On Being Raised by The Reds....

There are days when parenting is easy-peasy, lemon-squeezy.

There are days when parenting honks.

Some days, I am a good mother.

Some days, I honk.

Today, parenting honked, honked some more and then...it didn't.

Today, I honked as a mother...until I didn't.

Allow me to confess brag explain:

Matthew and I began our day hollering. Rather, I hollered, he attempted to and then gave up to  burst into tears. I stormed upstairs in anger and to give myself a chance to calm down. Once I had, I was overcome with shame and remorse: he'd been right, I so very, very wrong.

I apologized profusely and then saw him off at the school gate, guilt clawing at my heart, eyes welling.

All the way home, I berated myself. Counted the hours until I could cover his face in kisses and be thankful for another chance to be the mother he deserves.

On the way home, I whispered, "I've been thinking about you all day. Will you forgive me for being so mean this morning?"

Matthew smiled: "I forgive you times three."

* * *

The Reds are tired. And when they're tired, they fight. After supper they argued with the boy next door, the girls down the street and finally, each other. And it was ugly. Ugly and nasty and it took all my waning patience NOT to knock their heads together.

Instead, I sent the other kids home, ushered the Reds inside and  quietly, but firmly ordered them upstairs: pyjamas on, teeth brushed, in bed. NOW.

I raised an eyebrow and pointed a finger for good measure.

Up they went, but not before some shoves on the stairs and punch in the hallway. In the end, I told them they'd have their say once they were in bed. If they spoke ONE WORD before that happened they'd have to go to bed at 6 tomorrow night, too.

Silently, they obeyed, so I sat back and gestured for Matthew to speak first.

"I don't want Luke to sleep in my bed until May 2nd." He crossed angry arms and glared at no one in particular.

"That seems fair."

Luke wailed and carried on, beating his blankets even as he pulled them up as he climbed into his own bed for the first time in a month. Finally, he too crossed his arms and arranged his face into "mad":

"Matthew can't touch ANY of my stuff ever. Never ever, ever."

"Okey-dokey. It's your stuff. He won't touch it."

I kissed them, told them I love them and closed the door, only to stand outside of it, holding my breath.

Two long, silent minutes passed and then:

"Hey, Luke?"
"What?"
"Do you wanna be friends again?"
"No. I wanna be brothers AND friends."
"OK."

Another pause.

"Wanna come sleep up here?"
"OK."
"Can I touch your stuff sometimes?"
"Yeah. I was only gonna make that rule until you're 10, anyways."


I guess this parenting thing doesn't honk after all.

Well, not today.

Only In Canada, Eh?

Matthew came home from hockey practice with the goalie equipment, which means it's his turn to play in net. His ever-accomodating little brother agreed to a little scrimmage, but there's so much snow outside, they suited up in the dining room.

Sigh.

I wish I could tell you that I was concerned about the furniture, but when moments like these present themselves, the only thing I cared about was getting a decent shot:

As the new year draws closer and brings some unexpected changes to our lives, it makes my heart happy to have these moments....preserved. Shared. Lived.

May 2013 bring you peace, love and awesome memories of your own.

Love,
Bellymonster and the Reds

I Have No Words

I have lost my voice. As of this moment, I have been entirely silent for close to three hours.

My husband may have referred to it as "The Christmas Miracle," but I'm sure he was kidding.

Me, I kind of dig it. In a "my throat is aching and feels weirdly full" kind of way.

I lost my voice in bits and pieces yesterday, but it came back this morning, just in time for me to holler at the Reds to get moving.

It grew softer again when I knelt down to hug them and offer apologies for yelling, something I'd promised (a million times, it seems) to try to stop doing.

I chatted easily, if a little huskily with my placement supervisor all day. Was surprised, though I shouldn't have been, at how much more I learned today, because I was quieter.

After then just after supper tonight, I yelled at Matthew for yelling at his brother, took a breath to yell at his brother....

and nothing came out.

I blinked. Tried for softer words.

Nothing.

Blinked again and peered at my astonished children, saw amazement and amusement spread across their freckled faces: Mummy. can't. speak.

They giggled with delight while I mimed clutching my throat and hollering, as tears of silent  laughter rolled down my cheeks. It felt...good.

At bedtime, I tucked them in without words, held them closer for longer than I usually do, because usually I toss my final "I love you"s over my shoulder as I close their door.

Grinned broadly to see their not-so-tiny hands making the sign for "I love you" in American Sign Language. I learned it just this week and taught them only yesterday. Signed it back with a happy sigh.

Photo courtesy of: moderndad.com

Came back down to a silent and empty kitchen. Contemplated the quiet.

