I swear we expose this child to new things

This afternoon, on the way home:

Him: Mommy, this weekend, I want to go on the bus.

Me: uh, ok, I guess we can do that.

Him: People who go on the bus *mumble mumble* hurt.

Me: Pardon honey?

Him: People who go on the bus get hurt, isn't that right mommy?

Me: No, no honey, people don't get hurt on the bus.

Him: well, they would if the bus squished them.

Me: *slightly alarmed* Busses don't squish people, honey. 

Him: They don't?

Me: No. I'm sure the bus drivers try very hard NOT to squish people.

Him: ... 

Seriously, I do take this child out of the house, and I try not to inflict my neuroses on him. I swear.

Mommy tracking

I read a short article this morning on one of my "feminist" blogs that was outraged, again, at the wage disparity between moms and childfree women, between moms and dads, etc. And outraged again at the suggestion that mothers deliberately take jobs with less responsibility and less time demand and therefore lower wages in order to care for their children. Nay! They are forced into these horrible jobs!

And I sat, and thought ... well, let's face it, I'm not a typical case. I'm a relatively highly educated white woman in a nice part of a nice city with a very cushy position. A cushy enough position that I'm ok stopping and pressing pause on my career while my child is young

But the fact is that I am choosing to do this. Oh, not without some trepidation, I admit, of what this will mean for my career in five years or ten years or twenty. I know that my earnings will be less than they otherwise would have been had I remained childless. (But really how much of a hardship is that when I'm earning more than the average woman in Canada?)

In the end what I've realized over the past two and a half years is that I can't have it all. Some women maybe can. Some women can work full time jobs and care for a child and run a household and work hard enough to continue to be promoted. Some women can either handle all that, or they can tamp down the guilt from not doing any one of those things well or they can go without personal time to make up for the time they need to devote to writing briefs or making little sandwiches for small people's lunches.

I am not one of those women, and I happen to think that I'm neither alone nor unusual. And so to try and maintain some semblance of balance and sanity, I am here coasting through a career, coasting in one place for a few years, while I devote more of my brain to other things.

I hope very much that one thing that will come from all the mommy-blogging is a realization that this is hard. Parenting is hard; working as a parent of a small child is seriously the hardest thing I have ever, ever done. Maintaining the balance needed to preserve me in the middle of the multitude of demands is seemingly impossible, only achievable if I let my standards fall in one thing or another. And that sucks. I am a perfectionist, and letting my standards fall is also extremely hard. So hard I can't even begin to tell you how difficult this realization and this fight has been.

But you know, one of the other things I have realized over the past few months is this: it doesn't matter. My kid won't be irreparably damaged if I am not perfect mommy every day. Let's aim for 75% of the time, and 100% of the time just making sure he knows I love him even though I screw up. My work colleagues don't hold me to the standard of perfection I set myself -- the pressure is all mine, and let's face it: nothing really that bad happens if I don't churn out the perfect document. They don't hire a writer to ensure everything that ever is written is perfect; they have hired a writer so that other people don't have to write, so that they can use their skills in other areas. 

And my husband ... well, he's the one who's in this with me, who can hopefully understand when I can't be as wifely as I want to be because my mind is so caught up with details of this project and what will we eat for dinner and where's that sippy cup and what did we need for daycare tomorrow and oh yes darling, you are a splendid tiger. I hope that most of the time, in future, he won't have to understand, I can be there for him ... but in the end we are in this together, and we'll muddle our way through.

And maybe that's all we really need in life. An understanding that things will never be perfect, and someone to help us muddle through it. We don't need to have it all, and really, how exciting would life be if we did? I think maybe the muddling and the imperfection is the actual beauty of living life, available only to those who slow down and breathe and look around, if only just for a moment. 

Disparate wages? Come on. There are flowers blooming over here. Which is more of a miracle?

And then we high fived each other because of our parenting prowess

So earlier this morning, after I saw the disaster that was caused by the hockey-ball-that-was-really-a-tomato, I stood in the kitchen relating this to mah husszzband. I think he was a tad bit incredulous that I hadn't noticed that it was a real tomato, but he was polite enough not to say so.

And then we ended our conversation and looked down at our child, who had taken the SAME tomato that I had rescued from the dining room table and he was trying to now slice it open on the floor with a tinkertoy.

... .... .....

We did the only thing we could. We laughed. In the end, it turns out that we are not perfect. 

And then we made him clean up the tomato mess, and we had the talk about wasting food, and we parented. 

But first we hugged each other, and laughed.

Last night

Tuesday evenings are The Man's evening out, and I am alone with the child. I picked him up from daycare yesterday at 4:30, and we went home, and boy oh boy it was one of those nights where from 4:30 until 9 when he finally went to sleep we butted heads the entire time and I thought -- not that I regretted having him, but really, that I'm just not cut out for this mommying thing. I'm just not that good at it, clearly. Because if I was, I would have more patience for when he kicks my seat all the way home, or when he grabs things off the counter that he shouldn't have, or stands on the bags of rice, putting them in danger of popping, or is grumpy about his new book, or won't go to bed, or won't pick a story, or won't change into his pajamas. The only respite I had was when he was watching a show, and I really did think ... damn, I really am bad at this, when the only time I enjoy is when he's glued to the television.

This morning he got up, all nice and friendly, and then proceeded to go into our ensuite bathroom and throw my book into the toilet. Which had recently been used. 

The book is in the garbage.

I can't work out if this is better or worse than my watch in the toilet, which was at least salvagable but only after The Man bravely reached into the toilet for it.

