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.
Wednesday, 23 November 2011
Sunday, 20 November 2011
Feeding Troubles
I am again faced with concerns that another baby isn't thriving on breastmilk. The second my babies start sleeping through the night (or even most of the night) I can't seem to feed them enough during the day to keep them growing. I had to resort to supplementing with formula (once on doctor's orders after my son actually started losing weight) with my three oldest children.
With our newest baby, who was a perfect 9lbs1oz at birth, I'm doing my best to literally feed her all day. All day. I've become a pro at feeding her sitting, standing, reclining, eating, cooking and, yesterday, while finger painting.
She's doing better on breastmilk than any of the older kids did, but at her last check-up her weight had stalled. She gained maybe a half a pound in a month. I had been so sure that, unlike her siblings, she was thriving that when I saw the number on the scale, a mere 1lb6oz over her birth weight, it felt like I'd been kicked in the gut. I'm starting to get worried. My body, which can grow babies perfectly and has no major problem with birth, doesn't seem all too skilled at feeding these precious gifts.
I've already had comments questioning why I would want to be a slave to feeding, how inconvenient it must be to have to feed all day with three older kids that need me, and asking me what the harm is of formula feeding (as pumping simply doesn't work for me). After years of trying to breastfeed my kids I don't see it as a burden, but as an ideal to aspire too. I want so badly to be that Mom that struggled but, after some work, wound up with a beautiful breastfeeding relationship and a chubby, healthy baby who I'd have to worry about weaning.
The 4 month appointment, days before Christmas, will be the deciding moment for my latest attempt to breastfeed. Either I'll be a happily busy Mom singing Christmas carols with my baby cozy under my shawl or Santa will be leaving a shiny can of formula under the tree.
Either way I'll be grateful that I have the option and that, however I have to do it, I can feed my baby. I will sit in our usual pew surrounded by my family remembering the Christmas 5 years ago when I was pregnant but didn't know it yet and I said an intense prayer for my dream baby. I didn't care about breastfeeding or formula. I just knew I wanted to start a family with my wonderful husband. I know that no matter the struggles God answered that prayer and then some. No struggles seem so big next to that one, incredible, answered prayer.
With our newest baby, who was a perfect 9lbs1oz at birth, I'm doing my best to literally feed her all day. All day. I've become a pro at feeding her sitting, standing, reclining, eating, cooking and, yesterday, while finger painting.
She's doing better on breastmilk than any of the older kids did, but at her last check-up her weight had stalled. She gained maybe a half a pound in a month. I had been so sure that, unlike her siblings, she was thriving that when I saw the number on the scale, a mere 1lb6oz over her birth weight, it felt like I'd been kicked in the gut. I'm starting to get worried. My body, which can grow babies perfectly and has no major problem with birth, doesn't seem all too skilled at feeding these precious gifts.
I've already had comments questioning why I would want to be a slave to feeding, how inconvenient it must be to have to feed all day with three older kids that need me, and asking me what the harm is of formula feeding (as pumping simply doesn't work for me). After years of trying to breastfeed my kids I don't see it as a burden, but as an ideal to aspire too. I want so badly to be that Mom that struggled but, after some work, wound up with a beautiful breastfeeding relationship and a chubby, healthy baby who I'd have to worry about weaning.
The 4 month appointment, days before Christmas, will be the deciding moment for my latest attempt to breastfeed. Either I'll be a happily busy Mom singing Christmas carols with my baby cozy under my shawl or Santa will be leaving a shiny can of formula under the tree.
Either way I'll be grateful that I have the option and that, however I have to do it, I can feed my baby. I will sit in our usual pew surrounded by my family remembering the Christmas 5 years ago when I was pregnant but didn't know it yet and I said an intense prayer for my dream baby. I didn't care about breastfeeding or formula. I just knew I wanted to start a family with my wonderful husband. I know that no matter the struggles God answered that prayer and then some. No struggles seem so big next to that one, incredible, answered prayer.
Friday, 28 October 2011
I Remember - Je Me Souviens
In honour of Remembrance Day in a few weeks I want to share a story about my Grandpapa, a proud veteran of the second World War.
My Grandpapa was an incredible man. He was the life of any party and an incorrigible flirt. He was also well educated, fluently bilingual and well traveled. For us grandkids he had his own way of winning our hearts. We lived in the same city so he had time to etch out quiet traditions that were so small then but leave me with a deep sense of his unspoken love. Like most men of his generation he wasn't one for big emotional moments. My memories with him involve a very sweet nursery song that involved tickling, ringing the bell from one of his ships, Sunday trips to Swiss Chalet, and Cherry Blossom chocolates. For the record I hate the taste of cherries, but will never say no to a Cherry Blossom because that taste is a memory I refuse to shake. To me personally he gave a little silver anchor on a necklace that I still proudly wear it now.