Realized that the time has come, truly come, for me to listen. There is something that I need to hear. In order to actually hear the message meant for my heart, I needed to be SHUT UP.

That God.

He's so funny.

And you?

Anything you'd like to tell me?

I'm listening.

And I promise that I cannot won't interrupt.

A Bellymonster Christmas Carol

** To the tune, "The Twelve Days of Christmas". No, it doesn't match up exactly, nor did I manage 12 days. Whatever. I survived this week, which frankly, is an early Christmas miracle...*


On the first day of last week, the universe gave to me
One flushed-cheek redhead and another looking far from health-y.

On the second day of last week, the universe gave to me
Two spikes of fever,
One flushed-cheek redhead and another looking far from health-y.

On the third day of last week,the universe gave to me
Three "He's sick" phone calls,
Two spikes of fever,
One flushed-cheek redhead and another looking far from health-y.

On the fourth day of last week, the universe gave to me
Four rounds of barfing,
Three "They're sick" phone calls,
Two spiking fevers
One flushed-cheek redhead and another looking close to death-ly.

On the fifth day of last week, the universe gave to me
Fiiiiiiiiiiive birthday cards (and a fever)
Four rounds of barfing,
Three "They're sick" phone calls,
Two spiking fevers
One flushed-cheek redhead and another looking close to death-ly.

On the sixth day of last week, the universe gave to me
Six fever-free minutes
Fiiiiiiiiiiive birthday cards (and a fever)
Four rounds of barfing,
Three "They're sick" phone calls,
Two spiking fevers
One flushed-cheek redhead and another looking close to death-ly.

On the seventh day of Hell week, the universe has given me
(A) 7-year-old who's better,
Six loads of laundry
(A) 5-year-old who's feisty
Four wishes for Baileys
Three cups of coffee
Two slices of bread left,


And a husband who is sick and whine-y.

The Colour of Love

 November is my least favourite month of the year. It's cold, snowy, I have a birthday at the end of it (I'll be 29 again, thanks for asking) and the Reds get sick.

Every. single. November.

This week, it's Matthew who's down with a fever and headache, which means that soon, his brother will follow suit. Thankfully, the boys are pretty cheerful when they're not feeling well, all things considered. Matthew, for example, bounded out of (my) bed pale-cheeked, hollow-eyed but surprisingly pleasant for a kid who'd only caught an hour's sleep last night.

He was so brimming with good feelings, he set about drawing me a picture. "It's gonna be your favourite picture ever, Mummy, I promise! It's my favourite already!"

While he coloured, I traipsed up and down the stairs with laundry baskets and fretting over missing a day of placement. Even as I saw his eyes grow glassy and redden with fever, I focused on racing through household chores, determined not to waste the unexpected time in which to complete them.

Somewhere between the second load of laundry and sorting out the pots-and-pans cupboard, I was seized by guilt and drew Matthew onto my lap for a cuddle. I asked if I could see the picture he'd worked so hard on.

Wordlessly, my feverish kid offered me a gentle, beautifully-rendered reminder about what really matters:




Us: Matthew, Mark, Luke and Liz

With a lump in my throat, I thanked him for the beautiful picture and hugged him, before nudging him under a blanket while I went hunting for a frame. All great works of art deserve to be framed, I explained to him as he sagged into the pillows, suddenly exhausted.

It took me about 5 minutes to find a suitable frame. When I came back downstairs, this is what I found:

And to think, I almost missed this peaceful innocence. Thankful for the moment, I ignored the beep from the washing machine indicating that a load of laundry had finished, poured myself a fresh coffee and sat down to guard Matthew's sleep.

These are the days, my friends.

And you?

How do you deal with sick kids?

What would you draw, if you had to draw your favourite things?

A Poem For Luke, As He Turns FIVE!

What happened to my baby, the super cranky li'l dude?

The boy who waited till after bath to say that he had poo'd?

What happened to my tiny Red, whose pant legs had to be rolled?

The grouchy kid who rarely, if ever, did as he'd been told?

Where has he gone, my curmudgeon child, the one with the cheeky grin?

I only see him sometimes now, in the set of a firm, dimpled chin.

 

 

 

When once he shied from kisses, now Luke doles them out with glee.

He often hugs me softly these days, when once he'd punch my knee.

Diapers and wipes are things of the past: he's proud of his toileting skills.

And he carries his plate to the table, with only occasional spills.

Not long ago, the phone was a toy, that he'd chew on with great delight.

These days, he's apt to pick it up when it rings and sometimes he holds it upright.

Books, once the things he'd rip and tear into, with maniacal glee and aplomb

are now his most treasured possessions: "Please can you read to me, Mum?"

 

 

Where has he gone, the small lad who would tumble and wail his way to my lap?

