I guess it's kind of official. We have 4 big kids. I'll withhold my sobs for a more private time. In the past few weeks, baby girl has graduated from, well, my baby, to one of the big kids. While this has been influenced somewhat by our new pregnancy, I think she's made the move mostly on her own.
It started not long after her first birthday. She weaned from breastfeeding. Almost entirely cold turkey. Brutal. Her independence was written all over her face when she refused to breastfeed and reached for her cup instead. She also started picking up her fork and actually uses it to eat (sometimes). Who is this kid? She's a tiny toddler.
She also graduated into clothes that, for the most part, weren't defined by her age in months, but by the year. 1T clothes break my heart. I'm never ready for the idea that she's not tiny, but grown big enough that she'll be the same size for the bulk of the year.
The next thing that happened pleasantly surprised me: She started to walk. A few steps here and there. A shuffle from one piece of furniture to the next. Then, finally, full on walking. She still crawls once in a while, but she prefers to walk everywhere with her cute robot zombie swagger. Her older brother started walking the day she was born, so the fact that she's months ahead of when each of her siblings started walking kind of blows my mind. She has also started to dance, which is pretty adorable.
On top of all of this, she's actually started talking. Not just words, but sentences. She's been working on "I love you" for a while, partially because her siblings shout "I LOVE YOU DADDY" at the top of their lungs while we watch him go off to work everyone morning. Beyond that, she's started making simple sentences like "want up" or want down" or my favourite, "want that" which can mean anything.
The fact of the matter is that around this time in each of the other kids' lives we were mere months away from meeting the next baby. In baby/big girl's case, she's got more than half a year to keep on growing. She won't be potty trained or anything, but it'll be a world of difference for me to see how big she really is next to the new baby over 30 weeks from now. I'm so glad I'm not watching all of her milestones under the haze of late pregnancy. My belly is still very small, so I'm still able to pick her up, enjoy her, cuddle with her. So while she's not a baby anymore, she can still be my baby for a little while longer.
Showing posts with label Perspective. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Perspective. Show all posts
Wednesday, 10 October 2012
Monday, 7 May 2012
Baby Boy
The title is a bit of a misnomer as my baby boy isn't exactly a baby anymore. This past Friday my little man had his second birthday, firmly sealing him as a "big boy" and not a baby, which he reminded us of frequently during the day. So long as he's our youngest boy, I know in my heart I'll always think of him as my baby, but I can't help but reflect on how vivacious and strong he's getting. With every milestone I can't help but reflect on how tough things have been with him, from pregnancy on through his first two years.
Before we were even pregnant with him, my husband and I had been discussing the fact that we would be satisfied if our oldest two were the only children we would ever have, we would still feel abundantly blessed. We had a boy and a girl already, and they were certainly a handful. Around this time we'd moved into a lovely four bedroom townhouse that was former military housing. It was clean, bright, and even had a little fenced-in backyard for the kids to play. In that moment, our life felt complete. We talked about more kids off and on but our youngest was still an infant so we weren't in any rush. At the same time as we were settling into our new home, our car took a turn for the worse. Half of the time it wouldn't even start. We were concerned that it would stall while we were out driving, leaving us stranded with two small children. So off to go car shopping we went. We had our eyes on an old-style minivan (because as most of you with two little kids know, sometimes you need a van just to carry their gear!), but stumbled on a used van that was only a year old with very little mileage, and luckily, the price was right.
We were excited about our new purchase and what it would mean for our family, so we decided to buy a bottle of wine to celebrate the night before we were supposed to sign the paperwork. I joked I should take a pregnancy test just to make sure I was safe to have a drink and bought one as a gag to tease my husband with. Yes, that is the kind of humour I rock out. As it turns out, the joke was on me. After a quick trip to the bathroom to get the test started before I put away our groceries, I noticed that the test showed 2 dark pink lines within seconds. There was no doubt, no peering warily at the test at a faint line like we did with our first pregnancy. There, before my eyes, without a shadow of a doubt, was a positive pregnancy test. I remember in that moment the way I ran the gamut of emotions. My first reaction was to let out one loud laugh (which puzzled my husband who didn't know I was using the test in the evening. I usually do them in the morning, but this was at around 5pm, when the hormone wouldn't be as strong as the early morning). My second was to run down the stairs waving the test in the air like a mad woman. I remember that my husband was elated. He picked up our 2 year old girl and danced her around the room in his joy. There was no thought of regret, only delight for such a surprising and appreciated gift. We had both said two kids would be enough, but I know in that unexpected, unasked for moment, we were so full of excitement, peace and joy that I knew God had something wonderful in store for us.
Even now I think wonderful isn't a good enough word. There really is no word big enough, deep enough, or loving enough to describe what our precious little boy has meant to us. He is our clown, our bottomless pit, our cuddler, our thinker, our brave little man, and, simply, our daily gift. We had some scares with his pregnancy, including an awful fall down a long flight of stairs when I was about six months pregnant. I had bruises down the whole left side of my body but, by the grace of God, my sweet baby was completely uninjured. As I recall, after I finally stopped shaking and caught my breath, I felt one firm kick, like a harried neighbour asking me to quiet down my racket so he could sleep. After it all he came out, a week late, just shy of 8 pounds but full of life, joy, and smiles.
Reflecting on the past two years, I can't help but think about how grateful I am for God's generosity with me. I was willing to stop after two. Willing to have "good enough" instead of trusting that there might be something else worth experiencing for me. As I clutch on to the last remaining parts of my boy's babyhood, I'm glad God didn't listen to me or follow my plans. I could never have guessed how incredible the blessing of three (and then four, and maybe someday more) kids would be. I am reminded again and again how blessed I have been, especially when I don't expect it, whenever I let God do what He wants with my life.
Before we were even pregnant with him, my husband and I had been discussing the fact that we would be satisfied if our oldest two were the only children we would ever have, we would still feel abundantly blessed. We had a boy and a girl already, and they were certainly a handful. Around this time we'd moved into a lovely four bedroom townhouse that was former military housing. It was clean, bright, and even had a little fenced-in backyard for the kids to play. In that moment, our life felt complete. We talked about more kids off and on but our youngest was still an infant so we weren't in any rush. At the same time as we were settling into our new home, our car took a turn for the worse. Half of the time it wouldn't even start. We were concerned that it would stall while we were out driving, leaving us stranded with two small children. So off to go car shopping we went. We had our eyes on an old-style minivan (because as most of you with two little kids know, sometimes you need a van just to carry their gear!), but stumbled on a used van that was only a year old with very little mileage, and luckily, the price was right.
We were excited about our new purchase and what it would mean for our family, so we decided to buy a bottle of wine to celebrate the night before we were supposed to sign the paperwork. I joked I should take a pregnancy test just to make sure I was safe to have a drink and bought one as a gag to tease my husband with. Yes, that is the kind of humour I rock out. As it turns out, the joke was on me. After a quick trip to the bathroom to get the test started before I put away our groceries, I noticed that the test showed 2 dark pink lines within seconds. There was no doubt, no peering warily at the test at a faint line like we did with our first pregnancy. There, before my eyes, without a shadow of a doubt, was a positive pregnancy test. I remember in that moment the way I ran the gamut of emotions. My first reaction was to let out one loud laugh (which puzzled my husband who didn't know I was using the test in the evening. I usually do them in the morning, but this was at around 5pm, when the hormone wouldn't be as strong as the early morning). My second was to run down the stairs waving the test in the air like a mad woman. I remember that my husband was elated. He picked up our 2 year old girl and danced her around the room in his joy. There was no thought of regret, only delight for such a surprising and appreciated gift. We had both said two kids would be enough, but I know in that unexpected, unasked for moment, we were so full of excitement, peace and joy that I knew God had something wonderful in store for us.
Even now I think wonderful isn't a good enough word. There really is no word big enough, deep enough, or loving enough to describe what our precious little boy has meant to us. He is our clown, our bottomless pit, our cuddler, our thinker, our brave little man, and, simply, our daily gift. We had some scares with his pregnancy, including an awful fall down a long flight of stairs when I was about six months pregnant. I had bruises down the whole left side of my body but, by the grace of God, my sweet baby was completely uninjured. As I recall, after I finally stopped shaking and caught my breath, I felt one firm kick, like a harried neighbour asking me to quiet down my racket so he could sleep. After it all he came out, a week late, just shy of 8 pounds but full of life, joy, and smiles.
Reflecting on the past two years, I can't help but think about how grateful I am for God's generosity with me. I was willing to stop after two. Willing to have "good enough" instead of trusting that there might be something else worth experiencing for me. As I clutch on to the last remaining parts of my boy's babyhood, I'm glad God didn't listen to me or follow my plans. I could never have guessed how incredible the blessing of three (and then four, and maybe someday more) kids would be. I am reminded again and again how blessed I have been, especially when I don't expect it, whenever I let God do what He wants with my life.
Thursday, 15 March 2012
East Coast Home
Today as I was checking out my social media feed, I couldn't help but notice that all the big Canadian magazines and blog sites are based out of Ontario (with a more or less particular bent for the Toronto crowd). I find it fun to read about the adventures of my Ontario counterparts. They get all the best concerts (without all the controversy we seem to attract here in the east), amazing museums, arts coming out of their ears, not to mention the fact that there is ample entertainment for kids that doesn't quite bother making a tour spot anywhere near my city. That's the benefit of living in a bigger city, I suppose. We've talked about moving out west (yes, Ontario is out west to us!) several times, but I can't imagine transplanting our lives for the sake of being able to see something like Disney's Stars on Ice with the kids. (Although really, if that were here, I'd be waiting in line for tickets or whatnot).
I suppose it's more than convenience that keeps us here, or even our family. Despite the fact that we are lacking some of the really upper crust cultural things here, I feel like there's so much to see and experience in our beautiful province that makes up for the lack of worldly culture. Everywhere you look in our small city there's some history to behold or a song to be sung. We may not get U2 to rock the commons, but we're the home of Joel Plaskett (how many times can you mention Clayton Park?), Chris from Sloan (I used to sing in a choir with his lovely Mom!), Sarah McLachlan, Matt Mays, Anne Murray, and many other musicians of the past, present and future. Our pub scene is crawling with future stars, all singing music on the cutting edge of their style.
