Slipping Through my Fingers

Well, now, I'm all depressed. Just finished watching Mamma Mia. The movie was mostly fluff - the best thing about it (besides the music, of course) was the fact that it was filmed in Greece. And then they played this song:

Schoolbag in hand, she leaves home in the early morning
Waving goodbye with an absent-minded smile
I watch her go with a surge of that well-known sadness
And I have to sit down for a while
The feeling that Im losing her forever
And without really entering her world
Im glad whenever I can share her laughter
That funny little girl
Slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
The feeling in it
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Do I really see what's in her mind
Each time I think I'm close to knowing
She keeps on growing
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Sleep in our eyes, her and me at the breakfast table
Barely awake, I let precious time go by
Then when shes gone there's that odd melancholy feeling
And a sense of guilt I can't deny
What happened to the wonderful adventures
The places I had planned for us to go (slipping through my fingers all the time)
Well, some of that we did but most we didn't
And why I just don't know
Slipping through my fingers all the time
I try to capture every minute
The feeling in it
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Do I really see what's in her mind
Each time I think I'm close to knowing
She keeps on growing
Slipping through my fingers all the time
Sometimes I wish that I could freeze the picture
And save it from the funny tricks of time
Slipping through my fingers...
Slipping through my fingers all the time



This just goes to show how brilliant Abba really was. And it's a timely reminder for me not to let precious moments drift away.

Second Thoughts

Just when I have a lot to say, I find myself absolutely mum. Is it just me? I go back to work on Monday. I'm not certain it's the best decision. But I don't know if staying home is either.

I remember this time with the Boy. I was so ready to go back to work. It's not that I loved him less or anything, it's just that the whole baby thing was so overwhelmingly life-changing that I felt the need to cling desperately to what was. To the person I was before. To prove that everything had changed, and yet nothing had. I needed to go back. And I was emotional, but it was after the fact. I lost it when, breasts bursting from night-weaning, a colleague put forth the argument that people (mothers) who aren't prepared to stay home to raise children, shouldn't have kids at all. That kids raised by "other people" (whosoever those people may be) would basically grow up to be psychokillers (qu'est-que c'est). You just don't say things like to a mother who is newly back at work. You just don't.

This time, after five months of life moving in slow motion, my mat leave seemed to slip by like a feather in stream. I had all these plans, all these dreams of how I was going to do it so right this time. I wasn't going to make the same mistakes that I made the first time around. And I was right. I didn't. I just made new mistakes. The biggest one was that I let precious time slip past me while I was just trying to keep up with Life. I was so busy with the minutiae that I failed to see the Big Picture. My Achilles Heel.

Now I want that time back again. I want to say "Wait! Please rewind! I know I can do that better!" And I'm afraid. Afraid that I'm making a mistake. Afraid that by going back to work, I am losing precious time that I will never get back. Hugs and kisses and "good jobs!" that will be bestowed by another woman.

But I'm also afraid that if I stay home, I will once again get lost in the minutiae, and fail to see how special what I have really is. Perspective is crucial. But sometimes it comes at a very great cost.

I need to channel my inner Jerry Springer

So I'm walking down a fairly busy street near my house on my way to pick up the Boy from daycare. It's a bit chillier than I thought and I'm wondering if I dressed the Little Guy warmly enough. He's sitting in the stroller thumping his legs and jawing away to himself as per usual.

Halfway down the street, I come upon a bunch of teenagers hanging out. There's about ten of them in a clump, and they're blocking the entire sidewalk. They don't see me or the stroller (naturally), so I stop and politely say "Excuse me" audibly enough to be heard over the giggles and guffaws. They reluctantly make a path in the knot of bodies just large enough for me to pass. I walk through, and just as I'm a few steps beyond the group, a blond girl speaks up, her voice nonchalantly oozing disdain:

"Your baby is fat."

I look back, not sure I heard her correctly. And then she laughs. And not in an 'I just made a joke' way. I heard correctly. I shoot her a look so dark, I'm surprised she is still standing upright. I hold the look but she looks away, dismissing me. I want to do something but I'm in a state of shock. Who insults a baby? In front of the baby's mother?? I am livid. I want to go back and say:

"The Little Guy may be on the larger end of the spectrum, but he's a baby. He will lose the baby fat as he grows. Your lack of civility, however, is a much more difficult problem to address. You are lucky that I am in shock from your appalling lack of manners, or you might find yourself in a conflict you have no hope of resolving."

Or, as they would say on Jerry Springer:

"Yo skank! Yeah you, with the puffy jacket and the painted on jeans. The baby may be large, but you're a b*tch. He, at least, will lose the baby fat. You'd better duck before I throw my shoe at your head."

Don't mess with the Mama Bear. The claws will come out.

Wean

Forgive me Little Guy, for I have sinned.

It has been eighteen days since I've replaced a feed with a sippy cup. Three days since I've replaced a second feed. You are now going from morning to night without breastmilk.

It is not going well.

I don't know if it is that you are not thirsty. I don't know if it's that you don't like the (multitude of) sippy cup(s) I've offered. Perhaps you don't like the formula. Why would you when the real thing is close at hand? Maybe it's just the fact that I'm the one giving you the sippy cup. Who knows what's going on in your head? If there ever was a time to use your words, now would be it. If only you had any.

From morning till night, you don't drink. From morning till night, you have - maybe - some random sips from the cup. You seem to be taking in some small amount of water occasionally, so I guess that's something. But there's no nourishment there. I don't give in. I offer food (with high water content) and distraction instead. If it weren't for the fact that you're a champion eater, I would be beside myself with worry.

As it is, I'm as tense as a horse at the gate, waiting for the pistol that never shoots. I'm snappish and stressed, worried that I'm doing the wrong thing. No, not that I'm doing the wrong thing, per se, but approaching the right thing the wrong way. Maybe that's more accurate.

I go back to work in a month. I start rehearsals shortly after. And even if I weren't, I would be looking to wean soon anyways. I used to think that I was doing a good thing by breastfeeding for a year, but now the recommendation is that you do it for two to four years. Well, I've never been able to pump successfully, so unless I stay home altogether, it's basically all or nothing. Still, the guilt is there.

