Day to day

This morning I watched the sun rise. It's a nice day, clear skies, sunny, so the sunrise was pretty nice. And it wasn't exactly super early, either. Sunrise somewhere around 7 or 7:30. But I'd been up for an hour already, and awake since 6am, so it honestly felt like the sun was getting a good lie in.

I'm sick this week with a cold. Not a bad one, yet, I guess -- I can still breathe and function, but I'm tired and my sinuses hurt and my throat feels awful first thing in the morning. I made a big pot of tea and intend to just keep filling it all day. You see, The Man is away on yet another business trip, so I'm solo parenting all day. Well no. He gets in at 4, I think. But between luggage and travel and possible delays, and bedtime at 7, let's face it: in terms of kids, I'm alone all day.

I'm getting used to the travel. I used to dread it. Bedtime alone! With two kids! And then forget sleeping well. Every single noise I'd wake up. Was one of the kids awake? What were the cats doing? WAS THAT SOMEONE IN MY YARD?! And now -- maybe it's the cold -- I'm all "screw this. SLEEEEEEEEEPPPPP" And the kids are better at bedtime. Or rather, The Boy is. Instead of yelling for me juuuussst as The Girl is dropping off and thus waking her and then having to start the whole process again, he can wait until she's sleeping just reading his books. It's fantastic. I love five.

This weekend I need to -- along with all sorts of other things -- do some volunteer work for the daycare, and I have a big week at work, and I really do need to be well rested for all of it, and that just doesn't seem likely.

But instead of concentrating on the negatives, I will try to keep in mind the positives: that my two kids are delightful. That they are healthy. That we have lots of yummy food to eat. And a warm house. With a fireplace. And that yesterday's snow has melted.

And you never know. By Monday, maybe I'll have had enough ruminating time that that proposal will just write itself.

So here's the thing

I haven't written a decent email to anyone in months. Literally. Months. Any by "anyone" I mean in my personal life. I write decent emails at work, I suppose, but they are pretty uninteresting and kind of short, and let's face it, they don't count. But the fact is that I don't sit down and type anymore, probably because at the end of some days, that's just too much energy exertion. Yes, I know, that sounds unbelievably lame. But here's the thing: being a mother to two small kids is the most exhausting thing I've ever done. And some days, it's all I can do to just stay awake past 8pm. And many days? I don't even do that.

* * * *

It's interesting, actually. Being this exhausted actually made me realize how much better I feel than I used to. I've been eating gluten free for almost three years now. Six and a half years ago -- before children and pregnancy -- I used to come home at the end of the week and barely make it through a Friday night engagement. Now I'm still asleep mid-evening on Fridays, but I have two children. Clearly, somehow, I have a LOT more energy.

* * * *

Yesterday we took the kids to the pool. An hour later, I remembered why we only do it twice a year. Because it takes me that long to recover.

I kid, but I'm kind of serious. It took The Girl an hour to touch the water without screaming; within 10 minutes of her finally being ok with it, The Boy was whining and weeping with exhaustion and cold (he has no body fat. None. An hour in a pool takes a huge amount of energy to stay warm for him, and by lunchtime he's a weepy mess.)

We went out for pho afterwards, at a tiny hole in the wall cafe around the corner, the only white people in the place. It was pouring rain outside, the windows were steamy, the kids ate ravenously, and then we all went home and laid in bed.

Later that afternoon we lit a fire, and played in the living room. The Boy talked about how much fun the pool had been. The Girl nodded in agreement when we said we'd go back. I guess it's good that their childhood memories will be the fun in the river part of the pool, the hot soup, the fire place fire with the rain outside. Not the tears.

I'm sure I'll remember it that way too. And as much as I'm exhausted at the end of the day, one day I'll look back and wish they were tiny again.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Why, yes, I am still alive, thank you for asking!

I haven't had a lot to say that's even remotely interesting -- I've written a few posts that I've immediately erased, to be honest, because reading over them bores even me. And it's my life for pete's sake.

So! Happy Thanksgiving to Canadians! I hope you had a nice one. We watched football and ate turkey, so I think we've pretty much covered the stereotypes.

The football isn't usual for us -- Friday morning at work The Man texted to say his company was given a mess of tickets to the BC Lions game on Saturday night, and should we go? And take The Boy? And we kinda hummed and hawed over it, because -- well, we're not big fans, AND it was after bedtime AND The Boy has never seen a game, but in the end were all hey, they are free tickets and we've never been and a live game is usually awesome fun even if you're not a fan. Which was true. The kid wasn't really able to sit still at all, and I had NO idea what was going on most of the time, but it was fun and I'm glad we went.

True story: I must be Canadian because while I have no trouble following the tiny puck around the ice in televised or live hockey games, there were many many times the other night that I had NO FREAKING CLUE where the ball was. I mean, sure, just look at the largest group of guys, that's usually it, but ... yeah. I was amused by my obvious deficiency.