He's too busy for bandaids and picks himself up now, often muttering, "Crap!"

Where has the time gone, these halcyon days, when the morning would stretch on for hours?

Now he is five and he's fierce and he's tough, possessed with fine boy Super Powers.

From birth until now, Luke has worshipped his brother, the way that I'd hoped he might do:

 best friends ('til they're not), they share secrets, my love,

fine red hair and a bedroom of blue.

 

That cross newborn boy who filled spots in my heart that I hadn't known were missing,

will, today, be five and I'm lost in these years, smiling through tears, reminiscing.

Sweet darling Luke, five years ago, you came into the world from my tummy.

Thank you for being your incredible self and for choosing me to be your mummy.

Happy Birthday, Took-Wookers.

I love you.

Mummy

Another Summer's Promise...

...almost gone.

It has been a long, hot summer here.

A long season of waiting: to hear about my husband's new job, to hear from my dad about my mum's condition after an awful car accident, for the weather to break, for rain to fall, for our camping trip - our first as a family - for school to start...

We are jostling about, as a family, trying to figure out who we are, as individuals, as a unit and growing pains - for all of us - are indeed a reality. Together - and apart - we are navigating new waters.

Because of that, I feel especially blessed to have had this entire summer with my sons - watching them grow beyond me and into the men they will all too soon become. I am grateful for each cool morning at the skatepark, just me and them. Ice cream treats. Cuddles and books under the shade of a tree. Afternoons at the beach, watching Matthew learn to swim and Luke make friends all on his own, out of his brother's shadow.

I feel so lucky that we've had my mum for one more summer - witnessed a living miracle as she emerged from the wreckage of her car with a broken leg but an unbreakable spirit.

She is home now, cheerfully getting on with things, embracing the little moments:

 

 

 

 

The summer offered up some big moments, too...

 

Celebrated with my awesome Across-the-Road-Neighbours as  they pledged their love one sunny day in August. As their Mistress of Ceremonies, I am thrilled to honestly say that it was one of the best weddings I've ever been to:

 

Mr. and Mrs. Lindsay, making it official! xo

 

 

Watched the Reds' jaws drop just last weekend, as the watched their beloved Kindergarten teacher make her way down the aisle to her future-husband. She was a vision in white and rendered the boys silent with awe. Her happy tears at seeing them there, sharing her special day, made all of us fall in love with her a little more:

 

 

 

 

 

 

Mostly, as summer draws to a close and the bittersweet ache of that throbs in my throat, I am thankful to my boys, who brought bring laughter and light to each and every day.

 

 

 

 

 

Without them, I would be lost. With them, I am profoundly blessed and acutely aware that these perfect, magical moments are precious and fleeting.

 

 

 

These are the days...

 

 

Just to See You Smile...

It's not the big moments that get me. It's the small, seemingly insignificant ones that cause me to catch my breath in surprise - how quickly time is passing.

Over the weekend, Matthew lost his first tooth. There was much cheering and high-fiving and giggling at bedtime as he carefully placed his tiny tooth under his pillow. More cheering the next morning when he discovered that the Tooth Fairy had left him $2.

When I asked to take his photo he readily agreed, happy to capture this long-awaited moment. And for the first time in what seems like weeks, my beloved first-born son....smiled:

I often slip little love notes - hastily scribbled onto Post-It notes and affixed to cellophane-wrapped sandwiches - into the Reds' lunch packs. I collect little sayings and snippets specifically for this purpose because I don't always have the words I want at 6:00 a.m. and sometimes, a Mama needs a little help. Some months back, I found the prettiest words and tucked them away, waiting for the perfect moment to share them.

This then, was this morning's  Post-it message:

Blue skies, butterflies

Warm breeze, picking peas

Starlight, snuggled tight

All of these make me

Happy

But none as much as

the sight of your smile.

Mummy

And you?

What are the small moments that take up the biggest spaces in your heart?

What Luke Did

Today, Luke did not wet his pants.

He did not punch me in the knee, which for reasons I cannot explain, he finds hilarious.

He did not rip any pages from Matthew's "Berenstain Bears" books, nor did he stretch an entire roll of Scotch tape from one end of the antique dining room table to the other.

He did not spit his apple down the side of the couch because he "hates the bits, Mummy!"

He did not squeeze toothpaste into the Q-tip container.

He did NOT manage to steer clear of the mud.

He did not attempt to shove the second "How to Train Your Dragon" DVD into the player by himself, like he did with the first one.

He did not pout and say, "NO!" when I asked him to take the toilet paper rolls back up the stairs.

He did not run away in the grocery store and did not bang on the glass in the fish section, hollering at the lobsters to "Wake up, crabs! Wake UP!"