I thought that dropping four feeds in two months would be enough time. How on earth do people wean in a week? This is amazing to me. Do they know something I don't?

I press on, hoping it will somehow magically work itself out. I wonder if I spend too much of my life hoping things will magically work themselves out. You have been remarkably good humoured throughout. A person would only know something was amiss when you knock the sippy cup out of my hands and screech. If I offer you food, though, you will happily munch away. But it begs the question - what happens when the morning and night feeds are replaced...?

Even if you don't remember a single moment of this - because I don't think you will - I still don't want to be the person that takes the light out of your eyes. Not even for a moment. You may not remember, but I will.

Is this really what it's like to be a grown-up? If so, it's kind of sucky.

Pardon the pun.

3 Going On 13

I thought it wouldn't happen quite so soon. I thought I had at least a few years grace. But it's official. The Boy hates me.

I get that kids go through Mummy-phases and Daddy-phases and it's completely natural, but holy crap it's hard to deal with. Especially because, in the moment, it does not feel like a phase at all. It just feels like complete and utter dislike. I can do no right.

Every morning starts out pleasantly enough. It's a fresh start. Today is the day that every will go smoothly. Then I do just one thing wrong. Just one little thing. Like not helping him with his socks right away. Like insisting he eat something other than bread. Like asking him to open his mouth so I can brush his teeth. Like making him cereal when he wanted toast. Like asking him to either walk or sit in the stroller (not sit on the curb and sulk). I am such a Bad Mother.

And then the screaming starts. And the crying. And the wailing. And the sulking. And the shouting.

"Stop being mean to me!"
(See: Bad Mother)

"You're not going to be my friend anymore!"
(Well, I'm still you're mom, and I love you. So there.)

"You're not coming to my birthday party!!"
(I got news for you, kid. If I'm not there, there IS no party.)

I only think those responses - well, except perhaps the last one - I don't say them out loud. But the constant screaming and insulting really grates on the nerves, you know? And then I start to lose my cool. And I am not nice. I scream back sometimes. I'm not proud of it. I want to stop. I want to get through one morning without the spewing of anger - from him or from me.

I'm supposed to be the adult here, but I am not doing my job well. Just call me "35 Going on 3".

Tomorrow's another day. Right?

Right??

Before and After

Today was interesting. The kids and I were playdating on the other side of town. After an early lunch, we took the kids to a little park close my friend's house. It was one that I'd never been to, but she and her kids frequent regularly. Her son's preschool uses the park as their outside space, and the nearby high school students find it a pleasant refuge. A group of boys were hanging out on the bench near the entrance, dishing the dirt. Another little grouping was enjoying the grass under a tree.

It was pristine. An empty cola can lay on the ground near the pergola but it looked awkward and out of place. The park was essentially empty, most kids undoubtedly home napping, but ours had decided that sleep was for the weak. So there we were. A fabulous play structure rested smack dab in the middle of newly laid sand. Bright fun toys were scattered about waiting to be investigated. The boys leapt out of the stroller. Heaven.

The lawn was freshly mown and bright green. The sky was refreshingly blue and the air was crisp. One lone tree blazed in it's autumnal glory. Somewhere off in the distance, a bagpiper played Amazing Grace. I remarked to my friend that it had a melancholy effect, like something grand was coming to an end. We trundled the babies around in the back seats of our strollers, hoping that they would fall asleep.

We stopped momentarily and noticed him at the same time. A willowy young man with thin dark hair and skin the colour of thai iced tea. He was wearing nylon athletic pants and a light jacket. Nondescript. He walked silently, seeming to glide across the grass. We were both looking at him and he turned his head and smiled at us. It was meant to be a smile at least, but it reminded me of The Gentlemen from Buffy's Hush. My hackles raised. We kept walking the babies in a circle.

The young man walked to the far corner of the park and began to undress. Not undress, redress. He was changing into women's clothes. We half-watched in amazement, not sure where to look. Then he started walking around. No, gliding around, like a geisha practicing her walk. Unsure. He did this for a while.

We tensed, waiting to see what would happen, but nothing did. We questioned the kids in the park to see if they came there often, and whether they had seen him before. They did, but they had not. We were prepared to protect the kids if necessary. The boys on the bench valiantly offered to take him to task if he came after them. But all he did was quietly put his masculine clothing back on, and slink away in the direction from which he came. He didn't take the women's clothes with him. Upon investigation, it seems he had a box for them stowed amongst the trees.

The kids played on, oblivious. My friend and I wondered what, if anything, we should do. He didn't do anything. As far as we know, all he wanted was an audience for his actions. And he wanted an audience. He may have been furtive, but he did nothing to hide his actions. Not even the transformation from before to after. We have no indication that he would harm anyone. But the potential is there.

Four years ago, I would have found this incident merely interesting, possibly humourous. Part of the reason that I love the city, and want to stay here, is that I want my children to grow up with a wide array of cultural experiences. I want them to be safe, but not sheltered. I want them to learn that all people, no matter what race, gender or sexual orientation are worthy of the same consideration. I think living in a big city is a good way to do this.

Today, I am a little ashamed that upon seeing someone who for all I know is completely harmless, my first thought is of the potential danger to my kids. It's a survival instinct, but that doesn't necessarily make it right.

It's a fine line between protection and exposure. This parenting thing is hard.

Two Timing

A few lovely bloggers are about to have an addition to their families: their second child.

(Cue OMINOUS MUSIC)



Nah, it's not that bad - really!

(Cue MERCURIAL MUSIC)

Ah, that's much better. You see, I'm right in it. We had our second baby six months ago on this very date. We are right in it. (My favourite acting teacher would use the expression "in the shit", but contrary to what you might believe, being "in the shit" is a good thing.) I think that when people give first time moms advice, they tend to gloss over all the really crappy stuff because they don't want to scare them. You, my fine friends, have been there. You know that some of the stuff that goes along with being the mom of a newborn is pretty sucky. Personally, I would have preferred the truthy truth the first time around - I would have felt better prepared. However, it's nice to keep the veil of innocence going for as long as you can, too.