Even ignoring the music, an obvious favourite of mine, we also have several world class universities, including NSCAD, which is churning out a new generation of artists as unique as they are numerous. While we may not have the unarguably amazing Art Gallery of Nova Scotia, we're lucky enough to have a city teeming with new art from up and coming talent that has come to study here from all over the world. There's also our museums, which tell the tale of our rich and fascinating history. How many museums can boast an extensive collection of Titanic memorabilia? Some adorably nerdy folks from one of our local museums live tweeted the morse code messages between the Titanic and surrounding ships at the exact time, 99 years later, of the night she found her resting place on the ocean floor. I don't need to see Titanic in 3D this year (although I might anyway, classic), because I can go to the Fairview Cemetary to see the graves of her victims arranged in the shape of the bow of the ship. Our whole province, and those surrounding us, are littered with history houses turned museums. One of them is even the old family home of my grandmother's family. In PEI, there is the home made famous by L.M. Montgomery in her Anne books, Green Gables, beautifully preserved. We have forts, grand houses, churches built in a day, and so much history we endeavour to share, while maintaining the thriving life of a young and vibrant downtown core.
I think that's what I really enjoy about province and our city. We have the best of both worlds, though obviously on a smaller scale than our counterparts in central Canada. We have history mixed seamlessly with modernity. History meets social media through our innovative museum staff. All the benefits of culture on the backdrop of a truly beautiful landscape. While I would love to be able to experience some of the world-class events places like Toronto can attract, I wouldn't trade our beautiful harbour, friendly faces, and local flavour for them. So while I may seem a little green some days as I read of all the activities I can't share with my kids, I'm thankful to call the East Coast my home.
I suppose it's more than convenience that keeps us here, or even our family. Despite the fact that we are lacking some of the really upper crust cultural things here, I feel like there's so much to see and experience in our beautiful province that makes up for the lack of worldly culture. Everywhere you look in our small city there's some history to behold or a song to be sung. We may not get U2 to rock the commons, but we're the home of Joel Plaskett (how many times can you mention Clayton Park?), Chris from Sloan (I used to sing in a choir with his lovely Mom!), Sarah McLachlan, Matt Mays, Anne Murray, and many other musicians of the past, present and future. Our pub scene is crawling with future stars, all singing music on the cutting edge of their style.
Even ignoring the music, an obvious favourite of mine, we also have several world class universities, including NSCAD, which is churning out a new generation of artists as unique as they are numerous. While we may not have the unarguably amazing Art Gallery of Nova Scotia, we're lucky enough to have a city teeming with new art from up and coming talent that has come to study here from all over the world. There's also our museums, which tell the tale of our rich and fascinating history. How many museums can boast an extensive collection of Titanic memorabilia? Some adorably nerdy folks from one of our local museums live tweeted the morse code messages between the Titanic and surrounding ships at the exact time, 99 years later, of the night she found her resting place on the ocean floor. I don't need to see Titanic in 3D this year (although I might anyway, classic), because I can go to the Fairview Cemetary to see the graves of her victims arranged in the shape of the bow of the ship. Our whole province, and those surrounding us, are littered with history houses turned museums. One of them is even the old family home of my grandmother's family. In PEI, there is the home made famous by L.M. Montgomery in her Anne books, Green Gables, beautifully preserved. We have forts, grand houses, churches built in a day, and so much history we endeavour to share, while maintaining the thriving life of a young and vibrant downtown core.
I think that's what I really enjoy about province and our city. We have the best of both worlds, though obviously on a smaller scale than our counterparts in central Canada. We have history mixed seamlessly with modernity. History meets social media through our innovative museum staff. All the benefits of culture on the backdrop of a truly beautiful landscape. While I would love to be able to experience some of the world-class events places like Toronto can attract, I wouldn't trade our beautiful harbour, friendly faces, and local flavour for them. So while I may seem a little green some days as I read of all the activities I can't share with my kids, I'm thankful to call the East Coast my home.
Friday, 9 March 2012
My Plans and Yours
If you want to make God laugh, tell Him about your plans
I like to think of myself as a person who really goes with the flow, and that's at least partially true. Whenever life throws me a curveball I try to run with it. I do my best to follow God's lead in my life. But there's another side of me. The side of me that's a meticulous planner. I get that side from my Dad. He has a wild streak too, and has a long history of making good of what he's given, but for the most part he's the man behind the scenes, bringing an extra fruit tray (just in case) and making sure you've got the right number table settings for your wedding reception. It's an example I'm happy to follow in my own way.
The funny thing about me is that I can get a little carried away by either going with the flow, or organising things to death. Planning wise, you should see our family budget. I have every penny coming in and going out for the next year budgeted in an excel file that I check every day or so. As for meals, I buy all our ingredients on the weekend for set meals I already planned. When we were moving, I had a file where I kept a list of how many boxes we had, as well as what was in each box. I also packed as much as I could weeks in advance and wrote right on the boxes what room they had to be placed in when we moved and numbered each box. (That's probably why we waited so long to unpack the basement. I knew what was in the boxes so I knew we didn't need most of it.) Our day also runs on a very specific schedule, from when we wake up, to when we eat, naps, etc. Some of this is sheer necessity as we have four children and more planning meals less time for craziness to erupt. To guarantee they get what they need it takes planning. I know God made me very detail oriented to deal with the life He had planned for me.
Now on the other side there's the part of me that just goes with the flow. Our 4 kids weren't planned. Not to say they were unplanned either. We were just open to the fact that we could have children. And have them we did. 4 beautiful, wanted, and beloved babies in under 5 years. I also took my discernment with great seriousness, but when I felt that God was leading me in a certain direction, I just let go of my plans and went with the flow. History proves that that served me well, as my trusting in what was clearly a God-sent path led me to my husband via my old religious community. I very rarely find myself saying that something is too good to be true, because God has been so good to me in the most unexpected ways. When it comes to big picture stuff like where we're going to live, how we'll make another baby work, or even who I when I would fall in love, I knew God would give me what I needed to make things work, so long as I followed His lead with as much trust as I could muster.
I think the reason the two sides of my personality, both the detail-oriented list nut and the happy to take it as it comes side, work so well together is that in both cases there's a plan. In the first case it's my plan, working out the little things to make everything flow. In the second case it's God's plan, working out all the little things for my greater good. While I don't always do it perfectly, I'm trying to use my obsession with lists, schedules and details work towards the bigger picture of God's plan for my life. It takes a lot of trust for me, because I'm definitely the type to write out the 5 year plan down to the day. After 5 years of being married, my husband and I are not where I thought we would be. As it turns out, by the grace of God, we are somewhere infinitely better. Most days I look at my life, when I have a second anyway, and find myself in awe of all the good God has made of my attempts to plan out every moment of my day.
Thank you, God, for trusting me even more than I trust in you, and for loving me more than I could ever love you.
Saturday, 18 February 2012
Perks of 4 Kids
It's easy to talk about the challenges of having a lot of kids all at once. There's the expense, the diapers, the noise, the odd smells in every corner of our house, the crying, the arguing, the terrible twos coming one after another for 4 years, the business of never having personal space, either on a piece of furniture or in the bathroom, the fact that once one kid cries at night, suddenly everyone is crying (Mommy too), and the list goes on. All of this and more is part of the daily struggle of having a family full to the brim with a baby, a few toddlers, and a preschooler. Intense drama, though momentary, is par for the course in our house.
I'm not sure that I would have it any other way. Sure, I'd love to take my bathroom breaks solo. Let me correct that, I'd love time to actually take regular bathroom breaks well before I'm doing the potty dance, running through a crowd of children to the nearest bathroom. All that being said, there are a lot of perks to having four little kids. Here's a list of my 5 favourite perks:
1. I rarely need a blanket as the body heat from four kids keeps me cozy even on the frostiest of winter mornings. These same little hot water bottles I call children are always ready to warm up my heart with genuine outburts of "I love you, Mommy!" and "You're so pretty, Mommy!", a light in the darkest of times.
2. I don't need to wake up to a loud beeping alarm clock. Most mornings I get to wake up to the sound of our boys playing in their bedroom or our girl singing loudly to the music on her radio. Even the soft whimpers of a hungry baby is music to my ears compared to the angry siren of our alarm.
3. I'm never lacking in helpers. If big sister isn't in the mood to help Mommy pick up the diaper wipes when I'm busy with baby girl, I have my two little boys on hand, begging to get involved. I'm also never without a helper in the kitchen, which makes every attempt to cook an adventure.
4. My house can look like a bomb hit it, and no one would dare to question my housekeeping skills. They know as well as I do that I could have scrubbed every inch of it, and within 5 minutes my own squad of aspiring tasmanian devils could have it back in its normal post-apocalyptic splendor. If, by chance or design, my house looks even halfway clean, I suddenly appear to be some kind of Martha Stewart-styled domestic goddess. Equally, if I manage a successful meal for guests, I am a modern day Julia Child, ignoring of course that I just dumped a pile of ingredients in the crockpot. Lastly, along the same train of thought, my personal hygiene and attire are never questioned. As long as I'm not in a robe, people seem to think I've gone out of my way for them. Fair enough. Pajamas and sweatshirts are my usual uniform when we don't have guests around. So long as the kids are dressed and clean, I've won my victory for the day.
5. This one may be my favourite. I love watching my kids becoming best friends. Sure they fight, just like any other kids, but they also take care of each other. There's nothing in the world better than coming into the livingroom to see the three older kids huddled around baby girl's exersaucer, doing everything they can to make her smile and giggle. If our youngest boy trips, the first one by his side is his big brother, giving him a hug and telling him he's okay. Our oldest girl can often be seen teaching her 3 year old brother, his letters. They do everything together by choice. I feel so blessed to witness their evolutions from roommates to friends, and from friends to best friends.
Having what is rapidly approaching a bus full of kids has its downs, but those are nothing compared to the ups. It's hard to ignore how blessed I am each day. As we finished off our long, busy, exhausting day I was so very ready to see their little heads dissappear behind closed doors. At the same time, I couldn't help but be reminded of my four little blessings when I heard them wishing each other goodnight through their joining wall. No matter how rough the day, or how rough the night ahead, that little ritual is a moment of peace and perspective that centers my day. I wouldn't trade that for all the coffee, peace, silence or sleep in the world.