He did not roll down his window in the car and spit.

He did not complain when I read Matthew's storybook first and did not run away and hide in the porch, hissing, when I announced that it was time for bed.

He did not snatch Matthew's stuffed snake down from the top bunk and cackle like a loon.

He did not stick his tongue in the fan nor did he dump two bottles of perfectly good water onto his floor so he could "swim in a carpet lake."

He did not offer a simple "Cheese!" when asked.

He did not stick his tongue up my nostril when I leaned in to kiss him goodnight, nor did he put his hand over my mouth and plead, "Don't sing, Mummy. Your singing hurts me!"

He did not beg for one more cup of water, another story or to sleep with his "Cars" crocs on.

He DID, however, pat my cheek as I tucked him in and say, "Mummy, you're the best."

That he did.

Goodbye to Guckies

Matthew has been using a soother since birth. He has steadfastly clung to a handful of beloved and well-loved "guckies" for his entire life.

I have argued with practically everyone about his use of them - a thumbsucker myself, I KNOW the immense comfort he draws and will never willingly take it from him.

Then today happened.

Matthew's care nurse - once she'd properly arranged her features after expressing shock and derision at his soother use - has expressly forbidden the use of soothers, straws or anything that involves sucking. It would render today's painful surgery futile and in all likelihood, cause more discomfort for Matthew.

Matthew kind of overheard this conversation, as it took place over top of his precious, snoozing head. So tonight, when I told him that bedtime will no longer include his gucky, he simply nodded.

Sadly. Tears shimmered. And then my wee man squared his little shoulders, stuck out a brave chin and said,

"It's ok, Mummy. I know."

And it has broken my heart. I find that I am grieving -  not just the loss of his gucky for him, but also  the loss of his little boyhood...for me. It's not that he's not ready to leave these precious days behind.

He is.

He has.

But me? I am not ready. Not yet.

Not yet.

Matthew, Mark, Luke and....

Held a tiny four-month old baby this morning. A boy baby, at that. His name is Landon and I not only held him, I changed his diaper, fed him his bottle and watched, cooing, as he fell asleep in my arms.

Oh, my.

I've held dozens of babies since giving birth to mine. Felt nothing, past the "so-cute-smells-so-good" feelings that accompany the relief that comes with handing them back to their parents. Done, I say, when asked if we'll have more children.

Done, I snort at my husband, the one who's never here and whose pining for a third is based upon his desire for a daughter. Frankly, I find that a bit odd and often make a point of reminding Mark of his misspent youth:

"Babe, remember high school?"
"Yeah." (Stupid, goofy grin)
"Remember YOU in high school?"
"Yeah." (Nostalgic, stupid leer)
"Now, imagine a boy like YOU dating your daughter."
"No effing way!"

That's what I thought, I say. Now, can you please pop by Shopper's on your way home? There's a sale on condoms. Buy 'em all.

This is how it's been for almost four years. Mark wistfully gazing at little girls and fawning all over his niece, remarking especially on her curly locks and long, pretty lashes - much like his own. For that same amount of time, I've been firmly shaking my head whenever the question of a third child is raised:

1. We have a two-bedroom house and I like it, so no more babies.
2. I want to sleep through the night again before I'm 40. If I have another baby, it'll never happen.
3. As much as I loved pregnancy, I am not in any shape or condition to live through another one.
4. Not one single part of me - physically or otherwise - longs for another baby. Not. one. bit.

Until today.

Today long-lashed, tow-headed, making snuffle-sounds-whilst-falling-asleep, finger-wound-around-mine baby boy Landon changed all of that and for the first time in my life, I understood the phrase, "my ovaries ache."

I could totally have another son - my Jonathan. My bookend. My final chapter. My youngest apostle.

Not that I'm going to act on it. The ovary-ache thing, I mean. Nope. Not gonna do it. Will, in fact, completely disregard that biological, deeply-primal, practically-impossible-to-ignore instinctive and basic human female drive to reproduce.

I am woman. Hear me IGNORE!

But first I need to stack the deck against my hormones and the sweet siren's song belonging to phantom boys called Johnny. In order to gird my treacherous loins, I have enlisted the help of  Reds.

Well, Luke.

Matthew is so eager to please and agreeable, his is an existence that virtually BEGS one to make more of him. His birth was the one I would have happily repeated mere hours after bringing him into the world. True story. Epi headache and all.

Luke's birth, however, was quick and so painful, I must still distract myself during sex, lest my brain somehow make the connection between what we're doing and a similar position that ended in screaming and hemorrhoids the size of oranges.

How will Luke ensure that I have no more children, you ask?

