Love Letter: Big Girl

I've decided that with a new baby coming, it would be a good idea to write a little letter to my older kids so that they can look back and know that regardless how many kids we have, each of them is precious and beloved.

Dear Big Girl,

You and I, we have a long history. It all started around 8 years ago. I know you're only 5 right now, but I promise this will make sense. Before your Daddy and I were married or even dating, you were already a part of my heart. You see, one day in an uncommonly warm October, I was praying in a little chapel in a convent. I was sitting in front of Jesus, doing my best to give my heart to Him. For the first time in my life, God put a perfect picture in my head. I could see this vision with such abundant clarity and I still remember it today. What I saw was you, little girl. You were about 9 or 10 months old, sitting up on my lap. Your hair had that beautiful orangey-red tint it had when you were very little (I still see it in the summer light). I was sitting in our brown wooden rocking chair Nana and Granddad loaned to us and your Daddy was standing behind me smiling. We weren't sitting still, we were reacting to things around us. At the time, your Daddy didn't know, but ever since I told him I know it's given him lots of joy to know that God planned you before He had brought Daddy and I together. It took God another few years before that moment came to be, but I remember the day we were sitting together just like my vision, and I was so grateful. That's how, when I found out you were growing in my tummy, I knew you were a girl without any doctor having to tell me. Daddy and I even picked out your name before you were in my tummy because we both trusted God was going to bring you, our little dream girl, to us once we were married.

Since you've been born, you've given me so much joy. You have been the source of so many firsts for me. You made me a Mommy and through you I've learned so much more about love, caring, and compassion that I could ever have dreamed of knowing. You have always been a joyful, thoughtful and loving little lady. When I feel like I'm failing you as your Mum, you find a new way to show me that even though I'm not perfect, you keep turning out beautifully despite me. I love everything about you, from head to toe and all the in-betweens. If I had to pick one thing about you to say was my favourite part, I'd probably say how loving you are. You love your little brothers and your sister, your Daddy and I with a love I can only hope to emulate. You love yourself in a way that is completely unselfish and not at all vain. You demand of others the same unselfish love and respect. I also love how fierce you are in the face of injustice. When something doesn't make sense to you, or when someone is trying to hurt you, your gentle exterior melts away and you are so brave. You don't scream or hit, you use your words and stand your ground. Sometimes you even do this with your Daddy and I if you feel so strongly that we're being too hard on you. In the moment that may be difficult to deal with, but in the end I love so much how much you respect yourself that you won't face what you see as an injustice with quietude. As you get older, please don't lose this part of yourself. I promise I will nurture it as best as I can. I also love your faith. Jesus isn't just an idea to you, He's your comfort and friend. When you're sad or afraid, I often hear you alone in your room, turning to God to give you strength. Your faith is so natural, so unassuming. It's part of who you are at your core.

I could spend the rest of my life telling you everything about you that I love, but for today just let me say that I love you. I love you for everything you are to me and our family and our friends. I love you for the way you love others. I love you for the way you love yourself. As you get older, I can only hope that these beautiful parts of you that shine through even at the age of 5 keep getting brighter and stronger. I can already tell you're going to be an incredible woman. The kind of woman who takes the whole world on and challenges everyone around you to be a little better than just good enough.

Thank you for making me a Mummy. Thank you for teaching me what motherhood really means. Thank you for being my precious daughter, my collaborator, my co-conspirator, and my friend. Thank you for loving me, even through my worst days.

I love you, little lady. Always and forever.

Spiritual Toddler

Yesterday I was lucky enough to have the chance to share about the hows and whys of Twitter with a dear friend of mine at our parish. She and I worked hard putting together a presentation and a nice hand out. We were going to deliver it as a team, passing back and forth and enriching what each other had to say. I was, needless to say, excited for the chance to help out. Our little Twitter tutorial was scheduled to happen after the Tuesday Coffee Social after morning Mass. The perfect time to bring the kids because there would be snacks to keep them happy and it was early enough in the day that they wouldn't be exhausted. We had even arranged for someone to entertain the kids, a friend of whom they are extremely fond. Unfortunately (well, really fortunately when I think of it!) he got called in to the work so I was flying solo. But that's okay! I am a pro Mom. I know how to prepare. I packed the kids up in time to get to Church a little before Mass and I brought up a kids table to set up my laptop so the kids could watch Netflix while we gave our short presentation (yay free wireless at the Church!).

We settled down in our regular weekday pew for Mass (yes, we have a regular spot). Our friend showed up and the three oldest kids stayed with her the whole time, happily cuddling and trying to kid with her. She and her husband are just like family. They're actually going to be baby boy's Godparents. We're so lucky to have them joining our family officially. But I digress. The kids were generally speaking awesome during Mass, excluding one outburst from the oldest boy who seems to believe that he can't pass through the line for Communion without getting a blessing from our parish priest, even if we're in another line. Huge drama if he doesn't get his blessing, regardless of how much I explain it's not appropriate to scream over a blessing and that he can get one AFTER Mass. Ugh. Anyway.... So Mass went very well all things considered.

After Mass was over we made our way to the room where we were giving the presentation. I set up a movie on Netflix, one I knew the kids would LOVE. I then snuck out to the reception and got a plate full of sweet and treats. Enough to make a lunch for my brood. Feeling like one of those Moms who can have it all, I get ready to help give the presentation about Twitter. A good number of people come in and take a seat and we get ready to start. And then the action really starts. Out of nowhere, my 4 year old boy loses it. Completely. For reasons that are completely obvious to him but ridiculous to me. He hasn't thrown a tantrum of that magnitude in half a year. It was epic. There was tears, screeching, screaming and begging. I had no place to put him in time out to cool off and his voice was so loud in the relatively small room. After lots of struggles I finally got him to quiet down. How, you ask? I ended up having to hold him, with his toy and book he brought, as well as a few crayons and a never ending supply of fresh paper for him to drawn on. I'm sure you know this, but I am over 8 months pregnant. Not exactly comfortable. But at that point I was willing to do just about anything to get him to calm down so my friend could be heard over the din and I could help in some small way. Crazy times.

Last night, as I sat steaming over my day, I  couldn't help but laugh. My boy is usually such a gentleman, especially in public. I'm sure he's either over-tired or coming down with something. In the moment I was swept up in the thought that he should know better than to act that way. In my late night reflection, I wondered if this is how I look to God? Are there times when I should know better, that I cry out to God in frustration and anger for things I don't really need? Am I a spiritual toddler, screaming in anger, telling God I don't love Him anymore because I can't have MY way, even if MY way isn't good for me? The difference is that while my patience was wearing mighty thin with my boy yesterday, God is endlessly patient with me. He sees me ignoring my blessings and crying out in my anger, but He still smiles at my littleness. He wants me to be better, to act my age (or spiritual age in this case) and make the time to listen to His voice rather than my own for a minute. He carries me through my weakness and then teaches me how to be strong. All I can hope to do as a Mama is to try and imitate God's fatherly love for me when my kids push my buttons, and hope that when I'm the one throwing a tantrum, that I learn to quiet my heart so I can hear Him whispering comfort and truth in my ear.

