How do we measure our grief?

I often speak, on this blog, of the emotional trauma I experienced when Mr. T. was sick. It’s probably one of the few places where I have been completely honest about how it impacted me. How the whole experience caused my entire world as I knew it to collapse around me. How in the almost 5 years since, I haven’t fully been able to rebuild my world to where it was. I’ve come to realize that I don’t think I was ever supposed to go back to where I was. I have permanently changed.

In a conversation recently I was explaining to someone why I began writing again. This of course, required me to explain Mr. T’s illness and hospital stay. I prefaced the story by explaining that he was ok now. The person who I was speaking with said to me “Don’t do that”. At first I wasn’t sure what she was referring to until she said “Don’t minimize what you went through” It was like a light went on inside. She was right I don’t have to minimize it.

I had never before realized that I did this but I did! Almost every time I speak of the experience I almost sweep away the pain by explaining that Mr. T is ok now. I sometimes feel such a sense of guilt over my pain. To explain my guilt simplistically is that I feel like I don’t have a right to anguish over any part of my experience because Mr. T. is ok. Yes, there are some complications that we have to face and some scary possibilities for the future. But he’s here. He lives a normal life. Who am I to distress when there are mothers out there who have to continuously watch their children suffer? When then are mothers out there who had to say goodbye and had to let their angels go?Who do I think I am? I get to kiss him every night. I read him stories and I tickle his back before bed. I watch him play soccer and play house with his sister. He gets to push my buttons and get into mischief. I have always felt like I didn’t have a right to feel sadness.

Throughout the past years I have become aware that there are people who tired of hearing me talk about the experience. They didn’t understand why I was having trouble dealing because to their eyes Mr. T. had no lasting effects. Yet I still felt the need to talk about it. I couldn’t shake it. I couldn’t let go. There was a constant ache in my heart. Yet as I continued to try to verbalize that ache I could feel the judgments. I could almost hear “Oh my god not again” It was when someone mentioned that I needed to get over it that I stopped talking about it and started to write about it.

Why do we do this to ourselves? Why do we feel like there is a chart for our grief and in order to make it onto this chart there is a list of criteria we must check off? We compare ourselves to others out there and think that because someone has it much harder than us that we aren’t entitled to feel sadness. Is this where our world has ended up? That even grief has become a competition? A sad little reality show where there is only one winner and only the most distressing story wins the right to openly grieve. Why would someone think they have the right to judge my feelings? Or to dictate how deep my worry should venture?

The conversation that started my whole change in thought was, as Oprah calls it, my light bulb moment. I will not apologize for feeling the immense anguish that I have felt. I do grieve. I grieve for the loss of that magical first baby experience. My heart aches a palpable pain every time I sit with Mr. T through another test, x-ray, needle…My wounds are my wounds to heal the way I need to heal them. They don’t need to be compared to anyone else’s heartbreak. We are all walking our own path and are climbing our own mountains. This is my mountain and with Mr. T, Ms. J and Mr. C by my side I will make it to the top. That I can guarantee.

Lessons from my children

This Mother’s Day has me reflecting on some of the lessons that I’ve learned just a short 5 years into my journey through motherhood. Lessons taught to me not from other mothers, or family members but from my own children.

The list of lessons is longer than I could possibly get into however there have been a few that have stuck with me, impacted me and changed who I am forever.

To appreciate simplicity

I’ve often joked with Mr. C. that he’s a lucky man because I’m not a fancy person. I’m more of a beer and pizza kinda gal than a champagne and caviar lady. While this has always been who I am as a person, my children have made this even more important to me.

Recently I threw a “potty party” for my little Ms. J, to celebrate her potty training success. It was very simple, pizza, cupcakes and family. Mr. T. and I picked out 4 pink balloons to give to Ms. J. as a congratulations. As Ms. J gasped and I saw her little eyes light up with such excitement when Mr. T. passed her the helium filled balloons, it hit me how little it takes to make them happy. 4 pink balloons made her day. I can spend hundreds of dollars on fancy party decorations and catered food or on hiring an entertainer for a party in their honour but at the end of the day a cupcake, a balloon and their family/friends will make them just as happy.

Children are simple. They want hugs and kisses, cuddles and love. They want you to play with them, read to them, make time for them. They don’t care about a big house or a fancy party. THey don’t care what kind of car you drive or how many zero’s are on your pay cheque. It matters more to them that you are there. That you eat dinner with them every day and put them to bed with snuggles every night. You can spend thousands of dollars taking them on fancy trips but they will love you just as much if you giggle with them on the swing at the local park.

To be consumed or impressed with the fancy cars, expensive clothes and big houses is something that is learned. It is now how one is born. I don’t ever want my children to lose that appreciation of the simple joys in life. I watch them marvel in watching a bunny in the backyard, get excited over a movie night in our basement with microwave popcorn or see their eyes light up from a simple balloon and I realize just how important the simple things really are.