The answer is two-fold:
1. Luke is impossibly cute and sweet when he chooses to be, but he can scream the dead from their slumber when he's pissed. And he is presently sitting in time-out, screeching as loudly as he can because I wouldn't let him hit his brother in the eye with a hockey stick.

Read that sentence again.

LUKE is pissed at ME because I won't let him maim/permanently disfigure his brother. If that's not enough to keep me from bringing another McLennan child into the world...

2. A surprisingly cheerful, though random conversation with Luke this afternoon:

"Mummy, can I have a dog?'
"It would be nice to have a dog, wouldn't it? But I don't think so, Lukey."
"If I'm a good boy and stop breaking everything, can I have a dog?'
"No, Lukey. That's not how it works. You need to stop breaking stuff because it's not right."
"But I like it. It's fun and makes good sounds."
"Hmmm... yes, but..."
"So do dogs, Mummy. Dogs are fun and make good sounds."
"True, but they also poop a lot and people need to pick up their poop."
"Like you clean up my poop when it falls out of my pants?"
"Uh, sort of like that, yes."

Big pause while my ovaries stop their aching, having somehow recognized a  potentially life-altering moment-in-the-making:

"If I poo in the toilet, can I have a dog?"
"Only if we can name it John."
"John?"
"John."
"OK."

Future Blogging Ideas:

How to Blame Your Ovaries For Just About Anything
Finding the Perfect Pet for Your Family: A Helpful Guide
Manipulative Children and the Mothers Who Love Them

And you? Did you heed your Johnny's call or get a dog?

When I Grow Up, I Want to Be My Kid

Some days, I don't know who's raising who around here - am I teaching the Reds or are they teaching me?

Sometimes, I am less than kind. Sometimes, I have no patience and pitch petulant, ugly tantrums because things haven't gone my way and no one is listening to me and I am picking up dinky cars yet AGAIN.

When the boys throw a fit (Luke) or whine because they aren't getting their way (Matthew) or they stand at my elbow, tugging and begging for attention (both), I am quick to scold, to scorn, to lash out.

But, in that awesome way of children, they shine a light on the witch I can sometimes be and God help me, it's an ugly sight indeed.

Tonight:

I was drying Luke after his bath - rushing through our nightly routine and speaking in clipped tones.  Matthew appeared, and rightfully pointed out that I was using HIS towel to dry his brother, at which point Luke - naturally - melted down. I growled at both of them and then, not-quite-under-my-breath, muttered nastily, "Leave it to your brother to stir the pot."

Matthew froze. When I raised a quizzical eyebrow and then narrowed my gaze icily, he lifted his chin and said, "You shouldn't talk about your son that way, Mummy. It's not nice."

I set my jaw stubbornly. "Really, Matthew?" (Oozing sarcasm) "What's that supposed to mean?"

"It means that you shouldn't talk that way. You always tell me to think about what I say before I say it. You should think about things, too. You're not talking nicely about me."

Big, HUGE pause for that absolutely shameful truth to settle around us. Even Luke stilled, knowing that something important was happening.

I took a deep breath. Faced my son.

"You're right, Matthew. You're absolutely right. I AM being mean and I'm sorry."

"It's ok, Mummy. You're learning, too."

Sometimes, I don't deserve to be their mother. I am so very glad that they forgive me my many failings. Without these little people, I would be entirely lost.

Every day they show me, in a thousand different ways, who I want to be when I grow up.

*Do your children inspire you? Who do you want to be?*

The Reality of Being a Domestic Goddess

Daydream: My home smells of something yummy to eat at any time of day.

Reality: I have Luke, whose poopy diapers carve such a vile stench into the air, visitors have been known to retch and take their coffee in the ice-box we call "the porch."

Daydream: I am the kind of woman whose cardigan-over-a-white-t-shirt-and-jeans ensemble looks fresh and casual, but pretty. Pulled together. Polished.

Reality:  I am often too lazy to shower first thing in the morning and end up grabbing a hooded sweatshirt and jamming a baseball cap over my unwashed (but pigtailed) hair. Like Red from Fraggle Rock, only fatter.

Daydream: I am the kind of woman who, when you pop by unannounced, is sipping a chai tea at the table, listening to son read aloud, whilst sunlight streams through the (streak-free) window and classical music plays lightly in the background.


Reality: Yesterday's coffee reheated in the microwave for the second time has grown cold. While  First Son refuses to sound out the word "cat" and carefully arranges his features into blank nothingness,  I am red-faced with frustration and jabbing at the letters on the page, screeching, "You KNOW this one. Yes, you do! You do SO! Sound it out, NOW!"

The classical music station is drowned out by Second Son singing "O Canada" while he bats a tin-foil ball across the living room with his father's golf clubs - ones he has been implicitly told not to use...

