Take a Sick Day

Yesterday was a long, long day.

I kept looking at the clock thinking, "How, how, HOW can it only be 9:15?  When I only got out of bed at 8:20?  And we've had breakfast and played and read books and been outdoors since then?".  It just lasted forever.

I'm sick.

I hate getting sick.  On the best of days I wake and know I have to ration my energy to successfully make it through the day.  I don't start off strong only to fade at noon.  I don't break into song while sculpting fruit animals and making smiley face pancakes at dawn.  Nope.  Over time I've learned that to have a "successful day", I need to be cool.  From the hours of 8:00 AM till dinner time I'm a one-woman-show, and to keep my audience amused, entertained, educated and, well, alive,  I just need to be cool, man.

So when I wake and feel the stirrings of a cold that I know is going to drag me down, it's going to be a challenge to make it a successful day at home with the kids.

What is a "successful day", then?  Well I'm glad you asked.  Oh you didn't ask?  Or don't care?  Well too bad.  I'm too sick to really give a fluff.

When I fall into bed at the end of each day and reflect on what we've done, I consider it to have been a successful day with my bozos if we've managed to accomplish a few essential things:

1. An outing of some sort:  This can include going to the dollar or grocery store.  Just so that my children still know there is a world going on outside of their own house, full of strange and weird people.  It's important to mingle among them from time to time.  Build up an immunity.  And so on and so fourth.  Believe me.  The day-time dollar store crowd requires a thick skin.
2. A creative activity:  Like play doh.  Or colouring.  Or baking.  The inner moron in me tends to shy away from these sort of activities, but lately I've been trying to push myself and carve out time and patience to expose my children to the sorts of activities that most kids have been doing since the age of six months.  I start out strong - I arrange all the ingredients for chocolate chip cookies into neat piles, measuring cups and spoons at the ready.  I get the step stools gathered 'round the kitchen counter.  KitchenAid sparkly and ready to whirl.  Tiny aprons tied snugly round tiny waists.  But at some point someone will spill the pre-measured flour-and-baking-soda mixture leaving me sweaty, wondering how the chemistry of the final product will be altered missing 1/36th of the required dose of baking soda.  I start to clean up before we've even finished making the dough.  I fret about tiny tongues licking the measuring spoons before we've measured the vanilla.  In short, I efficiently drain the fun right out of the activity.  For myself, anyway.  The kids still seem to enjoy it, and their nutty mother.
3. A good nap/quiet time, but not too good:  My daughter is still of the napping age, and my son is not.  I most definitely need the time to myself in the late afternoons to regroup, to prepare dinner, and to watch some HGTV.  However, around the 2-hour mark I begin to feel guilty that I've "shut away" my son in his room and that my daughter won't sleep properly if I let her nap too long (she always sleeps just fine, for the record).  I become my own worst enemy and ruin my break time.  I get my son out of his room so that he can be underfoot and annoying while I try to make dinner, and wake my daughter before she is done her nap making sure she is good and cranky for the rest of the day.  
4. Quality time:  You would think a stay-at-home Mother wouldn't worry too much about "quality time" with her children, but, as my husband likes to point out, I can worry about anything.  So I do.  I worry I didn't TEACH them anything, or READ to them enough on a given day.  I worry that my son doesn't like to try to write his name, or that my daughter can't seem to get her colours down.  I worry they will think I'm boring, absent, strict, moody.  I worry we didn't do anything that they will remember when they are older.  I just stew.

So, needless to say, according to my own measuring scale,  yesterday was not a "success".  I waited for meal times, then I fed them.  I tried to stay awake.  I watched as they played together (God love them) for most of the day, with my directing them to different activities from time to time.  I put on a movie.  I rushed nap time, which turned out to be an epic fail because after 30 minutes my daughter was up suffering from diarrhea that ended her rest, poor bird.  I made a dinner (chicken soup) which they did not eat, then sent them outside again to play with one another.  I celebrated when it was bath time.  I went to bed at 10:00 PM only to be woken at 1:00AM, 1:20AM and 1:40AM by my poor sick daughter who told me in her own little way she had a bad tummy.  I rocked her until the baby advil soothed her then kissed her sweaty head one last time before passing out in my own bed, thanking my lucky stars we don't have a newborn that might also wake me up.