A lesson in patience

I am not the most patient person around. I hate waiting in lines. When I ask for something to be done I expect it to be done right away. I want what I want when I want it. This is not something that I didn’t know about myself. HOWEVER, I did not realize just how important patience was until these two tiny creatures entered my life. It started from day one, I had to be patient while Mr. T. fought his health battle. Hour turned into hour, day turned into day and week turned into week. There was nothing I could do except sit beside his little incubator and cheer him on. Many a time did I want to just pick him up and take him home. I wanted to scream at nurses and kick doctors. MAKE HIM BETTER NOW! That’s not how it worked. It took time, but we made it there. My first lesson in patience.

They don’t sleep when you want them to sleep. They don’t eat when you want them to eat. It never fails that a diaper needs to be changed right when you are walking out of the house or as they get older you hear “mummy I have to poo” after spending 20 minutes getting on snowsuits in the middle of winter.

Crayons on the wall, spilled milk, poo in the bath it all takes patience. A great deal of patience. I’ve cried, I’ve begged, I’ve even given myself a time out in the bathroom as two sets of eyes stare in disbelief wondering if they’ve finally made mummy crack. Perhaps this is a lesson in progress but it’s a lesson I have to put in practice. If I’m always impatient I’m going to raise kids who are impatient and anxious. I’m learning to take my time. To try not to rush through everything. To know that if we are 5 minutes late no one is going to die. I try not to cry over spilled milk or apple juice. I take a lot of deep breaths and every now and then a mummy time out is the only solution!

The importance of me

My kids come first. That’s easy. Their needs supercede anything and everything. Then comes my husband, then work, then the house, then extended family and so on and so on and so on. I’m overwhelmed. As are most mothers in today’s world. IT’s easy to forget about me. I’ve skipped meals because there is so much to be done. I”ve missed family functions because of sick children. I rarely get 8 hours of sleep and have eaten pasta every day for a week because that’s the only thing they’ll eat. I’ve even avoided bathroom breaks because guaranteed the second I walk into that room in the house all hell breaks loose elsewhere.

If I don’t take time for myself I will crumble. My seams slowly start to crack and I can’t give my best to anything or anybody. So I take time for myself. I write because I love it, because it allows me to vent without feeling guilty, because I can find comfort in other mother’s who are walking similar paths. I admit when I’ve met my limit. I try my best not to feel guilty about it. When I start to feel like a bad mother for not having anything left in that particular moment I think of how much better I do at this whole motherhood thing when I’m relaxed instead of anxious and stressed.

I acknowledge that I matter and that I am important and I make sure to do something just for me once in a while. That may be an evening spent on the couch writing. It may be an afternoon getting my hair done. Sometimes it’s even getting up at 5am for an early morning run on the treadmill in the basement of a quiet house. Whatever it is, I make sure that I make some time for me and ask for some help when I need it. I’m a better mother because of it.

Even the best laid out plans are made to be broken

I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, I’m a planner. I schedule and plan almost my entire life. I know that if I want to be at work at 8am and that if I have to drop the kids off at daycare then I need to leave the house no later than 7:12. . Ask any parent and they will attest, children don’t understand the meaning of plans. They don’t know that you have to leave the house by exactly 7:12 if you don’t want to be late for work so they can’t comprehend why you are getting so frustrated that they are taking their sweet time putting on their shoes.

More than just planning my life, I actually have ideas in my mind of how things are going to work out. When they don’t work out the way I had envisioned I can become quite discombobulated. This lesson was taught to me early on. Within 24 hours of having my first child actually. I had an image of what having a baby was going to be like before children actually entered my life. I remember when I was pregnant, imagining myself in a hospital room with my baby beside me sleeping peacefully in a bassinet. I envisioned leaving the hospital with my precious bundle snug in the back of the car.  I imagined a chubby screaming baby. Never in a million years did I think it was possible that my child would be born barely able to cry. It didn’t cross my mind that before his second day of life my child would be rushed by ambulance to Sick Kids or that by day three he’d be in an operating room fighting for his life. Yet that’s the path that we were destined to walk. It may not be exactly as I had expected but it’s made us stronger and given us a tighter bond as a family.

Kids are unpredictable. I’ve learned to go with the flow. To try not to be so concerned when things don’t go exactly according to plans. Sometimes those change in plans actually lead you down an even more beautiful path. Maybe my plans for dinner are curtailed by heavy traffic so instead we decide on a pizza picnic style in the basement while watching a movie. Maybe my busy work day has to be put on hold because a child is sick and rather than dealing with work stress I get sick baby couch cuddles (sometimes those are the best kind of cuddles).