Day in the Life

When you are pregnant and have four kids ages 5 and under, your days are hectic. That`s the polite word for it anyway. Some days are pure, unmitigated awesome. Everyone`s happy, sharing, hugging, and helpful. They`re so exhausted from being so awesome that they ASK to nap and then actually lay down and sleep for 2 hours. They wake up refreshed and go about playing together, and even clean up the toys they`ve scattered on the floor on the first request. These beautiful little gifts, who are clean, have no tangles in their hair, and haven`t spilled even a drop of water on their well-fitting clothes coo at your belly, and say how much they love their baby brother. They eat whatever you made for supper and say it`s the `best supper ever` without even requesting ketchup. When they`re done eating they ask to leave the table (please) and then put their own dishes neatly on the counter. They read stories together, play a little more, then ask for bed time because clearly there`s no more energy left after a day filled with fun. After taking themselves to go potty one more time and getting in their pjs (the oldest two anyway) they saunter off to their room, giving big hugs and kisses to Mom and Dad and each other, close their doors, and go to sleep on their own.

I`ve had a few of those days. Well, maybe one. Maybe that`s mostly the odds and ends of good moments cobbled together. Either way, there are days when I see them off to bed that the smile on my face is not from exhausted delight that for five seconds I may have quiet time. This is not one of those days. And it`s only noon.

It all started last night. The kids went to bed at their usual hour (upon their request), but instead of playing in their rooms or even going to bed (ha!). There was clearly a full moon because literally every 2 minutes both sets of kids were opening their doors asking for something. Or complaining. Or having to pee. I know your bladder is tiny little man, but there ain`t no way you need to pee every five minutes. They were testing my patience for sure. I was on the phone so I couldn`t exactly exercise my full parenting authority, so instead I ran up the stairs (yes, ran. Even at almost 33 weeks Mama`s still got some cheetah speed), gave them the darkest, scariest look I could, and closed their doors. I took toys away. I put a gate in front of the boys` room. I pulled out some of my hair. Good times. Finally, at 10pm I went in, tucked them all into bed one last time, and had a chat with the  boys about the consequences of getting out of bed that they would not soon forget. I am mean Mama. Fear me.

 So they finally slept and importantly let baby girl sleep. I was pretty wound up but I fell asleep after another hour or two (or three). All was well with the world. Until I was awoken by the shrill cry of the oldest boy. He had wet the bed again. It was just a little, but it was the third day in a row (routine change clearly in order). And he woke up 5 minutes before the alarm went off for the start of my husband`s day. There was changing, soothing, throwing a towel on the bed, then the dream of temporary peace. Smarty pants boy waited until 10 minutes after his Daddy left to start his usual routine of coming out into the hallway 100 times until he had successfully woken up the entire clan at least an hour sooner than they`d normally get up by themselves. Thanks kiddo.

So we got up. Had some breakfast. Put a smile on. The first few hours of the day went remarkably well all things considered. They was cuddling, quiet playing, and some laughter all around. Thinking I`d take advantage of the communal good mood, I set up to give the boys their haircuts for Easter. They were starting to look pretty shaggy around the ears and the clock was ticking, so I went for it. For the first few minutes big boy was pleased. It tickled even. Then, for less than a millisecond the clippers slowed down on a thick patch of hair. Drama. Screaming. Kicking. Tears. Unfortunately we`d reached the point that if I didn`t continue he`d look ridiculous, so I had to sit down behind him and lock my legs around him while I did my best to finish quickly. Big girl wanted her bangs cut next. Quick. Easy. Perfect. Baby girl wanted a hair cut too, which not only did she not need, but might have been a disaster. Cue baby drama from her. Moving on. Little boy gets his hair cut. Again he thinks it`s fun to start, but for no particular reason melts down within a few minutes. He`s smaller so a little tougher to hold still but I somehow manage to get it done. Getting kicked is not my favourite. But I got it done. Victory.

After all was said and done the boys were giddy. They love the results if not the method. While admiring my handiwork I noticed all four of them had claws like baby wolverines. Normally I`d just let it go, but with all the hitting the average toddler racks up, I knew they`d be slicing each other to shreds in their mini battle royales. I don`t know how things work in your house, but my kids seem to be convinced that fingernail clippers are tools of torture and that I am using them solely for the purpose of gleefully causing their slow, painful demise. It took far longer than it should have, but I managed to cut the nails on 40 fingers and 40 toes.

I`m sure my neighbours and any passersby are convinced I am a serial child abuser based solely on the volume level of my house this morning. And that was just the morning. Praying the day turns around a little, but in the end I can`t help but smile at my life. Sure, there are days when I feel like I`m never going to win a single parenting battle with them, but that`s not so bad. I get to spend every day loving them in their littleness, and helping them grow into the men and women I`ll always be proud of. I just hope I can continue to grow with them and be someone they`re always proud to call Mom (or even Mommy. I`d be okay with that). I`ll keep clutching to that while they`re clutching to me.

Community for Children

I grew up going to a Church that had a crying room. I have more than a few memories of my parents sneaking us to the little side room that was supposed to be sound proof, but really only dulled our screams a little. With the large glass window separating us from the congregation, anyone who was so inclined could still see my two older brothers brawling (because I was clearly perfect, the trip to the crying room rarely had anything to do with me) while my Mother's face did a fairly good impersonation of a teapot coming to a boil. Looking back, I'm pretty impressed my parents kept bringing us to Church. The crying room at my Church also had a little box of toys, which seemed a helpful tool to distract the toddler crowd, but when you had more than one little kid in the room, caused Mass to become the scene of an impromptu playdate, arguing over toys included.

When we got married and had our first child, one of the things we looked for in a Church was somewhere with a crying room, because I didn't like the idea of our baby disturbing anyone else's prayerful experience of Mass. So we tucked ourselves into the crying room every time she so much as squawked, making the awkward and I'm sure disruptive trek to the back with our overstuffed diaper bag, stroller and big carseat. (I laugh at all the gear I brought to Mass in retrospect. Nowadays I bring my diminutive purse with one solitary cloth prefold and a facecloth). I was still fighting my way through breastfeeding, so I liked the added protection of a separate room while I struggled with getting her to latch under a big heavy blanket (I had yet to discover nursing covers). The crying room was my own security blanket that I held on to, even later one when she was bottle fed and was very calm through the hour or so of Mass. I remember so clearly that one day as my husband and I left Mass, we realized that neither of us had heard the readings or the homily, and had only been a part of the congregation itself when we lined up to receive the Eucharist. The crying room had made it easy to let our attention wander, to get distracted by the goings on of all the other families (for better or for worse) and I for one had taken to chatting with the other frazzled mothers finding refuge in the crying room with us. We had created our own little community in the crying room, but it was nothing more than a playgroup. We had lost the point of why we were at Mass in the first place.