I'm not sure that I would have it any other way. Sure, I'd love to take my bathroom breaks solo. Let me correct that, I'd love time to actually take regular bathroom breaks well before I'm doing the potty dance, running through a crowd of children to the nearest bathroom. All that being said, there are a lot of perks to having four little kids. Here's a list of my 5 favourite perks:
1. I rarely need a blanket as the body heat from four kids keeps me cozy even on the frostiest of winter mornings. These same little hot water bottles I call children are always ready to warm up my heart with genuine outburts of "I love you, Mommy!" and "You're so pretty, Mommy!", a light in the darkest of times.
2. I don't need to wake up to a loud beeping alarm clock. Most mornings I get to wake up to the sound of our boys playing in their bedroom or our girl singing loudly to the music on her radio. Even the soft whimpers of a hungry baby is music to my ears compared to the angry siren of our alarm.
3. I'm never lacking in helpers. If big sister isn't in the mood to help Mommy pick up the diaper wipes when I'm busy with baby girl, I have my two little boys on hand, begging to get involved. I'm also never without a helper in the kitchen, which makes every attempt to cook an adventure.
4. My house can look like a bomb hit it, and no one would dare to question my housekeeping skills. They know as well as I do that I could have scrubbed every inch of it, and within 5 minutes my own squad of aspiring tasmanian devils could have it back in its normal post-apocalyptic splendor. If, by chance or design, my house looks even halfway clean, I suddenly appear to be some kind of Martha Stewart-styled domestic goddess. Equally, if I manage a successful meal for guests, I am a modern day Julia Child, ignoring of course that I just dumped a pile of ingredients in the crockpot. Lastly, along the same train of thought, my personal hygiene and attire are never questioned. As long as I'm not in a robe, people seem to think I've gone out of my way for them. Fair enough. Pajamas and sweatshirts are my usual uniform when we don't have guests around. So long as the kids are dressed and clean, I've won my victory for the day.
5. This one may be my favourite. I love watching my kids becoming best friends. Sure they fight, just like any other kids, but they also take care of each other. There's nothing in the world better than coming into the livingroom to see the three older kids huddled around baby girl's exersaucer, doing everything they can to make her smile and giggle. If our youngest boy trips, the first one by his side is his big brother, giving him a hug and telling him he's okay. Our oldest girl can often be seen teaching her 3 year old brother, his letters. They do everything together by choice. I feel so blessed to witness their evolutions from roommates to friends, and from friends to best friends.
Having what is rapidly approaching a bus full of kids has its downs, but those are nothing compared to the ups. It's hard to ignore how blessed I am each day. As we finished off our long, busy, exhausting day I was so very ready to see their little heads dissappear behind closed doors. At the same time, I couldn't help but be reminded of my four little blessings when I heard them wishing each other goodnight through their joining wall. No matter how rough the day, or how rough the night ahead, that little ritual is a moment of peace and perspective that centers my day. I wouldn't trade that for all the coffee, peace, silence or sleep in the world.
Family Life, Unplugged
We decided this week to cancel our cable. In our area if you don't have digital cable or a converter box you don't even get basic channels. We struggled to make this choice, but after weeks of not watching any television with the kids (okay, okay, they've been watching movies instead) and basically only watching reruns and one or two new shows ourselves after the kids are in bed, we decided to re-evaluate whether or not we really needed cable.
I'll be the first one to admit I watch a lot of TV. Easily too much. When the kids are napping I turn on TLC and watch all the baby, bridal, and family shows I can muster. Looking at my regular consumption of visual trash, cutting off our cable is really no real sacrifice for me. I can honestly say it's good for me. My husband isn't a big television watcher these days because by the time he gets home from work, he'd rather spend time with the kids and I, and has lots of woodworking projects he'd rather get started on. For him, television is dull background noise at best, and a useless distraction at worst. Even the sports that he and I both enjoy can be watched online these days. When we used to watch cable together at night we'd click from show to mindless show just to fill the time. Half of it we weren't even enjoying or it was a repeat of an old favourite we'd seen a hundred times. Our lives were running by the cable schedule most nights with very little variety in between. We already have Netflix, so instead of investing in expensive box sets of shows we might like, we've been enjoying trying out new shows, one or two episodes per night. I know I'll miss a few regular favourites that haven't made the leap to Netflix, like Glee or The Big Bang Theory, but we can watch most of those online if we really want.
Already not having cable has been freeing. We're talking more, playing with the kids more, and simply enjoying each other more. This week, instead of turning on the TV to distract the kids, I brought them into the kitchen with me and we made bread together. They've also been helping me prepare all of our meals, which has made them more likely to try some of the new foods on our menu. They're also talking more for themselves, and spending less time mimicking their favourite characters on their morning shows (not that singing the alphabet song like Alpha Pig from SuperWhy was all bad). When we do watch a show or movie with the kids, we try to pick one good show instead of whatever's on, and then turn it off when we're done. We've also taken up bowling with them on our game system. It's pretty hilarious watching the two oldest kids jumping around with joy even when they get a gutterball. I can't imagine a better way to beat the winter blahs right in our living room.
So, while we're not entirely "unplugged", we're well on our way. Instead of tuning into the television, we're trying to tune in more to each other. I'm thankful my husband was keen on the idea too and am enjoying reconnecting with him by warm candlelight instead of the blue glow of our TV. The world is too beautiful to be seen through a box. It's time to start making plans that don't revolve around the cable schedule. It's time to work on us.
I'll be the first one to admit I watch a lot of TV. Easily too much. When the kids are napping I turn on TLC and watch all the baby, bridal, and family shows I can muster. Looking at my regular consumption of visual trash, cutting off our cable is really no real sacrifice for me. I can honestly say it's good for me. My husband isn't a big television watcher these days because by the time he gets home from work, he'd rather spend time with the kids and I, and has lots of woodworking projects he'd rather get started on. For him, television is dull background noise at best, and a useless distraction at worst. Even the sports that he and I both enjoy can be watched online these days. When we used to watch cable together at night we'd click from show to mindless show just to fill the time. Half of it we weren't even enjoying or it was a repeat of an old favourite we'd seen a hundred times. Our lives were running by the cable schedule most nights with very little variety in between. We already have Netflix, so instead of investing in expensive box sets of shows we might like, we've been enjoying trying out new shows, one or two episodes per night. I know I'll miss a few regular favourites that haven't made the leap to Netflix, like Glee or The Big Bang Theory, but we can watch most of those online if we really want.
Already not having cable has been freeing. We're talking more, playing with the kids more, and simply enjoying each other more. This week, instead of turning on the TV to distract the kids, I brought them into the kitchen with me and we made bread together. They've also been helping me prepare all of our meals, which has made them more likely to try some of the new foods on our menu. They're also talking more for themselves, and spending less time mimicking their favourite characters on their morning shows (not that singing the alphabet song like Alpha Pig from SuperWhy was all bad). When we do watch a show or movie with the kids, we try to pick one good show instead of whatever's on, and then turn it off when we're done. We've also taken up bowling with them on our game system. It's pretty hilarious watching the two oldest kids jumping around with joy even when they get a gutterball. I can't imagine a better way to beat the winter blahs right in our living room.
So, while we're not entirely "unplugged", we're well on our way. Instead of tuning into the television, we're trying to tune in more to each other. I'm thankful my husband was keen on the idea too and am enjoying reconnecting with him by warm candlelight instead of the blue glow of our TV. The world is too beautiful to be seen through a box. It's time to start making plans that don't revolve around the cable schedule. It's time to work on us.
Calm After the Storm
I love Saturdays. Always have. This particular Saturday, I must say, might be in my all time top ten list. We've had a rough couple of weeks in our family. Besides Hubby's persistent, painful stomach issues (which are oh so gradually getting better), my father has been struggling with his own health concerns for a few weeks. He's had kidney stones, and after weeks of fruitless attempts to pass them, he finally had to have surgery. My father is a larger man, and I must confess I was more than a little concerned about the fact that they had to give him a general anesthetic for his surgery. By God's grace he came through in great shape and is recovering at home under the care of my mother, who happens to be a nurse. Besides all the health drama, I've been cheering on the sidelines as my mother interviewed for 3 jobs as a teacher this week. I don't know why, but I think I get more nervous and excited about it than she does. I want her to be happy and doing something she enjoys, so I find myself getting wrapped up in it all. I've also been busy having playdates and organising playgroups, which has been so rewarding for the kids and myself, but leaves me exhausted by week's end.
Suffice it to say, it's been busy, and even a little stressful around here. So as I sit lazily on my couch while the kids have their snacks, watching the snow drift down from the sky in fluffy clumps, I'm at peace. This is the gift of Saturday. This is the calm after the storm. There's nothing to do in this moment but enjoy my children and husband without worrying about the rest of the week. Our oldest girl is doing cute pirouettes to her favourite song, Cinderella by Stephen Curtis Chapman, as her Daddy watches on with a wistful smile, our oldest son is making up a story to go along with a book he can't yet read, our youngest son is snuggled next to me, eating a whole apple with a level of dedication and seriousness only he could muster, and our baby girl is on the floor getting good practice for crawling, which she seems only days away from doing (AHHHH!). My coffee is still warm and sweet. Life is enfolding before my eyes, and I'm just happy to sit back and enjoy it.
Thank God for today. A Saturday like this is just the right remedy for 100 Mondays.
Suffice it to say, it's been busy, and even a little stressful around here. So as I sit lazily on my couch while the kids have their snacks, watching the snow drift down from the sky in fluffy clumps, I'm at peace. This is the gift of Saturday. This is the calm after the storm. There's nothing to do in this moment but enjoy my children and husband without worrying about the rest of the week. Our oldest girl is doing cute pirouettes to her favourite song, Cinderella by Stephen Curtis Chapman, as her Daddy watches on with a wistful smile, our oldest son is making up a story to go along with a book he can't yet read, our youngest son is snuggled next to me, eating a whole apple with a level of dedication and seriousness only he could muster, and our baby girl is on the floor getting good practice for crawling, which she seems only days away from doing (AHHHH!). My coffee is still warm and sweet. Life is enfolding before my eyes, and I'm just happy to sit back and enjoy it.
Thank God for today. A Saturday like this is just the right remedy for 100 Mondays.
