Birthday gifts

Whenever his feelings of love for me are too enormous for his pre-schooler sized lexis to express, Deaglan says something like,

“Mommy, when I’m a big man, I’m going to buy you a fridge!” Then he waits for my reaction but before I can respond he sweetens the deal with “I mean a brand NEW fridge!”

Of course I say the typical things you’d expect, “I’d love a brand new fridge honey! But I’d be just as happy if you made me a beautiful picture or cuddled with me.”  (I know what you’re thinking. You'd want your grown son to draw you a picture or cuddle with you?  Okey-dokey.)

For a while I tried to figure out why he picked the fridge. Ours is only about four years old and works just fine. I can’t remember ever complaining about it or yearning out loud for a fancier model. Why not a new car or bigger house? And there’s also this: I beg my boys for affection almost every minute I’m with them. I tell them at least a dozen times a day that my favourite times are when I’m around them and that I just can’t get enough of their hugs and kisses.

And Deaglan is always sweet and generous, promising me “armpit” or lots of kisses when we’re together again. Naveen however is a different story. He doles his love out like it’s the day after the apocalypse and he’s holding the last loaf of bread. He’s stingy and downright arbitrary – you can never guess when he might give you one of his mushy-lipped smooches or flat out refuse you. Recently though we’ve discovered a loophole. If he thinks you’ve hurt yourself, he’ll run over with great concern and kiss the place you claim you’ve hurt. I probably should be ashamed to tell you this but I pretend to be hurt all the time.

On my lips.

 

My point is though; I don’t know where Deaglan got the idea that he had to buy something to show how much he loves me. But then again I’ve never been any good at math. I mean if the giddiness with which I’m looking forward to my new Ikea dressers arriving just in time for my birthday tomorrow is any indication of how not-materialistic I am – I can’t imagine why my son might think things make me happy.

I’ll tell you what will make me happy. Not having our bedroom look like the showroom at Goodwill. Not that there’s anything wrong with used furniture, I’ve been quite proud and forthcoming about my curbside finds. But I’ve been dreaming about these two charmers for some time now, swooning at the thought of having enough room for all of our clothes. And so when Shaune asked me a few weeks ago what I wanted for my birthday, I’m sure he expected me to say the usual  - I have everything I need, but I responded with only one word - "Hemnes!" 

And a few mornings ago, after disciplining Deaglan a few times about smashing Naveen's toy vacuum into the fridge, it dawned on me why he picked that particular appliance to gift me in the future with. He's made just about every dent on it's stainless steel surface. 

Sweet, practical and repentant. Some lucky woman is going to thank me one day!

Confessions of a breastfeeder - the final chapter

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

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

It hurt me a little.

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

So. Flippin. Irritating.

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

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

Or both.

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

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

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

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

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

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

On and on.

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

Life is tricky, don't you think? 

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

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

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

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


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

More

Tonight after dinner when Naveen caught me at the freezer, sneaking the ear off of a chocolate bunny, he ran fast to where I was, looked up with his enormous brown eyes and pleaded,

“Chocate? Chocate please Mama.” I rolled my eyes, peeled the electric blue foil wrapping off an egg and handed it to him.

A few minutes later, when he’d swallowed the last bit, chocolaty spit coating his chin and shirt, he gestured the sign for “more”. Again with those eyes. But this time I refused to let them stir me.

“Nope. Chocate all gone!”

When he asked a few more times, the fingers on both hands scrunched together, repeatedly making contact with each other, something he’d learned at daycare eons ago and saw that I still refused, he walked closer and began slapping my legs.

“Go ‘way Mama, you go ‘way!!”

This is how he deals with us lately when we deny him.

He then launched into a tantrum right there on the blonde laminate in our kitchen. Slightly detached from experience, I walked around him, tidied the dinner dishes and went back to helping Deaglan with his homework, keenly aware that this smallest of my boys was now howling my name and crying real tears.

I thought about how he must have felt: crazy wild with frustration and desire. I understood it – knew that it never goes away; we just learn to express it civilized.

It was such a contrast to my day. I’d been quiet inside, wordless. There was a desert-like quality to my thoughts, barren of the usual lush emotions, lost from my own needs, as if I was in a dream; one of those voiceless screaming dreams where no one hears my panic. And I felt the tightness in my throat, an achy thirst, aimless in its search for just the right thing.

It took a while to find it though – I’m slow to understand even after all these years with myself. I read a bit of her and it revived me. I remembered again for the gazillionth time that I need to feed my soul regularly or I will not thrive.

I gently coaxed Deaglan through connecting the dots, coloured the triangles yellow while he worked away on the red circles and eventually Naveen quieted, found my lap and snuggled into me.

This was yesterday morning. The Easter Bunny left Deaglan a scooter which he lost interest in within three and a half seconds. However, he refused to take this helmet off. Naveen received a bubble-blowing lawnmower which he lovingly referred to as "Vakoom" all the way to the park.

On loving yourself

I don’t know why I said it that first time.

Well I do but it’s a long, drawn-out story that you might just not have the time for. See I think about things like that – things like if you’re going to land here, how long can you afford to hang around? I always underestimate on purpose. It makes me feel like I’m somehow under-promising and over-delivering.

