The Imp comes to me, all fresh from the shower and little boy clean, looking for a hug. I gather him into my arms and lift him onto my lap. He's so gangly now, all legs and elbows and accidentally banging his head into my chin when he comes in for a hug.
I marvel at this child who just keeps growing, which is a ridiculous thing to say, because of course he keeps growing. That's what children do. I know that, intellectually, but I still struggle to understand on a cellular level that this being who once tucked in under one arm to breastfeed now spills out off my lap and onto the floor when he leans into me. Other developments, like language and socialization and his quirky sense of humour have nowhere near as much impact on me as the sheer undeniable size of this boy.
As he walks away from me, the hallway light shines on six inches of bare leg and ankle where once a bath towel dragged on the floor.
This post was written as part of Just Write from Heather of the Extraordinary Ordinary.
Showing posts with label motherhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label motherhood. Show all posts
27 March 2012
13 November 2011
Things That Are True - Endless Tiny Goodbyes
Tonight just before bedtime, The Imp came to me and demanded my attention. He put a dimpled little hand on either side of my face and very seriously said, "Mommy, I want to cuddle with you."
Who can say no to that? For one thing, he called me "Mommy".
But I am not a fool. This is a classic Imp bedtime-aversion tactic. Cuddling with me would temporarily delay the need for Picking up of Toys, and forestall the dreaded Brushing of Teeth and Putting on of Jammies.
So we made a deal. After all the toys were put away, and after he brushed his teeth, and once he was in his pajamas, then I would absolutely cuddle with him as he went to sleep - and curl up in bed with him I did.
We sang the "Night Night Song" - a little tune I made up way back in the breastfeeding days and have sung to him nightly since, and his other bedtime favourite, "Bye Bye Blackbird." Trust me when I tell you that you have not really lived until you've heard The Imp sleepily but earnestly trill out "No one here can love or understand me, Oh what hard luck stories they all hand me."
Bedtime hugs and kisses taken care of, lights turned out, blankets pulled up to his chin, he settled himself into the curves of my body as I lay next to him. "Hold hands, Mommy," he said as he reached for my fingers.
As I lay there with him tonight, in the dark, I was reminded of those terrified-new-parent newborn days with him. As he'd fall asleep in my arms or beside me in his co-sleeper, I'd listen so carefully for every breath, and jerk awake at every change in tempo or tenor, as if I could will him to keep living if I just paid enough attention.* Three and a half years later, I know and am comforted by the changes in his breathing; the way each breath slows and grows shallower as he drifts off to sleep. Instead of being alarmed by sudden spasms of a baby's startles, I smile to myself as I feel my big boy's limbs twitch in the first moments of slumber, and know that I can leave him to his dreams as I feel his grip on my fingers loosen.
He's getting so big.
I know it happens. Of course it happens. The only alternative is tragedy. We all know, intellectually, that our job as parents is to prepare our children to leave us. It takes a long time, but that's the end goal. I just don't think I ever really got that the leaving doesn't happen all at once, when they become teenagers, or when they go to university, or when they get married. The leaving happens daily, every minute. As a little mouth is nourished with solid food instead of milk from my own body, as little hands pull away from my grip while we cross the street, and as little legs learn to pump higher and higher without me pushing the playground swing. I love it, I do. I'm thrilled every day with his growing independence, with his confidence in his own body, with his relentless curiosity and enthusiasm for trying new things. But in the midst of celebrating this amazing person my son is becoming, there is also an endless series of tiny goodbyes. I mourn the newborn, and the learning to walk, and the first words.
Nobody tells you that part.
So as much as I'm a stern bedtime taskmaster, make no mistake: there is nothing that will get in my way when my big boy says "Cuddle with me, Mommy." I'll be mourning that too, soon enough.
*For the record, he was always a sturdy little lad and there was never any danger that he would suddenly stop breathing. I was just, like every brand new mom, totally and irrationally paranoid.
Who can say no to that? For one thing, he called me "Mommy".
But I am not a fool. This is a classic Imp bedtime-aversion tactic. Cuddling with me would temporarily delay the need for Picking up of Toys, and forestall the dreaded Brushing of Teeth and Putting on of Jammies.
So we made a deal. After all the toys were put away, and after he brushed his teeth, and once he was in his pajamas, then I would absolutely cuddle with him as he went to sleep - and curl up in bed with him I did.
We sang the "Night Night Song" - a little tune I made up way back in the breastfeeding days and have sung to him nightly since, and his other bedtime favourite, "Bye Bye Blackbird." Trust me when I tell you that you have not really lived until you've heard The Imp sleepily but earnestly trill out "No one here can love or understand me, Oh what hard luck stories they all hand me."
Bedtime hugs and kisses taken care of, lights turned out, blankets pulled up to his chin, he settled himself into the curves of my body as I lay next to him. "Hold hands, Mommy," he said as he reached for my fingers.