What else is new? not much. The kids have both had a couple colds -- god I just LOVE back to school!! -- and they both regularly flip back and forth between I LOVE DAYCARE / SCHOOL!! and I HATE DAYCARE / SCHOOL!!! NOOOOOOO!! DON'T MAKE ME GOOOOOOO!!! which is always fun. The Girl is still being as girly as possible -- she demands lotion for her little hands as often as she thinks of it (she is a very well moisturized child) and I'm sure that in my future there will be a horrifying discovery of lotion over every available surface in a given room, but as of yet all the dispensers are out of her reach, THANK GOD. Her face lights up every time I let her wear the shiny gold shoes someone gave her as a gift, and she happily click-clacks around the house in them for a good twenty minutes before she moves on to something else, and admires herself in the mirror. I've picked out a new baby doll for her for Christmas, one with diapers that can be changed and clothes that can be taken on and off, and various other accessories including a bed, because a few weeks ago at daycare I stayed with her and watched her take her own baby (with her always!) to the wee cradle, tuck her in beside the daycare babies, cover them with a blanket (and a pat!) and rock them to sleep, and then go clean the daycare play kitchen. I kid you not.

I mean, sure, soon thereafter she went back to the cradle and yanked the dollies out by the hair and threw them on the ground, which I assume is not going to be part of her future childcare routine, but watching that first part was truly surreal.

The Boy is a true kindergartener, and is getting along well. His teachers have told me they've noticed he's a bright one ("he corrects me when I read things wrong!" "He told me all about pollution and nitrogen in the air!") but also tell me he gets along well with his peers, which is good. He himself tells me that he loves kindergarten, except for the "paperwork" which is the only time they do stuff that is similar to the regular classroom work he'll be doing for the next 12 years. He hates that part. I think mostly because it doesn't come easy to him, he actually has to learn it, and practice it and a.) he's had a lot of other things come very easily to him and b.) he's a perfectionist, so this whole "I can't do it perfectly instantly" thing is really a big deal to him. I'm trying to be patient and encouraging, but holy hell it's hard not to be frustrated and kind of concerned about it. But ... you know, there's only so much I can do, right? Anyway, he is happy for the most part, so that's something. Something pretty important.

It's all the more wondrous to me that he can spend hours at a time on the iPad playing a game over and over and over again until he's actually quite good at it, but the idea of practicing letters until he's good at those is horrifying to him. But you know, nowadays people actually make a reasonable salary playing video games for money, so unlike those cautionary tales of old, encouraging him to be good at this is probably not a bad idea.

Oh! And I also realized while I was on the stereotype fling with my daughter that my son is pretty typecast as well -- a friend of mine's two boys have every appearance of being the solid jock set, but both have lovely quirky traits (one is REALLY into Disney princesses, for instance) that give them such lovely complexities. My son is somehow the superhero / comic / video game kid, and while this is not entirely surprising to me given his family (and of course not at all upsetting), I wonder how I managed to birth such very model children (model not as in perfect, but as in moulded / typecast.)

I then almost wrote that I sure hope my kids surprise me one day and thought ... yeah, no. I don't hope so, to be honest. I mean, becoming a Republican might be more than I can stand.

The Boy got his very first school photos the other day and I of course bought the entirety of the set. They have this very clever set up now, different from when I was a kid when you brought the order form home first and your parents were all "meh, we'll just get a couple 5x7's for the grandparents!"and paid just for those. NOW they take the photos and send home the whole package of your kid looking FREAKING ADORABLE and then tell you that the entirety is this One! Low! Price! And how can you send back the rest?! I mean, please, I am not made of stone here people. In any case, I was both enamoured of the photos and delighted that through no effort besides cheque writing on my part, I had Christmas gifts covered for grandparents and aunts / uncles / cousins alike, so woo-hoo!

THAT in turn led me to create a Christmas gift list on my iPhone and I now have plans in motion to order most of it online this month so that the two weeks holiday I have planned over the holidays actually IS holiday and not the usual mad crush of frantic activity trying to get things bought / wrapped / baked all the while visiting family in far flung locations. Wish me luck.

Annnnd that's pretty much the fall wrapped up for you, in a nice neat package with a bow. See you in January!

The first weekend

I realized this week, sometime in the middle of the night, that as hard as it has been to get to work on time for the past four and a half years that I've made the daycare-work run, that suddenly THIS year, I need to get the KID to school on time. My workplace, bless them, turned a blind eye to my coming in an hour late or even an hour and a half as long as my work got done. I was only inconveniencing myself, for the most part, by ensuring that I had to pull stuff together at nap time over the weekend. (Or more often, work like a mo-fo when I WAS there.)

But now I need to get the kid to school on time, which has effectively solved my getting to work late problem. But instead of just inconveniencing only me when I'm late, I'm now affecting my kid AND his class if he's late.

So my new morning routine is not to sleep in one tiny minute, and to just not sit down for a single second for the hour I'm home in the morning. It goes like this:

getupgotothebathroommakecoffeemakebreakfastforthreekidseatbreakfastandoverseetwokidseatingbreakfastshowerwashhairandbodydryoffpickoutfitgetdressedfixhairandmakeupifIhavetimemakethreelunchesfindcoatsandshoesanddaycareorschoolsuppliesherdtwochildrenintothecaranddrive.

