motherhood – Page 2 – Grateful Grumbles

June 20, 2019July 14, 2019

Dear Lovely Strangers

To all of you Lovely Strangers,

Thank you.

I thought I knew what I was doing having three kids. I had successfully maneuvered a large box from the post office to my car with two kids in tow — and by in tow I mean one twenty feet ahead and another trailing twenty feet behind — while eight months pregnant. Surely managing an infant would be similar.

And it is, exactly like that, except the box baby needs things which often reminds the older two, they too need things. They often wait for inopportune times to loudly express their demands for things like food and water or to use the bathroom, or whichever thing I offered them only moments earlier, when I wasn’t changing a dirty diaper. Some days are exhausting, others are lovely (but still exhausting).

So thank you. Thank you for seeing me. Thank you for offering — even if I don’t take you up on it — I appreciate your offer, and more than that, I appreciate you.

You saw me struggling to buckle up the infant carrier. Usually an easy feat, I stretched my arms reaching for the buckle behind my neck, while balancing a tired, crying baby on my chest, maybe it was my hair in the way, maybe it was the squirming infant, but the buckles would not meet. You asked if you could help, thank you.

You saw me bouncing and swaying with a baby nearly asleep in the carrier, keeping an eye on my other two children, running wild circles around the other picnickers while waiting for our lunch. I filled a mini cup with ketchup and prepared to balance two precarious plates overflowing with food truck goodness back to where my older two were supposed to be sitting. You asked if you could help, thank you.

You saw me as I herded my two children towards the ice cream line up. Their bodies anticipating sugar, vibrated with excitement causing them to physically bounce and spin and loudly shriek which flavour they’d prefer. With a baby in one arm and my other hand full of teetering lunch time garbage, I scanned the area for a garbage can. You offered to help, thank you.

You saw me struggling to close my very obstinate stroller. No amount of jiggling, jostling, pushing, pulling, or silent cursing were collapsing the cantankerous pram. Beads of sweat dotted my brow as I stared at it with a great deal of contempt and considered abandoning it all together, when you walked by. You offered to help, thank you.

You saw me walking ten paces ahead of my very over tired three-year-old. I used my very best patient voice and tried to coax her the last few steps to the exit of the park. Walking by with a group of friends and seemingly well-behaved children, you suggested we mothers should fist bump each other in trying times like these. Thank you.

You’ve picked up soothers, chased after me with fallen shoes, held open doors, helped my children off of swings and shared stories in exhausted solidarity. Thank you.

When my five-year-old daughter sneakily fuelled by sugar and freshly scolded, locked me out of the house and didn’t return to the door no matter how gently or furiously I knocked, I hesitated to ask for help. Partly because I thought she would open the door, and partly because I had never experienced helplessness at this level. It is hard to be completely helpless to circumstances, to admit things are completely outside of my control, especially sugar-induced spiritedness. With my phone inside, a baby in my arms and a very sweaty, very sticky, pant-less daughter by my side, all of us shoeless, I found you on the sidewalk. You didn’t judge me as I explained our situation and I asked to use your phone. You kindly listened, and empathetically distracted me with small talk as you walked with me back to my house. You waited as I explained the situation again to my husband on your phone. You waited until my five-year-old finally opened the door, a cheeky smile on her face, my phone in her hand and her dad on the screen. Thank you.

It really does take a village, and I’m so lucky to have a fairly capable body, a great husband and a strong circle of family and friends to help along the way and then there’s you, lovely strangers, filling in the gaps. I never realized before how much that African proverb also pertains to the parents. It takes a village to raise a child, but it also takes a village to raise a parent. Thank you for helping to raise me. Your kindnesses do not go unnoticed.

One day, when my hands are less full, I promise to pay it forward.

Thank you.

This post was republished by Scary Mommy right here.

April 14, 2019June 24, 2019

Another Day at the Pond

We trudged up the hill, the trees, usually generous, offered no relief from the sun, high in the sky. Rubber boots against black pavement amplified the heat and chafed our bare legs. When did this hill become so steep? It was important that we hurried.

They sighed in loud opposition, as they often do. They didn’t want to be here in the heat of the day, still I urged them forward. It was important that we make it.

Days earlier we had studied the shrinking pool of water. It was much smaller than a few days before that. As the water surrendered to the warming days the pool became more obviously alive. We stirred up the water with a stick and watched as creatures emerged from the murky bottom. I’d always been fascinated by pond life.

My grandparents owned a beautiful five acre property we loved to explore. My grandfather carefully tended each area, tamed blackberry bushes and proudly toured us around, feeding us the things he found while noting seasonal changes and improvements he’d made. There was a barn that housed a horse and chickens, large gardens and a dilapidated caboose, all the things childhood adventures were made of. But the most fascinating part was the pond. Each Spring, we bore witness to life itself, while observing eggs turn to tadpoles and tadpoles to frogs.

My grandfather cared greatly for his pond and the life within it. He took it upon himself to give it a concrete bottom on one half, I’m sure to ensure that the pond would not dry out before the tadpoles had completed their transformation. It was important to him for these tadpoles to join the loud chorus of adult frogs in the neighbourhood.

