A letter to Eleven on behalf of a Mom

Hey Eleven (cool, cautious tone),

Welcome.

I won’t fight you - I've heard that that never works - but people are saying that you're the new 13 so I just wanted to point out a few things.

So far, this path has been so good. He came out perfect: gentle (!), and wild (!) and kind (!)…magnificent. Like a healer, he cauterized my wounds – bleeding so long –  as if to say “Don’t worry Mom, I’m here. Let my love graft us together, let my need of you salve your grieving; let me be the light to guide you to your real self.”

Eleven, I am my real self because of him!

And Eleven, he delights us everyday.

Never takes us for granted. Still laughs willingly at our jokes; understands the nuances in an uncanny-too-soon, adult way. He is an open heart. Tells us each thing he’s thinking as if to keep even the smallest secret would widen the space between us. And he lets us know he couldn’t bear that space.

Eleven, he sits with us every single night, so close to my side that I can’t tell where I end and he begins. Pure joy for me I tell you. “Are we watching our show Mom?” he asks. I don’t remember the last time he retreated to his room or was too busy for us.

And when we fail him Eleven?…Often, on my part it feels.  His forgiveness is steady and predictable as the sun's rise, deliberate but new colours every time.

He is beautiful. Breathtaking, dear Eleven.

Please don’t change him too much. We see that he has a hard time getting out of bed in the morning, this boy who used to spring out of bed. That's fine. We understand that he needs to  argue with the decisions we make. That's okay. We see that he's watching all those badly-acted tween shows. We're taking that in stride. 

We can handle all of this Eleven.

But please Eleven, if you can manage it, leave this boy's heart intact. Because his heart? So so good. 

Love the Mom.

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.

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?

It's all enough

In a few short weeks my sweet little Naveen will turn three. He is not potty trained nor does he like to function without his pacifier. He hates sharing my lap with his brother and just the other day when I was comforting Deaglan after a bad fall, he pinched his own forehead so that I’d be forced to comfort him as well.

Every evening he lays in our bed, proprietarily snuggled in close to me until he is fast asleep. Then I carry him, limp and sweaty, to his bed, that bottom bunk in the room across the hall. I kiss that sweaty little face and on my way back to my own bed, lament that he is too much my baby still, to be turning three.

It must seem like I’m not doing a very good job of fostering his independence.

I was self-sufficient far too early in life. I’ve told you my story in bits and pieces over the years about how my mother was forced to live on the streets, away from me, when I was still very small and in dire need of her warm, safe arms. I told you that I lived in an orphanage in Bangladesh with dozens of other kids until I was adopted into my family here in Canada. I’ve written some about how it felt to be seven and new to a country and a language and a culture.

I look back at those first twenty years and feel exhausted for that girl I used to be. She had to endure so much. It’s no wonder she waited until her mid-thirties to have kids. She needed 15 years of psychic head space just to process it all.

As a result, I rarely rush my kids through the phases of their development. I watch in awe how they own their little lives, how relaxed they are when they’re home, how connected they become with their immediate environment.

Deaglan takes his socks, pants and often his shirt off as soon as we get in the front door most days. He finds the toys he’s interested in at the moment, goes to the fridge to survey it for a snack and asks us for whatever else he needs to make himself comfortable and happy. For Naveen this usually means finding his pacifier and my lap and snuggling until we move onto dinner or outside.

I watch this kind of thing with fascination and learn how to get what I need.

The simplicity of what makes them happy – a few pushes on the swing, a popsicle, a favourite show - makes me want to pare down my desires too. It forces me in the best way possible to look around and realize that my backyard is big enough,the grass there, green enough, that I am thin enough, that my husband loves me enough, the sky is sunny enough.

It’s all enough. 

 

A new way to fly

This morning we broke routine and took separate vehicles.

Shaune has been driving us to our individual places and then picking us up at the end of each day, which, considering the demented weather up until a few days ago has been a wonderful thing for me. I’ve been caught without proper weather gear too many times this spring to not appreciate the full value of this door-to-door service.