Let’s face it, my personality is to plan. I will always be a planner. My children, however, have taught me that there are times when plans are made to be broken.

How to have fun

Since having kids fun has changed. They have taught me to enjoy a run through the splash pad on a hot summers day. How giggling under the covers before bed is the best way to end a day and waking up to snuggles is my favourite way to start the weekend, even if it isn’t yet 7am.

Fun doesn’t have to involve spending a lot of money or even leaving the house. We can make fun out of anything and everything. I haven’t had fun like this since I was a kid myself. I know it won’t be long before they don’t want to play with me anymore. Until that day comes I am going to continue to have tea parties dressed in princess clothes and race on the Wii over and over until my arm feels like it’s going to fall off. I will dance like no one is watching  just to hear my babies giggle and I will watch Brave for the umpteenth time because they want to. I will have fun with them!

That I am capable

I haven’t always been the most confident person. I have often doubted myself and wondered if I could have made a better decision. In fact, I’ve often turned to others for reassurance that I am making right decisions.

I am now the one who needs to offer the reassurances. My kids turn to me and if I’m unsure of myself they can sense it. They almost have a sixth sense. So I have to be sure or at least appear sure even if I’m not. I’ve learned to trust my instincts. I learned that I actually know what I’m doing.

One of my great fears was all of us getting sick at once. Specifically, all of us getting a tummy bug at the same time. Last week it happened. It was one day after the next. I had it, Ms. J got it, Mr. C got it and lastly Mr. T. got it. Mr C. was not functional for a week. I barely had time to recuperate before I was helping a two year old deal with her first major bout of vomiting. I was terrified. Guess what??? We survived! Yay! I did it. The child vomit was mostly assigned to me and I survived!

I am capable. After the tough start we had with Mr. T. I know that I can face pretty much anything that motherhood throws at me. I don’t have all the answers but if I’m honest, I think I’m doing a pretty good job at this whole mummy business.

The true meaning of unconditional love

I am perfectly aware of how cliché this sounds but I’m going to say it anyways. I have never felt love like this before. They have peed, pooped and vomited on me. They’ve punched me, kicked me, and torn my cornea! They wake me up at 6 am on a Saturday jumping on me demanding waffles and cartoons. Sometimes after a long day all I want is to veg on the couch yet I lay beside them in bed tickling them until their breath slows into a steady rhythm. Their little bodies soften and I feel their warmth leaning into me and I know they feel loved and safe. What they don’t know is that I feel loved and safe too. They are needy. What they don’t know is that I need them so much more than they need me.

Sometimes, when they do things they aren’t supposed to do, and they are getting in trouble I can see fear in their eyes. I have come to realize it isn’t always about my reaction or about getting in trouble. They are afraid of disappointing me, especially Mr. T, he doesn’t want to disappoint. I can not imagine one single thing he or Ms. J can do to make me stop loving them. My love for them is pure. I love until my heart aches. Their pain is my pain,their disappointment is my disappointment and their happiness is my happiness. I’ve always been emotional but thinking of them can literally bring me to tears. I miss them when I’m away from them for even an hour. For the first time ever I love truly unconditionally. They can do anything, need anything and demand anything and I love them. I make sure to let them know that every chance I get.

I entered motherhood thinking that I was going to teach my kids all these things. I would teach them to talk, to walk, to ride a bike and to read a book. I would teach them lessons in life such as respect your elders, nothing that is worth anything comes easy, always give your all then you have nothing to be ashamed of. I never realized the lessons they would teach me. I haven’t come close to listing everything they have taught me and I know I have not even touched on the lessons they have yet to put forth.

This whole journey is one long life lesson and it makes me a better person every single day.

When do we have it all?

It is just after 9pm. I am barely able to keep my eyes open. There are toys strewn across the floor in front of me but I know that I can spend the evening cleaning them up and within 5 minutes of these kids getting out of bed they will be right back on the floor. This thought makes me feel even more tired. It makes me choose to sit on the couch with my laptop and write about how much I have to do instead of actually doing all of the things I have to do.

I have spent the past hour trying to convince one crying child and one mischievous child to go to sleep. I attempted to take a nice hot bath to relax my anxious body before bed. Settling into the warm water, book in hand, I began to soften. Yet before I am able to completely compose myself the door opens and a child who should be sleeping pops his head in loudly stating he has to pee. On the journey from the bathroom door to toilet he manages to ask me, what feels like 100 questions. Soon after the silence is shattered by the desperate cries of the other child who is by all appearances just crying to cry. I peel myself out of the comfort of the bath to try and soothe again.

This is all after a long day at work. 

I am supposed to have it all. Aren’t I? Isn’t this having it all? I have a decent career. No, I”m not changing the world or saving lives, but I enjoy my job. I like the people I work with and I actually work at a company that does seem to promote work life balance so I don’t feel as though I have to spend my life at work.