I don't think I'm a crap mom, but I am feeling impatient right now. The Man's work is really really stressful, which means he's stressed and he doesn't have as much energy for home. That means I have to put in more energy, and then I don't have as much for The Boy -- or I do, but the kitchen is a mess. 

I don't know why I beat myself up over this; I compare myself to my mother, but she didn't work when I was this age, and she frankly has never worked as much in her post-child working life as I do now. AND her house is almost always in chaos, although her kitchen is always clean. My sister doesn't work as much as I do, and has a nanny. Her place is always immaculate, but she has help and a husband who's a neat freak. This is my life, and this is how things are .... they aren't always clean and I'm not always patient. And I think that I need to just accept that and concentrate on the good things. Realize that the kitchen sucks, but I need to parent my child and take some time for me, and let the rest go until I do have more energy. This is why we employ a cleaner.

One rather amusing thing from last night is that at one point The Boy took my keys, and sat down at the dining room table. He had a red item with him, the ball from his hockey set, and said "look mommy, I'm cutting the tomato with your keys!" And man, he was QUIET and NOT A PAIN for a few moments, so I let him go ahead. And then got up this morning and thought -- what the hell happened to my table cloth???!

Mothers, please remember: don't ASSUME it's the ball from the hockey set. It might just be a REAL TOMATO.

Starting him early

My parents are originally from Britain; my father was born there, my mother's family is from there. What effect this has had on their drinking preferences, I don't know, but being at my parents means that almost all of your beverages are either caffeinated or alcoholic. Coffee in the mornings; tea in the afternoon and evening; alcohol in between the two tea times.

I remember as a child that tea time was a particular occasion at my father's parents' house. There were trays of china cups and sugar bowls with actual sugar cubes and sugar tongs, and plates of cake -- mostly fruit cake, but the occasional peek frean for us children. I got the demitasse, and was allowed to tong my own sugar cubes. I can't have been much more than three. 

This morning, like many mornings before this one, I made tea, from loose leaves, in a pot, and poured myself a cup. This is a morning ritual, so much so that my son's first word was "hot!" because I said it so often to him while carrying my first steaming cup of the morning. This morning, as he has done lately, he's asked for milky tea, and instead of the usual milk and hot water, I've added actual tea. 

It's only just occurred to me this morning that feeding a three year old tea might be weird. I mean, don't get me wrong, the tea is only about a quarter of the cup -- the rest is diluted with hot water, and then half of it is milk. So ... weigh in, will you? Is three too young for caffeine? Even a small bit like tea? I am curious. It seems normal to me but I seem to realize that this isn't perhaps normal. 

For the record, he sucks it back like a consummate pro, finishing the cup in less time than it takes me to sit down. Perhaps this is why I feel like I'm feeding him some illicit drug.

Perfection

This weekend I

* spent all day yesterday in my pajamas, at home.

* cleaned my house

* played video games with my son, with him cuddled on my lap under a warm blanket

* ate lots of really yummy food

* knit

* watched some good TV shows

* cuddled with my husband

* went to the beach with my son and a friend and fed ducks

* spent some time alone

* did some yoga

* am now lying in bed with a glass of wine and some chocolate and my computer, tucked into a nice warm blanket

It don't get much better than this, I tell you.

That must be confusing

The Boy: *choo choo choo* The train is going!

Me: Where is the train going to?

Him: America!

Me: North or South America?

Him: Normal America!

Me: Are you sure?

Him: Yes, NORMAL America!

Me: What countries are there in Normal America?

Him: uhm ... Kongkongkong, and Kongkongkonk!

Me: Wow, that must be very confusing for the residents.

Update

We went with centre B. We went this morning and he played and then didn't want to leave and all the staff were charming as usual, and ... I'm still riddled with uncertainty. What if this isn't the best one for him? What if he's unhappy because he really did prefer the other centre? What if ... what if ... what if???

Pfah. 

If we fast forward two months, I'll be wondering why I spent even a single second worrying or second guessing. First of all, it doesn't help. And second of all, look at him! He loves the place! It's all great!

... I hope.

Not immune to the daycare insanity

So as I mentioned before, The Boy is about to head into the "big kids" daycare. At his facility, as I think I mentioned, there are about six possible places for him to go. They are all excellent. Obviously they differ in various ways -- some are better at instilling kids with a sense of the rules, some are better at free-play, but all have their advantages and disadvantages. 

Because of how the system works, when The Boy came of age (three) there were no immediate spots, so he's been at his toddler centre, and will be for another six weeks or so. I anticipated that when spots came up, there would be one or maybe two, and I would not have much choice. I did some homework, and was told by several independent sources that A daycare and B daycare are the best of the bunch. I visited both, and thought -- yeah, these are fine. But to be honest, I can't quite get my head around my little guy going to one of these bigger centres with twice as many kids and fewer adults and big kids -- actual five year olds!

Anyway, my point was merely that I thought I would be merely slotted into a spot. We have one spot, licensing says we have to move your kid, ergo this spot? It's yours.

Turns out? That there is premium spot at both centre A AND centre B. Best of both worlds! Amazing choices! An array of riches!

And I could not be more paralyzed with choice stress.

I prefer centre B, for several reasons. I know the staff there better, and I like them. The staff at centre A are great, but the head person is going on mat leave soon, which will bring an unknown person to lead the centre. Centre B has lots of The Boy's friends from his previous daycare (although there is one kid there he Does Not Like). He doesn't know many kids at centre A. I don't know anyone.