As we wandered from Church to Church after that, we found ourselves gradually edging our way into the community. If a Church didn't have a crying room, we'd sit at the very back so we could make a quick escape if one of the kids started acting wild. As our kids started getting used to the rhythm of Mass, which by the way got easier when the newest babies were right in the community from day one (well, day two, we had to be released from the hospital first), we starting slowly picking our pew further towards the front. When we joined our new parish community, we spent a few Masses at the back before we took the bold move to sit in one of the front pews (still conveniently located by the door to the hallway where the bathrooms are, because potty training waits for no one). At first it was hair raising for my husband and I. I couldn't help but feel like everyone was watching, and was very aware of the echo each little squeal from our kids made. Turns out, those watching eyes weren't judging. They were smiling with joy. Who doesn't love seeing a young family at Mass? And as for the noise, it turns out that even if everyone could hear the random things my kids would shout, the worst we'd get would be a chuckle from a parent who had graduated from this stage of parenthood.

As the months have passed, other families have started to sit around us, with their toddlers and babies. To some extent I think there's safety in numbers. When a kid loses their cool, there are so many of them in our part of the Church that no one besides us can tell who it is. Unlike the little community we made in the crying room almost 5 years ago, we are all sitting together trying to enjoy Mass, singing our hearts out, pointing our children to the action on the altar, and growing in faith together. Sure, there are times when the kids are goofing at each other or all the babies (and a few toddlers) start crying all at once, but instead of running away from the community of the Mass, we have solidarity as our kids become their own choir. We exchange our desperate looks, soothe them, soothe each other, and get back to the business of loving Jesus and giving that witness of love and devotion to our kids. Our kids are part of the community as much as we are, and while they may never remember when they joined the community, I pray they'll always feel safe and secure that they belong and that they are wanted. I know as a parent I've come a long way to realize that the kids weren't bothering anyone, and that we don't need to separate ourselves from the community, and that doing that was a disservice to us as parents, our children, and the great community who love seeing kids at Mass too. After all, Jesus said "let the little children come", He didn't say they had to be quiet once they got there, or that if they cried they should be put to the side in a little windowed room. He just say, let them come. The great commandment for us as parents is to bring them to Jesus and then teach them to love Him.

Baby 5: Week 24

How Far Along: 24 Weeks (16 weeks to go!)

How I'm Feeling: I'm feeling good! A little tired for general kick related night-time hijinks (what's up almost 4 year old??? Why all the waking at night, kiddo?), but surprisingly energetic. I was thinking back to not too many weeks ago, when all I wanted to do was sleep. Sleep and eat a little, and sleep some more. I'm finding eating isn't the highest on my list (I'm still eating, just not in all-day snack mode), nor is sleeping (except at night, obviously). During the day I'm up and buzzing about. The TV has been turned off all day for 4 days, and I've been baking muffins, playing with the kids, and simply enjoying them!

What I'm Thinking: My brain has been working double time. We got the results of our ultrasound on Friday, and everything was great. Apparently this baby is a very energetic, healthy baby growing nicely (not unlike my waist-line). We also decided for the first time to find out the gender, and have been spending the last few days passing names back and forth. We were SO sure we were having a girl that we had a perfectly beautiful girl's name picked, so when our doctor said this little munchkin will be our third BOYYYYYYYYYYY, we were stumped. We had a name, but the second it became so real that this is in fact a boy, we ditched it. We have a new name in mind, but we'll be praying hard about it before we make anything official.
 

What I've Done This Week: Besides baking, I also went nuts cleaning in the kitchen. It's not pristine by any stretch of the word, but as of right now there are no dirty dishes. Rejoice! This shouldn't be a big deal, but it totally is. I've also been busy with things at Church, like our Moms' group, the Welcoming Committee, Baptism Formation sessions, and some odds and sods. I've also gotten a pretty cool gig transcribing some audio files of my parish priest's talks down at a conference. He's writing a book based on some work he's done giving presentations on the New Evangelization in the Catholic Church. I've been doing that in the quiet times and enjoying it all.
 

What I Hope To Do Next Week: I hope to finish the bulk of my transcription, and then, (ha, how many times have I said this?) clean up baby boy's bedroom so we can lay the flooring. We're so close to getting it done, but as that room has become a kind of a drop zone it'll take some doing.

Praise for Dads

A friend of mine just had her third baby. (Yayyyyyy! Congrats Mama!) Her husband brought their two older kids to Church while she stayed home to rest (since their baby was born 2 days before) and while I was busy trying to congratulate the new Papa, I overhead a comment that made me want to lose my mind. While patting him on the back, an older gentlemen repeated more than once his congratulations, while reminding the new Dad, who was joyfully caring for his two older children solo, that he shouldn't really be congratulated on the birth as he had done NOTHING. I still have steam pouring out of my ears over this comment. I know for a fact that if my friend had been there, she would have sung the praises of her wonderful husband, but as she wasn't there he, cool as a cucumber, smiled very modestly and praised his wife for her excellence in all things.

So why am I, a woman who has personally pushed out 4 children, so upset? This couple's labour experience is %100 not my business, but I find the attitude that men have no job or place in the delivery room (or if you're super cool and do homebirths, in the living room!) so archaic and sexist. Yes, our husbands will never have to push a baby out their business, but that's okay, because they're not built to do that. Although my husband has said more than once that he would gladly take the pain rather than watch me fight through it. But that's not his job during labour. His job during labour is to stand by me, and be my rock. And he is. I have no idea how I would have survived my 4th labour without an epidural if he wasn't next to me, holding my hand, encouraging and empowering me, praying with me, and doing pretty much any reasonable thing I asked him quickly and with joy. The heart of service my husband shows me while I'm giving birth is nothing less than saintly.  Beforehand, he also did every thing he could to learn about my needs and desires for labour, so that when I was in la la land during contractions, he could be my advocate. Nobody touched me let alone gave me an intervention without having to go through him. The doctors would have had a better chance doing something he knew I wouldn't have wanted if they had asked a hungry tiger while wearing bloody zebra steaks for coats.

Gone are the days of men puffing cigars in the waiting room while waiting for doctors to let them know how their wives fared. Fathers of this generation know all the lingo for labour, have educated themselves on what the mothers of their children want, and are there in the delivery room doing all they can to make sure all she has to worry about is getting through the next contraction or push. By the time we're done having kids, my Husband will be able to write a PhD thesis about labour, and give practical courses on massage therapy and how to scare the crap out of medical staff who don't show respect. And let's not forget that in the case of 2nd, 3rd, or 4th siblings, Dads go home after no sleep and an emotional roller coaster wilder than the wildest theme park, and get back to the business of parenting while waiting for Mum and the new baby to be released from the hospital. While some would call that "babysitting" (and if you do in front of me, I apologise for the fact that I may accidentally punch you in the throat), I call that real parenting.