As I lay there with him tonight, in the dark, I was reminded of those terrified-new-parent newborn days with him. As he'd fall asleep in my arms or beside me in his co-sleeper, I'd listen so carefully for every breath, and jerk awake at every change in tempo or tenor, as if I could will him to keep living if I just paid enough attention.* Three and a half years later, I know and am comforted by the changes in his breathing; the way each breath slows and grows shallower as he drifts off to sleep. Instead of being alarmed by sudden spasms of a baby's startles, I smile to myself as I feel my big boy's limbs twitch in the first moments of slumber, and know that I can leave him to his dreams as I feel his grip on my fingers loosen.
He's getting so big.
I know it happens. Of course it happens. The only alternative is tragedy. We all know, intellectually, that our job as parents is to prepare our children to leave us. It takes a long time, but that's the end goal. I just don't think I ever really got that the leaving doesn't happen all at once, when they become teenagers, or when they go to university, or when they get married. The leaving happens daily, every minute. As a little mouth is nourished with solid food instead of milk from my own body, as little hands pull away from my grip while we cross the street, and as little legs learn to pump higher and higher without me pushing the playground swing. I love it, I do. I'm thrilled every day with his growing independence, with his confidence in his own body, with his relentless curiosity and enthusiasm for trying new things. But in the midst of celebrating this amazing person my son is becoming, there is also an endless series of tiny goodbyes. I mourn the newborn, and the learning to walk, and the first words.
Nobody tells you that part.
So as much as I'm a stern bedtime taskmaster, make no mistake: there is nothing that will get in my way when my big boy says "Cuddle with me, Mommy." I'll be mourning that too, soon enough.
*For the record, he was always a sturdy little lad and there was never any danger that he would suddenly stop breathing. I was just, like every brand new mom, totally and irrationally paranoid.
09 November 2011
Things That Are True - Echoes
The second he woke up this morning, The Imp came striding out into the living room where I was curled up with a book, looked at me very intensely, and made the following announcement:
The Imp: I am taking away all your treats.
(We use the phrase "take away your treats" to keep his behaviour in line.)
Me: Really. Why are you taking away all my treats?
The Imp: Because you said no tv. So I'm taking away your treats.
Me: Why do you think I said no tv?
The Imp: I don't know.
Me: Because you were shouting and hitting last night at bedtime. Am I shouting? Am I hitting?
The Imp, reluctantly: Noooo.
It's so interesting to hear my own words echoed back to me by my child. I'm fascinated, watching him figure out how much power he has, how much power his words have. He's figuring out his place. He's crafting his worldview. And when I hear my words come out of his mouth, I'm keenly aware of how much influence I have on that.
I was reminded of this again later this morning, after breakfast, as we were getting dressed for daycare. He wasn't cooperating, and I told him if he didn't get dressed rightnow there would be no treats after school. He looked at me, dejectedly looked at his feet, and quietly said, "Fuck."
(Well, yay for using it in the correct context, I guess?)
Me, quietly: What did you say?
The Imp: Fuck.
Me: Honey, we don't say that word.
The Imp: You say it all the time.
(Um, yeah. He had me there.)
Me: You're right, I do say it. But I shouldn't. It's not a nice word. How about if I don't say it anymore, and you don't say it anymore either?
The Imp: Okay.
So we finished getting him dressed and got him off to daycare. There were no horrified stories of dropped f-bombs on pickup this afternoon, so I'm hoping that's the end of it. For now, anyway.
And I really do need to get a handle on the things I say. There's an echo in here.
The Imp: I am taking away all your treats.
(We use the phrase "take away your treats" to keep his behaviour in line.)
Me: Really. Why are you taking away all my treats?
The Imp: Because you said no tv. So I'm taking away your treats.
Me: Why do you think I said no tv?
The Imp: I don't know.
Me: Because you were shouting and hitting last night at bedtime. Am I shouting? Am I hitting?
The Imp, reluctantly: Noooo.
It's so interesting to hear my own words echoed back to me by my child. I'm fascinated, watching him figure out how much power he has, how much power his words have. He's figuring out his place. He's crafting his worldview. And when I hear my words come out of his mouth, I'm keenly aware of how much influence I have on that.
I was reminded of this again later this morning, after breakfast, as we were getting dressed for daycare. He wasn't cooperating, and I told him if he didn't get dressed rightnow there would be no treats after school. He looked at me, dejectedly looked at his feet, and quietly said, "Fuck."
(Well, yay for using it in the correct context, I guess?)
Me, quietly: What did you say?
The Imp: Fuck.
Me: Honey, we don't say that word.
The Imp: You say it all the time.
(Um, yeah. He had me there.)