The problem? The Boy has a marked and unstinting adamancy for centre A. "I want to go to centre A" he says. "I want centre A to be my big kid daycare." and "I don't like centre B, I don't want to go there."

And nothing I can say will change his mind.

My father says, with a snort of derision, that I am the parent and I need to just decide and tell him how it is going to be. And I would do that, were we choosing between Ye Old Centre of Torture and Ye Old CEntre of Sunshine and Roses. But we're not. We're choosing between two excellent centres, one of which has an unknown factor which bugs me. And that's it. If it were up to me, I'd go with the known. 

And part of me thinks -- he's three. In a week, he'll be whining about how he wants to go to centre B and how centre A is the root of all evil. Why listen? What does it matter? He'll get over it anyway.

And then I suppose it comes down to ... what kind of parent do I want to be? I have spent a fair amount of time ignoring my instincts, and have paid for it, and the last thing I want to do is negate my child's wishes. When it comes down to six of one and a half dozen of the other -- since really, without the unknown staffing, there's nothing much to choose between the centres -- why not let him have his choice? What possible difference can it make? And maybe this will be a good lesson in choices. Yes he can have what he wants, but then he has to live with the consequences. He can own this choice; he can have this choice. Neither choice is a bad one, neither is going to harm him irreparably.

In the end, it's pretty insane. When we were first told of spots, the only option was centre A, and I was fine with it. I just went with it. It's a good place, and although there's a staffing issue, well, in all likelihood it'll be sorted out well. All the staff changes that we've had in the last while at the old daycare have been great. Some for the better, even. There is no real choice -- they are both great, and he will be fine either way.

I hope.

Dinner with my three year old

This evening I came home and found pasta sauce -- ready made, thank you, husband -- in the freezer, and boiled some pasta. Macaroni. My son's favourite. With tomato sauce, with vegetables and ground chicken. Daddy's homemade sauce. It's very yummy.

Me: Mommy's making macaroni with sauce for dinner! Yum!

Him: I don't like that.

Me: ... ok! Well, you don't have to eat it.

 ... later ... 

Me: ok, dinner time! Come and eat your dinner!

Him: No, I'm not hungry.

....

Me: (eating) Come on! It's dinner time! Yummy! Come and have some!

Him: No, I'm just only thirsty.

....

Me: Come and have your dinner!

Him: No!

Me: ok, how about two bites.

He pauses.

Him: No! I want three!

Me: Well ... OK, if that's what you want.

We eat three bites.

In the ages old practice of parents, I go back to my own bowl, as though I don't care. Which I do. But I'm ACTING.

Him: well, maybe another one.

Me: heh. 

But, you know, silently. He ate most of the rest of the bowl. Mommy power WINS AGAIN.

Public Service Announcement

I'd just like to remind all parents -- although I think now that there are few that would be as dumb as me in this instance -- that feeding your child chili three meals in a row will ensure that you wake up to an absolutely horrifying experience. DON'T DO IT. 

You know you're a parent when ...

Instead of James Blunt's You're Beautiful running through your head, you've got the version that he sings on Sesame Street, entitled Oh Triangle.

Seriously.

And what's more, you know you're a parent when you tell other people that the triangle version? Is pretty good. Any song where they work in the word hypotenuse has to be pretty clever. And the expression on his face as he sings -- where he's desperately trying not to laugh, and trying to be very soulful? HILARIOUS.

In fact, I bet my face looks like that most days.

(For the curious, here's the youtube link.)

We're in trouuuuublllllllle

We, like many parents before us, have taken to spelling things out in front of our child. Not just anything, of course, things like, "do you feel like taking him to the p-a-r-k?" or "is he allowed c-a-k-e?" or some such desirable item. (I mean, we're weird, but not THAT weird.)

But as most parents know, this trick only lasts so long. Longer than the stage when you can say anything in front of your child ("holy loving Christ, did you see that? that guy totally let his dog crap all over our front yard! What a shit!") and be rewarded with a gummy smile and giggling. (Boy, let me tell you, is it ever fun when you reach that morning when you spill tea with milk in it all over the interior of the new-to-you car and you arrive at daycare and see it and yell "shit, shit shit!" and are rewarded with a small voice from the backseat of the car saying "chit! chit!")

Alas, a true story.

But as I was saying, no stage lasts forever. This evening, I was lying in bed with my son and reading him a story. And I said to his father, "Can you make him some m-i-l-k-y t-e-a?" and his father replied, "yes." And then The Boy said ... "YAY!" 

And then I said ... "What did mommy ask daddy for? What's daddy getting?" And he said, with a very "duh" tone of voice ...

"Milky tea!"

We are dooooooomed.

In a more serious note, milky tea (for the curious, just milk with hot water) is not something he gets every night, so it's not like he was expecting it. In fact, of course, that's why I spelled it, in case there was some reason he shouldn't have it that night. He had asked for it, but over an hour before, an hour in which he got dried off from the bath, got into his pajamas, brushed his teeth, chose a few books for bedtime, read one of them -- a long one -- with his grandparents, had a long grandparental goodbye, and then got snuggled into bed with his mom. So yeah, he could have remembered. We may not be doomed. But it sure weirded me out, even so.

Sock knitting

So I have very few words today because my inlaws arrived yesterday morning and I have a crazy kid and so therefore we just have sock pictures.

Don't ask about the other two socks on the needles. A girl needs a little new fun every once in a while.