Thursday, 16 February 2012
3 Years and Counting
3 years ago I was anxiously awaiting the birth of our second child. Based on the old wives tale that second babies come early, I had my bag packed and waiting by the door. I was marvelling over my impossibly large stomach and doing my best to take every moment I could to enjoy my baby girl who was about to become a big sister. Whenever I slept I dreamed of who this little person would be. Probably active, I would think, as baby kicked the daylights out of me. For such tiny feet, baby could really move. I was still trying to guess if this baby was a boy or a girl. I had a feeling I knew that part. But what else about this active little person? Big? Small? Quiet? Noisy?
On February 28th, 2009, we found out. About a week and a half overdue, our first son was born. A healthy 8lbs 7oz little man. All chub and rolls and sweetness. He was, as I recall, a very calm baby. His big sister adored him from the moment she layed eyes on him. The little mother in her was born that day too. I remember his delivery really well. Our doctor, who later became our family doctor, came in with a mood of patience and humour, exactly what I needed. By the time I was pushing I was grinning like a fool (oh epidural, you have your up side!) and making jokes between pushes. I had a mirror set up so I could watch him come out. I had said during our older daughter's birth that the last thing I wanted to do was see to the way everything looked when a baby came out, but braved it for our son. I'm so grateful I did. (Mind you, I didn't use the mirror for the next two, I had seen all I needed to see.) I even touched the top of his head as he started to come out. His birth was empowering, beautiful, and exciting. I had a feeling he was a boy, so when my husband announced him by name after he was born I wasn't surprised, but still deeply overjoyed to see our first son. Named for his Granddad, his Daddy, and St. Francis, he has lived up to the potential of three such wonderful names.
In the years since then our boy has surprised me, scared me, and taught me so much. He is a tender hearted soul and very sensitive, but he's also so bold and particular. He likes things his way, but is also so sweet and considerate with everyone he meets (after he's finished saying 'no'). We've had two more children since his birth and he has become a wonderful big brother. He's very protective of his baby brother and sister, and loves to give them hugs and get them their toys. It's not all roses, mind you. Besides the fact that for a year he has been 2 years old (I know, I know. Of course!), he has also put us through the ringer with some health scares. I remember so clearly the long day when I had to sit with him in the hospital while nurses and doctors fussed over him, an IV sticking out of his tiny arm. He was so little and pale. I wanted so badly to scoop him up and take all his pain away. My husband and I poured out a sea of desperate prayers in those days for answers and healing. We thank God every day that his health improved and he's back to his button-pushing, heart-melting ways.
It's hard to believe that in 3 short years our little man has become a person that I cannot live without. From the moment that the test showed two lines I loved him with my whole heart. I am so grateful to have him in my life every day, even though I'm pretty sure he might be personally responsible for my growing patch of white hair. I can't imagine my life or my family without him. So, as we approach his third birthday, I'll keep saying my daily prayers of thanksgiving for him, and who he is for me and for our family. Happy Birthday, little man. Mommy loves you. Always and forever.
On February 28th, 2009, we found out. About a week and a half overdue, our first son was born. A healthy 8lbs 7oz little man. All chub and rolls and sweetness. He was, as I recall, a very calm baby. His big sister adored him from the moment she layed eyes on him. The little mother in her was born that day too. I remember his delivery really well. Our doctor, who later became our family doctor, came in with a mood of patience and humour, exactly what I needed. By the time I was pushing I was grinning like a fool (oh epidural, you have your up side!) and making jokes between pushes. I had a mirror set up so I could watch him come out. I had said during our older daughter's birth that the last thing I wanted to do was see to the way everything looked when a baby came out, but braved it for our son. I'm so grateful I did. (Mind you, I didn't use the mirror for the next two, I had seen all I needed to see.) I even touched the top of his head as he started to come out. His birth was empowering, beautiful, and exciting. I had a feeling he was a boy, so when my husband announced him by name after he was born I wasn't surprised, but still deeply overjoyed to see our first son. Named for his Granddad, his Daddy, and St. Francis, he has lived up to the potential of three such wonderful names.
In the years since then our boy has surprised me, scared me, and taught me so much. He is a tender hearted soul and very sensitive, but he's also so bold and particular. He likes things his way, but is also so sweet and considerate with everyone he meets (after he's finished saying 'no'). We've had two more children since his birth and he has become a wonderful big brother. He's very protective of his baby brother and sister, and loves to give them hugs and get them their toys. It's not all roses, mind you. Besides the fact that for a year he has been 2 years old (I know, I know. Of course!), he has also put us through the ringer with some health scares. I remember so clearly the long day when I had to sit with him in the hospital while nurses and doctors fussed over him, an IV sticking out of his tiny arm. He was so little and pale. I wanted so badly to scoop him up and take all his pain away. My husband and I poured out a sea of desperate prayers in those days for answers and healing. We thank God every day that his health improved and he's back to his button-pushing, heart-melting ways.
It's hard to believe that in 3 short years our little man has become a person that I cannot live without. From the moment that the test showed two lines I loved him with my whole heart. I am so grateful to have him in my life every day, even though I'm pretty sure he might be personally responsible for my growing patch of white hair. I can't imagine my life or my family without him. So, as we approach his third birthday, I'll keep saying my daily prayers of thanksgiving for him, and who he is for me and for our family. Happy Birthday, little man. Mommy loves you. Always and forever.
Wednesday, 15 February 2012
Battle Scars
After writing a post about teaching our daughters to always believe in their own beauty, I couldn't help but reflect that my reaction to the idea of my own beauty was not quite the same as that of my 4 year old daughter. When we tell her she's beautiful, she truly believes us and skips off joyfully, undoubtedly pleased with herself. My reaction isn't so cut and dry. I'm sure most of you can predict the mental hoops I jump through every time someone calls me beautiful, pretty or even cute. Unlike my daughter, I don't automatically agree and say thank you. And I certainly don't skip away. I may skulk though.
I go through my mental list of what I consider to be flaws at lightning speed. Yes, I'm beautiful except for my greasy hair, my possibly dirty clothes, the big bags under my eyes, not to mention my flabby middle section covered with long stretch marks. Given time, I'm sure I could easily fill this whole blog with descriptions about every part of my body that I don't like. I'm only 29 but my body has been ravaged by four pregnancies clustered over four years. I'm pretty sure that if I were on display in public the quiet whispers in the crowd would center around the idea of a woman who has let herself go. That's part of the human condition for both men and women. We self judge and the theme is rarely positive. Unlike my 4 year old daughter, the first thing on my mind isn't how pretty my hair is, or how much I like the dress I'm wearing (if I was wearing a dress instead of pajamas anyway).
I think in this instance I need to follow my daughter's lead. I need to learn to embrace her innocence. The other day when I was helping her get dressed, I noticed a jagged little scar on her knees. She saw me looking and smiled. She then proceeded to proudly tell me how she got the scar with great pride. She had simply tripped and scraped it at her grandparents' house, but told me the story like it was a great adventure. She recalled every detail about the special attention she'd received and that she got to wear a bandaid. She didn't remark upon the fact that her skin was no longer perfect. She has no problem wearing shorts or dresses even though her little scar is visible. For her that scar is a badge of honour, a battle scar earned during a grand adventure.
Why can't I try to look at myself that way? I may not look my best now. I am worn out and my body tells the tale with every glance. But, rather than judge the appearance, maybe I need to remember the hows and the whys of how I came to look this way. My eyes have bags under them because I was up very early feeding my baby girl. I may be a little greasy, but that's because I was working hard making bread with the kids. My clothes are dirty, but only because I spilled jelly on them while making lunch and haven't stopped moving long enough to change them (let alone take a shower yet). And as for my wiggly midsection and long stretch marks, maybe I should look at those battle scars too. I earned every inch of belly fat and every one of those stretch marks over my four pregnancies. I can't have my four kids without four pregnancies worth of affect to my appearance. I have to say, looking at it this way, it was all worth it. Sure, I'd love to be thin, unblemished, clean and awake, but not if it means I don't get to be Mom. Not if it means I don't get to be the Mom of these four children. Everything about me sings the battle song of my life, and I need to learn to be proud of it, just like my daughter is proud of her little scar on her knee.
That's the face of true beauty. Not the airbrushed and photoshopped "women" (most of them are still girls) we see in the media. True beauty is a life lived and enjoy, not Snow White trapped in her glass coffin. So let's agree to love what's truly beautiful about us.
I go through my mental list of what I consider to be flaws at lightning speed. Yes, I'm beautiful except for my greasy hair, my possibly dirty clothes, the big bags under my eyes, not to mention my flabby middle section covered with long stretch marks. Given time, I'm sure I could easily fill this whole blog with descriptions about every part of my body that I don't like. I'm only 29 but my body has been ravaged by four pregnancies clustered over four years. I'm pretty sure that if I were on display in public the quiet whispers in the crowd would center around the idea of a woman who has let herself go. That's part of the human condition for both men and women. We self judge and the theme is rarely positive. Unlike my 4 year old daughter, the first thing on my mind isn't how pretty my hair is, or how much I like the dress I'm wearing (if I was wearing a dress instead of pajamas anyway).
I think in this instance I need to follow my daughter's lead. I need to learn to embrace her innocence. The other day when I was helping her get dressed, I noticed a jagged little scar on her knees. She saw me looking and smiled. She then proceeded to proudly tell me how she got the scar with great pride. She had simply tripped and scraped it at her grandparents' house, but told me the story like it was a great adventure. She recalled every detail about the special attention she'd received and that she got to wear a bandaid. She didn't remark upon the fact that her skin was no longer perfect. She has no problem wearing shorts or dresses even though her little scar is visible. For her that scar is a badge of honour, a battle scar earned during a grand adventure.
Why can't I try to look at myself that way? I may not look my best now. I am worn out and my body tells the tale with every glance. But, rather than judge the appearance, maybe I need to remember the hows and the whys of how I came to look this way. My eyes have bags under them because I was up very early feeding my baby girl. I may be a little greasy, but that's because I was working hard making bread with the kids. My clothes are dirty, but only because I spilled jelly on them while making lunch and haven't stopped moving long enough to change them (let alone take a shower yet). And as for my wiggly midsection and long stretch marks, maybe I should look at those battle scars too. I earned every inch of belly fat and every one of those stretch marks over my four pregnancies. I can't have my four kids without four pregnancies worth of affect to my appearance. I have to say, looking at it this way, it was all worth it. Sure, I'd love to be thin, unblemished, clean and awake, but not if it means I don't get to be Mom. Not if it means I don't get to be the Mom of these four children. Everything about me sings the battle song of my life, and I need to learn to be proud of it, just like my daughter is proud of her little scar on her knee.