Me: You're right, I do say it. But I shouldn't. It's not a nice word. How about if I don't say it anymore, and you don't say it anymore either?
The Imp: Okay.
So we finished getting him dressed and got him off to daycare. There were no horrified stories of dropped f-bombs on pickup this afternoon, so I'm hoping that's the end of it. For now, anyway.
And I really do need to get a handle on the things I say. There's an echo in here.
03 April 2011
Things That Are True - You Might be a Mom if...
There are moments in my life that exist only because I'm a mom. I say and do things I would never have done without The Imp around.
You might be a mom if...
...you've ever found yourself discussing labour and delivery with a woman you just met and it doesn't feel at all TMI or over-sharey.
...a quick swipe at your naughty/stinky bits with a baby wipe is considered an adequate substitute for a proper shower, more often than you'd like to admit.
...you find yourself doling out stickers every time someone poops on the toilet.
...you have an opinion about the Backyardigans.
...you hate Caillou with the heat of a thousand suns.
...the temptation to cut your dinner companion's food into tiny bite-sized pieces is nearly impossible to resist, even when you're out for a child-free evening.
...you've ever referred in the plural possessive to body parts you have never personally had. "We don't touch our penis in front of other people, honey."
...you linger a little longer than is strictly necessary in your child's bedroom at night just to watch them sleep. Just because.
...you want to stop every pregnant woman you see and say, "You can do this. You can. And you'll be great. And it's okay if you're not great every minute."
Anything I missed? Please share in the comments!
You might be a mom if...
...you've ever found yourself discussing labour and delivery with a woman you just met and it doesn't feel at all TMI or over-sharey.
...a quick swipe at your naughty/stinky bits with a baby wipe is considered an adequate substitute for a proper shower, more often than you'd like to admit.
...you find yourself doling out stickers every time someone poops on the toilet.
...you have an opinion about the Backyardigans.
...you hate Caillou with the heat of a thousand suns.
...the temptation to cut your dinner companion's food into tiny bite-sized pieces is nearly impossible to resist, even when you're out for a child-free evening.
...you've ever referred in the plural possessive to body parts you have never personally had. "We don't touch our penis in front of other people, honey."
...you linger a little longer than is strictly necessary in your child's bedroom at night just to watch them sleep. Just because.
...you want to stop every pregnant woman you see and say, "You can do this. You can. And you'll be great. And it's okay if you're not great every minute."
Anything I missed? Please share in the comments!
13 October 2010
Wordless Wednesday - Breakfast is Served Edition
Funny when they start to echo back to you the exact words and behaviour you show them, isn't it?
I decided paperwork could wait, and had a delicious imaginary breakfast with my boy. Because that's what Sundays are for.
02 June 2010
Things That Are True - And Now We Are Two
Mere seconds after The Imp first graced us with his presence
The Imp turns one, and there is much rejoicing
Celebrating The Imp's second birthday
How did that little tiny boy who taught me how to be a mom become this big boisterous two year old?
Oh, the milestones; they are so bittersweet.
19 May 2010
Wordless Wednesday - Happiness is...
This post is linked to A Lot of Loves' Wednesday of Few Words.
16 April 2010
Food Revolution Fridays - Of Waffles, and Smoothies, and Grocery Carts, and Yams
Every morning, The Imp crawls into bed with us for a cuddle before we start the day. Last Tuesday was no different - he appeared at our bedside and doggedly clambered up, worked his way in between us, and tenderly rested his head on my chest for a moment. Bliss.
Then he raised his head, looked at me very seriously, as only an almost-two-year old can, and said, "Waffles." Still half asleep, I said something super-intelligent.
Me: Huh?
Imp: (with purpose) Waffles.
Me: You want waffles?
Imp: (a hint of exasperation) Waffles. Help Mummy waffles kitchen.
Me: What?
Imp: (for fuck's sake, Mummy) WAFFLES. Help Mummy waffles chair kitchen.
Me: You want to help Mummy make waffles standing on the chair in the kitchen?
Imp: YEAH!!
Me: We don't have time to make waffles from scratch this morning, sweetie. But we froze some of the waffles we made last time, so we can heat them up in the toaster if you'd like.
Imp: Waffles!!
Pause.
Imp: Smoothie too!
Me: Okay honey, smoothie too.
Thoughtful pause.
Imp: (determined) All done cuddle. Waffles, smoothie too.
After which Very Serious Pronouncement he bailed off the bed and headed straight for the kitchen chair to pull it up to the counter to help make waffles! and smoothie too! I could barely keep up with him.
As we dug out breakfast stuff and put it together, I had visions of the future: The Imp being the most popular kid in his dorm at university because he knows how to throw together waffles from scratch at the drop of a hat, wowing friends with his delicious from-scratch cakes, travelling the world seeking out fantastic new foods... And I smiled as I looked at him and said "May you never know the taste of an eggo, my darling boy."