I have a beautiful family. A millionaire family, as it’s called. While they do have their moments, my kids are good kids. I have a wonderful husband who is a hands on Dad. One who doesn’t think everything that involves the kids is up to me.

I have it all.

On days like today I wonder how is this having it all? Can we really have it all? What does it mean to have it all?

I’m exhausted. By the end of the day I’m fried. Both mentally and physically. I feel as though I’ve run a marathon every single day. My house is by no means immaculate and while I do cook homemade meals pretty much every day they are by no means fancy. Yes we are having pasta again ok! Yet I’m beat. Is this having it all?

I feel as though my energies are being spent working, cleaning, doing chores, running errands and I don’t always have the time that I really want to have with my kids. Sometimes I feel a terrible sense of guilt because I know that I don’t have the patience I should have with them. I often wonder if I wasn’t over extending myself would I be a better mother?

I ask myself, if the women who fought for us to be able to join the workforce could forshadow that there would come a day when women would be working 12 hours a day while trying to mother their children in the few remaining hours. If they realized that there would come a time where some women were back to not having a choice. Rather than being stuck keeping house and children, they would be forced to work all day in a paid job and then come home to their unpaid full time job.

Please don’t mistake my venting in a moment of frustration as being unappreciative of those women. I am not. I am so grateful that I can make a choice. That I have the opportunities I have in the workforce as well as in the home. I am so incredibly thankful that women before me fought that fight so that I don’t have to.

It’s just as I sit here my eyelids are becoming heavier every minute. My house is a mess. My kids are wishing I had more time for them today. I’m wishing I could have given them more of me. I wonder how it’s possible to have it all? What does that even mean? I ask myself if having a career outside of the home is worth this? I wonder if I would be better off staying at home and if it makes me less of a “feminist” to actually want to stay home with my kids.

I think to myself, this is probably the dilema that runs through the minds of most mothers. For some reason, fathers don’t ever have this internal struggle. The battle always seems to be a fight for the women.

I don’t think I’ll ever figure out what it means to have it all. Tomorrow morning I will wake up and make the best of my day. Enjoy my family for every second that I can. Try and turn a blind eye to the chores I don’t get to.

I will remind myself that every precious second I have with my family is having it all, because it is, in all reality, the thing that matters to me the most.

 

A cause for celebration

I should be celebrating.

I think the day has arrived. I think we are finally diaper free!

I should be happy right? And I am. Don’t get me wrong. I’m so very proud of my little Ms. J. Amongst all the claps, cheers and happy congratulations are a few tears. For such a happy and momentous occasion why am I so sad?

This very well be my last baby. I may not ever get the chance to change another diaper. Now that I am out of it, those middle of the night quiet diaper changes where I snuggled my little bundle seem so much more appealing. Was I too tired to truly enjoy it? In the hazy fatigue and stress did I miss a moment?

I never really had an issue with diapers. They don’t bother me. The dirty messes they contained, while sometimes unpleasant, never caused me any true discomfort. I always used that opportunity to sing, chat and play with my babies.

This is going too damn fast. I’m desperately trying to grasp on to every single moment because they are disappearing in the blink of an eye. Yet the beauty is being tossed around chaotically right in the middle of real life. Somewhere in between loads of laundry, messy meals and dirty diapers my little babies are growing up.

This was all Ms. J. I haven’t pushed potty training on her. I didn’t stress about it the way I did with Mr. T. I asked her if she’d like to try, and when she obliged I helped her up on to the potty. But I didn’t push her. I let her decide and this week it seems she was ready. One morning she seemed to decide she wanted to use the potty and was done with diapers and that was that. It’s been days without an accident. Little Ms. J running around proudly sporting princess (of course)big girl undies. Her little bum no longer having that roundness that only a diaper can give. She’s even walking different without the squishy diaper giving her that little waddle. It’s official. Someone stole my baby and left a big girl in its place.

The same day Ms. J made her mind up on potty training, I walked through a parking lot holding Mr. T’s hand and as I looked down I noticed that his little hand is outgrowing mine. There is nothing I can do about this. My babies are outgrowing me.

Ms. J may no longer need me to change her diapers, but I do know that there will always be a place for me in her life. There will come a time when Mr. T’s hand will be bigger than mine, but I will always be there to hold it when he needs me.  I’m learning to accept my ever-changing role. This is just the beginning.

Little Ms. J, I am so very proud of you. I have a feeling this is just the beginning of how proud you are going to make me throughout your life. I hope you continue to face your life with the fearlesness and confidence that you tackled this whole potty training business.

Now, let’s celebrate with a potty party! (Thanks for the idea Carly!)

 

 

I do have the insticts! I really do!