Daydream: My workspace is clutter-free save the pretty fabric-covered basket meant to temporarily hold bills which are paid on time and immediately filed into their appropriate and cross-referenced folders.

Reality: At any given time, our huge desk is covered with artwork, cold coffee cups, dinky cars and for some inexplicable reason, pieces of dry dog food that the even the dog won't eat. The fabric basket IS the filing cabinet and I think I put paid bills away sometime in 2008, two houses and one city ago.

Daydream: High-backed antique settee plus chaise lounge, lovingly restored in luxury fabrics grace my front room. Soft wall-sconce lighting spills onto my gleaming hardwood floors and fresh flowers from the garden brighten every room.

Reality: Aztec-design on 25 year-old couch that is a hand-me-down from my parents. Sags. Springs are shot and I cannot for the life of me get the mustard stain off one arm. Perfect for bouncing on. The floors are indeed hardwood, but are dotted with paint from the previous owner's love affair with bright, happy (read: psychosis-inducing) colour. My  floor lamps are from Sears and tilt at alarming angles by day's end.

Garden? What garden?

Daydream: Children who cover their mouths when they cough, don't giggle when they toot, sneeze anywhere but DIRECTLY AT THE COMPUTER SCREEN while snuggling as Mama types and who pee into the toilet.

Reality: Farting is hilarious to my children. I have no idea why. Their father is the same way. I can't explain that, either. Snuggles are good - I'll take 'em when I can get 'em. Luke's pee forgets to listen and poop well...it happens, right?

And you? What's your reality?

Promises to Keep

I tend not to make resolutions for the new year. I'm crap at keeping them and I know it, so I save myself the guilt and agony and just don't make any.

Having said that, I tend to keep promises, so here are the ones I'd like to keep in 2011 and beyond:

1. Yell less, giggle more.
2. Facebook less, read more.
3. Run a half marathon in November
4. Make exercise and proper eating a priority. (See: 3)
5. Dream less, write more.
6. Learn to knit.
7. Come Spring, plant a garden.
8. Take my Mum for an overnight "Mother-Daughter" getaway.
9. Put laundry away, which is another way to tell my husband that I love him.
10. Attend Mass at least once a month.

I am not overly sentimental as each year becomes another. Not usually, anyway. But this year, I appreciate the "new beginning" for many reasons - some of which surprise me. I'm excited to see what 2011 will bring.

Praying for peace, love and magic for everyone.

Blessed be, all.

Love,
Bellymonster

Parenting Challenge # 1

I yell.

I yell when I'm happy, I yell when I'm not. Mostly, I yell when I'm tired or frustrated or angry. I really let loose during the Witching Hour before dinner when the Reds are often also tired and frustrated or hungry.

Having started a part-time job recently, my stress level has increased. Naturally - sadly - the decibel level here at House of Bellymonster has reached epic proportions.

I yell so often and so loudly that I fear I might be permanently damaging the Reds' hearing as well as their self-esteem.

And that completely sucks.

So...

I have challenged myself to go one week without yelling. No raising my voice. No nasty, sing-song mimicking. No hollering when things aren't done the moment I asked (ok, demanded).

Nope. I will use my inside voice. My quiet voice (I know that some of you are snickering that Belly doesn't HAVE a quiet voice but this week, I will prove that I do.)

I have spoken (in soft, gentle tones) to the Reds about this plan and while their freckled little faces showed deep skepticism, I felt like they were a bit hopeful.

I'll update here every day for the next seven days.

Wish me well.



Meep.

Growing Your Family: Part II - Mama Guilt (The Early Days)

See Part I here: Growing Your Family: Part 1


Shakespeare's take on female fury: Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned.


To that I say, "Phfffffftttt! Whatevah, Willie."

To hell with fury - there ain't nothing in the world quite like Mama Guilt. It's an overwhelming, clawing heartache like no other and frankly, I'll take a good ol' scorning over a minute's lie-in-bed-thinking-about-the-ways-I-damaged-my-child-today session. In fact, I'll see your scorning and raise you a public humiliation AND a Facebook de-friending, if only you could take this guilt, just for five minutes.

Please?

No? You've got too much of your own, thank you very much? In fact, as the Interloper snuggles in for yet another nursing session and your Firstborn has stomped off to locate the gardening shears, your guilt is washing over you in waves? You feel torn asunder? You cannot breathe for the weight of it?

Ah, yes. Welcome to the REAL guilt. All that stuff you suffered whilst mothering one child was just practice for this:

1. I Don't Think I Can DO This:

I can admit this now and laugh about it, but while I was pregnant with the Interloper I felt consumed by the guilt of knowing that I wouldn't love him as much as I loved his brother. Oh sure, everyone told me that I'd be fine and of course I'd love another baby, but in my deepest heart, I was adamantly unconvinced and it was awful. How could I possibly love another human being the way I did my only child?