I forget some times that my grandfather had a whole life before I came around. Sadly just as I was old enough to ask him about it dementia swept in and stole him from me. Excluding a few days of clarity over the drawn out years of his illness he didn't know me. In the early days of his dementia he mistook me for my mother, but near the end he often would confuse me for my Nonna who passed when I was 4 years old. I have no memory of what he sounded like when he spoke my name, though I vividly recall being called Gerine or Francine more than once. Even though he didn't know me I still joined my father visiting at the Veterans Hospital every few days. As the only living family member who lived nearby my Father visited him every day from the day he was admitted until the day he died. My Father was the most dutiful and caring son any parent could ask for, even or especially the days he was a stranger to his own Father.
As Grandpapa's memory regressed further back he finally reached a point that he was left terrorized by events of his days in the Navy from World War II. My Father informed me a few years ago that he used to field my Grandpapa's anguished calls in the middle of the night as he was clearly re-living a memory more persistent than his dementia. He would call my Father begging him to call the coast guard, firmly believing he was in a sinking ship and that his fellow sailors were drowning. He would say between uncharacteristic tears that he could hear the voices of dying men calling for help. Why would no one save them?
The details of this terrifying moment were all found in one particular story. In his early days as a sailor one of the ships he served on was torpedoed (this was actually one of two times his ship was sunk). Somehow, by chance or miracle, he landed on some floating debris. His body was utterly broken and he could not move let alone swim. As he lay there awaiting death, capture, or rescue, many if the men around him drowned. In particular an older man, the ship's cook, who had taken a liking to him and always gave my Grandpapa an extra apple on board, cried out for him by name, begging to be saved. Gradually his voice got quieter until it fell completely silent. My Grandpapa was fortunate enough to be rescued and even returned to service.
This tragic event haunted my Grandpapa. When all else was lost he remembered and relived it, drowning in his guilt and helplessness. My charming, confidant, flirtatious, cherry blossom loving Grandpapa carried that memory to his grave. It seems so unfair that he should lose so much of his memory but remain the prisoner to this moment of intense guilt. He sometimes would weep when he saw an apple, the unexpected reminder of the man he couldn't save. He was one of many who returned home from the war physically whole but emotionally broken. A little piece of him died out on the water that night as he heard his friend's life fade along with his desperate cries for help. The rest of us gained peace, but those who returned home were left at war with their memories. Their joy to see their families was paired with unfathomable darkness from all the death they had witnessed and somehow managed to survive.
So this coming Rememberance Day I will proudly wear my poppy and participate in the ceremonies however I can. Our veterans will never forget what was lost, and neither should we.
For You, Grandpapa, I Remember. Pour Toi, Grandpapa, Je Me Souviens.
My Grandpapa was an incredible man. He was the life of any party and an incorrigible flirt. He was also well educated, fluently bilingual and well traveled. For us grandkids he had his own way of winning our hearts. We lived in the same city so he had time to etch out quiet traditions that were so small then but leave me with a deep sense of his unspoken love. Like most men of his generation he wasn't one for big emotional moments. My memories with him involve a very sweet nursery song that involved tickling, ringing the bell from one of his ships, Sunday trips to Swiss Chalet, and Cherry Blossom chocolates. For the record I hate the taste of cherries, but will never say no to a Cherry Blossom because that taste is a memory I refuse to shake. To me personally he gave a little silver anchor on a necklace that I still proudly wear it now.
I forget some times that my grandfather had a whole life before I came around. Sadly just as I was old enough to ask him about it dementia swept in and stole him from me. Excluding a few days of clarity over the drawn out years of his illness he didn't know me. In the early days of his dementia he mistook me for my mother, but near the end he often would confuse me for my Nonna who passed when I was 4 years old. I have no memory of what he sounded like when he spoke my name, though I vividly recall being called Gerine or Francine more than once. Even though he didn't know me I still joined my father visiting at the Veterans Hospital every few days. As the only living family member who lived nearby my Father visited him every day from the day he was admitted until the day he died. My Father was the most dutiful and caring son any parent could ask for, even or especially the days he was a stranger to his own Father.