I knitted a little cable up from the heel, which you can barely see here -- it's 3 x 3 cable, with no purl row to differentiate it from the rest of the stitches, so I think it will be hard to see even when it's worn. Oh well. The experiment was fun regardless, and it's fun to play around with it and get some cabling practice regardless.

Illogical, crazy three

Some time ago, I read someone's article or blog post or something about having a three year old and how frustrating it was that they were so illogical and so volatile. Blowing up over the silliest things, having meltdowns over wrong socks and a bowl placed just ever so slightly off centre.

And I thought ... boy, that will be fun.

(No, never for a minute did I even dare to hope that it wouldn't happen to us.)

But then I thought -- geez, how much worse can it be than a two year old meltdown in the store, a temper tantrum on the floor?

ha ha ha ha ha ha ha

And I mean that literally. Over the past few weeks we've kind of moved more from the temper-tantrumy stage into the crazy meltdown stage, and oh, man, if you can keep your sense of humour, this stage is GREAT.

Me: ok, what do you want for breakfast?

Him: cheese toast! (what he wants EVERY -- and I mean EVERY -- morning)

Me: ok (why mess with a good thing? It's whole wheat toast!) (looks in fridge) (at the front, there is the new package of cheese bought yesterday; behind it is the half-finished block of cheese from earlier this week.) (We eat a lot of cheese in this house.)

Child grabs the new cheese.

Me: No, not that one, the other one.

Him: NO!! NOOOOOOO!!!! I WANT THIS ONE! I WANT THIS ONE! WAAAAAAA!!! NO NO NO NO NO NO NO, I CAN'T EAT THAT ONE, I WANT THIS ONE!!! WAAAA!

Me: .... ..... ....... are you serious??

I just couldn't think of anything else to say. He looks more and more like a normal, if small, human being, and then there's this completely INSANE streak within him that sometimes comes out. It almost feels like as if someone like one of your co-workers starting wailing on the floor over you using the last of the coffee in the office coffee pot. You'd be completely taken aback, you would be. As I often am. This morning's other exchange:

Him: wake up mommy! it's wake up time! here, I'll help you. (pulls off nice warm covers and grabs my hand to haul my butt out of bed.)

Me: hnunhg

Him: (sing-song) come on mommy, it's wake up time! (still pulling at my hand)

Me: (waking up) ok, sweetie, just a moment. Mommy (really have to get out of the habit of talking about myself in the third person) needs to go to the bathroom.

Him: NO!!! NO NO NO NO NO!!! YOU DON'T HAVE TO GO PEE!!

Me: Yes ... yes I do.

Him: NO NO NO NO NO! I DON'T WANT TO, I DON'T HAVE TO GO PEE, YOU DON'T NEED TO EITHER!!!

Now I am a push over mommy, I admit, but dammit, I stick to my guns when it comes to pee, so we ended up with me in the bathroom and him sitting on my lap.

Huh. Yeah, that's still being a push over, isn't it??

I'm over it

Well, ok, two days of angst and weeping and now I'm on ... well, great, kid's growing up, isn't that great! I was talking to another mommy friend the other day, and I said to her -- well, let's face it. Regardless of what happens, I win. If he wants back in our bed, I get more cuddles. If he doesn't, then DAMN, haven't I done a great job of raising an independent child!

Don't tell me otherwise, telling myself this is how I'm going to get over this milestone.

Last night I slept in his room with him, as I was tired and really didn't want to get up in the middle of the night. He woke, as he usually does, in the middle of the night, and called for me, and when he found me right there, he sighed, and said "mommy! mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy, mommy ... mommy, mommy, mommy ..." all his his soft, sleepy voice, while patting me all over.

I have never felt more validated while essentially being felt up.

Last post courtesy of The Boy

For any of you who were wondering. Have no idea how he managed to hit "publish", though.

I woke up this morning in a funk. A bad funk. A grumpy, unsettled, nasty funk that stuck around in one form or another most of the day.

And then I realized -- this was the first night in almost FOUR YEARS that I hadn't slept with my child, in utero or out. It was the longest period we'd ever been apart, that 12 hours of sleep. 

I missed him. I missed his little body near mine, I missed the peace of mind I get when he's close by. I complain about lack of sleep -- a lot -- but in many ways I just don't want it any other way. I want more sleep -- God, believe me I do -- but I also want my child close to me. And for the last few months, we've had the best of both worlds, and I'm not ready for it to come to an end.

Pregnancy and early infancy was a really hard time for me -- I might make great babies but it takes a great deal away from me. But at least I can keep that little being close by, in close protection of my body. 

I hate letting go. 

I know this will get easier. And I also know that no matter what, I will always be his mom, and nothing will ever change that. My  special role in his life will never change. 

But it still makes me sad. 

====='

Mommy guilt

Or: damned if you do, damned if you don't.

I got a lot of flak from people when I decided to co-sleep with my child. From troubled looks from other mothers, to outright condemnation of my methods from colleagues at work (he'll never sleep on his own if you don't force him!) to "expressions of concern" from my family members. It got so that I just didn't talk about it, and was frankly embarrassed by it. Not that I didn't love it, not that I didn't think that it was right for my child and my family, but I was embarrassed to invite over playdates and face the inevitable confusion when I have a two-bedroom house and no bedroom for my child.

It got so bad, in fact, that a close friend of my mother's suggested to my mother and my sister that should I decide to have another child and decide to co-sleep with said child, that the three of them should conduct an intervention before I harm the child.

