Every day we would hit the bump in the highway with increasing velocity and increasing hopes that today would be the day when we momentarily took flight.
A year, felt a long time to travel the same stretch of highway, every day — an introduction to the drudgery of regular routine and we celebrated the break in monotony by attempting to launch ourselves into the air, with no regard for consequence.
I met my dear friend in a Math for Elementary Teachers course. I didn’t know she would become my friend just yet. I did know, she needed help, and while I was adept in math I didn’t realize I was in need of a lot of loud laughter and support for many years to come. Five years and a few courses later, we were thrilled to have been accepted into the same teacher program and we made immediate plans to carpool.
Excitement grew when winter came and the bump grew under the freezing conditions like only a newly settling freshly twinned highway over a wetlands could bend a highway. We wondered how much more the road could endure before crumbling completely under the intensifying conditions — but her integrity remained intact. Everyday we hit the bump speeding, and for just a moment before we returned home each afternoon, we were weightless.
A professor we deeply admired, encouraged us when feeling uncertain, to plant our feet firmly on the ground connecting ourselves with the earth. Unsurprisingly, when you envision the entire earth beneath your feet, supporting you, you begin to feel calm. (Whether this worked because of a true connection or a distraction method, the results were the same.) This technique became invaluable as we interviewed for teaching positions and beginning our career. We planted ourselves in the interview seats and became fixed in positions that required even more routine and regularity than student life allowed.
As we became fixed in our new phase of life, my dear friend moved away and the highway folks “fixed” the blacktop on our beloved stretch of pavement — taking her defiant beauty.
Every now and then I come hurtling down nostalgia highway and more often, the regular highway. While her playful, unruly ascent no longer remains, she still bends a little, fondly reminiscing of the time she sent us soaring — an enthusiastic accomplice in our escape from the usual.
Thank you, dear highway, for always taking us to where we needed to be.
Our home was hit with a cold. Not the wipe-you-off-your-feet-putting-you-on-the-couch-with-a-box-of-Kleenex-eyes-barely-open-as-you-listen-to-your-favourite-TV-show-hovering-somewhere-between-consciousness-and-completely-asleep type, but the one that just barely messes with your wellness and majorly depletes your patience level. It interrupts your children’s sleep as the virus hits their little bodies a little harder, rendering you and everyone in the house in a state of utter exhaustion.
In this particular circumstance the croup cough resulting in a midnight ambulance call might not have helped things. But when your three year old wakes you up with a terrifying, panicky, wheeze hack and manages to say that she swallowed a rock and the hubby is on an out of town shift, and there’s two other kids still sleeping, you call. A false alarm, thank goodness, but then we were all awake, still stunned and on edge. Eventually the hum of the fan, the uneven snores of a croupy three year-old and the claws of an eight month-old baby, on my face, lulled me back to sleep.
They’re bickering before I even lift my head from the pillow, like really bickering complete with neck punches. I am in a fog that no amount of espresso can lift. I find myself losing my patience and then apologizing, on repeat. All. Day. Long. “I shouldn’t have yelled. I’m sorry.” None of us are our best selves, physically, mentally or emotionally and we are all simultaneously both imploding and exploding. All. Over. The. Place.
Our five year-old, while not obviously sick, seems to have the same level of irritability as myself amplified by the heat, and is antagonizing her sister and me at every turn. She pushes allllll the buttons. “Get ready!” I yell, “It’s time to go!”
I bend over to help our three year-old put on her swimsuit, she refused to take off her shoes. I’m dizzy and I feel myself slipping into another moment of unnecessary exaggerated frustration as I try to jam uncooperative shoes through a seemingly invisible leg hole. As I take a deep breath, I catch a glimpse of her footwear. Her paw patrol socks are stretched up to her perpetually scratched knees, and her mismatched shoes on the wrong feet. I take a minute to remind myself that she’s three, and she’s not feeling well either. There’s a thin layer of snot across her entire face, and wisps of her hair are booger glued to her face, I attempt a crunchy pair of pigtails.
They’re not buckling their car seats and yet for some reason the three year-old still feels the need to scream “I do it my own self!” When I reach in to help, she swats at my hands and stiffens her body — an angry, snotty, piece of defiant plywood. The harder I push, the harder she resists and it takes everything I have to stand back and watch her struggle with her badly twisted straps as her baby sister, in desperate need of a car nap, begins to loudly complain.
Somehow we made it through the day, good friends who don’t mind some venting and help to keep my kids happily occupied, helped for sure. We made it and I head to bed optimistic that tomorrow is a new day.
The baby has it now and her clogged nose makes it impossible for her to keep her beloved soother in place. All night booger sucking, bum pats and quiet shushing mean that again I got very interrupted sleep — a recipe for disaster.
Unwilling to waste even one warm summers morning I prepare them for an outing. My head is stuck in a “seize the moment” mentality and I overly ambitiously decide it is very important we head out early to beat the heat of the day. My head is spacey as I shuffle three kids, two dogs, enough snacks, water bottles, extra clothes and a blanket into my car.
Then, “Crunch!” I backed my car into our mostly opened garage door. Tiny pieces of styrofoam shoot out from the now very curved garage door and I let out a frustrated cry. My good-hearted neighbour reminded me it was an accident, a fixable one and my husband graciously laughed as I delivered my news via FaceTime.
We should’ve just stayed home, embraced a sick day and watched a movie, but the edges of wellness are deceptive and I really thought we could do it. Summer provides so much time for relaxing and yet counterintuitively adds a sort of pressure to get out there and provide our kids with opportunities to have fun, lest we waste the day. I’ve been keeping a mental summer to-do list — the last summer before our five year-old enters kindergarten — of all the great things I remember enjoying when I was young.
I often tell my kids that we all make mistakes, but it’s important that we learn something from them, to hopefully avoid repeating it. I learned it’s ok beneficial to waste use a warm summers day for rest and repair when our bodies and minds require it. The next kinda unwell day, I’m calling it, right from the get go, couch and cuddles, no matter the weather and perceived pressure to have fun.
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.
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.
when i die
spread my ashes
everywhere i used to love
sprinkle me in the river
so i can forever feel the cool water rushing over me
the smooth rocks beneath me
sprinkle me on the peak of the mountain
so i can forever gaze at the sights i’ve always admired
riding the breeze into the valley below
distribute me throughout the forest
so i can rest on it’s mossy floor
forever sheltered by the outstretched arms of the cedars
scatter me on the shores of the ocean
so i can forever smell the salty wind
my body can travel to the places i’ve never been before
but more importantly
i want to share these places with you
again
before i am completely gone
i understand it now
why the salmon pours all of her life energy to swim upstream
to show her birth place to her offspring
before her body is consumed by the earth
sleep
sweet relief
until reality forces her way through the cracks in my eyelids
and sadness overwhelms my lungs
spreads through my bloodstream and consumes me
they say time heals all wounds
my broken heart says otherwise
time is so repetitious
unrelenting
inescapable
it’s getting warmer and i haven’t smelled a drop of rain in weeks
time
always present in the changing seasons
reminds me where i was years earlier
just when i think i am doing alright
my body remembers
if time heals all wounds
why must this season come each year?
breasts leaking
abdomen glued back together
a drop of blood traces its way down my leg
“where’s the baby” my body asked
afraid to hear the answer
“he’s gone” i whispered
and we wept together
my body and i