And here I am again today, sick.  Tired.  Not much zeal or zest for being a "Great Mommy" today.  Or even just a "Mommy", to be honest.  Today will be better, though.  It's a preschool day so we will in fact be at least forced out of the house.  Maybe get some groceries.  Or bring Claire to the park while Joshua is being better-cared-for by his teachers.

Days like this I long for the sick days I used to guiltily enjoy when I was a non-mother.  Calling the boss to report whatever vague illness I happened to be suffering from at the time.  Crawling back into bed.  Getting the rest I had convinced myself I needed.  

But these days it doesn't matter, in general.  There is no back-up plan.  I am the backup plan.  It's just me.  And after work, it's my husband and me.  There is no one to call.  No one to lean on.  There is no break.  No holidays.  No sick days.  These facts don't normally bother me.  But when we're all sick and suffering, that's when it really hits home.  We're on our own, baby. 

Hopefully today I'll be able to pull it together, and teach myself that sick days can also be successful days.  That I can be graceful in the face of a cold.  Be fun with a fever.  Be sweet with a sore throat.  Be an enthusiastic teacher with an achy body.  Create some magical memories that we will all treasure long after they have grown and moved out of the house, which I know will happen so fast it'll take my breath away.

Maybe just one more movie...

Water Torture

I wake up each day usually with a groggy sigh and a stretch.  I push back the crumpled white sheets and duvet, swing my feet to the floor, and stand to raise the window shades.  Luckily, these days, I am usually greeted with a sunshiny morning, the Rocky mountains looming impressively beyond my backyard, and the swings of the playset swaying gently in the morning breeze.  It is a new day.  I have a fresh slate.  Let's begin.

Then.  The kids wake up.  My clean fresh slate begins to gather dust.  And the way in which water torture was designed by evil geniuses to work, so begins my day.

Let's begin with my son:

My son is in a new, challenging stage of life.  He is pretending to be almost anyone and anything he can think of.  Even if he doesn't know the name of something or someone, he'll pretend to be it.  Recently I overheard him tell my husband, "Dada, you know those fish on Mario that swim up and down and that you have to shoot or you'll lose?  Yeah I want to be that fish."  And so on.  And so fourth.  He frequently runs into the room to announce "Mama!  I am Spiderman!" and runs out, only to return moments later, "Mama!!  I AM SPIDERMAN!" and off he runs again.

Drip, drip, drip...

Adding to the complexity of the situation is that if I call him to come and get or to do something, even if it's something good, "Joshua!  Your jumbo chocolate covered sugar candy ice cream cone is ready!" he'll chastise me with a quick reminder that "Mama!  I am Spiderman.  NOT Joshua.  SPIDERMAN." This is especially frustrating when I am discipling him, making my blood boil.  He will interrupt me when I am lecturing him on road safety to remind me of his new "name" letting me clearly know that after I spoke his name, and not his PRETEND name, he heard nothing, waiting for the opportune moment to interject with his correction.  

Drip, drip, drip...

Lastly, and the real gipper, is when he adds layers to this make-believe world.  One day he was pretending to be his cousin Isabella who was pretending to be Mario.  WHO the heck has the time to remember that!?  And god help you if you don't say "Isabella who is pretending to be Mario, come and get your dinner!"  God help you indeed.

Drip, drip, drip...

Next up, my daughter.

Oh my darling little baby is beginning to flex her defiance and independence muscles in a big way.  Turning into a pile of curly-headed mush if I try to move her or pick her up to direct her to do something that she doesn't want to do.  She has started refusing to be picked up in parking lots, and will sometimes  sit down unexpectedly if I am not moving at her snail's pace, tugging ever so gently on her arm.  

Drip, drip, drip...

Even my greatest joy, dressing her each morning, is becoming more and more of a challenge.  If I don't have her day's outfit all picked out on her dresser before I get her up, then it's game over, Mama.  The second I roll out her drawers to choose a top and a bottom, I have a pudgy finger pointing and directing me like a New York City traffic cop.  "No.  Not that one!  THAT one!  The CAT one, Mama!"  And, God help me, do you know that my 2 year old daughter has seven cat tee shirts?  SEVEN!  So each cat tee shirt must be held up and properly displayed so that my little Shirley Temple can make an informed decision on the BEST cat tee shirt for her particular mood.

Drip, drip, drip...

Five minutes later, said cat tee shirt is full of oatmeal.  Not to mention her hair, her face, the tabletop, the table BOTTOM, the floor...  And the redressing process must begin.