Let me say right now for the record that should this happen, should my mother and sister participate in such a ridiculous and insulting endeavour, that it will indelibly and negatively impact our relationship ... to say the least.

Or, shall we just say without splitting hairs and trying to be tactful: Man, will I ever be pissed.

The negative talk from so many people in my life left me with considerable mommy guilt. Never mind that my child woke during the night and nursed until after he was two, never mind that he still wakes in the night and calls for me for comfort at three, never mind that I cannot feel myself to be a good parent when parenting ends at 8pm and resumes at 7am, and never mind that constant night wakings in different rooms would surely have compromised my sanity and my ability to parent at all hours of the day ... and never mind that my child wanted me close, that it was a good decision for me and my child and my partner. 

I still felt the guilt.

I do not for a second believe that I would have the child I have now without co-sleeping. I had a child who needed, on a completely instinctual level, close human contact for the first years of his life. He still asks to nurse though we haven't done so in months, he still cuddles up to me even while eating his breakfast, and prefers to be carried if at all possible. I think that ensuring that I met his high needs for attachment have ensured that I have a confident, happy child now and I strongly believe that this will bring benefits to all areas of his life, for the rest of his life. Not all children need this; mine did. And meeting those needs is I believe what parents DO. Your child may have different needs, but not meeting whatever needs your child has is not parenting.

I still feel the guilt.

And so last night, as he was falling asleep, when he said softly, "this is the best part", and I asked "what?" and he replied, "the room, my own room," I felt a pang. I felt a strong pang of mommy guilt. Did I fail him? Was this something he needed months or even years ago, that I didn't provide? Did I fulfill my own needs for closeness at his expense?

I can't really get away from it, it's always there. Damned if you do, damned if you don't.

The thing with parenting is that you are never sure. You can never be sure of what you are doing, because the proof is not in the preschool, or the school achievements, or the friends he makes or when he learns to use the potty. The proof only comes when, sometime later, decades later, you look at your child and see a reasonably happy, well adjusted individual who can live his own life within the confines of our society, who can maintain relationships and navigate his way through life. You may not see proof for years, you may not ever see conclusive proof. 

All it comes down to is faith. Faith that I did the right thing then, faith that I am doing the right thing now, faith that no matter when he moves into his own bedroom, the fact that his mother and father loved him beyond all else will mean that he will go through life with the constant knowledge, deep down inside, that he is a worthwhile and a perfect human being, despite his many flaws. Because we were willing to do whatever it took to make sure he was happy, that we wanted most of all to do the right thing. That doing the right thing for him mattered to us. Really, really mattered.

So much so, apparently, that I can worry and feel guilty for something as relatively trivial as a bed.

Sleep

I haven't written about sleep for a long time. I wrote a lot about it in the fall, it felt to me like every single post was about sleep, or how tired I was, because it was all I could ever think about. Ever. When you don't get sleep, like food, it is ALL YOU CAN THINK ABOUT. I don't put that in capitals to be funny, even; lack of sleep makes you crazy, lack of good sleep makes you crazy, and there's just no two ways about it. 

Since then -- I hate to even say it, lest I jinx myself -- it's been getting better. Cautiously better. I get more sleep, and often it's even better quality sleep, and while there are some days I still feel a little dopey, now most days I don't feel like I'm walking around in a haze, I don't have the stress from feeling like I have to focus to stay awake during the day. Do you know how awful that is? It's like having that awful jetlag you get when even sitting up you can barely manage to stay awake, that when you're not concentrating your eyes just start to slip. And I would be at work, or driving, or taking care of my child and feel like I was fighting to stay awake, and it was a terrifying feeling. What if I fall asleep? I never did, of course ... but it sure was awful.

I read a fair number of mom blogs -- fewer now that I'm back at work, I think while on mat leave I was up to like 150, so many that I couldn't keep track of who each of them were (was this the mom from Texas with two kids, a baby and a toddler? Or was this the mom in England with the newborn? I can't even tell.) and one thing often shows up: the tired. All moms are tired. Some talk about it a lot, some a lot less, but they are often tired. What's more is that those few moms who have the same problems I did -- kids who don't sleep through the night for EONS -- most of them capitulated well before the end of the first year. 

See, last fall the tiredness was even worse because I kept feeling like a Bad Mother. A Bad Mother because I couldn't get him to sleep at night (which is ridiculous because I tried everything I did have control over, and nothing worked so ... uh?), a Bad Mother because I was too tired to play, a Bad Mother because I was resenting the hell out of my kid and just wanted him to sleep goddammit, a Bad Mother because hello? Sleep deprivation is part of parenting, and everyone has had bad sleep from time to time, mothers have been dealing with this for centuries and no one has ever DIED from lack of sleep (or rather, no one has died from lack of optimal sleep, while still sleeping a minimal amount of time. I suppose TOTAL lack of sleep probably would kill you.) Why couldn't I cope when so many other mothers could?

And the answer seems to be: no one else can either. When the sleep deprivation stretches past the second year, no one can cope. Most moms I read can only last a few months, maybe a year on that kind of sleep. Lasting 2.5 years is beyond. And consequently I felt comforted, like I wasn't a failure as a mother ... not that I was better than them for coping longer, just that I was no longer a failure for coping as long as I did and no further.

This is the main reason we don't have another child, although -- I confess to you all -- that we do in fact want to have one. But up until this point I just had nothing left over, no capacity to cope with another child, no reserves of strength or resilience or energy left to carry a child, let alone parent a newborn. It's only now, after a few months of (better, but not entirely adequate) sleep that I can even contemplate the idea without abject panic and horror.

