Baby girl is now 5 months old. I have to admit, I'm pretty excited about this. She's really sleeping through the night now, and is even going to bed at a reasonable hour. I'm actually getting time with my husband without having to speak quietly so as not to disturb the delicate balance of breastfeeding and conversation. I even got out for a ladies night last night. We got together for coffee and had a good knit, because that's how we roll. Baby girl was home, snuggled in her bed, snoozing. According to hubby there wasn't so much as a whimper from her.
Don't get me wrong, I've enjoyed every sweet second of near constant snuggles, bonding and adoring my new little wonder. I wouldn't trade a second of that time for all the coffee in Columbia (although I doubt there's much coffee left as I have been consuming it in massive quantities). That being said, I can't help but rejoice in this new stage. Baby girl is so much more independant. She enjoys being down on the floor with her siblings in the thick of things. Especially now that youngest boy isn't trying to sit on her. During the day I've been free to do more than supervise the older kids. I've been able to get up and dance with them, build with them, draw with them, and just be a Mom to them instead of a voice trapped in a chair. I can tell the kids enjoy the difference too. It's nice to remember motherhood changes with each stage of life. We grow with our babies.
With all this extra time and energy I'm already plotting so many little projects. Mostly it's knitting projects, but also my old stand by of baking and cooking. I'm pretty sure you'll be seeing a few more crockpot recipes here from me in the future. That and a few more ladies nights to get my creative energies flowing in the company of my sweet lady friends. I'm also looking forward to the idea of a date night with my darling husband some time soon. We've had a rough couple of weeks and I'd love the chance to reconnect with him. Oh sweet sweet freedom. Dream away, baby girl. Mama has a few sweet dreams in store for herself too.
Friday, 27 January 2012
Inner Strength
As I type this, my boys are playing "sleepover" on the floor of our livingroom, curled up in baby blankets I was trying to fold from the laundry (oh well). They are whispering conspiratorially to each other, probably about trucks. I look at them and I can't help but love my sweet, energetic little boys. I wonder sometimes about what it is I have to bring to the table for these impressionable little men in training.
Just like girls, who are taught by society to aspire to an image of physical beauty that is unattainable, young boys are taught a similar message about strength, appearance, and success that, if it is attainable, is undesirable. Men are bombarded every day with images of the tall, dark and handsome superman type figure. Who cares if he's vapid, abusive or cruel, so long as he's good looking and rich, right? Such a sad image of real manhood. I think this image misses the true inner strength of a real man, the man some women don't even believe exists until he walks into her life. Sadly so many women settle for less not realising there are good men out there. I pray every day that my boys don't get caught up in society's vision of manhood being about size, strength, or paycheck.
So, what makes a good man? What inner quality do I pray my boys will have? Strength. Not physical strength, but an emotional strength that will carry them through rough times. Strength to be brave enough to love with their whole being. Strength to be unafraid to show emotions when they need to but also strength enough to control their emotions so they can hold someone else in times of need. Strength to fight the good fight, but also strength to let go of a fight not worth having. Strength enough to apologise when they're wrong but also to be charitable when they're right. Strength to believe might doesn't equal right and that all beings deserve our respect and care. Strength to be themselves, even if what they love about themselves doesn't make them popular, rich or famous.
Our boys won't have to look far for their example. Their father is a man of this kind of inner strength and true manhood at his core. He dedicates every moment to our family, rarely thinking of his own wants or needs. Like St. Joseph, his favourite saint, he chooses to live a life of abiding and daily faith, acting quietly and with great gratitude for all God has entrusted to him. As a mother all I can do is show them a man like their father is worth loving and let them know that they are worthy of unconditional love just as they are. I pray that they always see how grateful I am that when God knit them in the secret of my womb, He created them in His own image as a gift to our family. I pray they strive to live their lives trying to come closer to that perfection instead of the false image the world would teach them to strive for.
Just like girls, who are taught by society to aspire to an image of physical beauty that is unattainable, young boys are taught a similar message about strength, appearance, and success that, if it is attainable, is undesirable. Men are bombarded every day with images of the tall, dark and handsome superman type figure. Who cares if he's vapid, abusive or cruel, so long as he's good looking and rich, right? Such a sad image of real manhood. I think this image misses the true inner strength of a real man, the man some women don't even believe exists until he walks into her life. Sadly so many women settle for less not realising there are good men out there. I pray every day that my boys don't get caught up in society's vision of manhood being about size, strength, or paycheck.