As Grandpapa's memory regressed further back he finally reached a point that he was left terrorized by events of his days in the Navy from World War II. My Father informed me a few years ago that he used to field my Grandpapa's anguished calls in the middle of the night as he was clearly re-living a memory more persistent than his dementia. He would call my Father begging him to call the coast guard, firmly believing he was in a sinking ship and that his fellow sailors were drowning. He would say between uncharacteristic tears that he could hear the voices of dying men calling for help. Why would no one save them?
The details of this terrifying moment were all found in one particular story. In his early days as a sailor one of the ships he served on was torpedoed (this was actually one of two times his ship was sunk). Somehow, by chance or miracle, he landed on some floating debris. His body was utterly broken and he could not move let alone swim. As he lay there awaiting death, capture, or rescue, many if the men around him drowned. In particular an older man, the ship's cook, who had taken a liking to him and always gave my Grandpapa an extra apple on board, cried out for him by name, begging to be saved. Gradually his voice got quieter until it fell completely silent. My Grandpapa was fortunate enough to be rescued and even returned to service.
This tragic event haunted my Grandpapa. When all else was lost he remembered and relived it, drowning in his guilt and helplessness. My charming, confidant, flirtatious, cherry blossom loving Grandpapa carried that memory to his grave. It seems so unfair that he should lose so much of his memory but remain the prisoner to this moment of intense guilt. He sometimes would weep when he saw an apple, the unexpected reminder of the man he couldn't save. He was one of many who returned home from the war physically whole but emotionally broken. A little piece of him died out on the water that night as he heard his friend's life fade along with his desperate cries for help. The rest of us gained peace, but those who returned home were left at war with their memories. Their joy to see their families was paired with unfathomable darkness from all the death they had witnessed and somehow managed to survive.
So this coming Rememberance Day I will proudly wear my poppy and participate in the ceremonies however I can. Our veterans will never forget what was lost, and neither should we.
For You, Grandpapa, I Remember. Pour Toi, Grandpapa, Je Me Souviens.
Monday, 24 October 2011
Join the Club
As I was walking to our Church for a young parents group today (after taking the bus with all four kids in tow!), I met 2 members of a not very common club. It's wasn't the Red Hat Ladies, or the Stonecutters, or even the Illuminati. As a member I can tell you we don't have a secret handshake nor do we whisper suspiciously in an ancient code while plotting world domination (not that I would lump the Red Hat Ladies in that category, you lively, lovely ladies! But then, again you never suspect the butterfly!). Members of our club are very noticeable up until we're in our 50s, but after that we look like any other person.
Our club doesn't have a fancy name (probably because we're too busy to think of one) but we are easily identified. We are the parents of many children. For whatever personal reason, at some point in our lives we decided it would be a good idea to have more than the average two kids. We joined the club when we had 3 and some of us kept going. The couple I met today were older than my parents, but once they had established that yes, all four children were mine, spoke to me at length about the huge blessing it was to have had their own five children in five years. The rare occasions on which all your kids are crying at once (which are nothing less than spirit crushing and usually result in Mommy bawling too) are more than made up for by the daily experience of having children who are never at a loss for a dance partner, someone to chase or giggle with, a confidante or, in other words, a best friend. If they're fighting with one sibling they can always play with another. While I do employ the electronic babysitter, I can trust that when I turn it off my kids will have some sort of wild, incomprehensible game going without any need of me in minutes. They feed off each other's imagination and energy. All of that is fabulous and the greatest gift I feel we've given our children. My Dad was an only child and he's told me more than once that the downside of that was that if something got broken his parents always knew whose fault it was. With 4 or more kids it would take the sleuthing skills of Sherlock Holmes to figure out who unravelled all the toilet paper or got marker all over the table. I'm relatively certain that that's because they're all accomplices and instigators.
It only took a few moments of conversation with the older couple we met while out on our walk to know we shared a common experience that's becoming all too uncommon these days. So to those of you out there thinking about having more kids I invite you to join the club. We have plenty of kool aid on tap (unless my kids have figured out how to open the fridge door) and we always love company. Sometimes it's better to live an uncommon life when that means there's always someone clamboring to say I love you, give you a peanut butter kiss, then get back to whatever mischief his or her siblings are up to. I promise once you join our club you'll find a hundred reasons every day to be thankful for your membership.