We would venture into the pond, stirring the ground with our boots plunging ice cream pails into the water, excitedly studying each scoop, until our boots filled up with water. We returned to the pond week after week, spring after spring making note of changes.

It’s no wonder I love ponds, this oddity is likely a part of my DNA. Naturally, I was thrilled when we bought an acreage with a pond on it, my kids would love this, they’d have to. If it wasn’t already a part of them, it would be soon.

Routinely we walk our property, appreciatively breathing the fresh air. The walks always move slowly, as we stop for each puddle and collect all of the treasures that catch the eye of my daughters, until their pockets and hands grow heavy, until their legs grow weary.

We religiously study the water levels as cool spring days become warmer. Each year we watch as puddles become captivating ecosystems, wriggling with life. As the days grow longer so does my concern for the well-being of the puddle dwelling creatures that have entertained me so. I cannot bear to let them succumb to the heat of the day. And so we hurry.

They are moments from death. Near victims of the perilous sun, they lay still. Helplessly packed together, their delicate skin is only kept damp by the body pressed against theirs. Survival had sent them to various deeper pockets of the puddle. The ground around them cracked, baking in the heat of the day. With both my hands I carefully scoop them into the bucket. There’s no way to know for sure but they it looked as though they were celebrating this necessary change.

My four year old daughter drags a net through another puddle, carefully tapping the net on the bucket to release its squirming contents. Tadpoles, salamander efts and dragonfly nymphs cascade out. All natural predators of each other, I pondered if I ought to leave one type behind. Having already interfered with Darwinian survival principles, I decided against throwing off the balance of predator and prey. That and I couldn’t possibly. It was too rewarding rescuing them, imagining all of the creatures happily re-homed in a much larger pond, one able to withstand the summer sun.

Our two-year-old quickly lost interest and found herself tangled in a long black berry vine. Even after rescuing, she cried to return to the comfort of our house, dramatically indicating her freshly scratched legs. It was time. We had rescued hundreds. The next large puddle over had several days still before they too would be in dire condition. I made a mental plan to return.

We headed back down the hill. The bucket sloshed against my leg as I tightly gripped it and our crying two-year-old daughter’s hand. Both loudly complaining now, they were prepared to collapse right there on the road, just minutes from our home. Desperate promises of popsicles in the shade, coaxed them along.

I carefully let more water into the bucket and left it in the pond, acclimating, under the watch of the weeping willow. After some time my daughters and I went back to the pond to bid farewell to our friends. I slowly tipped the bucket into the pond, some eagerly swam away, some hesitant, clung to the bucket, waiting for more help. They were free. I watched as they began to migrate further into the pond. They had made it. Relieved, I continued to watch as a large salamander crept out of the depths and snatched up an unsuspecting tadpole in its mouth, before disappearing again. And the circle of life marches on, just another day in the pond.

February 20, 2019February 20, 2019

The Hand Mold

A week after Christmas, our home had resumed a level of near normalcy we felt comfortable with. Presents had mostly found their way into closets and toy bins. But one item remained on the counter, unopened, constantly attracting the attention of our four-year-old. We had said enough “laters.” She was clearly onto us. Knowing we had little to no intention of opening it anytime soon, she pleaded that we open it immediately.

Removal of the packaging attracted our two-year-old daughter, who pulled up a chair so she could partake in the action. My husband, occupying the tiny space between both chairs, very wisely intercepted a small but dangerous amount of glitter, and threw the contraband straight into the garbage. With a bit of warm water, they prepared the hand-molding, memory-making kit.

They poked, then kneaded, then stretched the dough-like substance. Excitedly, the girls stretched out their fingers as their dad worked to flatten it, stretching the dough to accommodate three hands, on a dough that was meant for one.

It was meant for our youngest to commemorate just how tiny she was on her first Christmas. Just two weeks old now, I held her as I comfortably sat on a bar stool on the other side of the counter. I observed my husband using all sorts of patience to complete the task, kindly accepting help from the very persistent hands begging to take part.

When he deemed it large enough, he took our four-year-olds hand and pressed it into the white material, carefully pressing each finger to make a deep enough indent. Our two-year-old spread out her fingers as wide as she could, her hand overtook the remaining space. It took several attempts to position her hand appropriately, only to find she had blue marker all over her hand, that was now a part of the commemorative hand mold. Now it was time for our youngest daughter, the one it was intended for. Her hand barely fit in the tiny remaining space, he struggled to unclench her fist, jostling her around, while he pressed her hand gently but hard enough to make an impression. Both older sisters crowded in even closer.

And then she spat up. A big one. All over the whole project. Our four-year-old was heart broken, our two-year-old cried loudly.

It was salvageable, just like most of these moments that go awry. After he wiped it clean, he etched in their names and the year with a fork. He laid it flat to dry, still somehow it curled. Maybe it needed the glitter, maybe it needed to not be spat up on or maybe it didn’t like being washed.