In the end, I made a silent, fervent promise to myself: I would go ahead and love my Firstborn more but I would never, EVER tell another living soul and would carry my terrible, horrendously shameful secret to my grave.

Days after this terrible promise, the Interloper was born and as the nurse placed him in my arms, I realized that I'd been terribly, wonderfully wrong. I loved him instantly, wholly, without reserve. "Hello, sweet angel. I've been waiting to love you for my whole life."

Sadly, my elation at losing the guilt of not loving him enough was swiftly replaced by the equally heart aching shame of even thinking that I wouldn't....sigh....minutes old and he'd already broken my heart.

This, I have come to realize, will continue until I draw my last breath of this life: In loving these little people, we are vulnerable in ways we'd never imagined. And if we're not, they'll find a way to make it so.

 2. Your Darling Firstborn Has Been Possessed by the Devil.

Looking back, I now see where my Firstborn began his slide toward Satan.

When he and Daddy arrived at the hospital to meet his new baby brother and to take us home, he wouldn't even hug me, barely spared me a glance. All he wanted to do was hold Daddy's hand and cover Daddy's neck with kisses. It was almost like he'd thought to himself, "Hmm...what's the quickest way to punish Mummy for growing me a brother? Oh, yes: Love. Daddy. Best."

The days that followed were tiring and weirdly calm as we began to adjust to a new family member, but I knew. Knew that my Firstborn was feeling pushed aside and pushed out. I knew by the way he leaned over the nursing Interloper and instead of laying a gentle kiss upon his brow like I'd been hoping, he head butted him RIGHT ON THE SOFT SPOT so hard, the Interloper popped off my breast and wailed without sound. Yeah. That cry.

I could tell that his frustration was rising when he began throwing temper tantrums over wearing socks with his shoes and wailing like a banshee at 3 a.m. for no good reason at all. (Naturally, this was his way of getting my clear and furiously undivided attention, and I ought to have ignored him but the guilt and the hormones got the better of me and I ended up sitting upright all night long with a boy at one breast and a boy curled next to the other, weeping. But I digress...)

I knew by the way he dropped his little chin to his chest when I gently explained that I couldn't take him to the park right now, Sunshine, Mummy's nursing the baby.

Sorry, Sweetheart, Mummy can't play soccer with you right now, I'm nursing the baby.

Oh, Magoo, I-Love-You, I WANT to bake our special "Mummy & Matthew" cake like we did last week, but right now, I'm nursing the baby...

In just a minute Matthew...
In a little while Matthew,
When I'm done nursing the baby, Matthew,
When I'm done changing the baby, Matthew,
Not right now Matthew,
Don't wake the baby, Matthew,
There, you've gone and woke the baby, Matthew!!

I literally ached watching my own father step in and perform every, single one of my duties: he dressed, fed, changed, played with, bathed, scolded, cuddled, read to, chided, and tucked my beloved firstborn child in every night for a week straight.

You know what I did for a week straight? Nursed the Interloper and let the guilt - now doubled because I was feeling guilty for dumping all of my responsibilities on my father, whom I'm pretty sure just really wanted to mow the lawn and drink beer - completely and totally overwhelm me. Three years later, the looking back is easy. Hopefully, these tips will help you in these early days.

To survive:

1. Try to be there when your Firstborn wakes up in the morning, arms empty of the Interloper and waiting just for her/him. Let your smile be the first thing he sees and greet the day as you did before the Interloper came along - just you and him, together.

2. Let him pick out his clothes for the day and which cereal to eat for breakfast. (Go ahead and buy a box of sugar-coated crap. Do NOT allow yourself to feel badly about this. Baby teeth fall out and it's not like you're feeding him crap all day long, right? Water down his juice if this makes you feel better.)

3. I made up a silly song for mornings and we still sing it. If anything, it puts ME in the right frame of mind and at the very least, lets me have 30 seconds of "Good Mummy" ness to recall later in the day when both children are in Time-Out and I'm about to hurl myself out the window. It goes like this:

"Good morning! Good morning!
 Happy day to you!
 Good morning! Good morning!
 I love you, Magoo!"

* This song can later be altered to end with, "I love you, and YOU!" to include the Interloper, thereby neatly circumventing any guilt you may have about not including both children. *

4. 20 Minutes, Twice a Day

Set aside 20 minutes in the morning, after you've fed the Interloper and he's (hopefully) sleeping in his bouncy chair, to play with your Firstborn. You can play trucks or tea party or dress-up or line-up-the-shoes - but let your Firstborn choose and stay focused. Do NOT allow your gaze to wander about the disaster that is your kitchen or to rest longingly on the couch that's calling your name. Do NOT idly flip through the nearest issue of "Today's Parent" magazine when it's not your turn. Play! Engage. Be.

