mother desperation

One of the things I haven't figured out as a solo parent is bedtime. Both the kids are ready for sleep at 7, and they both want / need my attention, and so nights when The Man works late / is away we just tend to pile into the king sized bed and sleep together. Me too. If I'm alone all day with the kids I'm exhausted by then!

We've been working really hard and getting The Boy to stay in his own bed, though, so the other night when The Man was working late I just proceeded with the "own bed" bedtime. Stories in his room. Tucking in with kisses. Nursing in the other room. And it worked pretty well, and I was being quite self-congratulatory with it all, having a sleeping baby in the big bed and an almost sleeping four year old in his own bed in another room.

Once the baby was settled I crept quietly around the house and then decided I should check the preschooler. As I suspected, he was asleep. Or almost. As I leaned in to kiss him, he woke up with a start. "Mommy! I NEED you!" he whimpered. His eyelids fluttered. I knew he was close to sleep, so I leaned in to him, knowing that in five more minutes he'd be asleep. And I could get up. He rolled back over, but not before placing my hand on his back where he could feel me.

So there I was. 8pm. In the dark of my son's room, lying straddling the very uncomfortable wooden bedrail, one hand pressed to my son's back, the other holding myself up awkwardly, no where to lean my head. One foot on the floor, one on the bed. I know, I know, I need to get some boundaries or something but it was all of five minutes! I mean, I can indulge my kid for five minutes, right? It's not that bad.

It was at that moment, after an evening of meal making, feeding, dressing, cajoling, story reading and diaper changing that I realized: I'm a mom. Because no one other than a mother would be so loving as to endure something so uncomfortable, even for five minutes, just to get a kid to sleep. And no one other than a mother would be so damn desperate.

Asynchronous

My son is four. Four and three quarters, as he likes to tell people. He is also bright. Gifted, I suppose you could say, although we never use the word in front of him. Mostly because it suggests there's somehow something better about him, better than others his age. And also because to be quite honest I'm just not sure how much of a gift his abilities really are.

When he started reading before he was two, we talked a lot about his being gifted. It's impossible to tell the absolute intelligence of a two year old, to be fair. They grow in leaps and bounds, children, you never know where they will speed up or slow down, so we tossed the word around a lot without ever really assigning it to him. But what was clear and what still is clear almost three years later, after reading became math and the ability to add, subtract, and multiply in his head all before age five, is that gifted or not, his brain works in a very, very different way than everyone else's.

I suppose that's the best possible definition of gifted in its purest sense, how it was meant to describe chldren when it was first used. Who knows? All I know is that my preschooler can do math in his head as fast as I can, can read with the fluency of many teenagers, and is starting to grasp himself that he's not entirely like everyone else.

But yet he is. He's four and three-quarters and he likes dinosaurs and superheroes and thinks farting is funny. Being silly is his greatest joy in life, he loves to laugh. He hasn't yet learned when to stop talking, how to adequately read body language, or how to listen. There are days his impulse control is maddening.

He still has the emotions of four and three-quarters. The innate sense of fairness of a preschooler.

And the cognitive ability of someone twice his age. Or more.

What this means for us is that conversations speed from the inhospitable atmosphere of Venus (because he reads, you know. Mstly non-fiction, lots of science. Some math.) or perhaps from the adding of positive and negative numbers into a weeping meltdown over the fact that he just angrily shoved his now-crawling sister away from his book. Or sat on her like a pony. Or he starts shouting that he's NOT HUNGRY OR TIRED when the fact that he's shouting and ragingly angry means that in fact the exact opposite is true.

None of this is a problem, of course. He's allowed to act like a four year old.

The problem is me. Because I get so caught up in all that he *does* know that I find myself thinking whenever he is naughty, "Goddamn he should know better!"

But the fact is he doesn't. Because he's FOUR. He doesn't always know how to control his emotions or act with his sister or control his impulses because he's a preschooler and sometimes preschoolers just ... Don't. But it's surprising, the strange lapse, the huge chasm between his abilities and his age-appropriate behaviour.

One day, I know, it will all even out. His emotional competency will catch up with his cognition. Maybe he'll be seven, maybe he'll be 25. Or maybe it won't. After all, none of us is perfect in this area. But it will get *better*.

All the information you read on giftedness writes about this. The asynchronicity of development, the leaps and the holes. So it's fine, of course. Of course it's fine.

Because what I've come to realize is that it *is* fine. That's who he is. *He* has no problem with it. The problem is only with others like me. Who don't expect what we get from him. We're the ones with the problem. He's perfect the way he is.

For those of us watching, its maddening, heartbreaking, fascinating, and amazing. It's hard to understand, hard to remember his age and what that means.

For him it's just the way it is.

Sent from my iPad

Becoming the mother of two

It was shortly after I posted yesterday that I realized I'd written that post before ... A lot, in fact. The "dear God I'm alone with two children!" post. The "thank God there's chocolate" post.