So, what makes a good man? What inner quality do I pray my boys will have? Strength. Not physical strength, but an emotional strength that will carry them through rough times. Strength to be brave enough to love with their whole being. Strength to be unafraid to show emotions when they need to but also strength enough to control their emotions so they can hold someone else in times of need. Strength to fight the good fight, but also strength to let go of a fight not worth having. Strength enough to apologise when they're wrong but also to be charitable when they're right. Strength to believe might doesn't equal right and that all beings deserve our respect and care. Strength to be themselves, even if what they love about themselves doesn't make them popular, rich or famous.
Our boys won't have to look far for their example. Their father is a man of this kind of inner strength and true manhood at his core. He dedicates every moment to our family, rarely thinking of his own wants or needs. Like St. Joseph, his favourite saint, he chooses to live a life of abiding and daily faith, acting quietly and with great gratitude for all God has entrusted to him. As a mother all I can do is show them a man like their father is worth loving and let them know that they are worthy of unconditional love just as they are. I pray that they always see how grateful I am that when God knit them in the secret of my womb, He created them in His own image as a gift to our family. I pray they strive to live their lives trying to come closer to that perfection instead of the false image the world would teach them to strive for.
In the Eye of the Beholder
This morning instead of her usual request for Disney princesses or fairies, my eldest daughter asked if we could watch a VeggieTales movie called "Sweetpea Beauty". I couldn't resist this request as it's a very short DVD and has a message I would gladly spend every day for the rest of her life drilling in. The theme is on beauty, but not in the way you'd expect. They take two classic princess fairy tales, Cinderella and Snow White, and revamp them to be about true beauty instead of society's image of what physical beauty should look like. As I watched my daughter (and her two very obliging brothers who love the movie too) enraptured by the cute animated vegetables retelling her favourite stories I couldn't help but wonder if any of it was sinking in.
She's only 4 and all of her little lady friends are still completely unconcerned about their looks. Or better yet, they're still at that age where everyone is beautiful and fabulous because they haven't been told to think otherwise. Their parents are just as careful as we are to instill the belief that true inner beauty radiates out. Like her friends, her true belief right now is that everyone and everything is beautiful unless she's told otherwise. I wonder how long I can protect her like this and how hard I will have to work to always keep a sense that she is truly beautiful, both inside and out. I know we don't focus on physical beauty too much in our house, but once she goes to school I can't control what others say. It was in elementary school that I recall that brand of bullying starting. Part of me is already beginning to grieve the idea that some day she will look at herself and see some imperfection or flaw. Or worse that one of her school mates will make the leap for her and point out some area of her appearance that will cause her to doubt her whole self. Our society has become so obsessed with the idea of perfectly symmetrical, stick thin women. Will she believe that she measures up to this standard?
My hope in all of this is that if we work hard with her now to understand that beauty isn't just about the physical part, but also about her heart, intelligence and talents, she will learn not to measure herself against airbrushed pictures and starved starlets. I pray that she will see herself with the same joy and wonder I did the day I first held her. There are no imperfections, only variations that make her special and wonderful. My beautiful child and not just a mass produced doll. With whose eyes will she see? The eyes of society or the eyes unconditional of love? I know, just like the rest of us, she'll struggle and have bad days, but in those moments I can only pray she hears the still small voice reminding her she was planned, her creation already known by her Creator before there was time. She is wonderfully made and loved by her family and the Father who wrote her name on the palm of his hand. She is worth loving. She is beautiful.
She's only 4 and all of her little lady friends are still completely unconcerned about their looks. Or better yet, they're still at that age where everyone is beautiful and fabulous because they haven't been told to think otherwise. Their parents are just as careful as we are to instill the belief that true inner beauty radiates out. Like her friends, her true belief right now is that everyone and everything is beautiful unless she's told otherwise. I wonder how long I can protect her like this and how hard I will have to work to always keep a sense that she is truly beautiful, both inside and out. I know we don't focus on physical beauty too much in our house, but once she goes to school I can't control what others say. It was in elementary school that I recall that brand of bullying starting. Part of me is already beginning to grieve the idea that some day she will look at herself and see some imperfection or flaw. Or worse that one of her school mates will make the leap for her and point out some area of her appearance that will cause her to doubt her whole self. Our society has become so obsessed with the idea of perfectly symmetrical, stick thin women. Will she believe that she measures up to this standard?
My hope in all of this is that if we work hard with her now to understand that beauty isn't just about the physical part, but also about her heart, intelligence and talents, she will learn not to measure herself against airbrushed pictures and starved starlets. I pray that she will see herself with the same joy and wonder I did the day I first held her. There are no imperfections, only variations that make her special and wonderful. My beautiful child and not just a mass produced doll. With whose eyes will she see? The eyes of society or the eyes unconditional of love? I know, just like the rest of us, she'll struggle and have bad days, but in those moments I can only pray she hears the still small voice reminding her she was planned, her creation already known by her Creator before there was time. She is wonderfully made and loved by her family and the Father who wrote her name on the palm of his hand. She is worth loving. She is beautiful.