I’ve spent a significant amount of time in my life doubting myself. I have analyzed my choices and actions over and over again wondering if I have made the right decision, if I should have done things differently.

My mothering has not been safe from these anxious worries. Should I feed them differently, am I hovering, is there a better way to discipline? I question myself. This is the first time I’ve done this. Babies don’t come with a manual that explains their inner workings.

This past weekend I learned a lesson. I learned that a mother’s instincts can actually mean more than anything else. Mr. T. was off all day, in fact, for a couple of days he had been off. Everyone had theories, thoughts, opinions on what could be causing the different symptoms he was experiencing. My instincts told me something was wrong. This wasn’t just a common cold, his tummy aches were not something to be ignored and when he seemed to have pain walking my gut told me he wasn’t making it up.

After a long day of ignoring my gut feelings and thinking I couldn’t possibly know the right thing to do, I went to change Mr. T. into his jammies and noticed an odd rash on his legs. That’s when I decided to stop ignoring my gut and take him to an ER. I even listened to that voice inside my head that was telling me which hospital to take him to. Turns out my inner voice was right! On all counts. The pediatrician diagnosed him with an actual condition, yet another condition that requires an acronym. As a simple basic explanation he had a reaction to a virus.

The whole ordeal turned out to be a lesson for me. A lesson that I actually know what I”m doing. Well not so much that I always know exactly what I’m doing but that I have instincts. I guess these are what they call motherly instincts.

My own anxieties have a tendency to tell me that I’m not good enough and they have transcended into questioning my ability to mother my kids. The constant doubt is draining and exhausting.

With only 4 1/2 years of experience I know that I don’t have the answers. I have alot to learn about being a parent. What I’ve learned is that I know my children. I know them better than anybody. When my child has a tummy ache my gut tells me when it’s real and when it’s not. I know my child is not a complainer so if he says he’s hurting he really is hurting. I know my child is tough, the things that he’s gone through in his short 4 1/2 years have made him strong. I know when he’s unwell and most of the time I know how to help him get better.

I guess I had a lightbulb moment. That was to listen to my inner voice. Feel what my gut is telling me. Don’t let anyone make me doubt myself. To trust that I know my children. I grew them inside me. They rested right underneath my heart. I know them. I will question myself again. It’s a part of being a parent. To be so afraid of making mistakes with your kids yet knowing deep down that you will make them. But I have to trust that I know my babies. That when something is wrong those instincts will kick in and if I listen to myself I will know what to do.

I guess my life lesson is that although I may not have the answers and I never will, I do have something much more important; my maternal instincts. With all the doubts and fears that life is going to throw at me, I have a feeling it’s those instincts that are going to help me get through alot situations in my journey through motherhood.

 

Fatherhood and the new normal?

Our family recently spent a week battling the flu. All four of us came down with the virus at varying degrees. Ms. J probably had the worst of it so we decided a visit to the doctor was required. During our visit Ms. J was sitting on the exam table, a little nervous, and called out for her Daddy. The doctor looked at us both, her eyes reflecting the surprise she felt in hearing Ms. J ask for Daddy rather than Mummy, and with a confused tone exclaimed “oh we have a Daddy’s girl”. Explaining that she sees more Mummies girls than Daddies girls, she went on to examine our little princess while Ms.J sat quite content in her Daddy’s arms.

There are so many indications that hands on fatherhood isn’t a given in our society. Recently Mr. C. and I were watching a stand up comedy routine where the comedian stated he “hated babysitting his kids” Ummmm..if they are YOUR kids it’s not called babysitting, it’s called parenting!

I’ve also heard from other Mummies stories of having to take on the brunt of the parenting duties as their husbands seem to think it’s not their responsibility.

This is not even taking into account all of the absent father’s roaming around out there.

Let me first make it clear that I had a very hands on Dad, who was there every step of the way. To this day there are times when I turn to my Mum for advice/comfort and there are times when I turn to my Dad.

I, in turn, have chosen a husband who is a very hands on Dad. In the 4 1/2 years since we’ve been parents I don’t think I’ve seen him turn down a parenting duty. Sure there are times when he’s tired, times when he’s frustrated, times when out of sheer desperation he begs “you’ve got bedtime tonight because I’m done”. He’s no different from me, as the mother. I have just as many of these moments. Mr. C. has changed his fair share of dirty diapers, cleaned bottles, comforted a sick crying baby and has even been barfed/peed/pooped on. The only thing he never took part in was breastfeeding 😉

There have been times when others assume he isn’t as capable just because he’s the Dad. I’ve often seen people, specifically women, assume he’s unsure and unqualified to take care of his own children! In the beginning I think he wasn’t as confident in his abilities as he should have been but as the years have passed he’s become as self assured as any mother. Meaning, of course he questions himself at times. Every parent does. I think that at this point he is aware that he’s doing a pretty good job.