Deaglan was very upset when he realized I’d be taking only Naveen in the van – the daycare is a few short blocks from my work -  while he’d be riding the seconds to his school with Shaune. He began crying and it caught me off guard. I stooped down to his height and reminded him that I loved him and would see him right after school. We see this from him a few times a week. His love for one of us overwhelms him and though we may be in the same room, he misses us just the same.

I kissed him and drove off with a heavy heart.

I never underestimate what I mean – what Shaune and I mean – to these boys of ours. I never take it for granted.

It gives me such joy and value to be their mother. It satisfies me somewhere deep within myself. It is a quiet joy that rarely has me longing for anything else. Almost daily I spend chunks of the time we have together, just drinking them in, kissing their faces, and smelling their sweet boy skin.

They are by far the most beautiful sight I lay my eyes on each day. 

And I constantly scrutinize my interaction with them. Most of the time I’m proud of the mother I am; it's easy to please them at these ages let me tell you. But I also spend a few minutes every day asking God to make me a better, more understanding, more patient person for their sake. 

Because of them, I am inspired all the time to be my best possible self. For them. Yet what I know to be true is this: they love me just the way I am.

I rarely feel like I’m missing out on other aspects of life. I don't often yearn to be places without them. When I do, I go. I love to be around them when I’m not at work. I feel no shame in admitting this. Of course our time together is not always perfect.  I know there will be a day when they will have their own lives but while I am the centre of their universe, I want to be what they need. 

In this I don’t feel like I’m sacrificing anything. I know it's my right path, my purpose right now.

Deaglan finally found the courage to try out his big-guy bike this past weekend. Once he understood how it was done and tasted that first sweet bit of freedom, he was completely hooked. Every evening after dinner he rides our short block, completely enthralled, the wind blowing through his T-shirt. 

I watch his face and see the exhilaration that comes with learning a new way to fly.

Naveen all the while takes pleasure in pushing his beloved vacuum down the sidewalk. And when he tires of that, he gets down to work with his lawnmower.

A deposit

My parents gave the kids gift cards this past Christmas.

Their decision was based solely on the fact that every gift they bought for the boys last year was a duplicate of something they’d already received from one of our other relatives at earlier gift-opening ceremonies. When I noticed the recurring pattern, (and the disappointment on my parents’ faces each time)  I cringed with every subsequent unwrapping, silently praying it wasn’t something else they’d already received, knowing full well that Deaglan would exclaim loud and clear to the affirmative if it was.

So this year when they opened their Christmas mail from Mimi and Papa  (my parents winter in Mexico and had sent the cards ahead of time should we want to choose the gifts for the kids ourselves to eliminate last year's dilemma), I quickly explained what gift cards were. I had them (mostly Deaglan) imagine a time, much, much farther into the future, after Christmas was well behind us, when they might finally feel bored with their Christmas (and for Deaglan, birthday) toys, a point when they might be thinking how nice it would be to have a new toy or book. I explained that this was precisely when they would be delighted to realize they could walk into the toy and book store (for they’d received a gift card for each) and choose something of their wanting.

I’ll tell you, the prospect of this sounded very good to Deaglan, very, very good indeed. So good in fact, that after I’d explained it to him, he could not tuck the idea away for that future day I spoke of. Instead he wondered out loud every single day for the next few weeks if it might be the right day, that very day, to spend those gift cards, so that each time, increasingly wearily, I pointed out what I felt was the obvious, that there was an enormous pile of new toys, some still in its packaging, fresh, yet unplayed-with at his disposal.

This did nothing to discourage him.

It’s difficult for me to reconcile this kind of excess. On the one hand I’m exceedingly grateful to our very generous families for using their hard earned money to create wonderful Christmas experiences for our boys. I’m very, very grateful for it; I can’t stress this enough.

But I wonder too, each year, whether there is a way to stop the insanity of it; to bring the season back to its essence, you know, family time, helping people who need it, celebrating without all the commercialism and consumerism.