That's the face of true beauty. Not the airbrushed and photoshopped "women" (most of them are still girls) we see in the media. True beauty is a life lived and enjoy, not Snow White trapped in her glass coffin. So let's agree to love what's truly beautiful about us.
Monday, 13 February 2012
Disorder and Order
After over six months of living here, my husband and I have finally unpacked our basement. Excluding a weekend when we first moved here, the entire bottom floor of our home has looked something like a shanty town. Dishevelled piles of boxes, random articles of clothing, and mismatched furniture were strewn in mighty stacks wherever we tossed them while moving in. We didn't care so much about how it looked. We had no real plans for it. It was too humid to make much use of safely with the children and with a baby on the way neither of us had the time or the energy to make any real headway in the large room that takes up most of that floor.
What really convinced us to make the time to sort things out was that we finally, truly decided we were staying here for more than a year. We had the opportunity to look into buying a home in the country at what looked to be a fair price. This house, that of my maternal grandfather, was nothing less than my dream house. A six bedroom house on a fairly large piece of land, that has the kitchen of my dreams, a layout I adore for our young family, and plenty of room for my husband to ply his trade as a cabinetmaker and finish carpenter. We could have our own garden, a shed for any animals we'd want to raise, and, perhaps best of all, we would be surrounded by my extended family, whom I have seen far too little of in the past years. In spite of this very overwhelmingly positive prospect, we took it to prayer and found our thoughts turned to staying in the city, in our current home. It wasn't without a twinge of sadness that I let go of the idea of the big country home in which I spent so many summers and holidays. I had to let go of the cheerful front door with a hummingbird captured beautifully in its stained glass window, the true sign that we were at our second home, a place where my grandparents would be waiting for us with expectant smiles and the smell of fresh bread.
So, we decided to stay here. In our cute city townhouse. Four bedrooms, big living area and lots of ugly shag carpet and wacky paint (sorry Dad, but I'm so over the pumpkin orange with green trim in the livingroom. Tuscan villa this ain't). We couldn't help but see so much potential within these four walls. A little paint here, some new flooring there, perhaps a workshop in our basement... And that's when it hit us. If we were really staying here, we couldn't live in complete order upstairs while the downstairs was in complete disorder. To be fair, a lot of items are in the wrong room or even the wrong floor because we had been hesitant to fully unpack. So at last we decided to give in, and in a few short days things started to come together. Suddenly, our basement has furniture that is there with intention. The small room is set up artfully with all of my husband's tools. The main room is starting to take on a very nice atmosphere as either a games room or even a second playroom for these winter days when going outside isn't an option, but a mere change of scenery dispells our cabin fever.
With no regrets, we unpacked our last box this weekend. If this can be home, even just for now, let it be so. No more holding back. If this is where we're meant to be, we will be, living wholly in this moment and, hopefully, enjoying it.
What really convinced us to make the time to sort things out was that we finally, truly decided we were staying here for more than a year. We had the opportunity to look into buying a home in the country at what looked to be a fair price. This house, that of my maternal grandfather, was nothing less than my dream house. A six bedroom house on a fairly large piece of land, that has the kitchen of my dreams, a layout I adore for our young family, and plenty of room for my husband to ply his trade as a cabinetmaker and finish carpenter. We could have our own garden, a shed for any animals we'd want to raise, and, perhaps best of all, we would be surrounded by my extended family, whom I have seen far too little of in the past years. In spite of this very overwhelmingly positive prospect, we took it to prayer and found our thoughts turned to staying in the city, in our current home. It wasn't without a twinge of sadness that I let go of the idea of the big country home in which I spent so many summers and holidays. I had to let go of the cheerful front door with a hummingbird captured beautifully in its stained glass window, the true sign that we were at our second home, a place where my grandparents would be waiting for us with expectant smiles and the smell of fresh bread.
So, we decided to stay here. In our cute city townhouse. Four bedrooms, big living area and lots of ugly shag carpet and wacky paint (sorry Dad, but I'm so over the pumpkin orange with green trim in the livingroom. Tuscan villa this ain't). We couldn't help but see so much potential within these four walls. A little paint here, some new flooring there, perhaps a workshop in our basement... And that's when it hit us. If we were really staying here, we couldn't live in complete order upstairs while the downstairs was in complete disorder. To be fair, a lot of items are in the wrong room or even the wrong floor because we had been hesitant to fully unpack. So at last we decided to give in, and in a few short days things started to come together. Suddenly, our basement has furniture that is there with intention. The small room is set up artfully with all of my husband's tools. The main room is starting to take on a very nice atmosphere as either a games room or even a second playroom for these winter days when going outside isn't an option, but a mere change of scenery dispells our cabin fever.
With no regrets, we unpacked our last box this weekend. If this can be home, even just for now, let it be so. No more holding back. If this is where we're meant to be, we will be, living wholly in this moment and, hopefully, enjoying it.
Wednesday, 1 February 2012
3 Week Meal Plan
There's been a lot of buzz about the 100 mile diet lately and our family has decided to do our own version of it wherever possible. With that in mind, we've developped a 3 week rotating meal plan for supper based on the local produce that's available this time of year. We will be changing our meal plan in spring and summer based on what's available then. We also hope to sign up for CSA starting in April and working around our weekly food boxes. For now, here's the bare bones of our plan. I will be elaborating with recipes and adding basic pricing as I can.
A basic element of our meal plan involves making most meals to last two nights. This is financially a lot cheaper than creating 7 unique meals. More importantly, I can make a more elaborate meal with a view that I won't have to cook the next night. Our meal plan is 3 weeks instead of 4 because we liked the idea of more rotation so that the first Monday of every month or whatnot isn't always the same thing.
Week 1
Monday & Tuesday: Stir fry (1lb pork or beef stir fry pieces, veggies in season, rice, soya sauce)
Wednesday & Thursday: Butternut Squash Soup
Friday & Saturday: Pizza (homemade pizza dough, hot house tomatoes, veggies in season, bacon and/or sausage)
Sunday: Bacon & eggs with toast (made out of Homemade Molasses Brown Bread)
Week 2
Monday & Tuesday: Beef Stew
Wednesday: French Toast (eggs, milk, sugar and Homemade Molasses Brown Bread)
Thursday & Friday: Shepherd's Pie(1lb-2lbs ground beef, pork or lamb, veggies in season, mashed potatoes on top, and gravy make from homemade beef broth)
Saturday & Sunday: Crockpot Leek and Potato Soup
Week 3
Monday: Pancakes (flour, eggs, milk, oil, sugar)
Tuesday & Wednesday: Sausage Meatballs (8 uncased sausages with seasonal veggies and potatoes)
Thursday: Muffin Pan leftovers (pizza dough pressed into 12 cup muffin pan with leftover meatballs spooned in, covered with sauces and topped with cheese and baked for 15-20 minutes at 400F)
Friday & Saturday: Mixed Veggie Egg Drop Soup
Sunday: Dijon Spice Pork Tenderloin with seasonal veggies and potatoes
That's the plan for now!
A basic element of our meal plan involves making most meals to last two nights. This is financially a lot cheaper than creating 7 unique meals. More importantly, I can make a more elaborate meal with a view that I won't have to cook the next night. Our meal plan is 3 weeks instead of 4 because we liked the idea of more rotation so that the first Monday of every month or whatnot isn't always the same thing.
Week 1
Monday & Tuesday: Stir fry (1lb pork or beef stir fry pieces, veggies in season, rice, soya sauce)
Wednesday & Thursday: Butternut Squash Soup
Friday & Saturday: Pizza (homemade pizza dough, hot house tomatoes, veggies in season, bacon and/or sausage)
Sunday: Bacon & eggs with toast (made out of Homemade Molasses Brown Bread)
Week 2
Monday & Tuesday: Beef Stew
Wednesday: French Toast (eggs, milk, sugar and Homemade Molasses Brown Bread)
Thursday & Friday: Shepherd's Pie(1lb-2lbs ground beef, pork or lamb, veggies in season, mashed potatoes on top, and gravy make from homemade beef broth)
Saturday & Sunday: Crockpot Leek and Potato Soup
Week 3
Monday: Pancakes (flour, eggs, milk, oil, sugar)
Tuesday & Wednesday: Sausage Meatballs (8 uncased sausages with seasonal veggies and potatoes)
Thursday: Muffin Pan leftovers (pizza dough pressed into 12 cup muffin pan with leftover meatballs spooned in, covered with sauces and topped with cheese and baked for 15-20 minutes at 400F)
Friday & Saturday: Mixed Veggie Egg Drop Soup
Sunday: Dijon Spice Pork Tenderloin with seasonal veggies and potatoes
That's the plan for now!
Tuesday, 24 January 2012
Finding Joy
Things here have been hectic to say the least lately. My husband is sick with some sort of unknown illness and has been in and out of doctors offices and the emergency room for weeks. All we've been able to figure out is what it's not. They've prescribed him an army of medications that all seem to be doing just this side of nothing for him. It's gotten to the point he can't work a full day most days because the pain gets so overwhelming. He's doing his best to grin and bear it, to hide the intensity of his pain but as the days wear on it's clear he's falling apart at the seams. He is truly the St. Joseph of our family, working hard and doing all he can despite his own setbacks to take care of the family God has given us. Suffice it to say this has been really stressful for both of us and the kids, who are too young to understand why Daddy can't play pony today or why his energy is so low. In all of this I'm struggling, struggling to find a voice for my prayers, patience with my children when I'm distracted by worst case scenarios, and most of all I'm struggling to find joy.
These days even a small moment of joy is enough to fuel me through the rest of an unpredictable day. I'm holding on to my little moments tightly, doing my best to remind myself over and over again how lucky I am. With four children these moments come surprisingly often (mind you they are perfectly balanced with the complete pandemonium that four crying, screaming kids can bring). Each child has their own unique way of reminding me of why it is I keep getting out of bed each morning to jump into the fray, especially on my weaker days.
Today, as I lay in bed giving baby girl her first feed, she fell asleep next to me, and giggled in her sleep. She has a deep chuckle for such a little girl and I could barely stiffle my own giggle watching her smile at whatever hilarious dream she was having. I've struggled so hard with breastfeeding and these little moments remind me why I fight every day to keep that relationship strong. It's helping me to grow my already strong bond with my baby girl.