Anyone who knows the real men, the real Dads of this generation and how hard they work for the women they love wouldn't dare say that they don't do anything during labour and delivery or afterwards. These are modest good men not looking for any praise, but that doesn't mean taking a swipe at their dignity and contribution to the life of their family is right. It's absolutely shameful that anyone should assume they have to right to even joke like that with the Dads of our generation. Men who would think to say that men like my husband or my friend's husband did NOTHING during labour, have a lot to learn about what it means to be a real man in this day and age.

Patience is a Virtue

How many times have we heard the phrase "Patience is a Virtue"? When my first daughter was born, patience was certainly not a virtue I had. Not even remotely. This led to some pretty massive failures in my attempts to breastfeed. She was having trouble latching so she was hungry all the time and spent a lot of her first few weeks working on the most pitiful, heart-breaking mewl of a cry that would drive me to tears. I recall one night in those early weeks when I just couldn't get her to latch (yes, I know I should have called a lactation consultant!), that I sat in my rocking chair and lost it. She was crying, I was crying, it was chaos. The only person not crying was my husband. He gently picked her up out of my arms and rocked her until she was calm, burped her, and handed her back. After that desperate night, my husband went out and bought me a little hand pump so we could try to bottle feed her. To this day I've never figured out how to use it quickly and effectively, which led to more frustrated tears, and then finally a trip to the store for some formula. I recall when we finally got her on solids, how easily I would lose my cool when she'd throw her dishes and her food on the floor. Another case of tears over what is really not that big of a deal. Babies throwing stuff is just what babies do. It's kind of their gig. I just couldn't handle the waste, the mess, and the fact that she wasn't eating when I thought she would DIE of malnutrition if she didn't eat EVERY bite of her oatmeal. When I look back I can laugh at myself for being so dramatic.

The more kids we had, the less I had these problems. Breastfeeding stayed hard. It was only with our 4th child that I managed to make it past the 4 month mark. As for the feeding, we switched out to Baby Led Weaning, which made life way easier anyway. I found tricks to avoid the stress that would send me over the edge. It also helps that I don't have 4 tiny babies. Just one baby at a time makes it all easier. My big kids still try my patience. A LOT. But I give in way less than I did with one, or even two. I still find my eye twitching every once in a while when I come in and see the little big brother has drawn ALL OVER the walls of his ENTIRE room with crayon that WILL NOT wash off (How did he even get those crayons??? The sneaky little monkey brought them up while I wasn't looking!). I mean really. When his older sister did that I lost my mind, and she only coloured on one little corner with a crayon that washed off easily. There was yelling, tears, drama, and then a ban on crayons for at least a month. Maybe more. With little big brother I sat him down and talked it through with him. Showed him how hard it was to clean. Told him that the walls were not for colouring on. Gave him a colouring book to exercise his artistic desires. Inside, my brain was screaming, but I managed to keep my cool with him.

So I guess patience really is a virtue. Like every other virtue you don't just wake up one day feeling patient. It's something you learn with great effort, by building up a habit of self-control and gentleness. Some days I still lose my cool. My boys are amazing, loving this wonders, but there are times when the two of them are going nuts in their room at night, waking up their baby sister in the next room that I want to come in their room and let loose the dogs of war on them. If I can't resist, I do my best to send in my husband instead. If he's too overwhelmed then I go in. We need to be firm, set rules and boundaries, and dole out punishments when necessary. That doesn't mean I want to spend my life yelling myself hoarse and crying. With 4 kids filling the day with their individual wildness, that's a real possibility. I have to make a daily choice to be the Mom they need. I may use the crazy eyes once in a while to calm the scene, but I'd rather that than the crazy voice or crying.

I think most importantly for any parents with only one baby, or even a few, is that no one is a perfect parent straight out of the gate. We parents with lots of kids may seem more patient, but that's because we've had time and LOTS of practice. I get to test my patience in fire every morning when the kids wake up screaming for everything. It's a conscious choice we make in every moment to be the Mom they need, even when what we really want is to hide in the bathroom until they quiet themselves down. When you have one kid or even two, you're still learning how to be a parent, so let that be your focus. Don't worry about comparing yourself to other parents, even though it may be tempting. Even with 4 kids (and one on the way) there's always another Mom whose doing it all with more kids. I have a particular Mom I look up to, who has a few more kids than I do, is homeschooling them, making delicious healthy meals, helping out at her Church, and all of that with a smile on her face. There are days that I look at her and think how much better she's doing with all of this than I am and with more kids. Then I remember that I can make her a model of virtue without putting her on too high of a pedestal, especially when that pedestal is built at the cost of my own confidence. So, instead I try to use her example as an inspiration rather than an accusation. When I don't let myself bogged down with raising other people above myself, it's a lot easier to find the joy in all the small things in my own life.

For Her, Not for Me

As I'm sure most homeschooling families can attest, choosing to educate your children from home seems to invite a certain amount of discussions, questions, and criticism. Sometimes these conversations are eye opening, sometimes they make me want to close my eyes and shake my head. I have no doubt that if I had chosen private school for my child we'd still get questions, but it would be more about the uniforms and tuition fees than whether we were doing right by our kids. On top of that I know that if we had chosen public school, it would be treated as so matter of fact that the most we would have been asked was which school, what outfit for the first day, and what school supplies we'd purchased. No one would be asking me if my curriculum was sufficient, if the teacher was capable, or if I thought my daughter would thrive in either public or private school.

I appreciate there is a certain amount of curiosity surrounding homeschooling as it is not as common as the other alternatives. Most of the people that I had heard about being homeschooled were those who were taken out of public schools as the result of bullying. It's only now as an adult that I'm meeting those who choose not to join the public school system in the first place. A few of my friends are actually homeschooled children, and seeing what bright and socially capable they are, I'm actually very encouraged by our choice. I think that the so-called "weird" or "awkward" homeschooled kids aren't that way because they're homeschooled. I met plenty of "weird" or "awkward" kids in public school. All the socialisation in the world didn't change that. Often times those kids became magnets for bullies and spent more time trying to survive school than actually learning. If there seems to be a greater proportion of "weird" kids that are homeschooled, I'd suspect that's because their parents have pulled them out of public school so that they could focus on their education rather than on how to avoid being bullied or ostracised by their peers.