As to the question posed - Is the second child easier? - the answer is...drumroll please....

YES!

Absolutely. In an oh-my-sweet-lord-why-on-earth-did-I-think-this-was-so-hard-the-first-time and-what-the-hell-did-I-do-with-all-my-time-and-why-could-I-never-seem-to-get-anything-done kind of way. It really gives you perspective. I will admit that I was kind of dreading doing the whole baby thing over again because we had such a hard time the first time around. Every single thing was a struggle. Nothing came naturally. I enjoyed him so much more when he got older, and I thought why would I want to go back to square one again? Except that we knew that, down the line, we wanted to have children. Plural. Not singular.

The thing with the second one is, you've paid your dues. The learning curve is not nearly as difficult. Yes, chances are the second child will be completely different than the first, but you can still extrapolate all the information you gleaned from the first. And you know that not everything is a crisis. You won't Ruin Their Life if you make one bad decision. It sounds callous to say that you don't care as much, but it's a GOOD thing. You don't micro-manage every single minute. And everyone - baby included - can breathe a sigh of relief.

BUT.

You knew there'd be a "but" right?

The second baby IS easier, but managing the second baby AND the firstborn is somewhat tougher than I thought it would be. It's a real juggling act to handle two completely different schedules, and there's not a heck of a lot of downtime. It's tiring. So here's what I would suggest, at least for the first few months:

GET HELP.

We kept the Boy in daycare full time in the beginning, and though I felt guilty at the time, it was one of the best decisions we made. It keeps his routine somewhat close to normal, gave him social interaction that he wouldn't get at home, and gave me some time to focus on the baby.

GET HELP.

My husband comes home from work early whenever possible. My mom comes for regular visits, and will even take the Boy for the weekend. In the early days, playdates sounded like a lot of effort, but are much more relaxing because you have an extra set of eyes (and friends to talk to!). Minimize the time you're alone with two children at first, because it can be overwhelming to be outnumbered when you're so tired.

GET HELP. (Did I mention that already? I can't remember.)

Now that we've dropped some days at daycare, we're looking into getting a housecleaner once a month or so. I'm hoping this person might even be willing to do some laundry too (a girl can dream, right?). Both of these can become out of control rather quickly, and the last thing I want to do with a spare minute is clean or fold laundry.

At the end of the day, though, what makes it all worthwhile is the look of adoration in the Little Guy's eyes as he watches his big brother. It's heart-burstingly wonderful. I could throw out all the toys because he could occupy himself quite well doing nothing but ogling his hero. And to hear the Boy announce, every chance he gets, to all his friends and strangers too, "That's my baby brudder!" Well, it's music to my ears. And there is no sweeter sound.

All my best wishes, love and support to three soon-to-be moms of two: Her Bad Mother, Mrs. Chicky, and Mrs. Chicken.

A Fine Balance

I've come to discover that being a mom is all about the timing.

My day is an intricately choreagraphed dance, a delicate pas-de-deux (or rather, pas-de-trois, I should say). Extend the leg here. Flick the hand there. Don't forget to spot when you turn, or you'll get dizzy. Each step must be completed in sequence and on time or it all falls apart. Or I fall apart. Nowhere is this more apparent than on the nights that Mr Earth is not home. He is in rehearsal for a play which takes him out of the house at bedtime at least three nights per week, more when the show goes up.

The Boy and I had comfortable partnership going. A routine. Everything happened like clockwork. There were good nights and bad nights, but the difference between the two was the gentle ripple of hair in a stray breeze. Nothing that couldn't be righted easily. And if Mr Earth or I couldn't be home at bedtime, while it was unfortunate, it was no problem.

And then the Little Guy joined the dance. After stumbling around for a bit, we found our rhythm again. It's different, more complex, but finally manageable. Instead of a couple, we now have a quartet. While it may have all the grace of a do-si-do hoedown, it still works. Except for on nights when one of us isn't home. One child is left partnerless, and one parent left to take up the slack. Since I am still breastfeeding, that task usually falls to me.

The evening program starts at 6:45pm and usually lasts until about 8:45pm. It can be a very long two hours involving much crying, whining and general unpleasantness. Not all of this behaviour is due to the children. Bathe the Boy, diaper, pyjamas, story, milk, unwind with one (not-short-enough) tv program, brush teeth, pink eye medication, wash hands, all the while juggling the entertainment of an increasingly tired Little Guy. Then upstairs to bed, dump the baby in the crib, take the Boy to the potty, tuck the Boy in with songs and funny voices. Then pick up the baby, downstairs for special excema bath, apply creams, feed. Hear door open on the monitor. Stop the baby mid-feed and take him upstairs to see what's going on. Change the Boy's poopy bum. Go back downstairs and finish the feed, put pyjamas on and swaddle. Turn lights down low, let baby suck on finger while jiggling him to sleep and hope he doesn't scream too much. If he does, listen to Boy shout "I can't sleep (Little Guy)!" over the monitor. When assured that the baby is finally asleep, take him upstairs turn on the sound machine and put him down. Breathe a sigh of relief, and relax. And wait for him to wake up again.

I could compress this routine somewhat. I could bathe, cream, feed and swaddle the Little Guy while the Boy drinks his milk and goes to bed alone. That's what my mom would suggest. But it also leaves the Boy to essentially put himself to bed, and we lose that time to connect. And, he's three. I don't think he should be able to put himself to bed yet, even if he would do it. Not to mention that the Little Guy needs, nay demands, and absolute quiet and distraction-free zone when being put down for the night. So, I continue the fancy footwork, and hope that in time, it will again become like clockwork.

And tomorrow night, I go out for dinner with friends, and Mr Earth does the bedtime dance. And has to do bottle-feeding on top of it all. Wish him luck.

Perspective

The boys and I went on a playdate to the home of the lovely Kgirl. And a wonderful hostess she is too - deftly doling out caffeine before I got the withdrawal shakes, and keeping a steady stream of snacks for my hoover-Boy, all with a baby on the hip.