I feel sad about that, but at the same time accepting. I don't want to blame my child, but I sure hope he never asks why he doesn't have a sibling close in age to him, or ... perhaps, since I am almost 35 ... why he has no sibling at all. I don't want to blame him, but it's true all the same. 

But I do still feel panic. Panic that the second one will be just as bad, that I will go through another 2.5 years of bad sleep and the havoc that that wreaked upon my life, personally and professionally. That it will be even worse having to cope with a newborn / baby / toddler who won't sleep AND a second older child. Who may also -- still -- not sleep. 

It's pointless to worry about, for so many reasons. It might be different. The next one might never happen, and if he / she does, he might sleep just fine. He might not sleep fine, but maybe will respond to the sleep "training" things I do, unlike the last kid. And finally ... well, even if it is just as bad, the fact is that I got through it this time, and I likely will again. It will suck, it will be so unbelievably hard and nasty, but we managed once before and we will again.

But I tell you: having a kid who doesn't sleep seems to me to be the worst kind of problem you can have with a (healthy) kid (since Lord knows I'm sure there are worse problems when your kid isn't healthy). It's torturous and horrible and I never, ever want to go through it again. I hope and pray that the next one is different.

But at least I do know one thing so far about myself: I can do it. It sucks, it's horrible, and I feel like a complete mess, and bad things happen in my head, but I can do it, and come through the other side.

There's a great deal of comfort in that.

On the day you were born, it snowed.

Three years ago today, I lay in a hospital bed, stunned and barely able to comprehend what had gone before hours earlier, in a combination of birth-induced euphoria and morphine haze, gazing out the window. At it snowing. In March. In Vancouver. And I thought What a beautiful way to welcome my baby to the world. Beside me in a bassinet (never again to be tolerated except in his own birth induced haze and exhaustion) lay a small being who, I never cease to marvel, had been in me only hours earlier. Hours! Merely hours ago, we were one, and now we were two. 

Being pregnant and having a baby was the only time in my life where my own physicality overtook my body. I'm a cerebral human, and I value my mind more than my body (evidenced by my own complete lack of exercise over the past 34 years) but this was something new -- something my body craved and reveled in embraced completely wholeheartedly, as though I had finally found my purpose in life.

Which, of course, biologically speaking, I had.

Motherhood has been the most exhausting, infuriating, frustrating, frightening and horrifying experience of my life. I have never been more tired than when he wasn't sleeping; I have never been so frightened as when he was sick in hospital, and I have never felt more scarred and more rubbed completely raw as a human being as when, in hospital, I had to hold down my screaming child, weeping openly myself, as they did things to him that I knew hurt, all in the effort to make him better. I have rarely felt more infuriated as when he kicks me while I'm trying to change his diaper God, kid, this is gross and there's poop everywhere, now even on me and I hate doing this too and if you'd just use the damn potty this wouldn't have to happen again!, and more frustrated at the food I lovingly prepare is rejected, when for all my attempts at getting him to listen go unaided. It is not for the faint of heart, this motherhood.

Of course the counterbalance to this is that I have never loved anyone so much, so wholly, so completely, and so unconditionally. I finally truly, deep within me, understand what my father says softly, when my own sister's life was in danger in her second pregnancy, that he wasn't afraid of her losing the baby, he was afraid of losing her, that would make his life not worth living. I cannot imagine life without my son in it, I cannot for a moment let my mind wander there because it is too painful to contemplate. I lie in bed with him at night and watch his little face in sleep, feel him breathing in and out and I know the perfection of love. I know I am watching a small piece of my soul living without me. It is such a strong feeling that it takes my breath away, and the knowledge of what it is to know the divine, the feeling of love so strong to transcends everything else I have ever known, makes everything else worthwhile. I never imagined what it was to love like this. I know now I will never forget. I know that when he is 45 and has his own children and a career and a partner and a house in another city, I will still look at him and see him as a baby, as a toddler, as an older child. As part of me, part of my body, and I will look back to the days when we were one and still wish that I was there, that I could hold him entirely within me and protect him from everything. 

It's hard to believe it's been three years. I can't believe how much he has changed from the watery creature that emerged from me three years ago, with his dark sea blue eyes and his dark black hair, to the brown eyed dirty blond boy who can talk and walk and eat his own meals and tells me his ideas and asks me to play. The challenges have changed, the child has changed. But the love has not. I love him now as much as I did that small being in the bassinet, more than I ever dreamed I would. 

Happy Birthday, small boy. Mommy loves you.

Another milestone, crossed off the list

One of the things that I don't write about much here is that we have been happy co-sleeping parents for our son's entire life. He's never had a crib, or a bassinet, or even his own side car sleeper. He has slept in our comfy king-size bed since he came home from hospital.

This wasn't a plan on our part; we had a sweet bassinet all ready for him when he came home. He just refused to sleep there, under any circumstances. No matter what we did, no matter what method we tried, he never slept there. And we gave up, I admit. We liked co-sleeping, I liked having him there with me, and once he was nine months old we could help him sleep in the bed and leave him there until we were ready to go to sleep, and it worked out rather well.

However, I also have to admit here that, despite the fact that we live in a two bedroom townhome (the smallest one ever!), he hasn't even had a bedroom. The second bedroom had in it our old queen size bed and some stuff we were storing; his clothes were in our bedroom and his toys in the living room. So sleeping on his own wasn't even an option.