This curled, stained, spat up on commemorative hand mold, perfectly represents our imperfect family. Normally this happens when we attempt “nice” family photos, someone is doing something ridiculous, isn’t looking or is facing completely backwards. I love those photos, always laughing at how accurately the camera is able to capture all of our personalities or our particular moods that day. Like most of our attempts at anything we do as parents, this didn’t go as we had envisioned and all we could do was laugh and carry on.

And now this beautifully tiring season in our lives is solidified in a weird piece of foam that hangs on our four-year-olds bed.

It’s perfect.

January 17, 2019January 17, 2019

Our Last Baby: The First Few Days

After we were released from the hospital, we brought our new daughter home. Healing from a c-section I slowly walked up the stairs and eased my body onto the couch. Breathing in the mesmerizing newborn sweetness, we relaxed by eating snacks and watching shows we had already seen. It felt good, maybe too good, in hindsight. Surgery had gone smoothly, baby was healthy and so were we.

And then they returned. Two tired faces ascended the stairs. Excited raspy voices called out, “baby!” The bags under their eyes, large and dark outlined the glassy eyes that seemed to have a presence of their own, presenting themselves before the rest of their bodies. Then their eyes lit up, making them momentarily recognizable, the second they laid them on their new sister.

“STOP” I yelled. “Wash your hands!”

They clambered up onto my lap, smiling, very curious and very smitten. They introduced themselves to the baby, declaring their love for her, as they pawed at her face and body, while I grimaced at the never ending amounts of coughing. They were surely still contagious. With little choice I put all of my faith on the foaming hand soap, it would have to do.

Grandma and grandpa had graciously agreed to watch the older two girls, even to the detriment of their own health. We probably would have asked for another night off, but they were beginning to feel the effects of the early stages of the flu themselves. So they left us, and just like that we were a family of five.

The hospital had provided a false reality, cocooning us. All of our needs met in the quietness of the busy maternity ward, a quality under appreciated with the birth of our first daughter. New parents, again, to our third daughter, we felt fairly confident, we were experienced and prepared to handle this. Holed up in our room, swept back into newborn bliss complete with sweet cuddles, simple needs and some painkillers, it’s no wonder we were so easily mistaken.

The two days days before I had gone into labour, our house was struck by the plague. High fevers, body aches and burning eyes were loudly and tearfully reported by our daughters. I doled out medicine, encouraged small sips of juice and carefully cuddled them, while the tv droned on and on. Washing my hands every time they became free for just a moment, I decided that even with only a 10 percent chance of protection, getting the flu shot, when it was offered at work, was indeed a good idea.

When contractions began, I was glad this baby had held on for at least the beginning of the flu days. Two weeks and two days early, she was my longest pregnancy. I had been anxiously anticipating her arrival, counting the random contractions for days as Christmas crept closer. On December 16th contractions were slow but regular, we packed our bags, showered and settled into bed. I had high hopes of getting some sleep before heading to the hospital. Contractions consistently arriving every fifteen minutes meant little sleep, but at 5 am when I stepped out of bed, something shifted and they began coming every two minutes. Trying not to panic at the acceleration, I calmly asked my husband to get ready and to call my sister to watch the older two who were still asleep. On her way to the gym, my sister unfazed by the presence of the flu in our home, happily turned around. She had been waiting for this call. Off we went.

The very kind obstetrician I had seen for all of my births and the duration of three pregnancies, had given me her phone number, and met us at the hospital. After losing my first baby due to birth complications, I felt very fortunate to have a kind and familiar face in the operating room at each of my subsequent c-sections. December 17th at 7:31 am, we heard her loudly enter the world.

After a great deal of unsuccessful pleas to hold their new sister, we put the older two to bed. Constant coughing escaped their feverish bodies and echoed down the hall as they attempted to rest, signalling the beginning of yet another long night.

As we prepared to settle into our own bed, we gently laid our sweet little one into her crib, five feet from our bed. At first grunt, I pulled her into our bed, just as I had done with her sisters. Last baby means I’m going to enjoy every minute of these sweet sweaty cuddles. Coughs, followed by crying, repetitively interrupted our sleep. Exhausted we took turns comforting the older two with cuddles and meds.

Each time, I not so smoothly rolled myself out of bed, eased my body to the floor, and gingerly lifted myself into what might be called mostly-standing. Recommending only Advil and Tylenol for surgery patients seems a little cruel. I slowly tread down the hall to the room I heard the loud cries of “Mommy!” from. I needed another dose of Tylenol anyway. I returned to realize I only had inches of space on a king size bed. Unwilling to move her and risk waking her, I precariously balanced myself on the edge and attempted to replicate the only position I found which allowed even a little comfort for an aching body. It didn’t matter, I wouldn’t be there long until I was needed again.

In every one of these exhausted waking moments, my brain and body so tender and so tired, my heart was full. Our family had been completed with the arrival of our newest daughter. It’s such a strange thing for a heart to feel such peace, while it simultaneously feels such sadness as I thought of my oldest, the son, I lost. I had begged the universe for these nights, six and a half years earlier, where a tiny human needed me and now there were three. Three, creating the most beautiful chaos, and I am so lucky to be in the thick of it.