Drip, drip, drip...

Lastly she has begun to complain of being "Too too hungry!" when I am preparing supper.  I loving prepare healthy* meals (* = good enough) and sometimes even drinks for my family.  I stave off requests for cookies and gummy treats and try to keep my voice calm through the pseudo-tears and whiney tantrums that naturally follow as they starve to death in front of my eyes as I finish up my cooking.  I use Mother-logic that says "The hungrier they are at supper, the greater the chances of them eating their meal!"  Instead, my son needs a constant reminder to "EAT!!!  Joshua EAT!" every last bloody mouthful, and my daughter twists her head impossibly to the side hiding her mouth from the outstretched spoon.  Sooner or later she begins to cry, her bowl pushed dramatically to the side.   Beautiful tears stream down her face.  Hours of preparation, down the drain and scraped off of the floor and into the garbage can.

Drip, drip, drip...

What non-parents or even current parents sometimes forget is the cumulative effect that living day to day with these monsters, er, young children, can have on a person.  No, it's not just a kid playing make believe.  No it's not just the crayon on the new window blinds.  No it's not just that she took her shoes off in the backseat of the car.  Again.  For the tenth time.  This morning.

It's that all they do these things.  All day long.  Every day.  And with zest!  All the while you are trying to live with them, and love them, and teach them, and guide them, and encourage them, and discipline them, and fill their lives with richness.  You are trying your damnest to do it all right, and at the same time use the bathroom alone once in a while, and have some clean socks in your drawer.  And wash your hair and maybe even blow-dry it once a week or so.

Drip, drip, drip...

So, it was with this set of glasses on that I viewed the scene across the street the other day.  A little girl and her younger brother were messing around in their front driveway.  They were in and out of the garage, I just happened to notice them as I watered my garden* (*  = weed patch).  Suddenly out of the garage smoothly glides the little boy, on his belly, atop a shop vacuum, not unlike a seasoned skater upon the ice.  "Weeee!" he sang as he glided across the driveway, his big sister running and giggling behind him, the hose bumping willy-nilly behind him along the pavement.

This scene, taken as a snapshot, was pretty funny and innocent.  But from within the garage begins to spew a stream of obscenities.  They have poked the bear.  And he woke in a bad mood.  The father grabs the boy from the shop vac and begins to sharply yell at him, kicking the appliace back into the general direction of the garage.  Each shout from the dad brings on a new chorus of crying and pleading from the children.  "Wow, " I think to myself, "that seems unnecessary.  And harsh.  Those POOR children!"  Roughly they are shoved inside of the house to receive, I presumed, a further lashing from their mother.

And then I remember.

Drip, drip, drip...

And so we all must remember.  And take into account.

Drip, drip, drip...

I like to think that none of us wake up in the morning, push back the bed sheet and think "Boy I can't wait to get to my breaking point today!   I wonder how the kids will press my buttons today until I crack?  I wonder how much of an ass I will make of myself as I yell loudly and sarcastically in my sweet babies faces in public?"  No.  I like to believe that most of us wake up and feel refreshed, with a feeling of 100% battery power, 110% patience levels, 150% willingness to parent at our best!

But, somewhere in between Cheerios and "Goodnight Moon", things sometimes begin to unravel.  But you have to live it.  Each day.  Each hour.  Each minute.  To truly appreciate the mental erosion of the water torture effect.

Drip, drip, drip...

A few minutes pass and my weeds are thoroughly watered, and I turn off the hose.  From the corner of my eye I see that the children have been released back to their play out on the driveway.  They happily use a snow shovel to scrape noisily across the driveway, and I see the little boy has found the shop vac again.  

I notice the sun is low in the sky.  Soon time for baths and "Goodnight Moon" for my two.  I have survived another day without unraveling.  I did not lose control.  I have won.  They did not beat me.  And I love them so.

But then, there's always tomorrow.

Drip, drip, drip...

-TDW

Letting Go

I am a huge sap, and a giant sentimentalist.  For that, I do not apologize.  I weep at my children's birthday parties.  I cry at New Years.  I get a lump in my throat at Weddings.  Don't even get me started about my children's baby photos and mementoes.  Yikes.

I have a hard time letting go and moving on to say the very, very least.