In between sips of spider-free coffee and mouthfuls of delicious banana cake, Kittenpie and I got to talking about how we're not terribly keen on the whole newborn phase. The cuddles and coos are adorable, but they don't always compensate for the sleep deprivation or the screaming, be it mine or the baby's. I tend to view these early days, wrong or no, as banking hours against a future pay-off. With each passing day, I'm enjoying the Boy's quirks and foibles more and more. and I can see the little man he is becoming.

When I was pregnant with the Little Guy, I had many moments of omigodwhathaveIdonethings arefinallygoodandwhyhaveIjustgoneandruineditall? I was scared. I didn't want to go back to sleepless nights, and hours of breastfeeding and unsuccessful pumping. I didn't want to feel constantly inadequate because I didn't know why the baby was crying. I remembered the dark, dark days and was loathe to go back to them.

To my delight and surprise, it's just...easier...the second time around. I don't in any way mean that there aren't incredibly difficult moments, difficults days, difficult weeks. I don't mean that I don't want to pull my hair out sometimes, because I do (I don't need to though, because I lose clumps of it every time I shower. How glamourous is motherhood?). I certainly don't think things are all sunshine and puppy dogs.

BUT...I don't feel as lost. I don't feel as incompetent. I'm not shattered every time the baby cries, because sometimes babies just cry and it's not my fault. I don't second guess every little thing because I've come to accept that sometimes there just is no good answer, and I do what I have to do to get through the day. Eventhough I can't always see it, I know that there is a light at the end the tunnel.

I would have never (NEVER!) thought this before, but when it's just me and the baby - or just me and the Boy - it seems like a bit of holiday to only have to look out for one kid, and worry about one schedule. Turns out having a second child was the best thing I could do in terms of blurring the tears of the past. And I have a whole new appreciation for the sweetness and simplicity of the newborn phase.

Now, if I could only figure out how to manage the boys when I'm outnumbered two to one, I'd be all set...

Dream Feed

I pad down the narrow hallway and enter the dark bedroom. In the blackness, I feel for the sound machine. The patter of rain abruptly stops and the room falls silent. I reach into the bassinette and my hands find the swaddled baby with ease. I take him out of the room. His head angles back and his lips purse, but he is still fast asleep.

I walk down the hall to the nursery and place him on the carpet using the animal footprints as a marker so I know exactly where to put him when I'm finished. I unswaddle, careful to keep the fabric in the correct position for his return. There isn't enough room between the crib and the dresser for all the fabric. There is a lot of fabric. This baby, not yet five months old, is the size of a nine month baby. Two legs shoot up in the air, and he rolls to his left side. They shoot up again, and he rolls to his right. Over and over the baby gymnastics. I fire up the computer and watch him roll. This is my favourite part.

I heft the boy onto my left shoulder and grab the breastfeeding pillow. I sit down on the computer chair, unhook my bra and put the baby to the breast. I read blogs and try to comment. I can type with two hands if he's feeding well, one if he's not. He's usually not. I question the need to stay up late doing this if he going to barely eat. He shoves his hand in my shirt. He is one of two men who can get away with such a bold move. It's a lovely hand.

I burp him and a trickle of milk rolls down his chin. I switch sides and he starts to rub his left ear obsessively. Is it itchy? I sit him up to burp him again and he rubs his face against the receiving blanket, settling in. He is sleeping sitting up. A toe twitches. An eyebrow raises. A soft smile passes his lips.

I put him back on the swaddling fabric and his eyes fly open. Now he is awake. He squawks and struggles, but I swaddle on. No sleep for the unbound. I try to make sure it's tight enough to give Houdini pause. I shift him deftly to football position and sit back down at the computer. I read some more, the baby's head jiggling on my leg. If I want to comment on a post now, I must hunt and peck. I hate long verification codes.

Eyes are closing slowly and I hear a wail from the Boy's room. I pause, heart in throat. Silence. Was that the end, or the beginning?

I continue jiggling. I'm falling asleep myself. Soft, rhythmic breaths. I get up and walk down the hall. I turn the sound machine on. I fumble around till I find the rain setting. I tiptoe out. As I leave, I hope the lazy feed is enough to nourish.

And I hope the swaddle is tight, or it's going to be a long night.

Can you recycle a Sitz bath?

So what, exactly, is the statute of limitations on getting your shit together after having a baby? Because although it seems like all I do is sit around on my ever-lovin' butt all day long, alternately playing with or holding one kid or the other, I still don't seem to have any time to do anything of consequence.

My house is a mess and it's not getting any cleaner. I actually avoid inviting people over because it would entail an hour-long mad dash to make the place only mildly less embarrassing than it is now. I feel like a heel for not returning invites, and yet the prospect of cleaning is just too daunting to consider. There are piles of gifts from Christmas and birthdays with no place to put them. There are even larger piles of mail that I don't seem to have the time or the energy to open, much less do anything with them. Except the bills, of course. I open those, and invariably end up paying them late. And why does my hair, which I am losing at an alarmingly rapid rate, have the sentience to avoid every single attempt I make to wipe it up from the bathroom walls and floors? I swear, if anyone comes to our house, they would think that a woolly mammoth lives here, not a family of four average Canadians. Oh, and that Sitz bath? Still in the bathroom from November. You know, just in case I want to use it again, or something. I'm not entirely sure what to do with that.

Don't get me started on the garbage and recycling that has to live in our house because we keep getting so much snow that it takes a fully-outfitted winter trek to make it to the garbage bins...Or the neverending piles of laundry either, for that matter. Out damn laundry! Out I say!! Good day to you.

On top of all this, or perhaps at the root of it, all is my barely concealed guilt every time that I send the Boy off to daycare. I know he loves it there, so that is not the problem, but I feel somehow like I've failed as a parent because I can't handle the two of them on my own. I've had them both home on the many (many!) snow days that we've had lately, and I swear that by the end of the day, I am literally swaying on my feet from exhaustion. I think if I had them both home all day every day, I would be a mere shell of the person that I once was. You would be able to talk to me if you like, but I would just stare blankly at all the pretty shapes and colours. Seriously, how do all you full-time moms handle it? Can you really do it all on your own without help?? Kudos to you if you can. Please enlighten me on how to be a better mother. Because right now? I feel like a big fat failure. I'm going to have to take "multi-tasking" off my resume, that's for sure.