Both Mr. T. and Ms. J alternate who they turn to for comfort. There are times when they call out for me
and times they search for Daddy.

I wouldn’t have it any other way.

So why is equal parenting not the norm? This is the year 2013! I think maybe I would feel differently and not have the same expectations of Mr. C if I didn’t work full time and was instead a full time Mum. Fact of the matter is I do work full time and so does Mr. C. This means that we are a team. We share all responsibilities equally, that includes parenting.

More importantly, I don’t think Mr. C. would have it any other way. He loves being a part of the every day life of his kids. He takes on the parenting challenges with finesse. He’s also smart enough to know that by accepting the challenges he gets to reap the beautiful rewards. The dirty work is overshadowed by the cuddles, giggles, kisses and hugs. Without the hard stuff he wouldn’t get quite as much of the good stuff.

I am so thankful that I found someone, who like my own Dad, would choose a night at home with his family over a night out drinking it up with the boys. Maybe I’m crazy in thinking that it’s normal for a father to participate in the same way as a mother. Call it crazy but this is our normal and we wouldn’t have it any other way. And I love Mr. C even more because of it.

My take on a new trend

Finally!! I recently read an article about the new “push present” trend that really sparked me.

I can’t remember the first time I heard the term push present but I do remember thinking it had to be a joke. Where am I?? In Kim Kardashian land??? There can’t really be women, I mean real women, out there who demand a present to push out a baby. Can there? The bigger question to me is, am I the only one who feels like this is a little much? The article showed me that I’m not the only one who feels that this is a trend that needs to go away.

You can find the article here:  http://www.blogher.com/enough-push-presents

Now let me make myself clear. For a husband, a mother, or a sibing or another close relative to give a present to the mother to be, to comemorate the occasion is not an issue in itself. We, as a society celebrate occassions. For example, we celebrate our highschool graduation, university graduation, our engagements, our wedding day with gifts, why can’t we celebrate the birth of a child by giving a present? THere is nothing wrong with giving a gift to celebrate the occassion. It’s actually a nice thought to give something that can be kept as a memory, as a reminder of such a beautiful moment. My mother gave me a beautiful bracelet when my son was born. She gave it as a keepsake, as a thank you for sharing the delivery with her. I have it as a memory. A memory of the birth of my first child. A reminder of a wonderful moment that I shared with two of the most important people in my life (before my children), my husband and my mother. I don’t see a present as a problem.

The first problem I have with the whole idea of a push present is with a woman demanding a present to “push” out her baby. Honestly?? The article, is 100% right in that it totally perpetuates the sterotype of women being materialistic. You need a purse or a diamond because you did such a good job and deserve something nice for it? Women have been giving birth since the beginning of time and all of a sudden we need a prezzie as a pat on the back, something to say good for you? This to me just falls into our sense of entitlement. What happened to bathing in love for your new beautiful little bundle? Now that love must be bathed in the bling of a brand new diamond ring?

The second issue I have with it is the term “push present” The term itself does insinuate that the present is for the act of pushing out the baby. It does not imply that it’s something as a memory of the occassion. I mean how can a Coach purse be a way to remember such a wonderful occassion? If you get your partner a present why does it have to be called a push present?

The whole idea of it to me is just a sign of where our society is right now. The selfishness, the materialism, the excess. I agree with Kristine when she says enough already!

I am the mother of two. My two babies were the best presents I could ever ask for.  I’m glad I finally read something that is pointing out how silly this new trend really is. Note to Mr. C, if we do decide to go for # 3…no push present required 🙂

Adventures with Mr. T.

He’s starting to ask questions. Our adventures to Sick Kids aren’t just him trailing along for the ride, waiting for the treats and surprises, dealing with the unpleasantness in stride. He’s remembering. He remembers last time he was here he had to have needles, blood drawn, tests that hurt him. This time, the entire drive, he asks “no needles this time right Mummy?” “No needles this time Mr. T.” I assure him.

He makes me proud. He smiles at the child in the wheelchair, he says hello to the bald child pushing the IV around, he doesn’t even flinch at the severely disfigured child in the elevator as they both peer out the window marvelling at how high they are going. He makes me proud.