Every time I consider that the right thing might very well be to take a stand, stop celebrating Christmas in this way altogether, I am forced to play the scenario out. And this is exactly when I recognize that although I could really get behind a more wholesome, natural way of doing things, due to the fact that I’m easily distracted, in order to really pull it off, we'd likely have to cut all ties with everyone we know in the free world, move out to the deep, deep woods somewhere in the northern part of the province perhaps; an isolated foresty locale where we would be required to live out a rustic, pastoral existence, without TV or internet influencing our desires for little more than twigs and rocks for amusement. A lifestyle  I fear I am in no way equipped to handle either emotionally or by way of skillset.

I’ve rambled. 

And I’m sorry.

Because this is not at all what I wanted to regale you with today. What I really wanted to tell you, mostly because you’ve received this kind of thing so well over the years and also a teensy bit because when you’re the mother of small kids who consistently do things that astound and amuse you (and so we're clear – also irritate the crap out of you), there is an itching desire to tell someone or many someones about it.  

You realize, however, not everyone thinks your kids are as charming as you do, and you can only deposit so many stories of their adorable antics into the Bank of Good, Kind, Listening Friend (GKLF if you will), so that you find yourself taking the leftovers to your blog to fully document the depth and breadth of how scrumptiously delectable your naughty two year old is.  

Sheesh, I’ve sort of built that up in a way I may not be able to deliver.

Here’s the thing: Every time Naveen sees me squeezing my Shea butter lotion into the palm of my hands, he asks if he can have some too. And every time I give him a dab, he rubs his pudgy little hands together, takes a whiff and says, “Mmm, Mommy your lotion smells like soup!” Only he has an S impediment (Love!) so he says thoup.

Also when we went to Toys R Us last weekend to spend the gift cards from Mimi and Papa, while Deaglan took close to eight hours to deliberate on just the right thing (an Iron Man star tek armour set) Naveen walked straight to the bright pink aisles, found a sparkling fuchsia Minnie Mouse tea cart on wheels, fully equipped with three different cupcakes, a lazy Susan, and purple serving tray and declared without hesitation that this is what he'd be taking home.

Phew. 

Thanks for letting me get that off my chest.

The price of my sanity

This morning at (the new) 5:30 Deaglan sprang awake exclaiming he was starving. A few minutes later Naveen wailed from his bed that he wanted “someping to weat Mama!” For Deaglan I whipped up a two egg omelette with chopped ham and for Naveen a raisin bagel; a cup of apple juice for both.

Ten minutes after they’d eaten, only two sips into my coffee, Deaglan asked if he could have a treat – aka Halloween candy.  “No, have a banana or apple.” I said and explained for the millionth time how bad sugary junk was for his teeth and body. And reluctantly, with a four year-old version of a scowl, he took my advice and grabbed fruit for both himself and his brother.  Two minutes after they’d eaten a banana each, they wanted me to peel them an orange.

Twenty minutes later Deaglan asked if he could have a treat since he’d now eaten something healthy. I refused and poured them both a glass of milk and handed them each a Toy Story chewable vitamin.

Five seconds later, Deaglan said he was hungry.

At this point I may have lost my patience (and mind) and asked him in a yelly (not calm) voice if he thought I was his (frickin) personal servant. Unfazed he insisted that he couldn’t help it if he was hungry. Still hysterical I told him he’d have to eat something bready – when it comes to not eating carbs this kid has the discipline of a monk. I made him half a raisin bagel sprinkled with cinnamon-sugar after he’d warned me that he’d only eat one piece so I shouldn’t even bother toasting both parts. Naturally, after he finished it, he wanted the other half.

I had no words.  

In the name of self-preservation, I walked to the kitchen counter where their trick-or-treat baskets sat out of reach, unwrapped a lollipop and mini bag of M & M’s, let them know it was at the kitchen table and told them not to speak to me again. Ever.

It wasn't even (the new) 10 am.

A constant reminder

I almost never miss an episode of Intervention.

After Matthew died, I stopped watching it for a full year. One of our last conversations became heated because I’d said the wrong thing. I’m sorry now that I didn’t push past the discomfort of having him so angry at me. I wished I’d hung on, gotten to the softer side of it; maybe opened him up a bit.

On the surface my comment was so innocent. He was telling me about a new friend staying with him, and the situation reminded me of something I’d seen on Intervention the night before so I told him about the episode.