I know many people think I've drunk the special kool aid and that I've bought into some sort of hokum about how public school and teachers are evil, and I need to protect my kids from society so they don't turn into hoodlums and axe murderers. Seriously folks, that's ridiculous. While I see the difficulties of our public school system, and have even discussed them before, I do realise that some kids thrive in that scenario. I know lots of kids who excelled in the group learning scenario, made lots of friends, and came out the class president and valedictorian or whatnot. I value so highly what our teachers, principals, and other staff are doing for the kids in the system. They have tiny budgets, varied learning styles, complex material, and not enough hours in the day to connect with each and every student. They are incredible people, taking on the mantle of educating young minds, while receiving flak from students and parents alike for their teaching methods, quantity of homework, marking, etc etc etc. Over my years in the public school system I had many teachers who I realise now were experiencing an unimaginable level of burnout because they had tried so hard for so long to do what was best for the kids entrusted to them and simply had no more to give.

The fact of the matter is that while all of this came into consideration, the real reason we are home educating our child isn't because of our opinions about the public school system. I'm sure that if we sent her to school she'd do fine. Make a few friends, get a passing grade, and learn what she needs to learn. She'd have opportunities, experiences, make connections, and probably meet that one special teacher she'll look back on for years to come. All good stuff. All admirable and desirable. Plus, I'd get the pleasure of having one less duty around the house for the bulk of the day. But it's not about me. It's not about getting by or her being fine.

For me, homeschooling is a parenting choice. A choice based on each child and their individual needs. For lots of kids, public school is really the best thing. For others, private school is the way to go. For still others, homeschooling is the best avenue. Our choice to educate her at home isn't to shelter her from life, but to educate her in the way we think will best help her to excel, grow, and become who she is meant to be. After a lot of thought and prayer, and some initial resistance from both of us, we realised that the unavoidable truth is that homeschooling is not what we want, per se, but what she needs. That I can offer her this opportunity to learn in the way that is best for her is amazing and humbling. I am not unaware of the incredible responsibility I'm shouldering as her primary educator. I also know that with a lot of hard work, and by the grace of God, I'll look back and be happy we chose to accept this path for our family. This is a choice we're making as a family, for her sake, not for our own.

At the end of the day, questions are normal, especially with something so different from the norm. I still find it difficult to be given the third degree about this parenting choice from friends and strangers. (Not that everyone is giving us the third degree! So many of our friends are very excited for us!) As I was saying to a friend, you'd never corner a woman and berate her for breastfeeding or using a bottle (or for heaven's sake you shouldn't!). As strangers to the situation and the process behind the choice, we need to sit back and realise it's simply not our business. No parenting choice is taken lightly, from feeding, to diapering, to schooling. Each choice a parent makes is for their child, not for themselves. By all means, ask questions as a means to educate yourself on the choice. I'm more than happy to answer any and all questions in that light. However, if your question at any point starts with "Don't you know that...", "How could you..." or "What about..." or other judgement heavy lines, perhaps we would all be better served if you took to the internet or a book to find your answer. If a parent has come into a choice with prayers, discernment, and lots of research, all you're going to do by asking judgemental questions is to alienate them.

What I'm left with in all of this is that no matter what people ask, or how they ask it, we can keep our heads up because we know that this really isn't about us or what we want, it's about our daughter and what she needs. No amount of doubt or concerns from others can change the fact that we're doing the right thing for her, even though though we may not be doing right according to others.

First Day of Homeschooling

The first day of school is rapidly approaching, oddly enough without the sense of urgency I had expected. Unlike the parents of students going to public school, I can set my own start date. I also am not scrambling to buy up school supplies according to an exact list. Don't get me wrong, we've been slowly acquiring supplies over the summer. We already have paper of all varieties, writing implements, scissors and the like. We also acquired a few curriculum workbooks made specifically by Canadian public school teachers for reinforcement and enrichment of their programming that I'm going to use as a kind of benchmark for my daughter's learning in tandem with my own lesson plans. We also found, blessedly on sale, a collection of flash cards for early math, french vocabulary (because YES, I will be teaching my daughter the equivalent of core french), as well as sight words, which I am especially excited about. The great thing about these cards is that, unlike the workbooks which will be written in and then be done (it would cheaper to buy new ones than to photocopy the pages), I can reuse the flash cards for years to come. We also picked up a really great map of the world which includes the flags of all the countries. Seems silly, but I can't imagine a school room without one. Geography is such an essential part of education, even from the start. Kids always need to know the world is bigger than their classroom.

The other side of the first day of school jitters I know I'm missing is that of the teachers in our overwrought public school system. While they face a year of learning as few as 27 new names, preparing worksheets, tests, and permission slips, I have the distinct pleasure of already knowing every member of my class. I know how she learns, and I happen to know her parents personally. When I want to take a school trip, I won't need a week's notice. Maybe an hour or so because I'll need to check the bus schedule. I also don't have to worry about getting angry notes or visits from parents who don't approve of my teaching style or what I'm teaching. I can, however, fall more in love my sweet little student, give her hugs and kisses without fear of it being deemed inappropriate. When she's sick, I'll know well before it's time to take attendance. I also don't have to work as hard as the teachers in the public school system, who have to carefully manage their time to fit everything they need in a day. I don't have to worry that I haven't been able to spend enough time with each of my students comprehends the material. Because I won't have to stretch myself between 27 or more students, each unique and needing of different learning styles, I have the opportunity to tailor a program to just my child, a program that can grow and change with her. As I steadily prepare for the new year, I can't help but give a tip of my hat to all the public school teachers. They are truly making gold out of straw, and deserve our utmost respect for the good works they do.

For the next few weeks, as our excitement grows, we're working on what we'll be doing her first day of school. We want her to feel like this a special milestone, and to do activities that we can do the first day of school every year that she homeschools. We have a few projects in mind to fill our day. Because we want her Daddy to be there, we've planned the day of school to be on Labour Day, which is a holiday for him. So far we have the requisite first day of school picture, including fancy first day of school outfit. Next up we'll be doing a mould of her hand (and that of all her siblings because we want them to feel special too!). After that we'll be planting a garden box that we'll nurture as one of our nature projects during the year. I also plan to include a reading of Dr. Seuss' "Oh the Places You'll Go" and a picnic at a park down by the water if the weather permits. That will fill up most of the "school" parts of the day. The rest we'll spend like any normal day, being wild, loving, noisy, messy and fun. I know that the first day will be easy and wonderful. I know that every day after will be harder, but incredibly worth it.

Good Taste in Popular Culture

I grew up in a family that didn't really follow the popular music scene (except my eldest brother, who even then had rather moderate taste). We listened to our national radio station, lots of classic albums (okay okay, my Mom may have owned a few Cheech and Chong albums we laughed our way through), oodles of musical theatre, and a large quantity of folk style music from the 60s and 70s. The first CD I ever owned was the soundtrack to Evita (still listen to it today). I got more excited about a newly discovered Sondheim play than whatever New Kids or Boys to Men album had dropped. That wasn't because my folks didn't want us to listen to pop music or had some sort of ban of what was "cool", it was because that wasn't their taste, and they didn't have a problem commenting on the style, or lack there of, of whatever we listened to. My folks could be swayed by a band that played with real talent and style (the Barenaked Ladies were a great example), but if it was garbage, they had no problem telling us. They didn't stop us from buying whatever music we wanted with our own money or even as gifts, but they instilled in us an ability to see past what the radio was telling us was "good" to figure out what was music written by truly talented musicians. We are a musical family, and we wanted our music to be well written, lyrically deep, and to have staying power. That's probably why the Beatles had more play in our house than the Backstreet Boys. In the 90s as so much of the music was overproduced, ghost written or lyrically just atrocious, I was glad that I had been raised to have good taste rather than popular taste.