Yesterday we stopped at the grocery store on our way home from daycare. I can't get over his excitement about all things food. He threw his hands in the air as we pulled into the parking lot and shouted "Hurray grocery store!" As we walked through the produce section he pointed at different fruits and vegetables, naming them as we went. The yams, however, stumped him. "Whassat?" he said as he pointed. So I picked one up and handed it to him.
Me: Yam.
Imp: Yam. Yam?
Me: Yes, yam. You've had yam before when you were little and mummy made mushy yam for you.
Imp: (turning it over in his hands, looking at it very seriously) Yam!
And then he threw it with somewhat surprising vigor into our shopping cart.
This is why Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution is so important. I know it's a tv show. I know it's pop culture. I know there are those who dismiss it. But as I strolled through the grocery! store! with The Imp and saw his unabashed toddler delight in all the varieties of food, I was keenly reminded of the first grade kids in Huntington who couldn't identify even a potato or a tomato in their raw form, despite the fact that they ate fries and ketchup every single day. I was at once sad for those kids and elated for my own.
Real food matters.
So yam it is for dinner tonight, in the form of oven baked fries:
Peel & slice yams into french fries.
Toss them in a small amount of olive oil (garlic infused is lovely) and some dried or fresh herbs. I rely heavily on dried herbes de provence. I can't imagine cooking without them.
Squeeze some lemon juice over them too, if you'd like.
Place them in a single layer on a baking sheet in a 400F oven for 20-30 minutes, turning them over once halfway through.
Salt & pepper to taste, serve hot.
***UPDATED: NOW WITH PHOTO***
There's really (again, me with the intuitive cooking) no rules. Use whatever spices you prefer. Curried yam fries! Mexican yam fries with cumin, chilies & cilantro! Rosemary & orange juice! Whatever suits your palate. Go!
Note: these do not get as crunchy as regular old potato fries. I think the not deep frying combined with yam's higher water content is to blame. But they're way tastier than generic potato fries, so.
This post is part of Food Revolution Fridays at Scattered Mom's Notes From the Cookie Jar. Be sure to head over there and see what other people are saying about great food!
Then he raised his head, looked at me very seriously, as only an almost-two-year old can, and said, "Waffles." Still half asleep, I said something super-intelligent.
Me: Huh?
Imp: (with purpose) Waffles.
Me: You want waffles?
Imp: (a hint of exasperation) Waffles. Help Mummy waffles kitchen.
Me: What?
Imp: (for fuck's sake, Mummy) WAFFLES. Help Mummy waffles chair kitchen.
Me: You want to help Mummy make waffles standing on the chair in the kitchen?
Imp: YEAH!!
Me: We don't have time to make waffles from scratch this morning, sweetie. But we froze some of the waffles we made last time, so we can heat them up in the toaster if you'd like.
Imp: Waffles!!
Pause.
Imp: Smoothie too!
Me: Okay honey, smoothie too.
Thoughtful pause.
Imp: (determined) All done cuddle. Waffles, smoothie too.
After which Very Serious Pronouncement he bailed off the bed and headed straight for the kitchen chair to pull it up to the counter to help make waffles! and smoothie too! I could barely keep up with him.
The Imp helps Mummy in the kitchen
As we dug out breakfast stuff and put it together, I had visions of the future: The Imp being the most popular kid in his dorm at university because he knows how to throw together waffles from scratch at the drop of a hat, wowing friends with his delicious from-scratch cakes, travelling the world seeking out fantastic new foods... And I smiled as I looked at him and said "May you never know the taste of an eggo, my darling boy."
Yesterday we stopped at the grocery store on our way home from daycare. I can't get over his excitement about all things food. He threw his hands in the air as we pulled into the parking lot and shouted "Hurray grocery store!" As we walked through the produce section he pointed at different fruits and vegetables, naming them as we went. The yams, however, stumped him. "Whassat?" he said as he pointed. So I picked one up and handed it to him.
Me: Yam.
Imp: Yam. Yam?
Me: Yes, yam. You've had yam before when you were little and mummy made mushy yam for you.
Imp: (turning it over in his hands, looking at it very seriously) Yam!
And then he threw it with somewhat surprising vigor into our shopping cart.
This is why Jamie Oliver's Food Revolution is so important. I know it's a tv show. I know it's pop culture. I know there are those who dismiss it. But as I strolled through the grocery! store! with The Imp and saw his unabashed toddler delight in all the varieties of food, I was keenly reminded of the first grade kids in Huntington who couldn't identify even a potato or a tomato in their raw form, despite the fact that they ate fries and ketchup every single day. I was at once sad for those kids and elated for my own.
Real food matters.
So yam it is for dinner tonight, in the form of oven baked fries:
Peel & slice yams into french fries.