The boy is turning three tomorrow, and my mother guilt has taken over. I decided that, despite the fact that *I* still like co-sleeping, he really did need to have at least the option of his own room. And we took the day off yesterday, and we finally cleared out that second bedroom, and moved around some furniture, and set up a perfect little boy bedroom. We talked about it with him, told him what would happen, and made it sound Very! Exciting! 

And lo, he was excited. He was Very! Excited! But I was still confident in my mother instinct that it would be Very! Exciting! until it was time for bed, and then there would be great tears and consternation and we would all end up sleeping in the same place last night. 

We got home last night after the daycare birthday party (he got to make cake, and we went to the party and sat on teeny tiny chairs and sang songs and it was all very much fun) and we talked up the New! Room! and he was all excited, and he loved it. Loved the new room. And we played in there all evening, and when it came time for bed he happily went to sleep in his brand new bed in his brand new room. 

I slept in there with him, for the first night, and as I predicted he did wake up in the middle of the night, confused and calling for me. I felt at least partially vindicated -- he still does like co-sleeping! I was right!

And then later on, he woke up, kicked me, and said "I want to sleep alone! Go away!"

I don't think that this is the end. I do think that we will have some back and forth and some sleeping in mom and dad's bed and some sleeping on his own. But it's clear that he is ready, that he likes the idea of his own room, his own space and his own place.

Me? I'm not ready. I like lying in bed and being able to open my eyes and see his little sleeping form. I like hearing him breathe beside me, I like being able to reach out and touch him and know where he is while I'm half asleep. I love getting in to bed at night and having his little sleeping body acknowledge mine by rolling over and tucking his head into my body. I love cuddling together in the morning before "wake up time".

I do not want to trek back and forth between his bedroom and ours while he takes his time deciding if he needs me or not.

But I guess it's time that I let go. Parenting is all about letting go, from the moment they come into the world it's all about slowly, slowly letting go of the little person you created. And each one hurts me just a little bit, but makes him more and more confident, and more and more into the person I know I will be vastly proud of for the rest of my life. Parenting is the only relationship where success means, at the end, separation. And separate we will, if only into separate beds for now.

And I will let it go, with a little bit of sadness and maybe a few tears, as my little boy grows up. But that doesn't mean I will like it, one little bit.

Weird thing about me #4,823

That today I used the word "extemporizing" in an email, and it gave me a great deal of pleasure. I needed a word that meant EXACTLY that and it's such a great word and I honestly sent off that email with more pleasure than the other 65 emails I did today.

That's all.

I take it back

Remember that I said that I felt worse when my child was sick than when I was? Well I TAKE IT BACK.

Well, not really, but it's true I felt / feel just as awful. I now have this daycare cold (surprise, surprise) and have been feeling ok apart from a sore throat and the truly horrifying nasal congestion. Which made yesterday all that much MORE fun. 

Oh, and did I mention that another of yesterday's highlights was that I finally made two of the best grilled cheese sandwiches of my life. See, the problem I have with grilled cheese is that I never have soft butter to put on the bread. I solve this problem by melting butter in the pan, but this means that it never really sizzles and I almost always get burned bread.

I think we've been over this before, that me and gourmet cook are nowhere near the same ballpark, right?

So as I was saying. I managed to make two gorgeous grilled cheese sandwiches for the boys -- not a burned crumb among them, and gorgeously gooily cheesy, and guess how many bites were eaten. Go on. Guess.

ONE. 1. ONE SINGLE MEASLY BITE.

Which wouldn't be so bad if it wasn't for the fact that I'm avoiding wheat for reasons I don't want to go in to (but I suppose having said that are clear -- stomach problems. Clearly one doesn't avoid wheat for, for instance, just the hell of it.) And I MISS IT. And it was all I could do to just look at those sandwiches and then, in the end, throw them out because nothing's grosser than a cold congealed grilled cheese sandwich.

Motherhood. The colds. The wasted efforts. Ah, the tragedies.

Thank God he wasn't twins

This morning instead of the usual Wednesday playdate, I had two almost-three-year-old boys to myself for three hours as mommy two had an appointment.

I'd like to say that we had a lot of fun, but there was an inordinate amount of train track knocking down (I tried to build one, I swear to God, eight times and they knocked it down over and over and over again, and the first few times I was like, in my chirpy mommy voice "that's ok! we can fix it!" and by the end I wanted to tie them both up on the couch until I finished but I did manage to keep my head on and remember that OH YEAH, this is FOR THEM.) And then there was the not eating, and so the boys got crankier and crankier and there was only ONE Thomas and only ONE cool remote control car and only ONE steamroller and ... we have a lot of things that there are only one of, you know? How did that happen?

Oh yeah. I only have ONE child.

When they finally left at three (we try and keep them together a while on Wednesdays, because they do play -- usually -- so well together) we'd had a number of tears from both sides and some terribly bad sharing (or lack thereof) and while I normally love our Wednesdays together I was starting to think ... man, I'd just like to put on a movie and sit down. When the door finally closed and we went back to the toys, The Boy was quiet and I said "Are you sad because P went home?" and he said, "No." 

Ah.

But there were several moments, I admit where I had the rapt attention of two small and earnest boys, both telling me their great ideas and their neat thoughts and staring at me, trusting and happy, that I remembered why the hell it is that we do this. It's not all bad.

Negotiations

When you first find out you will become a mother, you imagine a lot of things. You imagine a gummy smile, a gorgeous baby that has the best features of you and your partner. You imagine a little girl with soft curly hair or a little boy with a cute grin and sparkling eyes. You imagine pushing them on a swing and helping them on the slide, their first work of art and reading books at bedtime.