Beautiful

The snowstorms started January 1st, and have placed a heavy weight on my heart. More and more each day, I just want to pick up stakes and move somewhere with blue sky, green grass and leaves gently swaying in the balmy air. I'm tired, so tired. Tired of cancelled plans, delays, shovelling. Tired of people bustling by without saying hello. Tired of feeling trapped in a house I love, but can't stand to look at anymore. Tired. And sad. And tired of feeling tired and sad. Because I know I am blessed. I have two beautiful children that make my heart smile, a husband who is the person you can't wait to grow old with, lovely friends and loving family. So here is my Friday resolution:

To find amazement in the weather, not disappointment.
To find challenge in the snowbanks, not despair.
To find generosity on the roads, not anger.
To find playfulness in the attempt to get two children out the door in winter, not automaton precision.
To find health in the exploding diapers, not mountains of laundry.
To find growth in the tantrums, not annoyance.
To find music in the screams, not dischord.
To find peace and solitude in the day, not loneliness and isolation.
To find joy in the everyday, not tedium.
To find a happy family in the mess, not more to clean.
To find togetherness in the demands of parenting, not separation.
To find a mother in the haggard looks, not ugliness.
Because I am as beautiful as I feel.

Thanks, Carole.

So Soothe Me!

They say there's a sucker born every minute. I don't know about that, but there were certainly two born in our household.

When you've got a couple of suckers on your watch, what do you do? Well, you end up jumping into the fray of the ongoing Mommy-battle: The Thumb, or The Soother? In one corner, we have The Thumb. It's all natural, can't be lost (we hope), the first thing that babies explore and the go-to choice for sucking. In the other corner, we have The Soother. You lose them constantly, have to disinfect them repeatedly, babies have to learn how to keep them in their mouths, BUT they are theoretically easier to get rid of later on, and will supposedly cause less dental problems down the line.

The Boy was a finger-sucker from very early on. Ensconced in the blissful two-on-one days of new parenting, we allowed it. Encouraged it even. I (all too vividly) recall hours of sitting on a couch with a (clean) finger stuck in his mouth. You couldn't go anywhere or do anything, but whatever. He eventually found his own thumb, and hasn't looked back since. For me, it's not all the big a deal. I sucked my thumb until I was five. My parents tried to get me to stop, but the more they harassed me, the harder I sucked. I just did it behind their backs. I did stop, eventually, but it was on my own time. On my own terms.

You'd be surprised at how much flak we get from the public, though. Daycare teachers have made passing comments about it. Nothing offense, but still. The ladies who run the local fruit market chastise the Boy when he sucks his thumb. I let that go, but it's a struggle. Total strangers have actually reached into my stroller and pulled the still wet thumb from his mouth. That made me mad. Now that he's three, we're trying to gently discourage him from the thumb-sucking. From everything I've read though, it isn't a real problem dental-wise till they're four or five.

Not surprisingly, it turns out that the Little Guy is a sucker too. If anything, he a bigger sucker than his brother. I've checked to make sure he's not hungry. He just wants to suck. A lot. And he gets mighty angry if he can't. Gone are the days, though, when we can leisurely sit and, well, give the Little Guy the finger. And you can't get anything done at all. Not. One. Thing. I'm not trying to be a Super Mom here, either. There are just some things that I have to do. Want to get the Boy dressed. SCREAM! Want to make the Boy some breakfast? SCREAM! Want to give the Boy a bath? SCREAM! Want to feed, dress or bathe myself? SCREAM, SCREAM, SCREAM! And then just to change things up a little, he will SCREAM A LITTLE LOUDER!!!

So this time around, we are trying to introduce the Soother. The Boy didn't take to it at all, but we only made half-hearted attempts really. This time, the Soother is a survival mechanism. I've always been slightly opposed to soothers though. I've seen some parents use it to shut their kids up, instead of the intended purpose of soothing a child who really doesn't want anything else than to suck. It left a bad taste in my mouth, and it stuck with me. It's all too easy to offer the kid the soother anytime he cries, rather than seeing what's actually wrong first. In fact, I'm already worried that I've fallen into that trap. But I simply don't know what else to do. It's impossible to function normally with an underscoring of SCREAMING every time you have to do necessary household tasks. So far, it's helped a bit, but the Little Guy is having difficulty keeping it in his mouth.

How do you feel about Soothers vs Thumbs? Is one better than the other? Is one wrong, and one right? And how in the heck do you get the kid to keep the pacifier in his mouth if sucking is what he truly wants to do?? I don't know if I'm doing the right/best/smart thing here, I'm just doing what I can to get through the day. I may regret it later. Let's just hope that the "later" is a long time coming.

And now I'm going to go and try to dry out my water-logged finger.

The Kiss of Death

I've been accused in the past of being somewhat negative in my outlook. While it's not entirely untrue, I think this assessment gives you the wrong impression. I prefer the term "cautiously optimistic". But I can see how people could confuse the two.

For example, if you ask how my day is going, I will more than likely say "Not bad." or "Okay." I will never say "Fabulous!" or "This is the best day I've ever had!" (Unless, of course, something undeniably, life-changingly wonderful has actually occurred.) In part, because I find these Pollyanna answers to be somewhat annoying - like the people who smile all the time. I mean, I'm all for smiling when the occasion warrants it, but smiling 24/7? Not so much. It kind of creeps me out. But mostly it's because, in my experience, as soon as I say something is going well, it almost always starts to go downhill. I call it "the Kiss of Death".

Phrases you won't hear me say? "The Little Guy is a really good sleeper." Cause you know he won't be sleeping that night. "The Boy never misbehaves." Not unless I wan't him to throw his toys at me and scream "Mommy is a poo-poo head!" at the top of his lungs. "It's easy to manage two kids." Because total mayhem would ensue.