Inside though, the more he described their relationship, the more my panic rose.

On some subconscious level I must have brought up the show on purpose; a passive aggressive confrontation.

I wish I’d been more forceful with my opinions, more insistent that he get help. I wish I’d not let him talk me out of taking things more seriously every single time something like that happened.

I know I wanted to believe there was nothing I could do to help him.

It’s not that I like the stories – I watch with bated breath every week. It’s not a mindless escape like Parenthood or Law and Order. I watch out of fear. A need to know that there is a reason things turn out the way they do. I wait for that part of the show, after they’ve cursorily described the addiction, exposed a few clips of the person using; the part where they go back to the beginning.

The history.

The mother usually says something like, the happiest day of my life was when she was born. She was the sweetest most beautiful baby and I could rarely get through the grocery store without people stopping me to comment how adorable she was. Then they get to the parents’ relationship, how things were blissful at the beginning and a few years later one of the parents start drinking or drugging again. Everything changes.

I look for this part. I need it. It’s when I breathe a sigh of relief. It confirms for me that there was a reason the addict went down the road they did. They didn’t just end up like this for nothing. It gives me some hope.

I know that sounds demented.

The story doesn’t always go this way though. Sometimes the person hooked on booze or meth is suffering from a mental illness, something no one ever diagnosed them with. I find this as heartbreaking as when one of their parents wrecked their childhood with their addictions.

I won’t pretend to know how an addiction can impact the person directly afflicted. It’s easy for me to stop drinking after one or two glasses of wine. I don’t like feeling drunk or out of control especially since I’ve had my boys. Life rarely seems unbearable. I can mostly handle it even if I don’t always like it.

I know so many people who aren't as fortunate. Maybe that's why I hardly ever miss Intervention. Maybe it's not about me.

We went to see Hotel Transylvania  in full costume today. These are last year's getups and although this year Naveen will trick-or-treat as a monkey and Deaglan a knight, they both insisted on these. 

To all of my blogging buddies, I know I've been a terrible friend. I'll be around to see what you've been up to soon!

This place

I hosted a small baby shower for my friend last Saturday afternoon. According to Pinterest, it was technically a “sprinkle” since this will be her second baby. The week leading up to it, I’d divided up cleaning jobs for each evening after work. One night I cleaned out the front foyer closet, put away the bulky winter coats and the overflowing baskets of mittens and hats. Another night I tidied and scrubbed shiny the fridge while Shaune steam cleaned the carpets. A third night I tried to catch up on loads and loads of laundry that never seemed to end.

And all the while I noticed the little imperfections of this house. I noticed the old worn builder-grade wood doors and trim, the archways that were in dire want of paint, the tired tatty carpets. I was acutely aware of the small living space, bins crammed full of toys on one wall, the couches frayed and smudged from small fingers using them as napkins, the cushions covered in patterned blankets, my attempt to save at least a part of them.

I cringed that we didn’t have central air, prayed that the weather would be unseasonably cool that day, not forcing us to install the eyesore of a window unit.

For the hundredth time since we moved here, I wished we’d been more patient in our choosing of this house. Up until then, Shaune and I had always rented, gone from apartment to apartment, renovated spaces in old houses, sometimes with balconies or with a bit of a deck when we were luckier.

We knew we were ready to break free from the shackles of landlord living, but we didn’t do our homework. We were in a rush to escape, have no one to answer to. We were thrilled with anything we saw because all we could think of was how we wouldn’t be sharing it with a crack-dealing neighbour, or be constantly intruded upon by a drunken lunatic landlord who had a penchant for setting off fireworks mid-afternoon for no apparent reason except that he enjoyed the loud bang which never failed to upset our aging blind diabetic dog for hours afterward.

But just as easily I reprimanded myself for feeling so ungrateful.

After all this is the place that welcomed my babies home from the hospital, the one I’ve been watching them grow from tiny cherubic infants to chattering wild sun-kissed boys. This house has allowed me to stay unruffled when they’ve used my couches to wipe their sticky fingers, practice their writing skills on walls I knew could be covered later with a coat of paint.  

This house has crept into the deepest places of my being. It has helped shape me into a mother and wife.