Our club doesn't have a fancy name (probably because we're too busy to think of one) but we are easily identified. We are the parents of many children. For whatever personal reason, at some point in our lives we decided it would be a good idea to have more than the average two kids. We joined the club when we had 3 and some of us kept going. The couple I met today were older than my parents, but once they had established that yes, all four children were mine, spoke to me at length about the huge blessing it was to have had their own five children in five years. The rare occasions on which all your kids are crying at once (which are nothing less than spirit crushing and usually result in Mommy bawling too) are more than made up for by the daily experience of having children who are never at a loss for a dance partner, someone to chase or giggle with, a confidante or, in other words, a best friend. If they're fighting with one sibling they can always play with another. While I do employ the electronic babysitter, I can trust that when I turn it off my kids will have some sort of wild, incomprehensible game going without any need of me in minutes. They feed off each other's imagination and energy. All of that is fabulous and the greatest gift I feel we've given our children. My Dad was an only child and he's told me more than once that the downside of that was that if something got broken his parents always knew whose fault it was. With 4 or more kids it would take the sleuthing skills of Sherlock Holmes to figure out who unravelled all the toilet paper or got marker all over the table. I'm relatively certain that that's because they're all accomplices and instigators.
It only took a few moments of conversation with the older couple we met while out on our walk to know we shared a common experience that's becoming all too uncommon these days. So to those of you out there thinking about having more kids I invite you to join the club. We have plenty of kool aid on tap (unless my kids have figured out how to open the fridge door) and we always love company. Sometimes it's better to live an uncommon life when that means there's always someone clamboring to say I love you, give you a peanut butter kiss, then get back to whatever mischief his or her siblings are up to. I promise once you join our club you'll find a hundred reasons every day to be thankful for your membership.
Crazy, Loving, Beautiful Life
I'm currently applying for a position as a blogger with Today's Parent and as such I have written this post about what makes me unique as a Mom and as such as a blogger. In many ways I feel the same as every other Mom out there but I realize that being a SAHM to 4 kids ages 4 and under my experience is unique and hopefully engaging. I have included at the bottom of this page links to my 3 favourite blog posts.
I live in a crazy house. Every day is wild and fun and entertaining. I'm lucky enough to be the Mom of four beautiful children between the ages of four years and two months. Amongst my friends I am living a rare life. Some have as many kids or more, but they're all older. Others have kids the same age but have fewer kids right now or they're spaced further apart. We are asked so often how we do it that I sometimes wonder myself! When I sit and reflect I realize more than anything that the more kids we have, the less I care about looking like a perfect Mom. There are days when I am the image of domestic bliss. My floors are washed, I have three crockpots on the go and all the kids are experiencing the rare simultaneous nap. The more kids we have the rarer those days become. The crazy thing is that I'm more than fine with the deterioration of our home into the children's playhouse. When we get to pair the daily madness with the priviledge of parenting these four incredible children l am not so easily fazed by the cheerios that seem to multiply daily, piles of unfolded laundry, and whatever crusty stuff that is in my hair.
My kids act like every other kid, but with four of them under foot our house couldn't operate unless we let them entertain each other. Any given day they're dancing, singing and playing hilarious games of pretend play in every spare moment. Now, the other side of this is that in a flash things can turn ugly. There aren't enough corners in any room to put the big kids in time out some days. Someone's crying, or bleeding or just plain sulking. With anything you have to take the good with the bad.
Even then the bad isn't really that bad. As soon as someone falls down another sibling runs to the rescue. I watch on with tears in my eyes as the big sister cradles her littlest brother to comfort him when he trips. Or the oldest brother sings a sweet cooing song for his baby sister when she's out of sorts. I am the fortunate witness of the kindness of my children, especially when they were the guilty party behind the tears of another. When they're not fighting over whose truck that is they sit together on the floor, leaning on each other and talking their crazy kid talk.
I am a blessed spectator to the family they have given me. Life is crazy here every day. There are many days I'm ready to throw in the towel, but in the end I can't help but see what a tremendous gift I'm given every day to be a part of all of this joyful wildness. My life is unusual by today's standards, but I don't mind being unusual if I get to be surrounded by these loving, crazy, perfect little children.
Confessions of a Not So Super Mom (Why I'm Okay I'm Not a Super Mom)
4 Under 4 (10 Signs You have 4 kids under 4)
Happy Birthday to Me (Seconds Chances and Thankfulness)
I live in a crazy house. Every day is wild and fun and entertaining. I'm lucky enough to be the Mom of four beautiful children between the ages of four years and two months. Amongst my friends I am living a rare life. Some have as many kids or more, but they're all older. Others have kids the same age but have fewer kids right now or they're spaced further apart. We are asked so often how we do it that I sometimes wonder myself! When I sit and reflect I realize more than anything that the more kids we have, the less I care about looking like a perfect Mom. There are days when I am the image of domestic bliss. My floors are washed, I have three crockpots on the go and all the kids are experiencing the rare simultaneous nap. The more kids we have the rarer those days become. The crazy thing is that I'm more than fine with the deterioration of our home into the children's playhouse. When we get to pair the daily madness with the priviledge of parenting these four incredible children l am not so easily fazed by the cheerios that seem to multiply daily, piles of unfolded laundry, and whatever crusty stuff that is in my hair.