And the best news? I get to do this every school morning for the next, oh, ELEVEN YEARS.

Oh. Weekends. Oh my how nice you are when I get to sit down.

Oh my Milestones!

We went to my parents' early this week. Or late last. One morning my mother drove us out to a nearby farm for produce -- mostly corn, this time of year -- and on the way back, a 20 minute drive, my son got bored and started playing with his loose tooth. Just as we were pulling on the off-ramp of the highway, he said, all casual-like, "Hey, I just pulled out my tooth!"

And just like that, my baby was gone.

He started kindergarten this morning. He's ready. He's SO ready. He's been waiting for this for a month, he's excited and psyched and so, so pleased to be there. It was just a couple hours, time for a story in story time and some outside play and a snack -- nothing he hadn't done before -- but it was different.

There's just something else that has changed, you know? He wears jeans and huge sneakers and has a new haircut and there's a hole in his mouth. He has homework! (Guess how old the teacher is!) He has a backpack in his cubby for his things.

My baby.

Hard to believe.

Even harder to believe is that I managed not to cry when I left him there for the first time. Really.

Almost the end

For four years now, I have left work, hopped in my car, and drove five whole minutes to the daycare to pick up my son. For four years, it's been my favourite part of the day. When he was a toddler, he'd run over to me, covered in smiles, shouting my name. (sometimes my actual name, because he had sussed out that everyone had a mama, and no one else had a myname.)

I went to years and years of parent meetings and daycare potlucks. I emptied and filled cubbies and water bottles, enjoyed and endured small talk with other parents (mostly the former, thankfully!). We went from one centre to another, talked about friends and friend mishaps and joys and sorrows. I've picked him up happy and found him, once, on the couch sobbing "mama! mama!" which nearly broke my heart. The caregivers and teachers became friends, and in some circumstances were a lifeline, a resource, when I needed to talk and figure out this thing called parenting. It's been an amazing experience, because the daycare was such a great place for him: the most amazing part has been watching my shy, unsure, book-loving toddler morph into a confident, happy, outgoing boy.

Today I am home baking cupcakes. For his goodbye day. Tomorrow is his last day, and next week he starts kindergarten orientation.

Truth be told he's still going to almost the same place. He's going to the private kindergarten offered by the same organization, which means I will still pick him up five minutes from my office, around the same culdesac. I will drive by his old daycare twice a day, every day.

But it still feels like a huge freaking deal. And I am feeling sad, like I am losing something, like something is being left behind. A milestone reached, and overcome, and passed into memory.

And yet at the same time, I am kind of excited -- he's my first born, my first baby, and he's grown and changed so much from the big fat baby into a long lanky boy with messy hair and his first loose tooth. He still has the same big brown eyes, and now he talks non-stop, with new ideas and things he thinks are funny, and I just can't wait to see what my wonderful 5-and-a-half year old will do next.

You know, besides singing me a song about doo-doo, and laughing uproariously.

Nursing gymnastics

So apparently there's an international nursing symbol. This:

And then there's the international symbol for nursing a toddler:

And ... oh, but it's true.

See, I'm still nursing my daughter. She's 15 months. A toddler. When we go to bed at night, I lie with her on the bed. I'm on my left side, she is on her right, to my left. (Yes, always. She has a preference. I will not even mention what this has done to my bustline.) She nurses like that for a minute. Maybe a minute and a half. Then she heaves her little body up on top of mine, so she is lying on me, I'm flat on my back, she's now looking at where she was lying. I am not allowed to touch her at this point. If I put my hands on her body, even to steady her, she lifts her head, finds my hands, and pushes them away. I don't have to tell you that this is not pleasant for me.

Sometimes in this position, she lifts her right leg, twisting around in a way that would make my yoga teacher very proud. It's detoxifying!

Lately she then moves from the top lying position back over to my left side, but she arranges herself at a 45 degree angle, lying length wise down my left arm, on her belly. Got that? I can't even draw it for you. Her head on my shoulder, her feet at my hand.

Should I let you know here that she does all of this without delatching?

Because she does.

And then? For the next twenty minutes, she switches back and forth between these positions every minute or two. You may think I am exaggerating; I am not. Up. Down. On the arm. Off the arm. Do not touch me mother. You are just the vessel, you must just lie quietly.

Sometimes, when she gets bored, she plays. She bites softly, and giggles. And is puzzled when I get mad. It's fun! Really!

There are times I think this is not worthwhile, let me tell you.

But.

For the times when she's sick, when she won't eat due to teething, when she needs the comfort and the closeness, for when I need the same, it's incomparable. She reaches up, touches my face, looks into my eyes. Smiles. Pats my chin to make sure I'm still there. It brings us together after we've been a part, and is probably the only way I can cope with being separated from such a tiny thing for so long at work.

And despite feeling like a jungle gym, it's so, so worth it.