What didn't occur to me as I wrote it was that there was a point when those posts became joking instead of serious. I don't know when it was, to be honest, but it occurred to me yesterday that the idea of being alone all day with the two kids doesn't fill me with terror like it did six months ago. It doesn't really make me pause at all. Now when my son wants to stay home, I kind of shrug and say fine.

Don't get me wrong, this parenting thing is still hard. It's a very hard job especially when you have terrible patience, as I do. I snap at them still, I get frustrated. But I'm human. It happens.

I knew it would eventually happen. Even six months ago when even the idea of a whole day alone was tiring, I knew I'd get to this place eventually. And I have.

And it's a good thing too, because the hub's business trips are going to start up again soon. You may want to ask me again in a month if I am still this calm and confident. Heh.

Sent from my iPad

Home

Even though my sleep was poor last night, when The Boy said he wanted to stay home, I acquiesced. I know that some day, I will remember all these days I had at home and regret that my children are grown and gone. I will wish to hear my four year old's sweet voice again, when he only calls once a month from his work in an oil field in Ghana. The missed nap that occurred because he couldn't be quiet is nothing compared to the extra time I get with them both, sitting on the floor, a jungle gym for both my children, squealing and laughing.

It is the best of times, really.

Especially when there's chocolate pudding in the kitchen I can eat by the shovelfull directly from the container. Somehow it makes it all better.

And I'm not done yet ...

The kids are all right.

My son is five weeks from turning five. He is very slowly turning into a rational adult. It's very slow, but the ability to reason and temper emotions is starting to show through, which is a great relief as anyone who's ever parented, interacted with, or been in the near vicinity of a preschooler will attest. He has boundless enthusiasm for the things he enjoys and responds with great distress to the things he doesn't.

He's turning into quite a leader in play -- even with older kids he'll attempt to corral them into what he wants to play. He's not always successful, but he does love to try. He has made friends at daycare -- real friends, not just kids he hangs with, but kids he really seems to get along with. And he's decided some kids aren't nice, and he doesn't like them. C'est la vie. With age comes discrimination, I suppose.

He's not always terribly nice to his sister, but she loves him to bits. He pushed her over the other day and then hid when she started wailing. He pushes at her surreptitiously, hoping we won't notice. And yet sometimes gets down and hugs her and kisses her and wants to play with her. She'll take anything as long as he's paying attention to her.

His knowledge and understanding of the world still continues to amaze us. Half the time he's off in his own little world and we have to yell his name to get him to come to, and then every once in a while he'll come up with something that proves he was totally listening and taking it all in all along, like yesterday when he told my mother that in the caves we went to in Mexico almost three weeks ago the stalactites are hollow and the stalagmites are solid. From a kid who forgets that I told him to get dressed not 30 seconds after I said it. And then tells me, "Sorry mom, but I forget things almost instantly." No sh*t, Sherlock. Try not to sound too cheerful about it because mama's blood pressure just might go through the roof.

We had a discussion this morning about kindergarten, since The Man got up at 6am to register him for after school care (many parents wait overnight for this. In the cold. In February. But we are blessed to have more than one option, and we object to the insanity, so instead he went around 6:30. We are miraculously 12th in line. For what I believe are 11 spots. Ha.) I told him he'd learn the names of the letters and how to read. He scoffed. And then told me that what he wanted to learn was "How those glow signs work. The ones with the letters!" I told him I wasn't sure that the mechanics of neon signs was on the kindergarten curriculum, but that he could ask. I think perhaps he is going to be very disappointed with school. But we're talking it up anyway. Yay kindergarten! It's going to be so awesome!!!!1!


On our trip back from Orlando we had two delayed flights and a long long journey, and it was late and we were all tired and I started at one point to cry about it, and he came over, very concerned. "What's wrong mom? Why are you crying? Do you want a hug? I'll give you a hug. You'll feel better." And I did, because he thought and he cared and he wanted to make it better. God he's awesome. A huge amount of work, and he drives me crazy, but wow awesome.


The Girl is now nine months old. She started crawling mid-December after four months of trying to do so, and has given that over now in favour of cruising. If I take into account her brother and her own track record I predict she'll walk in a few months ... soon enough, but too soon, if you know what I mean. She's now at that lovely "I can get up but can't get down" phase which means she spends a great deal of time fussing at me, panicked about her vertical state. It's great.

She's learned how to wave and can now even do it at appropriate moments, which makes us melt. Communication! Someone's in there!! I mean, sure, she's been smiling and laughing for months now but waving seems somehow the next step to talking. Don't ask me why.

Speaking of talking she can now say "ma-ma" "da-da" and "na-na" which pretty much covers immediate family, although she says them completely indiscriminately so whilst the consonants are good the meaning behind them is clearly lacking. Still. It's a good thing.