To myself.

That way I’m pleasantly surprised that you (a) came here at all and (b) stayed long enough to read the whole thing. Does that even make any sense at all or should I have kept that inside my head?

Anyway, back to that first time I told Deaglan it was important to love himself. You should have seen him; he cocked his head to the side, giggled and said,

“That sounds silly Mommy.”

We were having a rough morning; I was tired and he was not listening. By about the fifth time-out in two hours, my voice hoarse from yelling, guilt crept in and reminded me that he was four, to cut him some slack. I forced myself down to his level, grabbed his chin to direct his gaze and told him that even when we’re mad at each other, we need to remember that we love each other.

“Even when Mommy is acting upset with you because you’re not listening or doing something naughty, I want you to know that I love you and that you’re still a good boy. And more importantly I want you to remember to love yourself.”

“Love myself?” he laughed at the notion. “That sounds silly!”

“It’s not silly at all. You need to love yourself all the time.”

“Why?”

I tried to find four year-old words to explain it.

“Because you’ll always have yourself even when you’re a big man and don’t live with Mommy and Daddy anymore, you will always have yourself and it’s important to love yourself and know that you're a good person.”

“Okay Ma.” And off he went.

It was a rare and shining moment for me. My naive mother heart reasoned that maybe I could cushion his teens and twenties a little if I let him in on this life lesson now. Maybe he wouldn't spend as many years as I did, at odds with himself, led by the need for approval.

“Toni Morrison said, "The function of freedom is to free someone else," and if you are no longer wracked or in bondage to a person or a way of life, tell your story. Risk freeing someone else. Not everyone will be glad that you did. Members of your family and other critics may wish you had kept your secrets. Oh, well, what are you going to do?
― Anne Lamott

Something has shifted inside me this last year. Tiny bits floating on the horizon, easily mistaken for dust or nothing at all if it weren't for my searching. Whisperings really. Telling me that I am loved, all of me even when circumstances convince me that I'm unacceptable, failing. Mediocre.

It can't be that easy though, can it? Passing these hard won lessons to my boys?

The secrets of wedded bliss

Shaune takes care of our finances.

When we moved in together for good that last time, he asked me if paying the bills could be his thing. I shrugged, said sure and silently took on the responsibility of being the shopper. I try to do my part and also I think it’s important to play to our strengths. This arrangement works fine most of the time. However every few months or so Shaune’s senses seem to heighten and he catches me off guard.

“Is that new?” he asks pointing to a skirt I’ve got on. Purposely I pull at the sweater I’m wearing.

“This? Are you kidding? I’ve had this since 2004.”

Then he goes back to his old self. At other times he just looks at me pleading,

“Do you need to shop Every. Single. Week?”

At these times I remind him of a handful of women he could easily have ended up with, women who have much more expensive tastes than me, who get costly hair and nail treatments every few weeks, wear only high-end name brands. I’m not sure if I really know this about them but it’s an effective rebuttal until my husband says something asinine like,

“I would never have married someone like that; I don’t find that sort of thing attractive.”

You don’t find nice hair and pretty nails attractive?

But sometimes we’re on the same page about our finances. Like this morning when I was on the phone with our cable and internet provider. (I like to keep things confidential around here so I’ll just say this: their name rhymes with Boger’s but starts with the letter “R”.)

I waited two days to file my complaint because I wanted to be calm and articulate.

Because on Thursday when my internet and cable were down, and I was home with two sick kids trying to connect my laptop to my work server, I was definitely not calm or articulate with the tech specialist who was treating me like I was an idiot because I didn’t know the difference between the modem and the router. In fact reciting the serenity prayer did nothing for how I proceeded to conduct myself especially when instead of patiently explaining to me that the power cord was the thin black wire, the tech guy just enunciated the phrase “POWER CORD” louder and louder.

Even after I explained to him that I wasn’t stupid, that my husband usually did these types of things, he continued to treat me like I was a Neanderthal. I had a half mind to explain to him that I had other strengths:

Shopping.
Birthing babies.
Winning half the bread in this household.
Cleaning the bathrooms.
Ensuring everyone has clean underwear.
Writing angry posts about bad customer service on my blog.

Our phone call on Thursday did not end well. When he told me that he would be scheduling a service appointment in the next few weeks and warned that if he found we had messed with our internet or cable somehow and this was the reason it was down that we’d be charged $49.50 for the appointment, well that was when I may have lost my mind. I may have screamed not very calmly into the phone that he hadn’t helped me with a goddamned thing, that I still didn’t have cable for my two sick kids or internet to get my work done.

I may have hung up on him.

And so this morning when I called to speak to the supervisor of that tech specialist to calmly but articulately complain that I had not been treated like a valuable customer who spends $300 a month in cable, internet and wireless fees with her company, Shaune and I were definitely on the same page. While I spoke with her, Shaune sat on the couch pumping his fist if I said something particularly powerful, motivated me with reminders of other ways Boger’s with an R had screwed us over in the past.

We were really in sync.