Toss them in a small amount of olive oil (garlic infused is lovely) and some dried or fresh herbs. I rely heavily on dried herbes de provence. I can't imagine cooking without them.
Squeeze some lemon juice over them too, if you'd like.
Place them in a single layer on a baking sheet in a 400F oven for 20-30 minutes, turning them over once halfway through.
Salt & pepper to taste, serve hot.
***UPDATED: NOW WITH PHOTO***
Some of them got a little singed when I got distracted by The Imp's antics.
Given the sweetness of yams, it gives them a caramelized flavour, so it's not necessarily a bad thing.
There's really (again, me with the intuitive cooking) no rules. Use whatever spices you prefer. Curried yam fries! Mexican yam fries with cumin, chilies & cilantro! Rosemary & orange juice! Whatever suits your palate. Go!
Note: these do not get as crunchy as regular old potato fries. I think the not deep frying combined with yam's higher water content is to blame. But they're way tastier than generic potato fries, so.
This post is part of Food Revolution Fridays at Scattered Mom's Notes From the Cookie Jar. Be sure to head over there and see what other people are saying about great food!
02 April 2010
Things That Are Surprising - Happiness
Happiness is....
...a stack of blueberry waffles enthusiastically mixed up from scratch by your almost two year old. Whenever I make noises about doing some work in the kitchen, he runs to move a kitchen chair up against the counter to help me. I never would have guessed that helping Mummy cook would be the thing that The Imp loves the most; not because he's a boy, but because it never occurred to me that he'd be so excited about it at such a young age. I'm also ecstatic because he's learning as a matter of course that quality food, made from scratch is an easy, every day occurrence, not a once-in-a-while special occasions only ordeal.
Again, a moment to quietly allow a speck of sentiment to run down my cheek. It's funny, I used to be quite cynical.Yet another way I did not realize becoming a mother would fundamentally change the way I look at the world.
Edited to add: This post is a part of Notes From the Cookie Jar's Food Revolution Fridays blog challenge.
21 March 2010
Things I've Learned - Helping Mummy!
My sister-in-law is celebrating her 50th birthday today. I'm the designated birthday-cake-maker in the family, so this morning I was up early looking through recipes for something worthy of the occasion. Cake, filling & frosting chosen, I got out ingredients and got ready to bake. The Imp picked that very moment to become desperately in need of my attention, clinging to my leg and insisting "Up, Mummy!" repeatedly. He WOULD NOT like to go read books with Daddy, thank you very much.
He was, however, delighted to help me stir flour, sugar, cocoa powder, baking soda, and salt together.
Well, I guess the problem with child workers is their tendency to eat the product.
Given that The Imp a) never stops moving, and b) has the attention span of a... well, an almost 2 year old, I was surprised at how diligent he was about stirring things together. He stuck with it until it was all mixed together, and then worked at it again once we added the wet ingredients. I can't even begin to describe how much fun he had - and how much I loved it. It's not often I recognize those perfect moments for what they are as they're happening. This morning I knew. As I stood there next to him, The Imp dressed in his too-big hand-me-down jammies on the chair pulled up to the kitchen counter, fork in hand, enthusiastically stirring cake batter, I knew.
This was one of those moments. I was so overcome with happiness that I had to struggle not to cry. I will remember the look on his face until the day I die. He was perfectly happy, stirring with purpose, saying proudly as he smiled up at me, "Helping Mummy!"
Happy sigh.
Daddy held him at a safe distance while the cakes went in to the oven.
Cake layers cooling on racks prior to filling/frosting
Far left is the layer The Imp made
Right then, dabbing a wee speck of sentiment from my eyes, on to frosting.
The genesis of cream cheese frosting
Add pure cocoa powder & icing sugar
Like most things in life, it needed more chocolate...
...and Kahlua.
And strawberries & whipped cream, of course.
At this point in the process, I had to stop taking photos as things were getting a little messy. The four layers stacked were somewhat lacking in structural integrity. (Let's just say it's not an earthquake-proof cake.) And then the cream cheese frosting wasn't sticking to the whipped cream and the whole thing threatened to devolve into not so much cake as birthday pudding. I live in fear of the car journey to my sister-in-law's house.
I did manage to use ALL the frosting and filling, so.
The finished product:
The takeaway:
My husband and I were talking this afternoon about the things we remember from our childhood; the things that made us really happy. For him it was going skating with his whole family every weekend in the winter. For me it was sitting under a tropical night sky with my dad and having him teach me the constellations of the southern hemisphere.
We realized one of those Important Truths. It's not the fancy birthday party, the cool new bike, the "event" moments in our childhood that stick with us. It's the simple time spent standing on a kitchen chair with your mom stirring together your first cake.
He was, however, delighted to help me stir flour, sugar, cocoa powder, baking soda, and salt together.