The same went for books. Most of the books on my parents book shelves today are the same authors as they were back in the 80s. Usually if they're purchasing a new book it's a replacement of an old copy that has become so worn through multiple readings it has fallen apart. Books are like friends, to be treasured and visited often. Lots of great, classic sci-fi, fantasy, military, thrillers, and of course the English classics. Besides my Dad's ever growing collection of Clancy books, the most modern thing on our shelves was probably by Hemmingway. As a kid I read all the usual suspects (included my fair share of Scary Stories anthologies and Judy Bloom books), but side by side I was making my way through a fair collection of books I would still read today. In grade 2 I read the Hobbit for the first time. I tried the Lord of the Rings the next year but found it boring. My University degree in Classics proves not much has changed, except that my reading selection has gotten even older and dustier. I am a great troller of used book stores. Lately I've made my way through some new writers whose epic stories (yes, the word epic is deserved here) and easy reading stories have kept my attention. I'm talking about the Harry Potter series, anything by Jasper Fforde (get out and read some of his well written, clever books!) and the Hunger Games more recently.

I think one of the greatest legacies my parents taught me wasn't to stay away from culture, for better or for worst, but to have real discernment for what I choose to spend my valuable time on when I go out and seek it. I have fallen prey to some awful music over the years, but when I'm in the mood for something that speaks to my souls, I will always turn to the Beatles, James Taylor, The Mamas and the Papas, and other such solid, beautifully written music. The same goes for books. I might get a thrill out of some hilariously trashy reading once in a while, but after reading A Moveable Feast, I'm reminded that real literature is something you become emotionally attached to. It's a book so well loved and leafed through that it passes from hand to hand, generation to generation, never losing its charm. So, while I won't keep my kids from reading whatever the latest incarnation of popular music or literature is out there when they're old enough to enjoy it, before I throw them into the fray of pop culture, I hope to have built in them the same good taste and critical eye I was gifted with by my parents.

Baby Led Weaning Fun Times

We do baby led weaning, which is a fancy way of saying I hate buying, making and serving my kids purees. If you do purees, that's totally fine by me. In my experience, I've found them messy, yucky smelling, and simply not the best way to introduce my kids to flavour, texture, and a variety of food. In doing baby led weaning I still try to follow all the basic rules about what order to introduce news foods, except I get the distinct joy of skipping cereals. If my kid is digging sweet potato, there's not need to feed her iron enriched powdered cereals. Don't get me wrong, she's had some of my oatmeal. Mostly because she's a sneak thief and managed to put her whole hand in my bowl. It can be tough trying to eat food with a baby sitting on your lap.

All of this lead up is really just a means for me to tell you how cool of a Mom I am, as I just gave my 8 month old baby a grilled cheese sandwich. Before you give me some crazy sideways eyes (which you may anyway), I make my sandwiches in a little pocket sandwich maker which basically toasts the bread while heating the inside. No butter required. I stuffed two solid cheese slices (not processed, although I'm not above that) between a couple of pieces of fibre rich white bread and toasted it just long enough to melt the cheese. I had half and she had half. No word of a lie, she loved it. 10 minutes later she has completely demolished her two quarters of the sandwich and is begging for some of mine. Today, Mommy is a hero.

I would seriously do baby led weaning with every baby we ever have (4 and counting have been successfully fed with this method) just so that I could see their chubby hands pulling at the unexpected trail of cheese, stuffing every last cheesy bite in their little mouths. I think the only food victory I've enjoyed as much was the first time baby girl ate bacon. I think my next plateau of  food-related parenting bliss will probably be when I make her a bacon and grilled cheese sandwich. It's about the little things, folks.

Adventures in Preschool Land

My kids are tiny dictators. Whether they know it or not, my life has been sucked into the vortex of kid schedule. Utterly. I sleep when they let me. I eat when they let me. I bathe when they let me. And let's be fair, when you have 4 kids the time for anything is slim. Lately though, it seems like that time has been even slimmer. Maybe it's the fact that spring is clearly in the air. We're waking up a bit earlier, napping a little less, and, unlike the days of our long, dark winter, we're going out. A lot. We're walking everywhere, taking the bus to see friends who live further away, joining playgroups, playing in dirt.

I thought for sure that when we started filling up our schedule with constant movement I'd be tired, cranky, and anxious for our days at home in pjs. Okay, I still loves me a good pj day. That being said, I'm finding those pj days to be few and far between these days, and I'm fine with that. To be honest, these pj days are a lot more fun when I feel like we've earned them. Our winter could be described as nothing less than hibernation. When we weren't wearing pjs it was news. I'm pretty sure that by the time the snow melted both the kids and I were ready to go racing out into the wild blue yonder on the first sunny day. And race we did. Into a nearby field, the walking path, playdates in our friends backyard, and, very soon, hours of fun on the playset in our backyard.

Part of me wonders if the catalyst of all of this is the sunshine, or the fact that baby girl is no longer spending every moment of the day in my arms. She's now napping for 2 or more hours a day, not to mention the fact that she sleeps 12 hours at night (before you think I'm bragging, I absolutely recognise that this freak occurence has nothing to do with my parenting prowess). That's all incredibly lovely, but the real kicker for me is the fact that when she's up she doesn't need to sit on my lap feeding all day. She's eating lots of solid food now, and when she's not eating she wants to be on the floor, crawling around and getting into her own brand of mischief. I'm actually getting chores done quickly with both hands rather than at a snail's pace while holding her on my hip. Now that she's more independant in general we're able to pack up and ship out at a moment's notice. Just in time for nice weather, we're finally able to enjoy the outdoors without baby girl crying 10 minutes into our outing for food or unscheduled nap.

It's nice that their needs have shifted from what movie we watch to what outdoor activity we engage in, so I'm going to take advantage while I can. So we're off to ditch the pjs, put on our shorts and t-shirts, and out the door we go at the next whim of my little little dictators.