My kids act like every other kid, but with four of them under foot our house couldn't operate unless we let them entertain each other. Any given day they're dancing, singing and playing hilarious games of pretend play in every spare moment. Now, the other side of this is that in a flash things can turn ugly. There aren't enough corners in any room to put the big kids in time out some days. Someone's crying, or bleeding or just plain sulking. With anything you have to take the good with the bad.
Even then the bad isn't really that bad. As soon as someone falls down another sibling runs to the rescue. I watch on with tears in my eyes as the big sister cradles her littlest brother to comfort him when he trips. Or the oldest brother sings a sweet cooing song for his baby sister when she's out of sorts. I am the fortunate witness of the kindness of my children, especially when they were the guilty party behind the tears of another. When they're not fighting over whose truck that is they sit together on the floor, leaning on each other and talking their crazy kid talk.
I am a blessed spectator to the family they have given me. Life is crazy here every day. There are many days I'm ready to throw in the towel, but in the end I can't help but see what a tremendous gift I'm given every day to be a part of all of this joyful wildness. My life is unusual by today's standards, but I don't mind being unusual if I get to be surrounded by these loving, crazy, perfect little children.
Confessions of a Not So Super Mom (Why I'm Okay I'm Not a Super Mom)
4 Under 4 (10 Signs You have 4 kids under 4)
Happy Birthday to Me (Seconds Chances and Thankfulness)
Saturday, 22 October 2011
Happy Birthday to Me
Thirteen years ago today I had a birthday like no other. I didn't have an incredible party or take a special trip. I was in an accident. I was crossing the street and a car struck me and then sent me flying 10 feet. All I really remember is that in the ambulance I overheard the paramedics whispering about how surprised they were that I was conscious and relatively uninjured. Besides a mild concussion, a broken tooth and road rash on my face I wasn't hurt at all. One of them said with a smile I was lucky to be alive. I was doing so well I was back to school the next school day.
Ever since that day, which seems like a lifetime ago, I've struggled with the feeling I should make good of my second chance at life. For a long time I was planning on becoming a nun. When the time came to join a religious order I dove in head first. It was on my birthday six years ago that that plan went out the window. There I was, a nun in my habit sitting next to one of the monks in our order more than a little distracted. It was a few weeks later that he and I decided religious life wasn't for us. The next year we were married the same month of my twenty-fourth birthday.
Here I am a mere five years later and it's my birthday. I just (finally!!!) put my 9 week old baby to bed after a long day of family fun. I did nothing except for spend time with my husband and our four hilarious, wild, adorable children. Just like every other day since we welcomed each of them into our family my day was full of laughter, tears, diapers, dancing, singing and fun.
As I reflect on the past thirteen years I can't help but think that I truly have made good of my second chance at life. I've surrendered myself completely to the life given to me. I may not always be the perfect woman, wife or mother, but I'm trying every day to be what I need to be in that moment with my whole heart and soul.
I had a million little reminders again today how lucky I am to be alive. How lucky I am to have this life. And how lucky I am to be reminded every year to be grateful for every second.
Ever since that day, which seems like a lifetime ago, I've struggled with the feeling I should make good of my second chance at life. For a long time I was planning on becoming a nun. When the time came to join a religious order I dove in head first. It was on my birthday six years ago that that plan went out the window. There I was, a nun in my habit sitting next to one of the monks in our order more than a little distracted. It was a few weeks later that he and I decided religious life wasn't for us. The next year we were married the same month of my twenty-fourth birthday.
Here I am a mere five years later and it's my birthday. I just (finally!!!) put my 9 week old baby to bed after a long day of family fun. I did nothing except for spend time with my husband and our four hilarious, wild, adorable children. Just like every other day since we welcomed each of them into our family my day was full of laughter, tears, diapers, dancing, singing and fun.
As I reflect on the past thirteen years I can't help but think that I truly have made good of my second chance at life. I've surrendered myself completely to the life given to me. I may not always be the perfect woman, wife or mother, but I'm trying every day to be what I need to be in that moment with my whole heart and soul.
I had a million little reminders again today how lucky I am to be alive. How lucky I am to have this life. And how lucky I am to be reminded every year to be grateful for every second.
Friday, 21 October 2011
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?
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?
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