We sit in the exam room waiting for the Doctor with the results of his xrays. The xrays we just had done down the hall. We play I spy. We tell stories, each of us taking turns telling one line of the story at a time. An hour goes by. I let him play with my phone and he teaches me the game on his leap pad.  Another hour goes by. He’s tired and bored. He lays on my lap and asks me to tickle his back. I don’t know when it happened but at some point his body has turned into the body of a little boy. No longer the chubby little baby or even toddler that fit quite snugly into my lap, his gangly legs now hang over the side while he tries to figure out what to do with his torso, eventually settling with arms around my neck as I rub his back. I’m in heaven as these moments don’t happen as often as they did when he was that chubby little baby. As the third hour approaches the first doctor comes in. She asks us questions, tells us things look good, assure us she’ll be back with the other doctor. The next doctor comes in, examines Mr. T. Again, I’m proud. He does as he’s asked. With no sign of fear. The doctor speaks to the intern. Showing her; “see minimal change, which is good” he says. I smile and breathe a little sigh of relief. He looks at me and says the same but then adds “there is quite a good chance he will need surgery again in the future” My ears ring, as though I’ve been slapped in the side of the head. My head spins as I watch his mouth moving but barely hear the words coming out of his mouth. I hear “we can’t know yet” “‘everything as is for now” but I’m stuck on “surgery in the future”.

We get up and I thank the wonderful doctors.  With an awkward smile on my face we shake hands. Mr. T gives them a high five.

As is our routine, we go for lunch, Mr. T. opting for a cheese bagel and cream cheese and a fruit smoothie. We chat. He asks questions. “What room was I in Mummy?” “That room right up there” I say pointing at that 3rd floor window that was my home for countless hours. “And I was very brave when I was a baby in that room wasn’t I Mummy?” “You were one of the bravest boys I ever knew” I respond watching the smile spread across his face.

As we eat I remember those hours spent in that room. I remember each night I had to leave him there and how horrible I felt doing it. I watch his little face oblivious to my memories or my fears for his future. I realize something sitting at that table. That every moment of those first 6 weeks of his life has shaped every decision I have made since where he’s concerned. Mr. T. is four and a half years old and has never slept anywhere without us. Not that there hasn’t been offers, the grandparents would love to have him. Mr. T. and Ms. J. just haven’t seemed to want to. What I realized sitting there in that hospital looking up at that room, is that I’m ok with that. After the pain that I felt leaving Mr. T. in that hospital every evening, my heart tells me his place at night is with us. Sometimes I would like to sleep in past 7:30am but it’s a sacrifice I agreed to make when I had children. If the time comes and either of them want to have a sleepover I will have a decision to make. Until then I will snuggle them goodnight every night that I have with them. For all those weeks I had no choice but to leave him all alone, and go home feeling an emptiness inside. If I don’t have to do that now why push it?

For now I hang on to each second of this beautiful ride. It’s flying by. Gone is my baby. He’s been replaced by this incredibly strong, intelligent, beautiful little boy and is morphing, as we speak, into a young man. What the future holds I don’t know. My heart wonders how I will get through another surgery but if that’s the path we are meant to take we will get through it together. He is strong and he makes me stronger.

Until we get there we will continue our adventures and I will answer his questions. “Which Doctor saved me Mummy?” “Dr. C. and she was amazing” I say. As his questions grow more complex so will my memories. They will intertwine with each other retelling him his own tale. Together we will put together the pieces of his puzzle.

Bedtime battle Royal

I don’t know when this happened. The lines are kind of blurred. Bedtime used to be one of my favourite times of day. A time of day I looked forward to almost from the moment I woke up. Laying in bed between my two little angels reading stories, chatting about our day and cuddling is my idea of heaven. Everything I imagined of parenthood. After our moments of bonding, I would leave them to fall asleep quietly and peacefully, feeling safe beside each other. Their little eyes heavy with sleep, their breathing slowing, becoming a rythmic dance with each other. I then made my way downstairs where I relished in a little alone time; usually only for an hour or so before I, myself, headed up to join them in bed. Time to watch tv or a movie, write a little maybe even fold some laundry.

I don’t know when this changed. It feels like it was an overnight change. All of a sudden bedtime has become a battle. I try to continue our routine. I lay in bed with stories and it begins. They argue over which story is read first. One speaks over the story  wanting to go back a few pages to show me something, once the page is turned back it’s not clear what is to be shown. There is tossing and turning, kicking and flips and sometimes jumping! I leave them to fall asleep but instead of tired little eyes slowly drifting off into slumberland I hear two children giggling under covers. To hear them giggle with each other before bed time may be sweet and delightful however it is not as pleasant when it eventually turns into yelling, crying, begging and tattling. Inevitably myself or Mr. C will have to perform the walk up the stairs reminding Mr. T. to keep his hands to himself and scolding Ms. J when her chatting and jumping around is keeping Mr. T. awake. I often hear “mummy” being whined from upstairs and someone tells me the other hit them, turned on the lights or won’t stay quiet.  Mr C. and I will take turns stomping up the stairs firmly demanding they stop fooling around and go to sleep or else they will each be remanded to their own beds. Every time we head up the stairs we become more frustrated and less effective.  Each round of scolding is followed by discussion on the efficacy of our methods, what we are doing wrong, if we should be forcing them to sleep in their own beds, what is the solution. If it’s been a particularly difficult night, as was tonight, I will spend the rest of the evening feeling incredibly guilty. Guilty because their day ended in frustration. Remorseful beause I didn’t handle the situation better. Afraid that they are going to be tired the next day because their bedtime was dragged out for so long. Confused because I don’t know how to handle the situation better.