You also won't see me tattooing "Mr Earth - true love forever" anywhere on my personage. I don't really want to find my sorry husband-less self walking the streets. Or telling people that I'm smart and talented. They won't have to look hard for evidence to the contrary. Or buying clothes that are my pre-pregnancy size on the theory that I will fit into them soon enough. I invariably start eating all the chocolate in sight if I do.

But what do you do when someone asks you a question point-blank? At my post-partum appointment Monday, the doctor asked me if I had had any blocked milk ducts. Well, to be perfectly honest, I hadn't. So I was forced to answer no. And what do I have right now? A blocked milk duct. A painful, red, hard-as-a rock boob, and a baby who somehow manages to always hit or kick me in the chest. Thanks Doctor. Kiss of Death indeed.

Bjorn Again

After our second doctor's appointment the other day (the Little Guy's almost back at birth weight - yay!), I headed out to a nearby baby store to buy...a Sling. I didn't use a sling with the Boy, I was too intimidated by the mounds of fabric. We used the Baby Bjorn instead. For the most part, we were very happy with it too, with the exception of the backaches from prolonged wearing. Still, our Bjorn served it's purpose. We used it for many a nap or stroll in the neighbourhood. The amount of spit-up covering the fabric shows just how much use we got out of it.

This time around, though, I was determined to try the Sling. I wanted to be more organic, more "Earth Mother-ish". I kept seeing all these women using a sling and it just looked so...natural. I wanted to be more natural too. I wanted to prove that I had learned something from having been a mom already. I wanted to show that I could relax and just enjoy motherhood. As far I could see, you could be one of two types of moms:

A) Sling-Wearer (ie. what I aspire to): Effortless, casual, primal, can breastfeed anywhere without embarrassment, born mother, always has the answers, this mothering gig is so easy I could handle ten babies, looks not a day over 30 eventhough she has two teenaged kids kind of mom.

OR

B) Bjorn-Wearer (ie. me): Complicated, make things harder than they have to be, clinging to active pre-baby life, how can you make your baby sleep in that position, awkward, doesn't know what she's doing, breastfeeding is a challenge, will probably buy the Thighmaster and get breast implants before she's forty kind of mom.

Anyways, I tested out a couple slings in the store and brought one home. That's when things went downhill. I couldn't make it work! It wasn't comfortable! The Little Guy was screaming, and that was the only way I could tell that he wasn't suffocating in the folds of fabric.

How was it comfortable in the store, but NOT AT ALL when I got it home??

Yesterday, I exchanged the Sling for the Active Baby Bjorn. It's comfortable. It's me. Maybe it's about time I just accept who I am. Which is not so very bad a person. Or mother. If I can be comfortable with that, it won't matter whether I Sling or Bjorn.

He won't care either way...

Movie Mom

Before we begin, let me just make one thing clear...this post is not about BlogHer. If you were looking for news on the Conference That Must Not Be Named, then please click here. I'd also like to make it very clear that I'M NOT BITTER AT ALL. ( @$%*#%*!). We can have fun right here in TO, can't we? Anybody?? (The silence is deafening, folks, back me up here, will ya?). Okay..

I mentioned in a recent post , 100 , that I was snubbed for going to Movies 4 Mommies. Here's the story. Upon the arrival of the Boy, my life became a veritable maelstrom. We were having trouble breastfeeding, the boy was found to have a double hernia, and my time going back and forth to the hospital seemed to outweigh my time spent at home. Because of this, I didn't hook up with any mommy group. The nurse that visited the house suggested that I go to this "Bringing Home Baby" group at a local church. The hospital treks interfered with that and I never went, eventhough I really wanted to. As a result, I felt adrift and friendless.

That's when I heard about Movies 4 Mommies, or as they were called in my 'hood, MiniMatinées. I thought to myself, "Great! I get out of the house, AND I get to see a movie! I may even talk to some other moms.." So I went. The people there were lovely. They gave a gift to first-timers, and there were weekly draws for other prizes, as well as some presentations about local baby amenities. Since the movie was at 1pm, it fell right at the Boy's nap time. He would sleep for an hour, and then feed for an hour (Yes, you read that correctly - each breastfeeding session took one whole hour, a half hour on each boob. Sigh). It was a perfect fit, and I had a lovely afternoon.

I started going every week. It was a half hour walk each way, so I'd get my exercise. I saw a fairly recent movie each week (the selection at MiniMatinées ran to the decidely offbeat and documentary taste). Being terribly shy in real life, I chatted self-consciously with other new moms. It was something for me to look forward to. And hey - I'm an actor - I'm always up for seeing a new flick. I think it really helped me to keep my sanity intact in those early days, too.

Eventually, I met up with a friend who I met at FitMom, and she invited me to join her Mommy Group. Ironically, it was the same people who would have been at that Bringing Home Baby group that I never attended. They got along so well that they decided to keep meeting. I joyously agreed to go, because I was feeling very isolated. I tried to integrate myself as much as possible into the group. Some people were very nice, but from a number of them, I got the feeling that I was an interloper.

When they found out (by my own admission, of course, I'm not shy about the truth), that I went to MiniMatinées every week, I was quickly dubbed "the Movie Girl" by those less charitably-minded. There were snide jokes that my son slept more at the movies than in his own crib. There were many insinuations along the lines of "my baby would never stand for it" or "I'm not sure it's such a good thing for them".

My friend from FitMom and I became quite close, though, and she started coming with me to the movies on a fairly regular basis. We made it a little playdate, and it was really fun. And, yeah, I saw some movies that I probably would not have spent money on had I not had a babe in arms. Sadly, my MiniMatinées have closed their theatres, but the good memories remain. So does my new theory on parenting: Do what you gotta do to get through the day with your sanity intact. And don't judge other moms. You don't know what it's like to be in their shoes.

This was cross-posted at MommyBlogsToronto: Mama Drama.