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.
Monday, 23 January 2012
Crockpot Beef Stew
In the middle of today's craziness and chaos, I had a moment of pure delight. Well, several if you count the every day miracle that is the perfect love of a child multiplied by four. I was lucky to have one of those precious moments with each of my children today. Now, this was balanced by a level of general insanity that movies like "Cheaper by the Dozen" and "Yours, Mine and Ours" can only attempt to rival. Let's just say, thank God the markers were washable, the clothes changeable, and the boo boos kissable.
Back to my moment of pure delight. This was the kind that had nothing to do with the kids, yet anyway. They were calmly playing for the moment so I went off to the kitchen to get a start on supper. Thanks to my trusty crockpot I knew 20 minutes of prep could make for a delicious supper that I didn't need to worry about burning while I attended to the needs of my 4 little ones. I had some beef that we'd picked up at the Seaport Market on Saturday. It was stew cut beef from sustainably raised, exclusively grass-fed cows, beautifully aged and expertly butchered by a real Butcher (baby girl's Godfather as it happens) that we purchased at Getaway Meat Mongers. Soooo good. Besides that we had picked up some vegetables from the Noggins Farm stall at the Market, namely potatoes, rainbow carrots, cremini mushrooms, and leeks. As soon as I saw the stew beef I knew I had to make a classic recipe from my Mom's cookbook: Beef Stew (or Beef Ragout). I made a few tweeks to her recipe but overall this is her version of the hearty classic. As I type this the smell of the rich spices and fresh produce are wafting through our house, covering up nicely the pile of wet diapers hiding in our livingroom. Here's the recipe!
1lb stew beef
6-8 cubed medium potatoes
6-8 rainbow carrots cut in discs
3 chopped leeks (green and white parts)
1lb sliced cremini mushrooms
2 28oz cans diced tomatoes
4 cups beef broth
2 bay leaves (remember to remove before serving!)
2 cloves crushed and minced garlic
1/2 tsp pepper
2 T Worchestershire sauce
1 tsp allspice
4 tsp salt
1/2 tsp ground cloves
Combine everything but the meat in your crockpot. In a large pan put 1T olive oil on medium heat. Dredge your stew beef in flour. Shake off excess flour and brown all sides of your meat. This will seal in the juices and therefore your flavour! You will be able to tell your pan is ready by dropping a pinch of flour in. If the flour bubbles and cooks it's ready for your meat. Once your meat is browned, add it to the other incredients in your crock. Take a spatula and get all the juices from the bottom of your pan and put them in the crockpot too. Cook on low for 8-10 hours or on high for 5-7 hours. This is one that you can refridgerate and cook again on low for another 4-6 hours the next day. The sauce will reduce and get more rich!
Back to my moment of pure delight. This was the kind that had nothing to do with the kids, yet anyway. They were calmly playing for the moment so I went off to the kitchen to get a start on supper. Thanks to my trusty crockpot I knew 20 minutes of prep could make for a delicious supper that I didn't need to worry about burning while I attended to the needs of my 4 little ones. I had some beef that we'd picked up at the Seaport Market on Saturday. It was stew cut beef from sustainably raised, exclusively grass-fed cows, beautifully aged and expertly butchered by a real Butcher (baby girl's Godfather as it happens) that we purchased at Getaway Meat Mongers. Soooo good. Besides that we had picked up some vegetables from the Noggins Farm stall at the Market, namely potatoes, rainbow carrots, cremini mushrooms, and leeks. As soon as I saw the stew beef I knew I had to make a classic recipe from my Mom's cookbook: Beef Stew (or Beef Ragout). I made a few tweeks to her recipe but overall this is her version of the hearty classic. As I type this the smell of the rich spices and fresh produce are wafting through our house, covering up nicely the pile of wet diapers hiding in our livingroom. Here's the recipe!
1lb stew beef
6-8 cubed medium potatoes
6-8 rainbow carrots cut in discs
3 chopped leeks (green and white parts)
1lb sliced cremini mushrooms
2 28oz cans diced tomatoes
4 cups beef broth
2 bay leaves (remember to remove before serving!)