Our eldest, the little princess, has had the honour of giving me a reliable moment of daily joy for 10 days. She's signed up for a charity campaign where she draws a picture on a chosen theme for 30 days and people pledge to support her. My 4 year old artiste has already raised $150 in support of an AIDS/HIV charity. That's wonderful enough, but to add to this I have the joy of watching her mind work through the idea of her challenge for the day. She usually ends up chatting her little heart out and gets completely distracted before I remind her of her drawing. I then get to watch her bend over her paper with great intensity as she fulfills her task.
Our oldest boy is my little button pusher. He's the screamer, pusher, and definitely the go-to guy if you have a question that demands an answer of "no". I love his spunky and independant spirit even if he drives me a little crazy sometimes. For all of his spiritedness he's truly a gentle soul, and is becoming a doting older brother to his roommate, his little brother. He's started this little habit that I have no intention of breaking (for so many reasons): whenever we get home from being out he gently asks his brother to sit down, then he very carefully takes off his brother's shoes for him. Then, if he can get him to stay still he'll take off his brother's coat. So precious. Some day I think he'll make a great Daddy.
Now our little man, Daddy's shadow, can't help but be adorable. He's on the small side for his age and has just started climbing all over the furniture, a feat his stature had denied him previous. Besides this, he's also started forming full sentences and the results would melt any mother's heart. A lot of what he says involves his brother, running the gamut from "Brother, where ARE you??", "Brother, play with ME!" to "NO, brother. NO!". It's great to see him coming into his own and even better to see that he adores his roomie. I must say though, what really gave me a little burst of joy seems so inconsequential from the outside, but was for me another memory to store in my heart for the lean teenage years sure to come. My wee 20 month old boy, covered in markers, came up to me with a look of the greatest trust and earnestness and, holding up a marker in his perfectly formed little hands, asked me in the sweetest voice: "Mommy, please help me with this. Please!" He wanted me to help him uncap his marker, no biggie. The best part was right after, completely unbidden, he followed up with a big smile, a hug and an unmistakable "Thank you, Mommy!" before he ran back to drawing with his brother and sister. Melt.
I'm writing these little moments as much to help myself remember in the tough times as anything. I want to soak up these moments, live in these moments and treasure them as the precious miracles they are. These moments also help me appreciate the personalities of each of my children, which is a blessing in and of itself. I thank God that He keeps giving me these little moments to get me through and remind me that there's always light in the dark places, I just need to keep my eyes open.
These days even a small moment of joy is enough to fuel me through the rest of an unpredictable day. I'm holding on to my little moments tightly, doing my best to remind myself over and over again how lucky I am. With four children these moments come surprisingly often (mind you they are perfectly balanced with the complete pandemonium that four crying, screaming kids can bring). Each child has their own unique way of reminding me of why it is I keep getting out of bed each morning to jump into the fray, especially on my weaker days.
Today, as I lay in bed giving baby girl her first feed, she fell asleep next to me, and giggled in her sleep. She has a deep chuckle for such a little girl and I could barely stiffle my own giggle watching her smile at whatever hilarious dream she was having. I've struggled so hard with breastfeeding and these little moments remind me why I fight every day to keep that relationship strong. It's helping me to grow my already strong bond with my baby girl.
Our eldest, the little princess, has had the honour of giving me a reliable moment of daily joy for 10 days. She's signed up for a charity campaign where she draws a picture on a chosen theme for 30 days and people pledge to support her. My 4 year old artiste has already raised $150 in support of an AIDS/HIV charity. That's wonderful enough, but to add to this I have the joy of watching her mind work through the idea of her challenge for the day. She usually ends up chatting her little heart out and gets completely distracted before I remind her of her drawing. I then get to watch her bend over her paper with great intensity as she fulfills her task.
Our oldest boy is my little button pusher. He's the screamer, pusher, and definitely the go-to guy if you have a question that demands an answer of "no". I love his spunky and independant spirit even if he drives me a little crazy sometimes. For all of his spiritedness he's truly a gentle soul, and is becoming a doting older brother to his roommate, his little brother. He's started this little habit that I have no intention of breaking (for so many reasons): whenever we get home from being out he gently asks his brother to sit down, then he very carefully takes off his brother's shoes for him. Then, if he can get him to stay still he'll take off his brother's coat. So precious. Some day I think he'll make a great Daddy.
Now our little man, Daddy's shadow, can't help but be adorable. He's on the small side for his age and has just started climbing all over the furniture, a feat his stature had denied him previous. Besides this, he's also started forming full sentences and the results would melt any mother's heart. A lot of what he says involves his brother, running the gamut from "Brother, where ARE you??", "Brother, play with ME!" to "NO, brother. NO!". It's great to see him coming into his own and even better to see that he adores his roomie. I must say though, what really gave me a little burst of joy seems so inconsequential from the outside, but was for me another memory to store in my heart for the lean teenage years sure to come. My wee 20 month old boy, covered in markers, came up to me with a look of the greatest trust and earnestness and, holding up a marker in his perfectly formed little hands, asked me in the sweetest voice: "Mommy, please help me with this. Please!" He wanted me to help him uncap his marker, no biggie. The best part was right after, completely unbidden, he followed up with a big smile, a hug and an unmistakable "Thank you, Mommy!" before he ran back to drawing with his brother and sister. Melt.
I'm writing these little moments as much to help myself remember in the tough times as anything. I want to soak up these moments, live in these moments and treasure them as the precious miracles they are. These moments also help me appreciate the personalities of each of my children, which is a blessing in and of itself. I thank God that He keeps giving me these little moments to get me through and remind me that there's always light in the dark places, I just need to keep my eyes open.
Sunday, 20 November 2011
Feeding Troubles
I am again faced with concerns that another baby isn't thriving on breastmilk. The second my babies start sleeping through the night (or even most of the night) I can't seem to feed them enough during the day to keep them growing. I had to resort to supplementing with formula (once on doctor's orders after my son actually started losing weight) with my three oldest children.
With our newest baby, who was a perfect 9lbs1oz at birth, I'm doing my best to literally feed her all day. All day. I've become a pro at feeding her sitting, standing, reclining, eating, cooking and, yesterday, while finger painting.
She's doing better on breastmilk than any of the older kids did, but at her last check-up her weight had stalled. She gained maybe a half a pound in a month. I had been so sure that, unlike her siblings, she was thriving that when I saw the number on the scale, a mere 1lb6oz over her birth weight, it felt like I'd been kicked in the gut. I'm starting to get worried. My body, which can grow babies perfectly and has no major problem with birth, doesn't seem all too skilled at feeding these precious gifts.
I've already had comments questioning why I would want to be a slave to feeding, how inconvenient it must be to have to feed all day with three older kids that need me, and asking me what the harm is of formula feeding (as pumping simply doesn't work for me). After years of trying to breastfeed my kids I don't see it as a burden, but as an ideal to aspire too. I want so badly to be that Mom that struggled but, after some work, wound up with a beautiful breastfeeding relationship and a chubby, healthy baby who I'd have to worry about weaning.
The 4 month appointment, days before Christmas, will be the deciding moment for my latest attempt to breastfeed. Either I'll be a happily busy Mom singing Christmas carols with my baby cozy under my shawl or Santa will be leaving a shiny can of formula under the tree.
Either way I'll be grateful that I have the option and that, however I have to do it, I can feed my baby. I will sit in our usual pew surrounded by my family remembering the Christmas 5 years ago when I was pregnant but didn't know it yet and I said an intense prayer for my dream baby. I didn't care about breastfeeding or formula. I just knew I wanted to start a family with my wonderful husband. I know that no matter the struggles God answered that prayer and then some. No struggles seem so big next to that one, incredible, answered prayer.
With our newest baby, who was a perfect 9lbs1oz at birth, I'm doing my best to literally feed her all day. All day. I've become a pro at feeding her sitting, standing, reclining, eating, cooking and, yesterday, while finger painting.
She's doing better on breastmilk than any of the older kids did, but at her last check-up her weight had stalled. She gained maybe a half a pound in a month. I had been so sure that, unlike her siblings, she was thriving that when I saw the number on the scale, a mere 1lb6oz over her birth weight, it felt like I'd been kicked in the gut. I'm starting to get worried. My body, which can grow babies perfectly and has no major problem with birth, doesn't seem all too skilled at feeding these precious gifts.
I've already had comments questioning why I would want to be a slave to feeding, how inconvenient it must be to have to feed all day with three older kids that need me, and asking me what the harm is of formula feeding (as pumping simply doesn't work for me). After years of trying to breastfeed my kids I don't see it as a burden, but as an ideal to aspire too. I want so badly to be that Mom that struggled but, after some work, wound up with a beautiful breastfeeding relationship and a chubby, healthy baby who I'd have to worry about weaning.
The 4 month appointment, days before Christmas, will be the deciding moment for my latest attempt to breastfeed. Either I'll be a happily busy Mom singing Christmas carols with my baby cozy under my shawl or Santa will be leaving a shiny can of formula under the tree.
Either way I'll be grateful that I have the option and that, however I have to do it, I can feed my baby. I will sit in our usual pew surrounded by my family remembering the Christmas 5 years ago when I was pregnant but didn't know it yet and I said an intense prayer for my dream baby. I didn't care about breastfeeding or formula. I just knew I wanted to start a family with my wonderful husband. I know that no matter the struggles God answered that prayer and then some. No struggles seem so big next to that one, incredible, answered prayer.
Friday, 28 October 2011
I Remember - Je Me Souviens
In honour of Remembrance Day in a few weeks I want to share a story about my Grandpapa, a proud veteran of the second World War.
My Grandpapa was an incredible man. He was the life of any party and an incorrigible flirt. He was also well educated, fluently bilingual and well traveled. For us grandkids he had his own way of winning our hearts. We lived in the same city so he had time to etch out quiet traditions that were so small then but leave me with a deep sense of his unspoken love. Like most men of his generation he wasn't one for big emotional moments. My memories with him involve a very sweet nursery song that involved tickling, ringing the bell from one of his ships, Sunday trips to Swiss Chalet, and Cherry Blossom chocolates. For the record I hate the taste of cherries, but will never say no to a Cherry Blossom because that taste is a memory I refuse to shake. To me personally he gave a little silver anchor on a necklace that I still proudly wear it now.