White Bread

I love this time of year because it promises so much. The hope of spring and rebirth is all around me. It's so wonderful to lose the mittens, scarves and hats. It's so rejuvenating to feel the sun on my face, and know that summer is coming soon. I like a lot of things about winter, but what I like best is leaving it behind. But this time of years also brings with it some old, bad feelings. It was around this time about thirteen years ago (omigod has it been that long? crap I'm old), when I was sitting in a small room in the theatre school across from my first year acting prof, being evaluated. It was actually my second year out of high school. I spent a year at another university, before deciding that I needed a program that was less academic and more studio-oriented, if I really wanted to become an actor. Anyways, for those that think acting is an easy program, try sitting in a room with a prof who tells you exactly what's wrong with you. You're not being judged on your writing skills, or how much you studied for exam, or whether you had original ideas - you are being judged on YOU. Whether or not you're interesting, talented, significant. According to my first year prof, I was not. I was "too pink" (WTF?), too "middle-of-the-road", too "white bread".

White bread. I can't tell you how this innocuous phrase has gotten stuck in my head and stayed there. Sure, lots of people eat white bread. Some kids will only eat white bread, in fact. But nobody loves it. If a prisoner had to choose their final meal on death row, I'm pretty sure it would not be white bread. If you could only have one food with you on a desert island, I'm guessing it's not going to be white bread. Even if you had to name your top five favourite foods, I doubt that white bread would make the cut. So this is what I'm compared with? A food that, while tasty enough, is completely forgettable?? Thanks. Way to break a girl's spirit. I had a rather "delicate" self-image up to that point, and that pretty much shattered it.

Most years I can just coast by and forget, but this year, as some of you know, I was actually back in school. April brought with it papers, exams and much stress. Along with it came the inevitable reminder that I am not an actor (or why would I be back in school), so maybe the prof was right after all. It's not news to me that the professional actor thing isn't going to happen, of course. I've accepted, albeit grudgingly, the fact for some time now. But the question is - what do I do now? I'm stuck in a job that I don't like, that doesn't challenge me, and where I am all but invisible. I would quit, but it just doesn't make sense financially to do that right now. Even if it did make sense to quit, though, it wouldn't make me happy.

The truth is, I like to work. I think that I've been a better mother since I've been back to work. That doesn't make sense to most people, but it does to me. But I look at my beautiful Boy's face every day that I leave him in the hands of others and think what have I done - what am I doing?? It must be the epitome of selfishness to leave him every day for a job that I don't love. How bad a person must I be to think that I wouldn't be satisfied staying home all the time with this amazing little man who is so very lovely (except when he's not). Then I think - do other people feel this way? Does every mom who goes back to work love her job? Does her job make a difference in the world?

So the solution, you might think, is to find another job - one that I do love. There the rub, no? For every job other than acting would be a Royal Gardner to my Gilbert Blythe. But what do you do when Gilbert Blythe is off the market, but you still want to get married? Would you settle for Royal? It seems that I have no choice, but it does make a decision - any kind of decision - difficult. What I have to do is find another job altogether, something out of the norm. Easier said than done. What I can't do anymore is remain invisible. I can't do a job where I'm not using all of myself, and making a definite contribution to something worthwhile. Even if I was a good employee right now (and I'm not, because I don't care), I wouldn't be doing something valuable. I'd still be white bread. And that's not good enough.

Mom Olympics: Winter '07

Competitor: Nomotherearth
Category: Working Mom, Daycare Division

1st Event: HOUSE PENTATHLON

Description: The goal of this event is to get out of the house on time. During snowstorms, competitors are required to leave the house earlier than usual. Components include Tantrum Throw, Cereal Wrestling, Home-length Running, Snowsuit Jump and Compulsory Singing. Extra points awarded for components that are avoided entirely.

Commentator: "Teams really show their mettle in this one - if one half of the team is not pulling their weight, you're sunk. Nomo's made a poor show at practice lately, but we're hoping she's going to pull through today. Competitors are allowed to wake up as early as they need to based on the weather conditions. Admirably, Nomo managed to get up at 6am, despite a last-minute consultation with Boy at 4:30am. It seems that the Boy was having second thoughts about competing today, but Nomo managed to convince him of the importance of the Olympics and he decided to go back to sleep until the event began. The Tantrum Throw portion was dicey for Nomo - the clothes the Boy wanted to wear were in the wash. It seemed like the tantrum was going to be averted when Nomo managed to find a pair of jeans in a pile of clothes that don't fit properly. However, the Boy's mercurial personality showed through when there was no Elmo diaper available. Still, Nomo managed to make up time in the Cereal Wrestling - at the two-minute warning mark, she got the cereal bowl out of the Boy's hands. He made one last grasp for a handful of cereal which he stuffed into his mouth in a desperate hurry. Next came the Home-length Running. The Boy got off to a good start. He made it from the kitchen to the front of the house in under 2.6 seconds and almost made it out the front door, but was headed off by Nomo who wanted to move on to the Snowsuit Jump. In a stroke of brilliance, she combined the Compulsory Singing and the Snowsuit Jump into one impressive maneuver. The judges seemed to love her rendition of "Here Comes Peter Cottontail", and so did the Boy. It distracted him from his dislike of mittens, and they managed to get out the door a full 10 minutes earlier than usual. Well done!"

Scores
Technical: 8.0
Artistic: 6.2
Overall: 7.2


2nd Event: CROSS COUNTRY STROLLER

Description: Competitors must make it to daycare with only a stroller for transportation. Time is the key factor, as competitors cannot be late for work, doctor's appointments or snack time. During the event, competitors must exhibit a minimum of 2, maximum 5, special skills. Acceptable skills vary depending on the weather and evaluation of said skills are subject to the discretion of the judges.

Commentator: "Here's where we see Nomo in her element. She cut her teeth on Hamilton snowfalls, and is by no means a babe in the woods when it comes to winter survival. She's the clear favourite here. She left the house in fine form, and nimbly displayed her ability to adapt to weather conditions by crossing the street where there was no crosswalk in order to avoid SnowHill Lifting. It seemed to be smooth sailing until all of a sudden the judges threw in a Freestyle Fallen Tree. WOW! We haven't seen that since Winter '05!! We thought that this would stop her in her tracks, but after a moment's hesitation, she went straight into Puddle Jumping. Puddle jumping is a risky undertaking in cross country stroller, mainly because it requires the co-operation of random strangers. Luckily for Nomo, there was a good samaritan at hand. It was a case of Team Lifting, Classical Style. The Puddle Jump left Nomo on the road with no return access to the sidewalk. In a stroke of genius - and, dare we say it, recklessness - she pulled a Downroad Sprint to the nearest puddle and jumped again. What a move! Nomo is really out to win this one. Having demonstrated 4 special skills in one event, we think that she just may do that yet."