I suppose this topic is on my mind because recently my son finished up his first year of preschool.  See this is how much of a silly sap I really am - he finished up his FIRST year of preschool.  Oh, he'll be going back next year, oh yes!  It's not even like he's done preschool altogether and moving on to REAL KINDERGARDEN.  Nope.  There's more of the same coming his way (much to his dismay, he's really excited to ride the school bus.  Woah there little buddy, Mama's not ready for THAT.).

But yet I photographed this event like the Royal Wedding itself, taking photos of all angles, trying to mirror them to the ones that were taken on his FIRST day nine months ago.  I tried to make the day special for him, trying hard to make it stand out in his young memory, so that maybe in 20 years from now when we're chatting about his youth perhaps he'll remember his last day of preschool (year 1 of 2) and remember the day fondly, perhaps tease me over my smothering photography practices.

This is the way I am.  Something about me attaches heavy value and sentiment to things and events that perhaps don't require such lavish attention.  Yet, I cannot help it.  I feel that if I don't do the crazy things I do, they will vanish like smoke, and no one will remember.

This was my way long before I had kids, but now that I have two flesh-and-blood kidlets underfoot, the problem has gotten out of hand.

I remember the first time it hit me...  Joshua was a few months old and we were trying to establish an earlier bedtime for him.  This, of course (why did I say "of course"?  This is not an "of course" moment...  all babies are different, and not everyone who reads this article will naturally presume that A leads to B, yet I assume everyone knows all the same things as I do...  sigh.  Welcome to my crazy brain) meant that we would be dropping a feeding sessions.  I wept!  He did not NEED me any more!  He did not WANT me anymore!  He did not LOVE me anymore!  I was a superfluous mother figure in his life to only needing to breastfeed 11 instead of 12 times per day!  Oh woe!  Oh dear!

I was mortally wounded over this "rejection" of me and my (presumably) delicious milk.  My darling and ever supportive husband tried to reassure me that this was a GOOD thing...  look I had more freedom now!  I could sleep from 8pm till 8am now if I so desired, instead of having to feed him at midnight!  But yet I took this as a step away from me, one tiny step on the path that would take my precious baby out of my arms and into the world forever.

Many steps would follow.  Moving out of the crib.  Into a real bed.  Out of diapers.  Into preschool.

But this is the way that these things happen.  I think that people who are not sentimental forget that.  Every little change, or accomplishment, that our children make is one little step away from us.  One step into the world.  One step towards becoming an adult.  And, being an adult, I want them to just hang on to their babyhoods as long as possible!  Being an adult is SO overrated.  Bills.  Traffic.  Laundry.  All bad bad things.  Stay little.  Go to bed at 8:00pm.  It's okay!  Let me tie your shoe.  Let me cut your chicken nugget into tiny cubes.  Stay with me a little longer.  Let's snuggle and pretend today will never end.

Maybe this sentimentality came from when I was a child.  Always worried about what a new change would mean to my little life.  I'm not sure when "changes" went from being good, exciting things to bad, terrifying things, but it did.  Perhaps one day I will decipher when and how it happened, but I suppose for today, it can just be.

My husband is the polar opposite to me, and it seems that both kids will inherit this awesome genetic trait (whewf!).  When we sold our first family home to move to our bigger current one, I was a puddle of mush, full of "Oh HOW can we leave this beautiful house?!  Our kids were born here!  This house was so special." blah-biddity-blah-blah!  Nope.  My husband was "Yeah let's get OUT of this piece of crap and into something new!  Yee haw!".  I'm not sure if he actually said "Yee haw" or not, but it wouldn't be unlike him to do so.

I wish so many times that I were more like him.  More willing to release myself from the past and run full speed into the future.  To say "Oh great my babies are no longer babies!  We can have more fun with them now!" instead of "Oh GREAT my babies are no longer babies!  They won't need me anymore and they're not tiny and cute anymore and my purpose for being on this planet is shrinking and shrinking!".  I think that would be a much healthier way to view things.

But, alas, I am who I am.

I have a lasting image in my mind about being a child and making a big leap in life.  I was learning how to ride my bike.  Without training wheels.  I was very excited.  And nervous.  My Dad was running behind me, hand cupped underneath the seat of my fantastic bright green bike.

I think that's where I am now.  I am cupping the precious babyhoods of my children's lives in my hand. I am running with them, trying to keep up.  Watching them laugh, smile, struggle with their learning of how to live.  How to change.  How to grow.

I run as fast as I can.

I try to keep up.

But eventually.  I will have to let go.