I forget some times that my grandfather had a whole life before I came around. Sadly just as I was old enough to ask him about it dementia swept in and stole him from me. Excluding a few days of clarity over the drawn out years of his illness he didn't know me. In the early days of his dementia he mistook me for my mother, but near the end he often would confuse me for my Nonna who passed when I was 4 years old. I have no memory of what he sounded like when he spoke my name, though I vividly recall being called Gerine or Francine more than once. Even though he didn't know me I still joined my father visiting at the Veterans Hospital every few days. As the only living family member who lived nearby my Father visited him every day from the day he was admitted until the day he died. My Father was the most dutiful and caring son any parent could ask for, even or especially the days he was a stranger to his own Father.
As Grandpapa's memory regressed further back he finally reached a point that he was left terrorized by events of his days in the Navy from World War II. My Father informed me a few years ago that he used to field my Grandpapa's anguished calls in the middle of the night as he was clearly re-living a memory more persistent than his dementia. He would call my Father begging him to call the coast guard, firmly believing he was in a sinking ship and that his fellow sailors were drowning. He would say between uncharacteristic tears that he could hear the voices of dying men calling for help. Why would no one save them?
The details of this terrifying moment were all found in one particular story. In his early days as a sailor one of the ships he served on was torpedoed (this was actually one of two times his ship was sunk). Somehow, by chance or miracle, he landed on some floating debris. His body was utterly broken and he could not move let alone swim. As he lay there awaiting death, capture, or rescue, many if the men around him drowned. In particular an older man, the ship's cook, who had taken a liking to him and always gave my Grandpapa an extra apple on board, cried out for him by name, begging to be saved. Gradually his voice got quieter until it fell completely silent. My Grandpapa was fortunate enough to be rescued and even returned to service.
This tragic event haunted my Grandpapa. When all else was lost he remembered and relived it, drowning in his guilt and helplessness. My charming, confidant, flirtatious, cherry blossom loving Grandpapa carried that memory to his grave. It seems so unfair that he should lose so much of his memory but remain the prisoner to this moment of intense guilt. He sometimes would weep when he saw an apple, the unexpected reminder of the man he couldn't save. He was one of many who returned home from the war physically whole but emotionally broken. A little piece of him died out on the water that night as he heard his friend's life fade along with his desperate cries for help. The rest of us gained peace, but those who returned home were left at war with their memories. Their joy to see their families was paired with unfathomable darkness from all the death they had witnessed and somehow managed to survive.
So this coming Rememberance Day I will proudly wear my poppy and participate in the ceremonies however I can. Our veterans will never forget what was lost, and neither should we.
For You, Grandpapa, I Remember. Pour Toi, Grandpapa, Je Me Souviens.
My Grandpapa was an incredible man. He was the life of any party and an incorrigible flirt. He was also well educated, fluently bilingual and well traveled. For us grandkids he had his own way of winning our hearts. We lived in the same city so he had time to etch out quiet traditions that were so small then but leave me with a deep sense of his unspoken love. Like most men of his generation he wasn't one for big emotional moments. My memories with him involve a very sweet nursery song that involved tickling, ringing the bell from one of his ships, Sunday trips to Swiss Chalet, and Cherry Blossom chocolates. For the record I hate the taste of cherries, but will never say no to a Cherry Blossom because that taste is a memory I refuse to shake. To me personally he gave a little silver anchor on a necklace that I still proudly wear it now.
I forget some times that my grandfather had a whole life before I came around. Sadly just as I was old enough to ask him about it dementia swept in and stole him from me. Excluding a few days of clarity over the drawn out years of his illness he didn't know me. In the early days of his dementia he mistook me for my mother, but near the end he often would confuse me for my Nonna who passed when I was 4 years old. I have no memory of what he sounded like when he spoke my name, though I vividly recall being called Gerine or Francine more than once. Even though he didn't know me I still joined my father visiting at the Veterans Hospital every few days. As the only living family member who lived nearby my Father visited him every day from the day he was admitted until the day he died. My Father was the most dutiful and caring son any parent could ask for, even or especially the days he was a stranger to his own Father.
As Grandpapa's memory regressed further back he finally reached a point that he was left terrorized by events of his days in the Navy from World War II. My Father informed me a few years ago that he used to field my Grandpapa's anguished calls in the middle of the night as he was clearly re-living a memory more persistent than his dementia. He would call my Father begging him to call the coast guard, firmly believing he was in a sinking ship and that his fellow sailors were drowning. He would say between uncharacteristic tears that he could hear the voices of dying men calling for help. Why would no one save them?
The details of this terrifying moment were all found in one particular story. In his early days as a sailor one of the ships he served on was torpedoed (this was actually one of two times his ship was sunk). Somehow, by chance or miracle, he landed on some floating debris. His body was utterly broken and he could not move let alone swim. As he lay there awaiting death, capture, or rescue, many if the men around him drowned. In particular an older man, the ship's cook, who had taken a liking to him and always gave my Grandpapa an extra apple on board, cried out for him by name, begging to be saved. Gradually his voice got quieter until it fell completely silent. My Grandpapa was fortunate enough to be rescued and even returned to service.
This tragic event haunted my Grandpapa. When all else was lost he remembered and relived it, drowning in his guilt and helplessness. My charming, confidant, flirtatious, cherry blossom loving Grandpapa carried that memory to his grave. It seems so unfair that he should lose so much of his memory but remain the prisoner to this moment of intense guilt. He sometimes would weep when he saw an apple, the unexpected reminder of the man he couldn't save. He was one of many who returned home from the war physically whole but emotionally broken. A little piece of him died out on the water that night as he heard his friend's life fade along with his desperate cries for help. The rest of us gained peace, but those who returned home were left at war with their memories. Their joy to see their families was paired with unfathomable darkness from all the death they had witnessed and somehow managed to survive.
So this coming Rememberance Day I will proudly wear my poppy and participate in the ceremonies however I can. Our veterans will never forget what was lost, and neither should we.
For You, Grandpapa, I Remember. Pour Toi, Grandpapa, Je Me Souviens.
Monday, 24 October 2011
Crazy, Loving, Beautiful Life
I'm currently applying for a position as a blogger with Today's Parent and as such I have written this post about what makes me unique as a Mom and as such as a blogger. In many ways I feel the same as every other Mom out there but I realize that being a SAHM to 4 kids ages 4 and under my experience is unique and hopefully engaging. I have included at the bottom of this page links to my 3 favourite blog posts.
I live in a crazy house. Every day is wild and fun and entertaining. I'm lucky enough to be the Mom of four beautiful children between the ages of four years and two months. Amongst my friends I am living a rare life. Some have as many kids or more, but they're all older. Others have kids the same age but have fewer kids right now or they're spaced further apart. We are asked so often how we do it that I sometimes wonder myself! When I sit and reflect I realize more than anything that the more kids we have, the less I care about looking like a perfect Mom. There are days when I am the image of domestic bliss. My floors are washed, I have three crockpots on the go and all the kids are experiencing the rare simultaneous nap. The more kids we have the rarer those days become. The crazy thing is that I'm more than fine with the deterioration of our home into the children's playhouse. When we get to pair the daily madness with the priviledge of parenting these four incredible children l am not so easily fazed by the cheerios that seem to multiply daily, piles of unfolded laundry, and whatever crusty stuff that is in my hair.
My kids act like every other kid, but with four of them under foot our house couldn't operate unless we let them entertain each other. Any given day they're dancing, singing and playing hilarious games of pretend play in every spare moment. Now, the other side of this is that in a flash things can turn ugly. There aren't enough corners in any room to put the big kids in time out some days. Someone's crying, or bleeding or just plain sulking. With anything you have to take the good with the bad.
Even then the bad isn't really that bad. As soon as someone falls down another sibling runs to the rescue. I watch on with tears in my eyes as the big sister cradles her littlest brother to comfort him when he trips. Or the oldest brother sings a sweet cooing song for his baby sister when she's out of sorts. I am the fortunate witness of the kindness of my children, especially when they were the guilty party behind the tears of another. When they're not fighting over whose truck that is they sit together on the floor, leaning on each other and talking their crazy kid talk.
I am a blessed spectator to the family they have given me. Life is crazy here every day. There are many days I'm ready to throw in the towel, but in the end I can't help but see what a tremendous gift I'm given every day to be a part of all of this joyful wildness. My life is unusual by today's standards, but I don't mind being unusual if I get to be surrounded by these loving, crazy, perfect little children.
Confessions of a Not So Super Mom (Why I'm Okay I'm Not a Super Mom)
4 Under 4 (10 Signs You have 4 kids under 4)
Happy Birthday to Me (Seconds Chances and Thankfulness)
I live in a crazy house. Every day is wild and fun and entertaining. I'm lucky enough to be the Mom of four beautiful children between the ages of four years and two months. Amongst my friends I am living a rare life. Some have as many kids or more, but they're all older. Others have kids the same age but have fewer kids right now or they're spaced further apart. We are asked so often how we do it that I sometimes wonder myself! When I sit and reflect I realize more than anything that the more kids we have, the less I care about looking like a perfect Mom. There are days when I am the image of domestic bliss. My floors are washed, I have three crockpots on the go and all the kids are experiencing the rare simultaneous nap. The more kids we have the rarer those days become. The crazy thing is that I'm more than fine with the deterioration of our home into the children's playhouse. When we get to pair the daily madness with the priviledge of parenting these four incredible children l am not so easily fazed by the cheerios that seem to multiply daily, piles of unfolded laundry, and whatever crusty stuff that is in my hair.
My kids act like every other kid, but with four of them under foot our house couldn't operate unless we let them entertain each other. Any given day they're dancing, singing and playing hilarious games of pretend play in every spare moment. Now, the other side of this is that in a flash things can turn ugly. There aren't enough corners in any room to put the big kids in time out some days. Someone's crying, or bleeding or just plain sulking. With anything you have to take the good with the bad.
Even then the bad isn't really that bad. As soon as someone falls down another sibling runs to the rescue. I watch on with tears in my eyes as the big sister cradles her littlest brother to comfort him when he trips. Or the oldest brother sings a sweet cooing song for his baby sister when she's out of sorts. I am the fortunate witness of the kindness of my children, especially when they were the guilty party behind the tears of another. When they're not fighting over whose truck that is they sit together on the floor, leaning on each other and talking their crazy kid talk.