Her hair continues to confuse us. In most lights it's a nice light brown, but in sunshine it looks golden blond and in some special sunlight it looks like red gold. So the jury is still out, nine months in, on what her final hair colour will be. I imagine it will likely keep changing through her childhood, but it sure would be nice to have a sincere sounding answer when people ask. "Brown?" sounds like I don't ever really look at her.

Which I do. A lot. I mean, we're together 24 / 7, except for that pedicure three weeks ago. Because she is still, Dear LORD, not eating. I don't mean to harp on about this but it's consuming my days. Because all I do is stand in the kitchen and eat. I just made rice krispie squares. I'm saying here in public that I think they will be gone by tomorrow. Because they are easy and close and hey it's rice! It's healthy! And I will eat them and eat them and eat them to try to fill this ravenous hole inside me. I have been making special trips to the grocery store to try and find something she will ingest. Nine months arrived Sunday and I was all "Dr Sears says she can have DAIRY!" and the very next day I was at the grocery store getting organic plain yogurt. Which she ate. Kind of. Not really. But she made a lovely finger paint with it.

I made a doctor's appointment for her, similar to the one I made for my son at this age, but instead of going in all panicked about him Not! Eating! my intent with this one is just to make sure she's still growing appropriately and then to sigh resignedly and keep nursing her until she deigns to eat. However I'm sure I will still greet the doctor with some amount of panic. It's what I do.

Aftermath

The trip was nice. We managed to avoid most of January in the rainy Pacific Southwest (so it is in Canada, after all), by virtue of our skills in procrastination. Normally the time share points allow us a single week away, but if you book SUPER late they give you a "discount" of sorts. That coupled with the fact that we forgot to go on vacation last year meant we got three whole weeks away, two in Mexico (no one wants to go there these days, what with all the terrorists and shootings and kidnappings etc.) and one in Orlando. 

As is our usual with southern vacations, the weather was unseasonably cool, which meant we had a week in Mexico of merely 20 degrees Celsius and some rain. Which is better than 5 and raining as it was at home, but does make Mexico rather dull, especially if one is at a resort and the most interesting activities are playing in the pool and playing on the beach. Neither is much fun in the rain, as my four year old will attest. But we also got almost a week of 25+ and sunshine, which allowed us much pool fun and landed two of us (neither me nor baby) with sunburns, so I suppose really it's good it wasn't all sunny. You'd never know we slathered that kid with 50 sunblock each day. But he does have a totally adorable tan line above his butt now.

I enjoyed the first pedicure I've had in ... almost two years. The woman scrubbed my feet with the exfoliator and then tucked it into my purse murmuring "You can just use this in the shower on occasion!" as a tip, I suppose. Which was appreciated and all but I do exfoliate on occasion. I suppose the types of clients she usually sees actually get pedicures more often, so don't have such shocking heels. So it was a tad embarrassing but my feet much enjoyed it. And given it was pretty much my only baby-free hour, it was a very nice time.

We spent three days in Orlando walking about theme parks that were almost caricaturely overdone but which brightened the faces of my son and husband, and which I admit were fun. I rode rides and carried my 20 pound daughter for upwards of eight hours at a time, given she could nurse and sleep and ride in the Ergo, and came home to find that my back was pretty much done with that. A few days of taking it easy on the carrying has helped much, but it's a darn good thing she's pulling to stand and starting to cruise. I won't last much longer carrying her everywhere we go.

Travelling and vacationing with children is not for the faint of heart. We never got to sleep in, nor enjoy a late and slow dinner, nor really enjoy the "happy hour" (11am to 1pm. WTF?) at the resort in Mexico. We didn't spend long afternoons napping and reading by the pool, nor luxuriate in lengthy spa treatments. It was still go go go go go with an almost five year old, dinner and bath and bedtime by 8 for both kids and then collapse into bed ourselves after a day spent walking! playing! swimming! running! beaching! More than once The Man and I looked at each other and thought that perhaps we should have come alone, because it wasn't exactly getting away from it all. And we had kinda needed that.

And yet we stayed, one night, at the Magic Kingdom, late to watch the photos and shows and fireworks, and I held my daughter and saw my son sit on his father's shoulders, in awe of the majestic performance, and I held my partner's hand and I knew deep down inside my soul that this is what it's all about. This moment is the one I will miss when they are grown and gone, the knowledge that I was the one who rocked his world, who brought him to that magical place, where he clutched my hand and shrieked with joy. He loved DisneyWorld, and I loved watching him, and being there with them all was a dream coming true. Not the place, the place  didn't matter. It was the joy and the togetherness and the family that mattered. 

In such a way, it was everything I had ever wanted, and that was nothing that rainy days nor long delayed plane trips nor long active days nor lack of relaxation nor anything else could dampen.