode. I don’t know why I always felt a tinge of shame like he’d caught me red-handed in a nefarious act. Well, I think I know why but the real mystery was why I could never shake that feeling despite my true opinion of the show: wholesome and educational, researched and compelling. And even though I’d been known (in our house) for my over-compensatory lectures of the benefits of Oprah on our culture, I still felt a tiny bit queasy every time my husband asked what I was watching.

Yesterday I caught some news coverage about her last show where a Canadian anchor man when asked if he was a fan of Oprah’s, responded diplomatically with well, I don’t think I was a part of her demographic. Fair enough, I thought.

But something about this talk show host, philanthropist billionaire elicits bad attitudes in a lot of men I know and even some women. One girlfriend acts as if she happened to be home when Oprah was on and the only reason she watched was that there was absolutely nothing else on. Every time we discuss an interesting aspect of a particular episode, she participates using this contingency. As if to admit that had she willingly taken part in the viewing, she would have been lowering herself to a domain she would rather not be associated with.

My husband who is a modern-day Dad, an evolved spouse, and even a pioneer of the accurate division of labour in a marriage slumped his shoulders every single time I answered that I was watching Oprah. Yet on more than one occassion he watched episodes in rapt enthralment.

Honey, you know it’s true.

It’s not my intention to ask the cosmic why and shake my fists at the universe for creating men and women so different. I’m not even interested in changing my husband anymore. I gave that up some time ago – mostly. It’s this notion that I felt guilty about watching Oprah even though I loved the show. I won’t go so far as to say it was like Stockholm syndrome where the kidnapped person starts identifying with her captor. It’s something more elusive.

All I know is that for some reason the mere mention of Oprah serves to send some people straight back to the dark ages. It made my well intentioned, evolved, pioneer husband ask me Wednesday: Are you gonna have a girl party because it’s the last Oprah?

Really? Girl party?*

Oprah once said in regards to the relationship between men and women:
A man will only treat you the way you allow him to treat you.

I can’t think of one good reason my husband would suddenly talk to me like I was fourteen, giggling over Justin Bieber. In this one instance, she was wrong.

*It's a rare occassion when my husband is anything but respectful and supportive toward women.

I'm joining the ladies at the Red Dress Club in their prompt that asked we begin with the phrase this was absolutely the last time and end with she was wrong.

I can only be self-less for so long

We had our neighbours and their grandkids over for a play date this week. And when Jennifer (the grandma) thanked Deaglan for letting them play on “his” swing set he responded with “My Daddy built my swing set for me.”

Now, I am nothing if not magnanimous, but I prickled at my son’s comment. Because while I’m the first to generously acknowledge all that my husband gives to our family, I had a good mind to set the child straight.

Yes, Daddy did “build” the swing set. But it was only after Mommy searched and searched kijiji ads for weeks, investigating at least 15 used play-scapes until she found just the right one. Then after a gruelling day at work, she drove her eight month pregnant self out to the country with a cranky, hungry toddler fresh from daycare to inspect it. Once she confirmed that it was in good shape, she tucked her shame into her back pocket and haggled the owners down one hundred dollars from the asking price. Knowing her work had only begun, she next created what can only be considered a small business case to present to your swing-set building hero, whose immediate reaction was to find twenty seven reasons we didn’t need it. But your mother pointed out just as many reasons (and all of them had to do with you) we did.
Then your good-for-nothing mother who, by the way, was busy building you a brother, a life-time friend, someone you will be able to rely on to always gang up on your father and me; well she worked at organizing the use of a truck big enough to carry the swing set home in pieces. And still, once the truck was borrowed, she had to gently coax your father through the entire process because it was rainy and windy which worked to further resist his efforts to have yet another child’s toy crowding his backyard.

Not that I’m bitter.

It’s bad enough that Santa takes all the credit at Christmas.

We took 244 pictures this past long weekend. It was a gloriously sunny fun-filled few days.

Although Naveen won't be one for a week still, we celebrated his big day twice.

I’m pouring my heart out with Shell.

May 21, 2010

This time last year I spent my waking hours longing for two things: a chance to lounge in the console of our big brown recliner and obscenely thick slices of velvety chocolate cake. My mind interjected these yearnings with the worry that inevitably this mammoth child in my womb would need to burst through to life on this side. The midwife’s deft hands speculated that not only did the boy weigh in excess of nine pounds, but that I was again producing too much amniotic fluid, a condition that could prove dangerous during the birth. Walking even to the bathroom left me winded.

I was in no position to deal with the sudden death of my younger brother.

Because you need time and space for such a thing. An open calendar to meld with the couch, watch re-runs and numb your brain. It requires the freedom to stop all healthy functioning, to refuse to cope, to deny its existence. It`s not the kind of thing conducive to welcoming a new life into your family. It`s not the black goop you want flooding your psyche when life was just cornering its way to clear and juicy.

But I couldn`t stop. The baby needed to be born. A toddler had to be overcompensated for the journey ahead of him, where he`d no longer be the centre of his world. The nursery was in desperate want of clearing; it had become a storage space in the past year. And I was supposed to be savouring these last few days as mother to one, a role I`d finally wrapped myself around.

So instead of eating cake, I mulled over the details of his death. Instead of building forts I crafted a eulogy. I traded fantasies of who this new baby would resemble with efforts to recollect our final conversations, sifting through them for hints of trouble.

And I wrote about it. I risked people thinking I lacked the dignity to keep some things private. That only a narcissistic blabbing fool would announce to the world her brother was dead only minutes after it happened; post the funeral details as her facebook status. Only a crazy attention seeking harpy would write every single feeling this loss conjured up.

But it was the only outlet I could think to deal with the enormity of the abyss that had cratered itself into the centre of my life.

The only tonic that would soothe my fevered grief.

And on Saturday when a year will have passed since that life-changing day, I still wonder if I would be further ahead if I`d had the luxury to slothfully mourn him. I wonder if I`d have more answers, feel the loss a little less or unclench my fists a smidge had circumstances allowed me to stop.

And cry.

The picture above is Matthew holdingDeaglan at two months. The picture below is a week before his passing at his best friend's mother's wedding. He's holding that friend's newborn baby.

This is my post for the prompt Sloth over at the Red Dress Club.

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.