This is the house I married my best friend in, transforming its tiny backyard into both church and reception hall. This house with its plain features, and non-descript floor plan. I’ve developed my writing here, dreamt of a day when the boys were older and I could eke out regular time to write uninterrupted.

This house has been my first real home.

I can’t remember how long we stayed in each place in Bangladesh but I know that since arriving here in Canada when I was seven, I’ve never lived in one home longer than a few years. It’s the place Deaglan refers to when we are on a trip and he yearns to go home. The place he understands to hold comfort and all of his treasured things. It’s the place where he had Shaune and me all to himself and also where he learned to be someone’s big brother.  

It’s the place I will miss when we move one day.

This is Deaglan four years ago in a backpack helping Daddy water the flowers.

Here he is yesterday doing the same.

Naveen snuggled on my chest just minutes after he was born.

Yesterday enjoying the kiddie pool and sunshine.

The Good Dad

Last night after dinner, I watched Shaune repeatedly slam Naveen against the back of the couch. Each time he began by pretending to grab a handful of my 21 month old baby's hair (a wrestling move no doubt), then swing his entire body with seemingly full full force into the cushions. Even though I flinched every time his little body made contact, it was hard to ignore Naveen's ecstatic giggles.

Learning to keep my comments to myself during this kind of play has been a work in progress.

I've read plenty that even though Dads parent much differently than Moms, their styles are just as good if not sometimes better for the kids. I don't doubt it especially being the mother of two boys. I never admit it to Shaune but I'm often impressed with his ability to play with the kids. His mad skillz at machine noises, how easily he rolls up his sleeves and gets right into being a robot, how the phrase "You must be destroyed" (said as if he was Optimus Prime*) sends both boys running wild through the house hoping their Dad will catch them - well it's hard not to feel a little outdone. 

My friend Shannon and I were discussing this phenomenon of Dad preference in toddlerhood and how for us Moms who are  used to being the go-to parent, it's a little like someone ripping the band-aid off the hairy part of your arm when you're least expecting it. It stings at first.

These are shots of a belated birthday party for Shaune last weekend at his parents'.

But you get over it when one of them crashes willy-nilly into the corner of the couch and runs to you for a kiss and hug. You thank God your kids are blessed to have such a fun Dad. After all, how else are you gonna find time to keep up with your favourite blogs? 

*Optimus Prime is a transformer. That's all I know - you'll have to google him if you want more detail:)

I'd be dangerous with a full night's sleep

I wish I had been organized enough to snap a picture of Naveen this morning. He looked good enough to eat in this hand-me-down of Deaglan’s, a gift from Uncle Matt for his second birthday – his hair just the right amount of crazy, so that he kind of knew he had it going on. It’s hard to resent him for his nighttime antics when I can barely stand how scrumptious he is during the day.

This was Deaglan on his 2nd birthday

Last night when I finally laid my head down, I whispered a pleading prayer. Please God; I’d even settle for four straight hours. Just four hours. I’ve learned not to be greedy when it comes to sleep. I know there are far worse problems in the world than me not getting enough sleep because I gave birth to little people who prefer the night life.

Full disclosure friends, as it relates to matters of baby sleep, I can only assume I’m doing it all wrong. A few months ago Shaune confirmed this when he stated bluntly: You know what we have here don’t you? We have ourselves a perfect case for Supernanny.

And while my immediate reaction was to defend – insist that the only reason Deaglan had been sleeping with us these past few months was because he’d endured enormous changes, that soon he’d be back to his own bed, and the only reason I still couldn’t bear to let Naveen cry it out was because the last few times I did, he was legitimately sick and in need of me so how could I know for sure – I realized that he was probably right. We likely did need some tough love from a reality TV parenting guru.

Because I’ll be honest, I dread bedtime.

We’re constantly devising ways to get our kids to sleep through the night. Alone in their own beds if possible. However, a few weeks ago when I finally coaxed Deaglan back to his own room, ranting about how cool his race car bed was, pointing out how ecstatic his fish were to see him, his temperature spiked to a scary place so that it was easier to pull him into bed with us, keeping the fever in check.