Deep in my memory I am aware of the moment my Dad lets go of the seat...  I am flying down the road on my freedom.  I am smiling and laughing.  It is evening and the sun is low and golden and in my eyes.  I ride down the road until I get as far as I dare.  I turn my bike around to see if my Dad is as happy and proud as I am, but he is too far away.  I cannot see his face, and he is already walking back to the house.  I have gone too far for him to see my smiling face.  And I cannot see his to see if he is proud of me.

This is where faith comes in.

Faith my children will know I will ALWAYS be proud of them.  No matter how far they go.  No matter what they do.

Faith they will know that I love them, forever.

No matter if they cannot see my smiling face, and crying eyes.

Parenting

This is an old article I wrote a while back when I only had one kid (titter!  titter!  Oh the ease of every day life with only ONE CHILD!).  Written from the perspective of a new young mother of a little 13 month old boy.  It's dated, but I hope you enjoy it, nonetheless:


Before I had a baby, like many of you, I had lots of opinions and notions about parenting. I held firm beliefs on many topics of how to "properly" raise a child. There were things I would NOT compromise on, things I would DEFINITELY do, and things I would most definitely NOT do once I had my very own bundle of joy. In short, I had a long boisterious, self-righteous TO DO list on how to be the perfect Mother.

Then, I had a baby.  And I realized quite quickly what a jerk I was to even THINK those things.

Now, whenever I see a Mom in the mall offering her baby a sip of Pepsi, or a frustruated Dad dragging his child by the arm out of a grocey store, I no longer look on with distain and critisicm and judge them harshly to myself.  Instead I look on in wonder and awe, and ask myself if they at one time, too, had illusions of how to "properly" parent a child as I once did. 

My amusing list of pre-baby Parent-isms:

1.  I will NEVER give my child a pacifier.  This comical notion was blown out of the water when my precious 7 week old cried so long and so hard, he broke capillaries in his eyes.  Up to his room I bolted to find a package of pacifiers that I had recieved as a gift for my Baby Shower (at the time I laughed to myself and put them away with the intention of giving them as a gift to someone else - what a fool).  Giving him his first taste of pacifier was like watching the sun set, or waves roll gently over a beach, the SERENITY on his face was amazing.  A lesson learned, big time. Some babies have a need to suck.  Let them!

2.  I will make all of my own baby food.  This is probably the worst thing a new mother can promise herself.  Not because it's a bad idea - in fact my 13 month old now eats 99% homemade babyfood and can't get enough of it.  The reason that this is a horrible idea is because some babies new to eating solids can be extremely sensitive to not only taste but especially TEXTURE.  Heinz has it down to a SCIENCE how to puree and strain carrots and peas JUST RIGHT so that new eaters will devour the stuff.  YOU, my friend, do not.  I took his rejection of my food like an arrow to the soul.  Point learned?  Start them out right on a wide variety of bottled baby food, and give you both time to adjust to this huge and FUN change.  Then give your baby food making skills a whirl.  Don't bash your heart against your blender when all your efforts in food preparation end up on the front of a onesie.

3.  My baby will never leave the house with dirty hands, face, or clothes.  This is probably the biggest Parentism I held.  I would look at dirty-faced babies in stores and practically vomit all over myself, thinking "How could ANY mother let their child look so gross in PUBLIC?" How?  Well I'll tell you how.  YOU DON'T SEE THE DIRT WHEN IT'S YOUR CHILD.  Or, more specifically, you don't notice the dirt until it's too late and you're already at Sobey's with a cart load of grocieries, no wipes handy and heck, you really don't care at this point in the day anyways.  I can't count the number of times I've looked at my darling boy at the zoo or playground only to see a clump of peas dried behind his ear, or a ring of dried cereal residue circling his delicious rosy lips, even after lovingly cleaning his hands and face before we left the house.  When it's your baby, all you see is a beautiful child, and you find it hard to notice such tiny things as dirt.  It's true! 

4.  If MY baby ever screamed or cried in a restaurant, I would leave with them immediately.  Well well, how's the view from your high horse now?  When you take your baby to a restaurant, it's like leaving a glass of red wine on a white couch and hoping the cat won't knock it over.  It can be risky.  But it can also be a great, EXTREMELY RARE opportunity to get out of the house for a nice meal that you didn't have to cook yourself.  Joshua is a great kid but even he has his moments where he's fussy, arching backwards, and completely uncontrolable in public.  So what do we do?  Shove a soother in his mouth, give him something to play with, and ignore him, mostly.  We need a night out, too, and if you don't like it then stop going to Swiss Chalet for supper at 4:30pm, jerk.