Stuff Parents Say

I was having a playdate with one of my fave lady friends the other day, and we got on the topic of the crazy stuff we find ourselves saying as parents. Not the usual talk of poop, umbilical stumps, pregnancy cravings or intense labour stories. We all saw that stuff coming (or if we didn't, it became normal so quickly it seems silly to dwell on). I'm talking about the completely random stuff. The "did I just say that?" kind of stuff. The stuff, that when taken out of context, sounds ridiculous at best or gibberish at worst. I've put the word out on Facebook and Twitter to hear a few of your favourite child induced rantings. Here's what I've gotten so far. I'll add more as it comes in:
"When dinosaurs are flying in helicopters it means clean up isn't getting done." from Nichole Bernier (@nicholebernier) [The author of the upcoming novel The Unfinished Work of Elizabeth D, which, after reading the previewed chapter on her website, has me very excited that such an intelligent woman can write so well and still find herself saying hilariously non-sensical things.]

"A bellybutton is no reason to be upset!" I said this gem myself. Oldest son was crying at bed time. I went upstairs to check it out and he wailed "I don't want anymore bellybuttons! I want a shiiiirt!" and before I could think of something sensible these words slipped out. That's the last time I put him to bed in just pj pants.

"Apples don't belong in blankets, people! Come on!" There's nothing I can say to make this sound good or normal.

"Stop chewing the table/chair/any furniture!" I can't believe how often I say this to non-teething children.

"I hope that's chocolate on his face. Please let that be chocolate. Did you give him chocolate at nap time? Oh no. It's not chocolate. Oh God. It's everywhere." A messy diaper spreads its grief.
What is it about our kids that they can make even the most reasonable adult sound vaguely out of touch with reality? Maybe it's the sleep deprivation. Or the hormones. Or the coffee high. Either way, keep it coming kids. If we can't laugh at ourselves, folks, who can? Actually, probably the kids. I'm pretty sure they're setting me up sometimes. Okay, time for more coffee.

Fabric of Our Lives

I'm one of those people that wants to capture the essence of my children, at every age, so that when I'm older I can look back and reflect on their childhood that I was too busy trying to survive to enjoy as fully as I wanted. There are times that I can sit and drink in the delights of their youthful exuberance, wonder, and simple beauty, but those moments are scattered between laundry, cooking and breaking up fights.

I remember when we were waiting for our newest baby, I brought up the boxes of boys and girls clothes to be sorted and prepared. We didn't know which we were having so I wanted a small collection ready because I knew in the haze of new baby I wouldn't have time to sort things out. Two other times I had brought out that box of newborn girls clothes, and two other times I'd quietly tucked them away. This time, however, I couldn't help myself. I unconsciously unpacked every item, nesting it in the little dresser that had only ever been used by our eldest daughter. As I took out all the little, impossibly small items, I was overwhelmed by the joyful memories I attached to each of them. Her newborn scent, which lingered in my memory like the perfume of my Nonna, a familiar friend long gone, rose up from each memory laden garment I pulled out of the box. I felt so silly, grasping on so tightly to the memories of the baby my big girl used to be. She was my first, the child who made me a mother. She was a dream child, the promise of a vision fulfilled in flesh before my eyes, always growing beyond what I could have imagined.

Today I was poring over baby pictures of our newest baby, our sweet and calm little girl. The day we took her home from the hospital, I had dressed her in one of those little dresses her big sister had worn as a baby. A pretty checkered dress that was a little too big for her, which highlighted her littleness. She was a full pound bigger than her sister had been at birth, but still managed to look tiny and helpless. My heart cried out as her scent mingled with the latent scent her sister had imprinted on the dress. There was a newness and an oldness in that moment. I was no longer a first time mother. I had three other beautiful children I longed to return home to. As I held my newest blessing and miracle close, I was still anxious as I had been with each of my three older children, wanting to do right by this little person entrusted to me.

It's funny how something so simple as a dress can trigger those memories. I guess I can't bottle these moments, but in the end the most important moments are woven carefully into the fabric of our lives, in items and photos scattered as guideposts to remind us where we have been, and how far we've come.

Can't Say It Enough

Sometimes I think I get so wrapped up in parenting, I can't see the forest for the trees. There are days when every time I open my mouth, it's only to tell someone to stop standing on something, stop fighting, stop whining, or to do something like clean up, eat, or sit. Time after time there are only corrections and instructions. With four kids, I find myself talking at them pretty much all day. I know that because they're toddlers this is part of the deal. They need boundaries. They need guidance. Still, there are times when I sit back and go over my day and I can't help but wonder what makes me so different from a daycare or a babysitter. Nothing about what I've done all day is so much different from what we could pay a stranger to do instead.

It's in those times of reflection that I realise I need to make time for more cuddles, more laughter, and I need to remember to say more than the "do"s and "don't"s to my kids. Over the past week I've tried to make a conscious effort to interrupt my own constant stream of instructions to pause, take each child aside, and to simply say "I love you" and "I'm so glad you're my child". I'm sure this seems obvious to everyone, but it's something I struggle with. I do love my kids. If anything ever happened to one of them, part of my life would end there and then. Everything I do every day is for them. I gave up my chance to have a career outside the home to be able to be with them, to give them everything they needed.

All my instructions and guidance comes from that place of deep love, and wanting to help them be safe and also to learn and grow, but I know feeling this love for them isn't enough to let them know I feel it. I'm sure when they're older they'll be able to look back and see that all of this is coming from a place of love, but until then I need to say it, as often as I can, when they're being good and when they're being bad. I want them to know that I love them no matter what, and always have. I can't stop setting limits for their safety, but I never want to set a limit on my love for them.

After about a week of spontaneous "I love you"s, I'm still finding the kids crazy, wonderful, a little out of control, and hilarious. They haven't changed much, although my oldest son has started spontaneously saying "I love you" too every once in a while. I really wasn't looking for a change in them, I was looking for a change in me. I know I needed to do this so I could appreciate again my special role in this family, that I'm more than a housekeeper or babysitter. Whether we're at home or working, I think every parent teaches one great lesson to their children: that no matter what, there is someone who loves them unconditionally, deeply and constantly.

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.

Just Another Wednesday

I can see the snow blowing around in whispy clouds out my back window. Oldest girl is drawing at the table. The boys are packing toys in their little ottoman style chairs. Baby girl is bouncing peacefully in her excersaucer. Light and cheerful music drifts through the air. The coffee is drunk. The dishwasher is full and running. (Relative) quiet. (Acceptable level of) peace. Supper is already made for tonight.

I realise that I could go down and start some more laundry. Or even fold the enormous pile of laundry in my bedroom that's growing faster than baby girl. But not yet. Not in this moment. There could be a million pressing tasks begging for my time in the moment, but I am not letting the voice of duty have a say in this moment. The only duty I have right now is to sit back and savour the miracle that is four children, existing in something that one could approximate as harmony. Everyone is clean, fed and occupied...

Oh wait, I see a brawl starting and baby girl is starting up her hungry cry... It was nice while it lasted.