And the problem with child labour would be...?
Well, I guess the problem with child workers is their tendency to eat the product.Given that The Imp a) never stops moving, and b) has the attention span of a... well, an almost 2 year old, I was surprised at how diligent he was about stirring things together. He stuck with it until it was all mixed together, and then worked at it again once we added the wet ingredients. I can't even begin to describe how much fun he had - and how much I loved it. It's not often I recognize those perfect moments for what they are as they're happening. This morning I knew. As I stood there next to him, The Imp dressed in his too-big hand-me-down jammies on the chair pulled up to the kitchen counter, fork in hand, enthusiastically stirring cake batter, I knew.
This was one of those moments. I was so overcome with happiness that I had to struggle not to cry. I will remember the look on his face until the day I die. He was perfectly happy, stirring with purpose, saying proudly as he smiled up at me, "Helping Mummy!"
Happy sigh.
Daddy held him at a safe distance while the cakes went in to the oven.
Cake layers cooling on racks prior to filling/frostingFar left is the layer The Imp made
Right then, dabbing a wee speck of sentiment from my eyes, on to frosting.
The genesis of cream cheese frosting
Add pure cocoa powder & icing sugar
Like most things in life, it needed more chocolate...
...and Kahlua.
And strawberries & whipped cream, of course.Now for the assembly:
At this point in the process, I had to stop taking photos as things were getting a little messy. The four layers stacked were somewhat lacking in structural integrity. (Let's just say it's not an earthquake-proof cake.) And then the cream cheese frosting wasn't sticking to the whipped cream and the whole thing threatened to devolve into not so much cake as birthday pudding. I live in fear of the car journey to my sister-in-law's house.
I did manage to use ALL the frosting and filling, so.
The takeaway:
My husband and I were talking this afternoon about the things we remember from our childhood; the things that made us really happy. For him it was going skating with his whole family every weekend in the winter. For me it was sitting under a tropical night sky with my dad and having him teach me the constellations of the southern hemisphere.
We realized one of those Important Truths. It's not the fancy birthday party, the cool new bike, the "event" moments in our childhood that stick with us. It's the simple time spent standing on a kitchen chair with your mom stirring together your first cake.
06 May 2009
04 May 2009
Things That Are True - Validation
Okay, so yesterday I did the Walk for Kids Help Phone. Like seven kinds of idiot, I left my camera at home. Fortunately my team mates brought theirs - check out Rachael's blog for a fun photographic account of our morning. Mmm, Trevor Linden...
I couldn't really tell you why I decided to take part in the event. If I was a better person than I am, I would say it was to raise funds for a very worthy cause. (Which we did, to the tune of $3 million nationwide.) Participating in events like these is a little bit like buying a secret insurance policy: if I contribute to Kids Help Phone, maybe my son will never need it. Never be scared, never be bullied, never be suicidal, never need to turn to an anonymous friendly voice to discuss the pain he can't talk about with anyone else.
But for me it was also a chance to get out of the house, and out of my own head for a while. And, as it turned out, a chance to meet two remarkable women: Yummy Mummy Team Captain Catherine (aka EarnestGirl) and All Around Excellent Energy Rachael. I could not have had a better time, or found two better people to share those 5km with.
I've never been one of the cool kids. And new motherhood feels a lot like being an awkward teenager, uncertainly edging up to the popular girls, not ever sure whether what you're doing will earn the scorn or laughter of those you admire.
After the event, as we were saying goodbye in the parking lot, Catherine told me that it sounded like I was doing well in my first year as a mom. I almost burst into tears. You don't realize, sometimes, how much you need some validation until you get it. It may have been an offhand comment for her. For me, it was like wandering around the cafeteria, tray in hand, and being invited to sit at the cool kids' table for lunch.
Thanks to Yummy Mummy Club for being what got me off my (ample) behind to get out and walk the 5 km in such excellent company!
I couldn't really tell you why I decided to take part in the event. If I was a better person than I am, I would say it was to raise funds for a very worthy cause. (Which we did, to the tune of $3 million nationwide.) Participating in events like these is a little bit like buying a secret insurance policy: if I contribute to Kids Help Phone, maybe my son will never need it. Never be scared, never be bullied, never be suicidal, never need to turn to an anonymous friendly voice to discuss the pain he can't talk about with anyone else.
But for me it was also a chance to get out of the house, and out of my own head for a while. And, as it turned out, a chance to meet two remarkable women: Yummy Mummy Team Captain Catherine (aka EarnestGirl) and All Around Excellent Energy Rachael. I could not have had a better time, or found two better people to share those 5km with.
I've never been one of the cool kids. And new motherhood feels a lot like being an awkward teenager, uncertainly edging up to the popular girls, not ever sure whether what you're doing will earn the scorn or laughter of those you admire.