Scores
Technical: 9.4
Artistic: 6.0
Overall: 7.7

JUDGES FINAL EVALUATION: 7.5
While Nomo shows great promise, we feel that she has yet to come into her own. Technically, the components are all there and she shows some real grit. Artistically, however, we need to see more. She shows more impatience with the Boy than we feel is acceptable. Yelling at houses who's residents had failed to shovel their walkways is in outright violation of our rules. Also, though she made it to her doctor's appointment on time, the doctor was running extremely late due to weather and she had to re-schedule the appointment and hustle to the subway. Which made her late for work.

Acts of Lèse-majesté

One of the things that I like best about the blogosphere is the fact that I get to read other peoples blogs. These incredibly intelligent people help stave off the "mummy dummies" with their insightful posts. They also bring to my attention issues of which I might have been otherwise ignorant. The other day, Her Bad Mother posted about a rather, um, interesting article. If you haven't read it yet, have a look. The gist is that us naive and, well, stupid women "fall for the motherhood trend, hook, line and pacifier, and are bewildered when the experience does not live up to (our) expectations." I'll save you from the majority of my problems with this article. HBM said it much better than I ever could with my limited literary skills, and you can read her post here. Suffice it to say that, as John Cage would put it, this article troubles me.

I won't go into the fact that this article is written by not only a woman, but a mother. I won't delve into how deeply insulting this article is to women in general and mothers in particular. I certainly won't go into the fact that someone who writes such hateful material obviously has deep-seated issues of her own. I will mention briefly that while motherhood is the most rewarding, and the most challenging, venture I've ever undertaken, I don't love all aspects of it all the time. And I resent the fact that to be considered a good mother, I am required to love every minute of every day and never once complain. It's human nature to complain . It doesn't mean that I don't love motherhood, or that I regret my choice to become a mother. Keeping things bottled up inside you is when you get into trouble with a capital "T". And that rhymes with "P" and that stands for "Poop". If you want to know what I really think about this article, that word pretty much sums it up. Poop. Juvenile, admittedly, but strangely appropriate. Motherhood is too complex to say that it's good or bad, fun or boring, fulfilling or draining. It's all of these things. It's vital. It's alive. It's human. It's not perfect, it's human. That's what's so great about it.

But what I really wanted to talk about is the author's assertion that motherhood is not cool. And that we're stuck in hell because we can't put the baby "into the Goodwill bag with the 80s hypercolor T-shirts and the side ponytails" when we realize that it's not the trendy new accessory that we thought it would be. Granted, I'm not the best person to discuss what is cool and what is not, but I have to say that Stajic really missed the boat on this one. In no other aspects of my life am I allowed to get away with the things that I do while I'm being a mum. I can walk down Bloor Street pushing a stroller singing "Here comes Peter Cotton Tail" at the top of my voice. I can laugh like jolly old St Nick in a posh food store. I can scream at an imaginary lion. I can eat pretend cookies from a book. I can say goodbye to cereal boxes, and goodnight to the Great White Shark bank. Where else in adult life can you do these things without looking nutty? Some may consider these acts of lèse-majesté. I consider them acts of love. And that, my friends, is pretty cool.

To Pee or Not to Pee

The Boy and I were walking home after a short coffee/shopping trip down to the Village, and that vague thought in the back of my head, the one that went ...at some point I may have to pee... turned suddenly and violently into I have to pee NOW. I'm about seven minutes from home. I can make it. Sure. What's seven minutes?

Think dry thoughts. Sand. Sahara Desert. Grand Canyon. Actuarial Textbooks. Hmm, not working. I start to chant quietly under my breath "ihavetopee, ihavetopee, ihavetopee..." Hot damn this is the longest seven minutes of my life. The stroller collides with a chunk of frozen snow, and the handlebar hits my stomach. Oof, not good.

Then something occurs to me. I can make it home in seven minutes. By myself. I am with The Boy. Not only do I have to get home, I have to lift the stroller up on the porch and get The Boy inside. The Boy, who insists that all the lights in the house be turned on before anything else happens (oh the energy bill..!). The Boy, who must be released from his winter raiments unless you want to listen to a non-stop chorus of "Hat off! Jackey off! Boots off! Mummy's jackey off!" Over and over. I really hate winter sometimes.

Well 'seven minutes' might as well be a lifetime. I start pushing the stroller faster. I start dancing a crude little jig. The closer we are to the house, the more I have to pee. By the time I get the stroller on to the porch, I might as well be holding Niagara Falls at bay. Shit, where's the damn key? Shit, who makes these damn stroller seatbelts so hard to undo? Shit, did I say that out loud? Damn. Don't swear in front of The Boy. I start leaping up and down. I grab The Boy rather more forcibly than I am wont to and barrel indoors.

There is no bathroom on the main floor, so here's my quandry, do I:

a) ...turn on the lights, undress the Boy and myself, take the Boy to the playroom then go pee? This risks possible overflow. Not pretty.
b) ...take us both, hats, coats and all, upstairs? We have a rather narrow staircase and an even smaller bathroom. Awkward.
c) ...cut bait and run?

Well, I'm not good at making decisions in the best of circumstances. When the urine is approaching eye-level, I have no rational thought whatsoever. I'm afraid I chose Option C. I said "Stay right there, please. Mummy's gotta go potty." And I ran. I was back downstairs in under a minute, and the Boy hadn't moved, but it was not a shining moment in motherhood at Casa Earth. I was faced with a choice between The Call of Motherhood and The Call of Nature, and I chose the latter. Sigh. Is is possible to legitimize my actions by saying it was a pre-potty lesson for the Boy?

Do I have the smallest bladder on the face of the planet? What would you do in my place??