You also, if you are well-versed in babies and children, imagine crying and tantrums and refusing to eat and late nights walking the floor. Or at the very least, you do realize that these things happen and that they will ensure that your rosy visions at the start are tempered by reality. That all will not be sunshine and roses. You even probably realize that mothering will be one of the hardest, most exhausting jobs you've ever had, but that you will have moments of such great love that it will make it all seem worthwhile.

But never in my wildest dreams did I ever imagine this conversation:

Boy: Today, at snack, they told me not to put my fingers in my nose.

Me (in traffic, negotiating evening rush hour, and trying to parse what I just heard: Uhm, yeah, well, some people don't like that.

Boy: S (caregiver name) doesn't like that.

Me: yes, well, (getting a bit of a handle on this topic) some people think that that is rude, which is why you should ask S for a kleenex or tissue when your nose itches (ha ha nice euphemism mom) at daycare. 

Boy (clearly confused): at home?

Me: Well, at home, you can ask for kleenex or a handkerchief as well. Or you can just use your fingers if you want to. But only at home. (Since, you know, I don't think I'm going to succeed in the "no nose picking at all rule" all at once. May as well define some parameters and start from there.)

Boy: at daycare ask for a tissue?

Me: Yep, that's right. Home is private, but in public, like daycare, ask for a tissue.

small pause for thinking

Boy: what about in the car?

Me: Uh ... (technically public but still kind of private) ... uh .... 

Yeah, negotiating nose picking places? NOT SOMETHING I EVER PICTURED AS A MOTHER.

Things that make you go hmmmm

(Did I just totally date myself with that?)

So tell me, what's more depressing:

1. the fact that you check your work email on the only time you have to yourself sans clingy toddler all day?

or

2. the fact that there are seven emails in there, all of them FROM YOU, all sent before 8am this morning?

(Is it a uniquely Canadian thing to throw odd French words into your everyday language? Many people I know do it, because we all learn French in school and there's French on everything, so it just seems a normal thing to do although ... uh, I'm sure it's actually rather weird.)

just a virus (the story of my life!)

We hied ourselves to a local clinic today which apparently, even moreso than nice coffee houses and brunch places, was THE place to be this morning, as they had a three-hour wait. When the bored receptionist told me this I actually stared at her in disbelief, unable to speak. Wait three hours? With a toddler? I have a reasonably patient toddler, but that still means his limit for waiting is 20 minutes on a Very Good Day.

So we got ourselves on the bus and went to another clinic -- one which is closer to our house, but at which once I got admonished by a doctor for not seeing my family doctor instead (thanks, but she's hard to get an appointment with, and this was a minor matter, and you know? I really don't need that, thank you!) and so I try to avoid them. But we had a nice doctor who had a look and listen to my child, who of course despite his cough looks extremely well and is energetic and engaging and I felt almost silly for bringing him in. 

And after all that, she said -- well, sounds like it's just a virus. Not allergies, not asthma, just a prolonged cough. There's not much we can do, and in fact the cough is probably a good thing, as it's getting things out of his lungs. And by the way his respiratory rate last night wasn't as bad as we thought. It was high, but not dangerously high and within normal ranges for a toddler (not, perhaps, a sleeping and relaxed toddler, but perhaps a toddler with a congestion and slight fever). 

Always nice to hear that we could have all just gone back to bed within 30 minutes last night instead of staying up for two hours and being rather tired today.

But of course, always as ever a relief to know that it is, as ever, just a plain old virus.

Pardon the incoherence

My child has a cold. 

Colds used to be a painful process that I had to endure as an adult, something that let me take days off work and sit on the couch, something that slowed me down a tad and made me appreciate breathing unimpeded.

Colds with a child are the bane of my existence, liking walking through hell. My own doctor, mother of her own two year old, confessed earlier this year that she feels worse when her child has a cold than when she herself does.

I concur.

We've actually been relatively lucky on the cold front this year. Last winter -- the first winter of daycare -- we seemed to have a cold pretty much constantly. No sooner than one cold would start to ebb that another one would come on full force. I blame the colds entirely for the fact that my child didn't sleep through the night for far, far, far too long.

This winter we've had breaks. And this particular cold isn't a bad one as far as they go -- nowhere near as bad as the ones we had last year, especially the one that almost became pneumonia but for a quick mommy catching the fever early enough to prevent all-out hospitabilizing illness. He's active and engaged during the day, energetic, and eating and drinking well. 

Frankly he's barely even stuffed up, really, and you'd hardly notice the cold except for the runny nose and the coughing. 

Oh, God, the coughing. So much coughing. So much coughing at night, lots and lots of coughing so much so that we were up for two hours last night. Not really because of the coughing, but because mom and dad felt that his breathing was too laboured and wondered if perhaps we should head to hospital.

It was not a restful night.

I was up again at six am and have been up since, but the good part is that I've spent a lot of time lying in bed TRYING to sleep and in that time I managed to come up with the proper material and flow of material for the speech I need to write tomorrow. 

And I also treated myself to chocolate coconut cookie bars to accompany my breakfast. If there's ever a morning you need fat and chocolate, morning-after-cold is it.

Of course this morning he has more energy than I can possibly imagine, and is running pell-mell about the place and is into everything. And me? I am trying my best to remain cheerful and energetic and I think I will likely crash about 2. Must go shopping soon, or all hope will be lost.

Somewhere here, there was a point. I'm sure of it.