After the event, as we were saying goodbye in the parking lot, Catherine told me that it sounded like I was doing well in my first year as a mom. I almost burst into tears. You don't realize, sometimes, how much you need some validation until you get it. It may have been an offhand comment for her. For me, it was like wandering around the cafeteria, tray in hand, and being invited to sit at the cool kids' table for lunch.
Thanks to Yummy Mummy Club for being what got me off my (ample) behind to get out and walk the 5 km in such excellent company!
09 April 2009
Things That Break Your Heart
I have started and deleted this post a half-dozen times. I lack the skill to convey what I want to say.
Tuesday, via Twitter, I learned for the first time about a woman I'll never meet, and the daughter she lost. I have been on the verge of tears for two days, every time I look at my son, and have been holding him tight far more than a crawling 10 month old is interested in being held.
Sweetney said it better than I can.
So did Her Bad Mother.
For anyone who thinks the internet is an isolating medium, the outpouring of love and heartbreak from strangers for Heather and Mike Spohr, and little Maddie, proves differently. The donations to March of Dimes' March for Babies in her name, which were less than $3000 on Monday, are now in excess of $20,000.
Sigh. Time to wipe my eyes and go gaze at my sleeping son, and feel lucky.
Tuesday, via Twitter, I learned for the first time about a woman I'll never meet, and the daughter she lost. I have been on the verge of tears for two days, every time I look at my son, and have been holding him tight far more than a crawling 10 month old is interested in being held.
Sweetney said it better than I can.
So did Her Bad Mother.
For anyone who thinks the internet is an isolating medium, the outpouring of love and heartbreak from strangers for Heather and Mike Spohr, and little Maddie, proves differently. The donations to March of Dimes' March for Babies in her name, which were less than $3000 on Monday, are now in excess of $20,000.
Sigh. Time to wipe my eyes and go gaze at my sleeping son, and feel lucky.
07 April 2009
Things That Are Surprising - My Own Reactions, Also: Link Love
Alas, the Bumbo seat is no longer an adequate means of restraint. I knew this day would come, but I'm not really ready for it, in the same way that I'm not really prepared to see The Boy's grin now full of teeth. He looks less like a baby and more like a little boy every day. And when I first realized that, I died a little bit inside.
Don't get me wrong, I celebrate the milestones - my heart cheers every time he masters a new skill: the crawling, pulling himself up, self-feeding... It's just that he's one of one. We're not planning on having any more children. So this is it.
One child has always been the plan, so it's shocking to me that I'm reacting so viscerally to this, and I'm not expressing myself very well. Fortunately, Jessica Gottlieb has been here before me.
Here's her post on the subject.
And here's some link love for more writing that has knocked me on my ass in the last few weeks:
Sharon's take on why we never throw rocks.
Her Bad Mother's contribution to the adoption/abortion discussion.
And something a little lighter for this sunny Tuesday.
Don't get me wrong, I celebrate the milestones - my heart cheers every time he masters a new skill: the crawling, pulling himself up, self-feeding... It's just that he's one of one. We're not planning on having any more children. So this is it.
One child has always been the plan, so it's shocking to me that I'm reacting so viscerally to this, and I'm not expressing myself very well. Fortunately, Jessica Gottlieb has been here before me.
Here's her post on the subject.
And here's some link love for more writing that has knocked me on my ass in the last few weeks:
Sharon's take on why we never throw rocks.
Her Bad Mother's contribution to the adoption/abortion discussion.
And something a little lighter for this sunny Tuesday.
14 March 2009
Things I've Read - Sleep Is for the Weak
In the last few weeks, I’ve been reading a series of books that have made me angry. So it was a pleasure to tuck into this lovely little book one afternoon as The Boy was napping.When I first started this blog, I had no illusions that I was unique in my struggles and questions and daily triumphs as a new mom. I’ve lived long enough to know that if I’m thinking something, a whole bunch of other people are thinking it too. Advertisers count on this, it’s called demographics. What I did not know, however, was just how many women have taken to their keyboards and written exquisitely and unapologetically about their lives.
The thing about being a mom, especially a new, first-time mom, is it’s easy to feel alone. Despite caring friends and family, when it’s 3:30 in the morning and your beloved is sleeping and you’re trying to feed the baby and dammit breastfeeding hurts, you’re on your own. The Groundhog Day-like sameness to your days has you striving to be a better mom and person, without even the fun of a car chase. (Seriously, the chase scene in that movie is one of my favourites. Ever.) And conversations with your still-childless friends can leave you feeling pretty isolated. Not because of anything they’ve done or not done, just because they can’t possibly understand why it's such a personal triumph to get to the coffee shop, on time, with baby, both of you recently bathed and in clean clothes. No matter how supportive your partner, and even if you’re lucky enough to have friends with kids the same age, there are so many moments when you feel alone; when the enormity of the decisions you have to make every minute weighs on you almost unbearably.