5.  I'll let my child have trips and spills, how else will he learn?  I used to imagine letting my child play on the stairs by himself and "letting" him have the occasional fall from 1 or 2 steps up so that he would realize where danger lay and how to avoid it.  Yes, this is 100% true, I've spoken that thought aloud.  Then what happened? I endured 38.5 weeks of pregnancy, 26 hours of labour, more stitches "down there" then I like to remember, 2 bleeding nipples, 10 weeks of consecutive sleepless nights, and 13.5 of the best most rewarding months of my entire life.  I've learned my boy is the most precious thing not only in my life, but my husband's and our parent's lives as well.  And am I about to let that precious gem fall down even one tiny stair??  I do not think so!!  I don't smother him with safety by any means, but I'm no idiot, either.  You touch one hair on his beautiful blonde head so help me.... okay, reeling in the Mother Bear instinct now...

6.  I'm going to dive right back in to exercise after giving birth and leave my baby in the gym daycare.  Well this was another amusing thought. I actually visited my gym daycare on MULTIPLE occasions, trying to get a feel for the strangers with whom I'd be leaving my baby boy, but I had a nagging, crazy-lady like feeling in the back of my mind always that someone, ANYONE could come into this place, claim my baby as their own, and leave while I was stair-mastering!  In hindsight, this is a ridiculous thought, but try telling that to a post-partum sleep-deprived Susan Taggart!  JUST YOU TRY!  And, to be fair, I did give it a shot, once.  And only once.  Two days after that my baby caught his first ever cold, which I blamed on leaving him at the germ-infested gym daycare, felt incredibly guilty and self-indulgent, and never did return. 

7.  I will never be "angry" with my baby.  Okay, this is going to be a tough pill to swallow for you non-but-will-be-in-the-future-parents.  There are moments, albeit rare and lasting mere split seconds, where you will HATE your baby.  It may happen at 2:30am and you've been trying to get them to settle to sleep since 8:00pm yet they refuse to settle and scream and wail.  It may be 1:00pm and they nip you while breastfeeding.  Inevitably there will come a moment when you are so frustruated that you think to yourself "You are doing this on PURPOSE!".  Hopefully at this point, like me, you will laugh at yourself because babies don't have the ability to do these diabolical actions "on purpose"... or do they?

8.  I will jump at the chance to have a night away from my baby.  I used to think that when the opportunity arose, I would leap at the chance to have a night away from my baby and that after weeks and months of caring for them around the clock, it would be an opportunity I would seek out and embrace.  I would pump milk and prepare meals so that even in my absence he would not notice that I wasn't around.  Then I realized a few things.  First, pumping THAT quantity of milk is a HUGE ordeal.  Second, when you're away from your baby you have to continue to pump and store your milk and pumping takes WAY longer than actual breastfeeding.  And lastly, even though the umbilical cord has been cut, I feel so attached to my baby that leaving them even for a few hours is hard, let alone overnight.  I'm working on it and WILL do it, but it's not the "opportunity of a lifetime" that I envisioned, that's for sure.

9.  I will be NOISY around the house at nap and bedtime so my baby will learn to sleep through noises.  This probably the most innocent and most recommended tidbit of advice given to parents from people who do not have children.  In theory it's BRILLIANT - climitize you baby so that nothing will wake them from their sweet slumbers.  HOWEVER, in real life, once you get your baby down for a nap or for the night, you will do ANYTHING to keep it that way.  After the first 10 - 15 weeks of not getting any more than 2 or 3 consecutive hours of sleep at a time, you think, nay BELIEVE that getting a full night's sleep is the holy grail of parenthood and basic survival.  God help the moron who rings the doorbell or blasts music while working on their deck during this sleeping time!  A curse upon your house and all who dwell within!!

10.  My pet will always be a beloved member of the family, baby or no baby.  Believe it or not, once you have a baby, get this - YOUR CAT TURNS INTO A CAT. YOUR DOG TURNS INTO A DOG.  No longer do they have "kitty feelings" or "doggie emotions".  If they get fed and petted everyday, then you're doing good.  Sure, you still love them, but not to anywhere NEAR the degree to which you doted upon them before your baby was born.  And god help them should they WAKE a sleeping baby with their noises (see point #9).  I knew that this would probably happen to us and our cat, but actually had to live it 
to believe it.  Hey look at that, our cat is just a dumb cat!  Wow!