2 cloves crushed and minced garlic
1/2 tsp pepper
2 T Worchestershire sauce
1 tsp allspice
4 tsp salt
1/2 tsp ground cloves
Combine everything but the meat in your crockpot. In a large pan put 1T olive oil on medium heat. Dredge your stew beef in flour. Shake off excess flour and brown all sides of your meat. This will seal in the juices and therefore your flavour! You will be able to tell your pan is ready by dropping a pinch of flour in. If the flour bubbles and cooks it's ready for your meat. Once your meat is browned, add it to the other incredients in your crock. Take a spatula and get all the juices from the bottom of your pan and put them in the crockpot too. Cook on low for 8-10 hours or on high for 5-7 hours. This is one that you can refridgerate and cook again on low for another 4-6 hours the next day. The sauce will reduce and get more rich!
Wednesday, 23 November 2011
Driving Me Crazy
First of all I want to say a big THANK YOU for all the support and advice in regards to my breastfeeding post. I'm working my way through all the amazing ideas and am praying baby girl starts packing on the pounds (instead of just me!). Whenever I reach out with my frustrations I know I can depend on my little village of parents to come to my rescue and help me feel like my problems are normal, fixable, and don't make me a bad mama. Love to you all!
As the clouds are starting to dump a huge pile of snow (worthy of a weather warning!) on our fair city my husband has begun to take the bus rather than risk the road in our van. For most Moms, the sight of an available, gassed up vehicle in the driveway causes a sort of jubilation. A chance to escape the Mom cave! For me, not so much. Our van is nothing more than a shiny paperweight without my husband here to drive it. Not because I lost my keys again (I'd never ever lose my keys... or my wallet... or my sanity). Not because I find getting 4 kids ready for a 15 minute outing too hard (okay, that too!). Not because we don't have enough carseats (we actually have spares in the basement. Don't ask). It's because I can't drive.
You read that right. I can't drive. Excluding a brief time right before my husband and I got hitched when I got my learners permit, I've never had a strong need or urge. In fact, I've had a strong urge to not drive for almost 15 years. Don't get me wrong, I love being in the car. Getting out of inclement weather, travelling quickly, and not having to walk everywhere is wonderful, desirable even. I would love to be able to park my fanny behind the wheel and whisk my crazy brood off to the doctor without forcing my husband to take time off work.
Before I had a family, not driving was easy. My Dad was a more than willing chauffeur (thanks Dad!), as was my Mom, oldest brother, and most of my friends. When a chauffeur wasn't available, I had no problem taking the bus. Our house was steps away from no less than 7 major bus routes so I could get anywhere I wanted with ease and relative speed with minimal planning. Not so much with 4 kids (although I must say I still manage this amazing feat with nothing more than an umbrella stroller and snugli. That's right, dig it). It takes a lot more planning and is sure a lot less easy than dragging my weary self out the door with minutes to spare.
It all started innocently enough. I felt justified even for my desire to not drive. As you read in my post about my birthday, I was struck by a car on my 16th birthday. Unlike most 16 year olds lining up at the DMV to write my beginners test I was in the hospital losing my lunch in a tiny kidney shaped dish (again, thanks Dad for being there for that madness). I was not the unsuspecting victim of a drunk driver, a person more concerned with a Tim Hortons coffee than the road, a woman apply mascara in her rearview mirror, he wasn't texting or on a cellphone, or even a student driver new to the road. The man driving was a seasoned driver who simply got distracted by his wife who was chatting with him from the passenger seat. He was just talking to his wife. Words almost killed me that day. And who says the pen isn't mightier than the sword? All jokes aside, as a teenager finally legally allowed to get my license I couldn't image myself as a safe driver when a man driving a sedan had become distracted enough by a conversation to hit me in a labelled crosswalk with flashing lights and a loud beeping sound. How could I, a girl easily distracted by shiny things and bits of string (I can build a nest!!!), be trusted to control something as small as a Smart Car? (Don't laugh, my parents owned one.Well... My Dad is over 6 feet tall, so, okay, laugh away. It was kind of funny in a clown car sort of a way.)
I've let my fear of hurting or worse killing someone behind the wheel paralyse me for years. I'm almost 30 years old now and I'm still living in the shadow of 30 seconds of my life. I've been able to make good of the consequences of that moment in almost every way. I took a trip to Italy with my insurance money. While there I found a relationship with God which led me to the community where I met my husband. Since the day of my accident I've never looked back. I even see it as a turning point that changed the path of my life so dramatically that I am actually incredibly thankful for it.