Yes, They're All Mine

Whenever I go out with the kids I pump myself up mentally for what I'm about to face. The words, the comments, and, for better or for worse, the judgements. It usually starts with a glance, then a double take, then an opening comment. Sometimes it's just "Woah". We get that a lot when my husband is with me too. We are clearly a family. A crazy, big, happy family! If we're not moving too quickly we get a follow up comment. First an amusing "Your hands are full!" which often has the corollary "They must be twins!" while pointing to either our oldest two or the boys. Now that we have our baby girl the next comment is inevitably "Oh! There's another one!". Apparently she wasn't visible from the snugli. All this is well and good, if not a little bit tedious.

Now when I'm out alone with the kids I get the same repetitive series of small talk. There is however another series of comments to follow. It's starts sigh "Are they all yours?" followed by "You must be busy!", and, my favourite, a variation of "Well, you must be happy to be done now!". I reply as patiently as I can but it's gotten to the point I'm thinking about making t-shirts, or buttons... Or a large flashing sign I can attach to our stroller. You know, some kind of subtle cues for strangers that would inform them immediately all the salient information they clearly require to satisy their curiosity about our circus show.

What do you think about these?

1. Yes, They're ALL Mine
2. I've Heard of Birth Control
3. I'm Not an Accident (but I may have just had one)
4. We're a Handful!
5. I'm with Mom
6. We're Not Twins
7. Less Small Talk, More Coffee

Any more ideas?

Not Too Occupied To Occupy

Believe it or not I still find time to watch the news. Or a least get the snippets from my twitter feed. The Occupy movement sweeping North America has me thinking. Firstly it has me thinking how unsurprised I am that more people on my feed were up in arms about their Blackberry service than the state of our country. But I digress. As I was pondering the state of our country, with its crumbling social services and an electorate that cannot be bothered to come out en masse to select its government, I stumbled across an article at Parent Central that surprised me. It spoke of a recent study from UBC that showed young families are struggling to do more with less money than their 1976 counterparts, even amongst 2 income families. Did you hear that, folks? As our housing market creeps up, as the price of commodities sky rocket, we're stuck with a minimum wage that is rising slower than I could waddle at 42 weeks pregnant.

Our government is standing by while we are drowning and the best life life preserver they can muster is a few more daycare spaces and an embarrassingly low maternity leave for those qualified. It's no wonder so many stay at home Moms are racking their brains for marketable talents, business ideas, or ways to monetize our blogs or become product testers. While a few are very successful, I'm sure there are many more skipping meals so they can afford a box of no name mac and cheese for their kids. We became stay at home Moms so we could raise our kids, not so that we could spend our days trembling with fear that our mortgage (if we're lucky, more like rent) cheque will bounce. Or staring down our budget trying to decide if we can put off paying our power bill one more week. Or standing in line for a payday loan just so that we can buy a carton of milk.

Our generation of parents is more aware than ever of the necessity of good nutrition from organic food sources instead of cheap processed foods, safely crafted toys, time reading and playing. We understand intellectually that our kids deserve from us every opportunity to succeed and be healthy. And yet many of us simply can't afford the best of everything. So we compromise. And compromise. And the kids lose. And we lose. And we sit up at night full of guilt and worry and fear.

How, then, can we be complacent? Why aren't we rising up demanding more? More free programming. Higher minimum wage. Lower food costs, especially for the healthier, local selections. We don't make the time to join movements like Occupy or Mom the Vote because we ourselves are occupied with the demands of our daily lives. We fight every day to survive our circumstances while giving our kids those advantages we can. That's important and needed. But we can't stop there. More of us need to speak up and join together to make our voices heard. I felt during the last election that maybe we could make a difference. The Mom the Vote movement caught the ear of our media and politicians. Why did it have to stop when the ballots were cast? I truly believe it didn't. Our activism can continue between diapers changes. A few of us could step up and make a movement for real change. If our voice is authentic and we can engage the parents just like us fighting every day to make ends meet, we could make some real change. Change that could make our lives better and give our families a chance to live in a country that seems them as an asset worth investing in and not just a prop for a photo shoot. So to all you Moms, Dads, guardians, grandparents and those who love the families struggling in your community, I say let's not be complacent. Let's not be too occupied to Occupy. Let's find our voice and let out a cry so great the powerful in our country hear us and heed us.

Two Kids Ago

In the spirit of nostalgia I was remembering how different things were when we only had two kids. That's literally half the kids we have now. We had really gotten settled into a rhythm and routine at this point. We were renting a fabulous 4 bedroom townhouse and had just upgraded to a mini-van. My husband had just gotten a hard earned pay raise and we finally had a kind of financial balance despite constantly rising gas prices. I was a Mom with 2 kids and a tidy little house. Both kids were reliably sleeping through the night and so were we. We both had energy to spare. For the few months before I became pregnant with baby I was Inspired to live another kind of motherhood than I do now. I'd get up and have my hot cup of coffee and hit the ground running. I think this lasted a ridiculously short time. Maybe 3 months. In those 3 months I:

1. Showered. Daily. And got dressed in more than pajamas.
2. Made 4 loaves of home-made bread twice a week and several batches of chocolate chip cookies.
3. Made yoghurt in my crockpot weekly.
4. Washed, folded and put away laundry. Sometimes I would hang it out on the clothesline.
5. Washed, dried and put away the dirty dishes. Daily.
6. Made 2 special home-cooked meals. Home-made baby food for the kids and something fancier for we adults.
7. Swept the floors. Vacuumed the furniture. Dusted. All daily. I'd wash all the floors on my hands and knees weekly.
8. I slept when I wanted. Or read a book. The kids lived by my schedule.

The other side of this litany of insanity is that we almost never went out. I also didn't spend as much time enjoying my kids. I ended up switching to formula because I couldn't keep breastfeeding and have a clean house. My oldest son's first year is a blur to me because I was too busy trying to be something akin to a Stepford wife to acknowledge all his needs and little milestones. I wish now that I had let the laundry wait and sat down to cuddle him when he was still able to sit still in my arms. When we had our third, our second son wasn't thriving on breastmilk and it wasn't caught until he was around 4 months old. After switching him to formula I ended up dedicating every free second to giving him as much fatty food as he could tolerate. I was so stressed I stopped all my extra baking, cooking, cleaning and self-pampering to be there for him. As stressful as it was at the time, once I dropped these (unquestionably excellent in principle) habits, I found myself with time to rediscover my older children. My priorities shifted dramatically. I didn't have to drive myself crazy with housework. It all needed to get done, but never at the sacrifice of the needs of the kids. When they're babies they need an extra hug more than they need a cookie. I'll take time later to build my legacy as an immaculate housekeeper. For now I'm happier building my legacy as the Mommy who thinks there's nothing in the world more important than kissing your boo boos, hearing your funny stories, dancing with you, and telling you "I love you" knowing those words feed your heart in ways unseen but lasting. So when people marvel at how we manage with 4 kids, I can't help but reflect that it's actually easier than when we had just two because along the way I've learned that another chance to enjoy a new baby while our house goes to pot again isn't a burden, it's a gift.