I am a blessed spectator to the family they have given me. Life is crazy here every day. There are many days I'm ready to throw in the towel, but in the end I can't help but see what a tremendous gift I'm given every day to be a part of all of this joyful wildness. My life is unusual by today's standards, but I don't mind being unusual if I get to be surrounded by these loving, crazy, perfect little children.
Confessions of a Not So Super Mom (Why I'm Okay I'm Not a Super Mom)
4 Under 4 (10 Signs You have 4 kids under 4)
Happy Birthday to Me (Seconds Chances and Thankfulness)
Saturday, 15 October 2011
Confession of a not so Super Mom
I think all of us Moms have once looked at other Moms around us and thought how they seemed to have it all together. Then we look at ourselves and see nothing less than a mess. Maybe we haven't showered in days, there's oatmeal stuck in our hair, the kids are screaming and one of them has a distinct reek about them. SuperMom over there looks like she stepped out of a fashion magazine and her polite children are all beautifull dressed and clean. We can't help but feel so awful when we compare ourselves to these gorgeous put together Moms. They have it all figured out and we're still struggling to find a matching pair of socks for our kids.
The truth is, we can't be that SuperMom. But it's not because we aren't good enough to be a SuperMom. It's because SuperMoms don't actually exist. They may have it together in this moment, which is so wonderful, but chances are she's got the same pile of laundry and dishes at home that we do. SuperMom isn't telling you these details because either they're not important to her or she's, like us, embarrassed. When people ask US about motherhood chances are we'll say we love it. We might make a few jokes about sleep deprivation and untidiness, but few of us would tell someone that we have a more cheerios on our floor than in the box and that we've eaten take out more days this month than we can count.
We also need to remember that we can be guilty of coming across as a SuperMom to other folks too. When we have friends coming over, even if they're our dearest friends, we still do the flight of the bumblebees to get ready. Our livingrooms are immaculate, just don't look in the closet or under the couch. Not to mention the fact that the neglected pile of laundry on our couches migrate to behind closed doors. We also come across as the perfect hostesses because we already have snacks and drinks set out in our pristine livingroom. We wouldn't admit that that's because we don't want our guests in a fit of unexpected helpfulness to go in our kitchen and have to wade through the cloud of fruit flies hovering by the unruly stack of sticky dishes and sippy cups with congealed milk in the bottom. We Moms put on a good show when folks are watching but at least in the earliest years of our precious babies lives we've earned the right to let the house go to pot while we cuddle, kiss and snuggle our way through as many moments as we can before they're too busy to appreciate us. Our children crave our time when they're little and we have a duty to give it to them. We should at least catch up while they're napping, right? Wrong ladies. So wrong. Nap time is our time. We should use that time to sleep, read or do nothing. What about bed time you ask? Don't be ridiculous dear friends. That's when those of us with husbands should be spending time with them, reminding ourselves of why we wanted to make a family with them.
So next time you see a gorgeous put together Mom don't be jealous. Just be happy for her that she's having a good day. And who knows, tomorrow it could you that's inspiring awe and jealousy in friend and stranger alike. Just remember, no one has the right to make you feel lesser, not even yourself. Celebrate your victories but remember too we all share the same challenges of diapers, laundry, dishes, etc. What really makes you a SuperMom is being able to carve out a life with your kids. None of us is ever %100 perfect even with that, but the fact that we keep getting out of bed each day struggling to raise these precious gifts well means we are SuperMoms enough.
So quit worrying about looking perfect to world and go give your kids a big hug. That'll make you a SuperMom to your kids, which is all that really matters.
The truth is, we can't be that SuperMom. But it's not because we aren't good enough to be a SuperMom. It's because SuperMoms don't actually exist. They may have it together in this moment, which is so wonderful, but chances are she's got the same pile of laundry and dishes at home that we do. SuperMom isn't telling you these details because either they're not important to her or she's, like us, embarrassed. When people ask US about motherhood chances are we'll say we love it. We might make a few jokes about sleep deprivation and untidiness, but few of us would tell someone that we have a more cheerios on our floor than in the box and that we've eaten take out more days this month than we can count.
We also need to remember that we can be guilty of coming across as a SuperMom to other folks too. When we have friends coming over, even if they're our dearest friends, we still do the flight of the bumblebees to get ready. Our livingrooms are immaculate, just don't look in the closet or under the couch. Not to mention the fact that the neglected pile of laundry on our couches migrate to behind closed doors. We also come across as the perfect hostesses because we already have snacks and drinks set out in our pristine livingroom. We wouldn't admit that that's because we don't want our guests in a fit of unexpected helpfulness to go in our kitchen and have to wade through the cloud of fruit flies hovering by the unruly stack of sticky dishes and sippy cups with congealed milk in the bottom. We Moms put on a good show when folks are watching but at least in the earliest years of our precious babies lives we've earned the right to let the house go to pot while we cuddle, kiss and snuggle our way through as many moments as we can before they're too busy to appreciate us. Our children crave our time when they're little and we have a duty to give it to them. We should at least catch up while they're napping, right? Wrong ladies. So wrong. Nap time is our time. We should use that time to sleep, read or do nothing. What about bed time you ask? Don't be ridiculous dear friends. That's when those of us with husbands should be spending time with them, reminding ourselves of why we wanted to make a family with them.
So next time you see a gorgeous put together Mom don't be jealous. Just be happy for her that she's having a good day. And who knows, tomorrow it could you that's inspiring awe and jealousy in friend and stranger alike. Just remember, no one has the right to make you feel lesser, not even yourself. Celebrate your victories but remember too we all share the same challenges of diapers, laundry, dishes, etc. What really makes you a SuperMom is being able to carve out a life with your kids. None of us is ever %100 perfect even with that, but the fact that we keep getting out of bed each day struggling to raise these precious gifts well means we are SuperMoms enough.
So quit worrying about looking perfect to world and go give your kids a big hug. That'll make you a SuperMom to your kids, which is all that really matters.
Friday, 7 October 2011
Thankful
It's Thanksgiving weekend and as I watch my social media feeds I have the great honour of reading about what all my Canadian friends are thankful for. I read in all the posts many similar threads of gratitude for family, support and the unbelievable privilege of the every day blessings of the first world. Whenever I reflect on what I'm thankful for I can't help but remember the Gospel parable where a Pharisee, seeing the tax collector who was too ashamed to raise his eyes to heaven in his prayers, proclaimed he was thankful he was not like other men. Such a strangely isolating statement.
This thanksgiving as I read through my feeds I can't help but be thankful than I AM like other men and women. I am thankful for our similar blessings but also our similar struggles. I'm thankful I'm not the only one up all hours of the night with my new baby. I'm thankfully I'm not the only one with 4 kids. I'm thankful I'm not the only one with toddlers. I'm thankful I'm not the only one working hard on my marriage. I'm thankful I'm not the only one who is wrestling with finances. I'm thankful I'm not the only one who is lucky enough to have my friends to lean on and learn from. I'm thankful that I'm not the only one whose house is crazy and I'm thankful I'm not the only one who loves every second of it.
So let me join all of you by saying again how thankful I am that we're all in this together.
This thanksgiving as I read through my feeds I can't help but be thankful than I AM like other men and women. I am thankful for our similar blessings but also our similar struggles. I'm thankful I'm not the only one up all hours of the night with my new baby. I'm thankfully I'm not the only one with 4 kids. I'm thankful I'm not the only one with toddlers. I'm thankful I'm not the only one working hard on my marriage. I'm thankful I'm not the only one who is wrestling with finances. I'm thankful I'm not the only one who is lucky enough to have my friends to lean on and learn from. I'm thankful that I'm not the only one whose house is crazy and I'm thankful I'm not the only one who loves every second of it.
So let me join all of you by saying again how thankful I am that we're all in this together.
Tuesday, 26 July 2011
Perspective
I had one of those days yesterday when everything felt off. The kids were being fine, but I just didn't feel myself. Part of me recognized that this is just my body getting ready for labour which had me nervous, excited and slightly exhausted (already). After a day of feeling sorry for myself I was checking my twitter feed where I saw a blog being passed around by some people I followed. Often times Moms will retweet the blog postings of Moms in need of some encouragement. Usually these blogs are the product of post partum depression or just one of those days that we all have when we feel inadequate. I read them because I've felt overwhelmed in my life too and feel compelled to encourage these young, sleep-deprived Moms. We don't live in tight knit communities like we used to so the Internet is the new way to share, encourage, and vent. A simple status update on Facebook, tweet on Twitter, or blog post can remind us in seconds that we have a world wide community willing to encourage us and give us some much needed perspective.
But this blog was different. It was a young Mom in a situation I couldn't fathom: She's battling cancer. From what I could glean she's getting rigorous treatment that is making her feel worse than the cancer. Despite her painful and intense regimen she believes her cancer is spreading, growing. I was emotionally devastated to read this. While I complain about the pains caused by my growing miracle baby, she is bravely sharing the story of the death growing in her body, trying to steal her from her children. Perspective can be a harsh lesson. My gratitude grew instantaneously but also my desire to storm the gates of heaven with a prayer that wasn't for me. This complete stranger felt like a sister to me in that moment of desperate prayers. As I just yesterday prayed for my new baby to be safely separated from my body, I frantically prayed that this young mother would not be separated from her babies. Whatever His plans for this stranger, I am so thankful that her story pulled me out of my own selfishness yesterday. I hope I keep this perspective as long as I live. I am so blessed with my health and the good health of my children.
But this blog was different. It was a young Mom in a situation I couldn't fathom: She's battling cancer. From what I could glean she's getting rigorous treatment that is making her feel worse than the cancer. Despite her painful and intense regimen she believes her cancer is spreading, growing. I was emotionally devastated to read this. While I complain about the pains caused by my growing miracle baby, she is bravely sharing the story of the death growing in her body, trying to steal her from her children. Perspective can be a harsh lesson. My gratitude grew instantaneously but also my desire to storm the gates of heaven with a prayer that wasn't for me. This complete stranger felt like a sister to me in that moment of desperate prayers. As I just yesterday prayed for my new baby to be safely separated from my body, I frantically prayed that this young mother would not be separated from her babies. Whatever His plans for this stranger, I am so thankful that her story pulled me out of my own selfishness yesterday. I hope I keep this perspective as long as I live. I am so blessed with my health and the good health of my children.
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