For all my gratitude for the positive things that happened after my car accident I still can't seem to let go of the baggage I took on about how dangerous driving is. As the snow falls today, I can't help but gaze out at our minivan, as paralysed in our driveway as I am by the idea of driving it. Something's got to give, and I promise it won't be the van (the parking break is on). This Christmas I'm going to give myself and my family a real gift. I'm going to go get my learners permit again. And this time, I'm going to take the testing for my full license too. I don't want my children to grow up with a mother who teaches them by her inability to face her demons that fear is so strong it can't be conquered. I will learn how to drive and get my license in the New Year. Feel free to hold me accountable because this time I won't back down. I'm going to go as soon as I can to take the test and get my shiny plastic ID card with the big L on it.
That is, as soon as my husband can drive me.
As the clouds are starting to dump a huge pile of snow (worthy of a weather warning!) on our fair city my husband has begun to take the bus rather than risk the road in our van. For most Moms, the sight of an available, gassed up vehicle in the driveway causes a sort of jubilation. A chance to escape the Mom cave! For me, not so much. Our van is nothing more than a shiny paperweight without my husband here to drive it. Not because I lost my keys again (I'd never ever lose my keys... or my wallet... or my sanity). Not because I find getting 4 kids ready for a 15 minute outing too hard (okay, that too!). Not because we don't have enough carseats (we actually have spares in the basement. Don't ask). It's because I can't drive.
You read that right. I can't drive. Excluding a brief time right before my husband and I got hitched when I got my learners permit, I've never had a strong need or urge. In fact, I've had a strong urge to not drive for almost 15 years. Don't get me wrong, I love being in the car. Getting out of inclement weather, travelling quickly, and not having to walk everywhere is wonderful, desirable even. I would love to be able to park my fanny behind the wheel and whisk my crazy brood off to the doctor without forcing my husband to take time off work.
Before I had a family, not driving was easy. My Dad was a more than willing chauffeur (thanks Dad!), as was my Mom, oldest brother, and most of my friends. When a chauffeur wasn't available, I had no problem taking the bus. Our house was steps away from no less than 7 major bus routes so I could get anywhere I wanted with ease and relative speed with minimal planning. Not so much with 4 kids (although I must say I still manage this amazing feat with nothing more than an umbrella stroller and snugli. That's right, dig it). It takes a lot more planning and is sure a lot less easy than dragging my weary self out the door with minutes to spare.
It all started innocently enough. I felt justified even for my desire to not drive. As you read in my post about my birthday, I was struck by a car on my 16th birthday. Unlike most 16 year olds lining up at the DMV to write my beginners test I was in the hospital losing my lunch in a tiny kidney shaped dish (again, thanks Dad for being there for that madness). I was not the unsuspecting victim of a drunk driver, a person more concerned with a Tim Hortons coffee than the road, a woman apply mascara in her rearview mirror, he wasn't texting or on a cellphone, or even a student driver new to the road. The man driving was a seasoned driver who simply got distracted by his wife who was chatting with him from the passenger seat. He was just talking to his wife. Words almost killed me that day. And who says the pen isn't mightier than the sword? All jokes aside, as a teenager finally legally allowed to get my license I couldn't image myself as a safe driver when a man driving a sedan had become distracted enough by a conversation to hit me in a labelled crosswalk with flashing lights and a loud beeping sound. How could I, a girl easily distracted by shiny things and bits of string (I can build a nest!!!), be trusted to control something as small as a Smart Car? (Don't laugh, my parents owned one.Well... My Dad is over 6 feet tall, so, okay, laugh away. It was kind of funny in a clown car sort of a way.)
I've let my fear of hurting or worse killing someone behind the wheel paralyse me for years. I'm almost 30 years old now and I'm still living in the shadow of 30 seconds of my life. I've been able to make good of the consequences of that moment in almost every way. I took a trip to Italy with my insurance money. While there I found a relationship with God which led me to the community where I met my husband. Since the day of my accident I've never looked back. I even see it as a turning point that changed the path of my life so dramatically that I am actually incredibly thankful for it.
For all my gratitude for the positive things that happened after my car accident I still can't seem to let go of the baggage I took on about how dangerous driving is. As the snow falls today, I can't help but gaze out at our minivan, as paralysed in our driveway as I am by the idea of driving it. Something's got to give, and I promise it won't be the van (the parking break is on). This Christmas I'm going to give myself and my family a real gift. I'm going to go get my learners permit again. And this time, I'm going to take the testing for my full license too. I don't want my children to grow up with a mother who teaches them by her inability to face her demons that fear is so strong it can't be conquered. I will learn how to drive and get my license in the New Year. Feel free to hold me accountable because this time I won't back down. I'm going to go as soon as I can to take the test and get my shiny plastic ID card with the big L on it.
That is, as soon as my husband can drive me.
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.
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