Sadly this conversation did not end well either. The supervisor showed very little empathy for how I’d been treated and in fact took the opportunity to try to get me to upgrade to the next package level in my cable and internet. I may have blown a gasket, threatened to pull the plug on all of our services and go directly to Boger’s Vice President.

I’m not sure what we’ll do though, shopping for another cable and internet provider seems fruitless. We were with the other company (rhymes with hell but starts with a B) for years before moving to Boger’s with an R and they were definitely no better. I recall some equally frustrating conversations with their support staff. In fact, it may have been the last time Shaune and I bonded this well on matters of finance.

It’s magical moments like these that tell you that the marriage is working.

Better late than never right?

When you're a blogger

I took a few weeks off.

Mostly it was because work and home have demanded all of me, but there was also a small part that had to do with the need to reconsider, rethink  and maybe even regroup (sometimes alliteration is irresistible - sorry).

What is the purpose of my blogging I began to wonder. What am I really sharing? Am I sharing too much? Am I sharing the right things? Am I adding value to the few dozen people who stop by here every week? Am I writing out of obligation? 

Have I lost my momentum?

And also, I thought long on this need we bloggers have - the need for comments, our primal need for feedback, for connection, to hear that we've been heard. I've realized that for a small-timer like me, my traffic is a two way street. The people who are kind enough to read my posts and take the time to comment, well they rightfully want the same from me. Often lately though, I can't get to my friends' blogs to read and comment. I just can't find the time. So I've contemplated shutting this down.

But the thought broke my heart.

Because although the friendships I've found here are wonderful and the constant feedback addictive, these have been only secondary to the true impetus of my blogging. These modern times have gifted me, a once closet writer, a platform to express my essayist heart.

I don't want to give that up.

I didn't not write over the last few weeks because I had nothing to say. I didn't write because I wondered if it was fair to expect my fellow bloggers to read my stuff when I knew for sure there was no way  I could take the time to go to their sites, read and comment on their posts. Something else on my list, something else I could feel like I was failing. This reality weighed on me.

It didn't feel authentic but it was the truth.

I thought about some of the bloggers I admire. There're lots and lots of them but the ones who came to mind inspired me. I thought about Ann and Jim who turn their comments off, write without the need for constant feedback.  I thought about Rae who writes beautiful honest stuff every week and even though I've never discussed this or anything else with her, I'd be willing to bet that feedback has nothing to do with why she writes. I thought about Kelle and Glennon - oh Glennon you slay me with your gorgeous thoughts -  Kelle and Glennon who write with purpose and so much love.  

And of course I thought about Heather who writes with a pioneer's fearlessness.

Yeah, I reconsidered, rethought and regrouped. But I'm not sure I reconcluded because the thing about blogging for me is that it's become part of my feel-good routine. 

Give quality me to my family.
Show up for work.
Go to the gym.
Write.
Write something you can share with the Internet.

So that's it friends, the space my mind has been stuck in. I just can't keep up even with blogging. And I almost turned comments off but the need to hear  your thoughts, to know if you are feeling the same about your blogs, well it was irresistible.

I got a haircut and other fascinating tidbits

A few days ago when my friend popped by with her toddler, I was on the verge of apologizing for the disaster-state of my house when I realized I’d just finished cleaning it only an hour before. I let go of my need to make excuses, hoped she wasn’t taking silent inventory of the Cheerios I’d missed with the vacuum.

And I was going to give you some long-winded explanation about how I didn’t have time to style my hair before Shaune turned into a paparazzi snapping these terrible pictures of me without warning. But the truth is, I did style it and not only that, I asked him to take some photos of my new haircut for my blog. Sadly these are the best he could do with what I gave him. What can I say? This is how I usually look, with a few rare days of good hair in between.

There’s a feeling that washes over me every few weeks – a feeling which never fails to bring me down. It’s a wagging finger during my busiest times, when balance is elusive, the demands of work and family leaving me exhausted, too spent to indulge in my art. It convinces me that I will never amount to anything writerly, that inspiration when ignored too many times will stop showing up.

It’s the same feeling I get sometimes when I catch a glimpse of my aging 40 year old self - a mix of well it could be worse meets Really - this is what doing my best to eat right and exercise gets me now?

I had hopes of editing the two books I wrote last year on maternity leave, making this blog a regular place you stop by for sweet little stories, inspiration. Back then, I imagined myself this well-rested, working mom, writing on the side, running the odd half marathon.

I’ve been back to work ten months and I have to tell you: It’s hard. This living and working and raising a family - it is hard work. And none of it looks like the picture you had in your head. You know the picture I’m talking about? The GQ corporate life followed by the sweet obedient vegetable-eating children snug in their beds so you can have a few hours to pursue your other self.

But when I watched this old Ted talk a few days ago (I think it was right about the time Oprah demanded we all read Eat Pray Love) where Elizabeth Gilbert discusses the notion of nurturing your creativity, I realized that I could change my mind. Art doesn’t have an expiry date. I could focus guilt free on what’s right in front of me, write when I could. I loved the story she told about Tom Waits – looking up at the heavens after getting some of his best song inspirations while driving on the highway.

Really? When I’m driving and can’t stop to write this down – this is when you’re [inspiration] going to hit me?