-TDW

Momma Said Knock You Out

Though it doesn't happen often, there have been a handful of times in my short Motherhood where I've felt like a complete and total failure as a protector of my children from this harsh and ugly world.

It's the worst feeling in the world; to suddenly realize that I have let something transpire, right before my blood-shot and mascaraed eyes, that could negatively impact my child's well-being.  Sickening.  Nauseating.  Infuriating.  Worse than baby rage, in my mind.

Here's an example that happened to me just today:  I took my darlings and myself off to the store to get some things we so desperately needed.  Okay we didn't need anything, but because this is "reading week" and my son doesn't have preschool I needed to get out of the house and I wanted to look at bed-in-a-bags for our guest room.  Anyway.

Upon entering the store we were greeted by an overly-makeuped elderly woman who looked like she went straight from the salon and into her blue smock, so perfect were the pin curls upon her frosted head.  She wheeled a shopping cart in my general direction and asked if the kids would like a smiley faced sticker.  Naturally, I said of course they would!

She approached Joshua first, and he obliged this woman, obediently holding still while she stuck the yellow label to his hand.  Unfazed, he toddled off to look at the Easter display nearby.  Next, she turned to my daughter.

Now Claire is 20 months old, and even in the best of moods, is beginning to make strange with new people.  Claire is suffering from an awful cold which is disrupting her sleep all this week, so to say the least she is not in a "good mood" today.  Let alone in a mood for becoming soul mates with the scary greeter-lady.  So as the witchy-woman approached, my girl quietly ducked her head and leaned into my chest from her seat in the cart.  Natural response, I thought, and reached out to take the sticker for her as I stroked her curly fever-warm head.

That old hag then put the sticker BACK onto her roll of 33,000 stickers, as if every one counted, frowned deeply into her layers of powder, rouge and wrinkles, shook her head and said disapprovingly, "Fussy little girl, isn't she?" and stalked off to "greet" another customer.

I opened my mouth to argue with her and say that she was just tired, but by then the moment had passed.  I had frozen a moment too long, and it was too late to disagree with what she had said.  As I took a few steps in the general bed-in-a-bag direction, I became aware of how ANGRY I was that someone had judged my daughter like that.  How dare she?  She has no idea what the last few days or weeks or months have been like for my baby.  The teething, the sicknesses, the fatigue, the moods.  The fun, the joy, the giggles, the laughter.  The learning, the milestones, the growing, the LIVING that she has done, just to get her to the point of sitting quietly in a dirty blue cart only to then be judged by the likes of HER?  Well.  Well now.  This is where I start to fume.

I wasn't angry at the woman.  I was furious with myself (okay, and really angry at the woman, too).  I let a complete stranger totally judge one of my children and I just stood there like an idiot, probably smiling, and didn't say a word.

If this was the first time it had happened, perhaps I'd be giving myself a break right now, but it's not. No.

The first time it happened I was a young mother and my baby was mere hours old.  Joshua was having trouble feeding and I was having trouble with, well, everything.  I felt like I had been hit by a garbage truck, I was in shock, I was confused, I was overjoyed, I was everything.  So the fact that my baby wasn't feeding was tragic to me, and I just could not get the hang of breastfeeding (especially with no one really even trying to help me and a giant IV in my arm preventing me from really giving it a go myself without serious vein-pain).

A random nurse came and told me they had to take a bit of his blood but that she'd bring him "right back".  So off she wheeled my newborn son.  A few minutes passed.  Then a few more.  And some more.  I remember looking at my husband thinking "Where the hell did she take him?" and then I'm pretty sure I said those same words aloud and encouraged* (*told him) to go look for him.  Shortly after he returned saying the nurse was on her way back with him.  She told me that they had done some blood work on him, strictly routine, but that his blood sugar was a little low so she had given him some formula.

Now.  This immediately angered me.  Not only had she taken him for the better part of an hour when she said she'd be a moment or two, she GAVE HIM FORMULA.  Don't get me wrong.  I think formula is fine and dandy, but as a newbie mother I was hell-bent on getting the whole breastfeeding business down and here was this 20-something nurse parading my newborn son around the hospital and feeding him FORMULA?!  And, best of all, without our consent!?  I was so upset.  I lost sleep over this one.  Seriously.  But did I raise my voice on behalf of my baby, who hadn't one of his own, to tell her what an insult it was that she had done that without asking me, his mother?  How negligent?  Nope.  I didn't even flinch.  In fact, I think I may have even thanked her.  Oh dear.