And Saturday night, defeated from the multiple wake-ups with Naveen all week, Shaune asked me full of hope: Isn’t there an herbal remedy we can give him to help him sleep? Oh I know it’s wrong to wonder if there was a safe way to sedate your child – but we’re exhausted friends!

I laughed and rolled my eyes but made a mental note to Google it later.

Dangerously close to unhappy

I read somewhere that parents with children under the age of five are some of the unhappiest people in a population. This is one of those stats that can go either way for me. Tonight it teetered close to truth. Because I don’t know what I was thinking signing Deaglan up for skating lessons on a week night at 5:30 PM.

Picture this.

Me still in work clothes and heels, a bag stuffed with skates, helmet, and two happy meals slung over one shoulder, the camera over the other. A snotty faced Naveen squirming in my arms while I struggle to grip Deaglan’s hand as we bob and weave through an unlit, busy arena parking lot. When we get into the building it’s complete mayhem. There are families everywhere, the early-birds lucky enough to be lacing skates on kids who are sitting on the coveted benches, while latecomers like me stoop over a patch of floor, attempting to do the same and corral a runaway baby.

By this point I’m grouchy and overheated, irritated that Deaglan’s only focus is the happy meal toy. Naveen goes between running wild through the arena and demanding that I pick him up. When Shaune shows up, I’m overwhelmed with relief and the need to share my misery.

For the next forty-five minutes I cringe, recoil as my almost four year old with the help of a skating coach struggles to rise to his feet, on the ice for the first time, slipping down each time. I feel every fall, every thump. And when I don’t think I can watch anymore, convinced that in the next minute he will begin sobbing, beg to be taken to his parents, he starts getting the hang of it.

I watch as he takes tiny skatey steps, gets up without the help of the coach. And my mind changes. This isn’t so bad, I think. Maybe next week, since Shaune won't be able to come,  I’ll try to find a sitter for Naveen.

 Slipping and falling aside, you've never seen such adorable tiny skates and helmet.

This is the kind of shenanigans we're dealing with everyday since the tree went up.

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.

Iris Bride

I finished Deaglan’s birthday party invitations last night. It was a process.

First I had to come up with a guest list – something he was of no help with. At the beginning of the week he told me the only person he wanted at his party was Naveen. I didn’t point out the obvious – that his baby brother would most likely always be at his parties, even those years he might not be welcome. But finally after sitting with his class picture, naming each classmate, we came up with a list. Next, I typed up a special note in tiny font to go into the invitations, printed those off, cut them small enough to fit inside the cards. And then I filled in the party details, sealed the envelopes and stuck them in his backpack with a note to his teachers.

Friends?

It was my whole evening.

It made me think a lot on parenting. How it can be such a thankless job. I thought about how usually it only becomes a hot topic when it’s done badly. But good-enough parenting? It rarely gets an honorable mention. I was in one of those moods last night.

I was thinking about Iris Bride.

Shaune calls her Gramma Mac. On Wednesday morning before work he drove the half hour outside the city to sit with her. He held her hand and stroked her hair, whispered things to her. He said I love you Gramma. You have been a wonderful Gramma to me all these years.

And in his own way, he prayed that God scoop her up right then, take her Home.

She’d been taken off of life support at the beginning of the week, dosed just enough to be considered comfortable. And yet she hovers here, ashen, weak, with no will of her own, just waiting. We mourned her last night, my husband and I. We wondered how it could come down to these last few days, these terrible grim days of waiting.

People had warned Shaune of her state, reminded him that this was not how he should remember his Grandmother. They told him that she’d been muttering things not usually in her nature, that she might not look like the woman he knew. But after he’d sat with her for those hours, kissed her sallow cheek, he told me that it wasn’t true.

This too is Gramma, he said. Maybe not the way we are comfortable knowing her, but this is what she is like at the end of her life.

She turned 93 this year, birthed seven babies, met her great-grandchildren. It’s easy to say ahh but she lived a full life. Knowing she’s laying there, in the Home, tubes up her nose, waiting; these words get caught.

I pray for your eternal peace, Bride.

Deaglan on Gramma Mac's knee on her 90th birthday.

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?