So many of the child care books I’ve read are emotionally disappointing, discussing developmental milestones and common questions in a detached and impersonal, generic way. This book, however, is a quick read that is the cure for what ails you; the literary equivalent of hot chocolate or chicken noodle soup. (Or, you know, a gin and tonic. Whatever.) Comforting.
In this book you’ll find, as Stacy Morrison says in the Foreword, “…a story from someone just like you, or not at all like you, that will shine a light on something true you didn’t even know you needed to know until you found it.” These are fragments of the lives of women who have written honestly and unflinchingly about their parenthood experience, recognizing the joys of the process, but not glossing over the bits that hurt, that terrify, and that ultimately unite us. I was so moved as I read through the pages. Compassion for Jennifer Satterwhite, struggling to stay clean as she raises her kids, recognition as I read Amy Corbett Storch’s description of her visceral love for her son: “I feel like someone scraped off the top layer of my skin and created an entirely new little person with it,” and tears of solidarity as I read Kelli Oliver George’s advice for a new mom.
Get your hands on this book, or visit the websites of its contributors. I'll be adding them to the blogroll in the next few days and weeks.
17 January 2009
Navel gazing and good intentions
We live in an apartment in the sky. We’re on the 21st floor, looking out over one of North America’s largest urban parks. We have amazing 300 degree views of mountains, beaches, bridges, and our city’s downtown core.
Today is a foggy day – not only metaphorically, as there was precious little sleep in our household last night (a subject of another post), but physically, atmospherically, and meteorologically, it’s a foggy day. The fog is so dense that I can barely see the near edge of a neighbouring building 20 feet away. The far edge of the same building is lost in insubstantial whiteness. Other than the periodical sounds of fog horns moaning in the harbour, it’s very quiet. You would never know I was in the heart of a city of a million people.
As I neared the end of my pregnancy, this is what impending motherhood was like for me; looking out into the fog from the 21st floor. I knew in a vague way what was out there: vistas of endless possibility and potential, milestones and landmarks, astounding joy and desperate heartbreak, and a million people who’ve been there before. But it was all insubstantial. It was unclear and difficult to really visualize, no matter how much I read, and how many friends I talked to. There was the occasional fog horn, helping me to re-orient myself, and every now and then there would be a light breeze that would lift the fog just enough to let me see farther than I’d been able to before. Then the breeze would disappear, taking any certainty I felt with it.
Seven months later, it’s still like that in many ways.
I am an admitted control freak, so this is difficult for me. I like to know what’s coming. I read, I research, I ask questions, I arrange facts and figures in my brain to call on them when needed. I’m not very good at being a beginner. I was a successful career woman in my late 30s when my son was born. I had a role. I knew what was expected of me. I led, I made decisions, I was an expert in my field. There were very few foggy days.
Becoming a mom changed all that.
Here I am: a beginner.
Despite having read my own body weight in books about pregnancy, childbirth, and parenting, nothing really prepared me for that moment when I became someone’s mom. And it’s not just one moment – for me it’s been ongoing. Every day I’m a beginner again, because my son grows and changes so fast. The fog of uncertainty never quite clears. But I’m learning to be okay with that, which is a huge thing for me.
So I guess what I’m hoping to do with this blog is to be a sort of metaphorical fog horn or light breeze for other women going through some of this same uncertainty. I don’t pretend to know all the answers. But I’m enjoying learning the answers that work for me, and sharing what I’ve learned with the one or two people that might stumble upon this blog.
And I promise not to take myself too seriously, despite the earnestness of the preceding paragraph!
I received some very good advice years ago. I was at a very low point in my life, going through the last painful death rattles of a very bad relationship. I was in the ladies’ room at a friend’s wedding and having a lighthearted conversation with a woman I had worked with briefly and knew only slightly. Maybe she could sense that all was not well in my world, or maybe she made the comment in an offhand way, never realizing the impact it would have on me in that moment and for the rest of my life. She said this:
Just remember, when you’re going through a difficult time, that trouble is like a fog bank. Fighting it is pointless. All you have to do is just stand still and strong and it will roll through and past you and be gone.
Those words have come back to me often since I became a mother. Motherhood is many wonderful (so wonderful!) things, but it can also be difficult. Exhaustion, the helpless feeling of not-knowing, frustration – all can contribute to a sense of being lost in the fog. In the dead of night, when my son won’t go to sleep no matter what I try, when I’m just SO tired, when I’m angry at my husband for no rational reason, when a million things seem to conspire to make me want to give up, those words have reminded me to just stand still and strong. Morning comes, the fog lifts just a little bit in the form of my son’s happy grin, and I peer out the window trying to see what the new day will bring.
It’s been a hell of a ride so far.
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