Next up?  Joshua's 2-year-old checkup.  It was at our previous GP's office.  I had had nothing but bland or normal experiences with our doctor before, and even the ones involving Joshua had been uneventful to date.  He had been a pretty easy going kid up until this point, so no reason to really comment on anything.

At this checkup however, he was beginning to make strange, and was beginning to pick up on the "vibes" of a place.  Clearly, there was something about a doctor's office that was making him wary.  So when it came time for the doctor to check him out, he wasn't going to participate.  Nope.  Not this time.

I remember I managed to sit him up on the table and encourage him to allow her to check his reflexes, look in his ears and eyes, that sort of thing, but the trouble came when it was time to look in his mouth.  He was TERRIFIED.  He started to cry.  I tried to soothe him as best I could but he was just shaking.  I can't imagine what he thought she was going to do, but clearly it was horrifying.  I tried promising things to him to see if that would lure him to just open up for a second.  But nothing worked.

She asked me if I could hold him down.  Puzzled, I asked her what she meant, and she demonstrated.  I was horrified watching her pin my son down with her arms, holding him tightly - too tightly - against the table, and felt sick.  She told me to hold him in my lap, pin his arms back, and use one of my legs to keep his legs from kicking her.  I'm not sure what class my husband must have missed in Medical School, but NEVER have I heard about this toddler-restraining method before.

I gave it a shot, but not wanting to hurt or scare my boy, he easily freed himself and ran to the door, pulling on the knob trying desperately to get out.  I tried again.  And failed.  One last shot I whispered in his ear "Joshua, honey, just open up for the doctor and I'll give you some num-nums when we get home, okay?", num-nums being those fruit flavoured gummies that he was addicted to at the time.  The doctor asked me what they were, I told her, and she briefly lectured me on the importance of brushing his teeth EVERY time he ate those - as I stood in disbelief at her choice of opportunity to lecture me on such a random topic, and then she looked at my sweet, terrified, sobbing boy and said "Besides, a naughty boy like you doesn't deserve num-nums do you?".  The last straw had been broken.  I swept him up in my arms and left.

We've never been back.  Dr. Margaret Churcher, in case you're wondering.  Beware.

But did I ever actually SAY anything to her about it?  Did I stick up for my son, or myself?  Did I ask her what the hell she thought she was doing back there, physically restraining a young boy over a routine checkup, not even because of a worry over a throat infection or something more serious that may or may not warrant such actions?  No.

I'm not sure why I allow these things to happen.  Is it because I'm Canadian, or Catholic, or female, that encourages me to take this nonsense from others and not retaliate when really something should be said or done?  Why is my first reaction to be passive and submissive, and not strong and aggressive?

I want my children to look at me in these situations and say "Wow.  That's my Mom and she stood up for me!  I am special!  I am important!"  I don't want their feelings to be hurt in these situations and wonder why I didn't say anything at the time.

As a kid I was on the receiving end of this kind of thing many times.  A close family member would comment on my weight, or my habits, or something, and I'd be left feeling hurt and embarrassed and, well, alone.  So you'd think, having borne the brunt of it time and time again, I'd be the first one to lash out against it, right? Unfortunately I'm beginning to realize that in these situations I freeze, deer in headlights style, and allow the very same to happen to my children.

Well, hopefully now that I've blogged it, I can become even more aware and more present in times like those.  I can say something like "Excuse me, she is NOT a fussy child.  She's just afraid of really old  and really rude people."  That sort of thing.  Something snappy and mildly offensive and to the point.  Sure I've taken steps in the right direction (switched family doctors - our new one is awesome, we love you Dr. Kristine Bertsch!) but I still haven't truly demonstrated to my children that I will not allow that kind of crap to happen while I'm around.  Bullying is still bullying, whether it comes from a snotty grade-four kid or a bent and twisted GP.  I want to be a champion for my kids.  A hero against emotional pain, discrimination, and taunting.  I want to knock those sonsabitches out.

Because to me, they're perfect.  Not everyone has to agree, but everyone has to respect.

I still didn't buy a damn bed-in-a-bag.

-TDW