There is also an immense amount of guilt in the feeling that I’m not enjoying this time with them the way I should be. We still cuddle and read however I spend much of that time anxious. Waiting for the chaos to commence. Mr C and I have been known to argue over who is taking bedtime tonight, each claiming it’s the others turn. I’m ashamed that I don’t always jump at the chance to do bedtime. My head tells me that in just a few short years they aren’t going to want me to put them to bed. They will prefer to close their door, shutting me out of their private thoughts. Falling asleep all alone without mummy cuddles is going to be their choice. How, when I know that is coming sooner rather than later, can I not enjoy every precious moment of such a special time? I spend way too much energy allowing these thoughts to make me feel like a bad mother.

I know I’m doing something wrong. I’m not 100% sure what it is yet. I’m not entirely clear what caused this break in our bedtime routine. I think the answer may be found in the reason behind the shift, I just have to determine what that reason is. Do I sit back and just let it be? Let them figure it out on their own. Do I force them into their own bed? (see my past thoughts on co-sleeping http://bit.ly/XYIauk) Am I ruining their sleep patterns? Am I messing them up for life? Am I failing at this thing called motherhood?

I am really trying hard. Every time it begins I take a deep breath and try to live in the moment. I try to focus on the wonderful aspects of bedtime with my babies.  I try to focus on their little arms around my neck. I listen to their favourite parts of the day. I appreciate their begging me to cuddle them first and just a little bit longer. I always tell them how much I love them.

I’m hoping that this is just a phase. That I can somehow make this easier for us all. That our bedtimes can go back to cozy cuddles in bed and have less disorder. Because bedtime can truly be the best part of our typically hectic day.

Learning to accept myself;the good, the bad and the ugly

I recently blogged about seeing my own flaws through my children, more specifically Mr. T. who is so much like me it’s scary. Thinking through that post, writing it and now re-reading it has caused to think about my flaws from another perspective. I am finally beginning to not only accept my flaws but to be ok with the world knowing what they are. I am beginning to lose the need to be perfect all the time. I haven’t quite figured out if this is another side effect of having children or if it’s just a normal part of getting older, perhaps it’s a little of both?

I’ve spent much of my life focusing on my flaws in some way or another. From analyzing them, obsessing about them or trying to hide them, my weak points have been a big part of my life for as long as I can remember. While I think this is probably quite a common by product of ‘growing up’, I really do think that seeing my failings reflected through Mr T is helping me to accept myself for who I am.

When I look at Mr. T, I don’t automatically focus on his weaknesses. I am aware of them and I do see them when they rear their ugly heads but I don’t think any less of him because of them. I kind of look at these parts of his personality and think so what? They are a side bar to his positives.

For every part of him that isn’t at it’s strongest he has multiple wonderful traits. He whines, true, but he is also extremely caring and generous. He will not think twice about sharing anything and everything he has and he always thinks of others. He is emotional which can be so trying at times but his passion transcends to everything he does. He loves with every breath he takes and he makes sure you always know just how much he loves you, never shying away from showing his affection.

Examining Mr T, and seeing myself in him, made me realize that if I am perfectly aware of his flaws yet I adore him with everything that I am then why am I so concerned with other people seeing my own failings??? Those who truly love me will not stop loving me because I’m not perfect and those who can’t accept my weaknesses will just have to move on.

I am not perfect. There I admit it. There are so many things about me that are so very far from perfect. Who cares?  Yes I am sensitive. My feelings get hurt easily and sometimes I will lash out because of that. I am a bit short tempered and have been known to get quite snippy and sarcastic. Sometimes my anxities can cause me to say and do the absolute wrong thing in certain situations and I spend alot of time trying to get people to think I am without flaw. I have too many shortcomings to even begin to list.

To that I say oh well!

Just as with Mr. T. for every fault you will find a positive.

As I get older I realize that perfection does not exist and I have wasted enough time struggling to try and achieve the unachievable. I am who I am. You gotta take the good with the bad. I’m am learning that the complexities of our imperfections mixed in with our accomplishments is what makes us beautiful, what makes us interesting, what makes us human.

I don’t want my children to beat themselves down for having faults. My hope is to teach them to own who they are blemishes and all. I want them to know that their downfalls will not define them, they will in fact make them even stronger. To try and learn from their mistakes, build on who they are and be the best that they can be, is a lesson I want to impart from early on. I will always love them and anyone worth anything will not allow the imperfections to blind them and miss out on their beauty.