In the afternoon, before the witching hour leading up to dinner and before the fresh new hell known as "bed time", do it all again. 20 minutes. If you can manage a walk to the park, do it.

 Let your Firstborn stop and inspect every blade of grass along the way. Let him balance on the cupholder of the stroller if he wants to and ignore the clucking/shaking heads from your neighbours as you trundle by. Push him on the swing for 10 more minutes after you've given the 5-minute warning. If you need to nurse the Interloper during this time, then do so, but if some other Mummy offers to burp or hold him afterward, let her. Bring snacks - the good ones. Let him drink from your bottle, shriek as loudly as he wants and climb the playground equipment without his shoes on.

All in, these 40 minutes will sustain you later as you mentally beat yourself up, so enjoy them!

Because Mama?

This too shall pass. This too, shall pass. All too soon, this too shall pass.

Growing Your Family: A Survival Guide

My dear friend and fellow blogger Heather, has just given birth to her second child - a gorgeous girl she has nicknamed Sweet Pea, little sister to darling Peach.

This cheeky guideline is my gift to her, and to every mother whose world has been turned upside down by the arrival of a second child.

Part One: SLEEP

 (or decided lack thereof)

Old Wisdom: "Sleep when the baby sleeps."

Belly Version: What? Are you effin' KIDDING me? And who, pray tell, will watch over my Firstborn, my Very Heart, who is presently shoving books into the dishwasher in a fit of rage because for the zillionth time this morning, instead of playing trucks, I have settled into the couch with the Interloper and cannot move for the next 45 minutes while he suckles at a boob that is bigger than his head?

To survive:

First of all, let go of all your pre-children notions about limiting TV and sepia-washed fantasies about playing age-appropriate games on a white, stain-free carpet, devoid of all but a small wicker basket filled with brightly-coloured books and finger puppets.

That's right...let it all go.

Release yourself from the desire to be perfect and remember that this is about survival and nothing else.

Make a comfy nest of pillows and blankets on the floor in front of the TV. Turn on Treehouse/cartoons/soap opera/Sex in the City. Whichever. Anything will do as long as it holds your Firstborn's attention for more than 10 minutes.

 If you have a golf umbrella, open it up and plonk it behind your nest, supersititon be damned. If your living room is big enough to house a tent, pitch it. Gather snacks. Put the potty next to the three baskets of laundry you've not yet managed to fold, let alone put away.

 Better yet, bring out your secret stash of Pull-Ups and ruin weeks of potty-training. Whatever. Firstborn won't go to university in diapers so cut yourself some slack and ignore the clucks of disapproval from neighbours, family members and strangers, all of whom had their children potty-trained and reading before they even walked. (Insert eye-roll here)

Plop irritable, formerly angelic-but-morphing-into-the-Devil-right-before-your-bleary-sleep-deprived-eyes Firstborn in front of TV. Watch his/her eyes widen, jaw fall open and body finally, finally still. The electronic babysitter is on the job.

Relax. Breathe.

 Balance the Interloper on a pillow next to your ginormous, swollen boob and let yourself drift off to the high-pitched urging of a swollen-headed Dora. Dream of Boots the Monkey. Be still. Ressssttttt....

Alternate ways to catch some ZZZ's:

Load both children into the car. Drive to the nearest coffee place and buy a large coffee. Do not worry about the caffeine intake, reasoning that it's better to have the contents of a Tim Horton's double-double buzzing through the Interloper's tiny body for the 10 minutes it's in there between a nursing session and a blowout diaper, than to fall asleep behind the wheel and kill everybody.

 It's all about perspective.

Drive aimlessly until the children fall asleep (which, blessedly, mine did within minutes of being strapped into their car seats) and then steer yourself home. Park. Turn off ignition, but leave the music playing, battery power be damned. Crack the windows, ease back in your seat and close your eyes.

(During winter, roll the windows all the way down - your little darlings are snug as bugs in their snugglie car covers/sleeping-bag-thingys/snowsuits. Bellymonster Family Motto:  Have toque? Will travel.)

Do NOT worry about drool. Do NOT entertain a sick and twisted daymare about a masked bandit stealing the children from behind you while you snooze. Stuff like that only happens on TV. Or to really rich people. Or at gas stations. Or all of the above, but it will NOT happen to you so rest easy and sweet dreams!

2. Seize the Moments:

Foist the manic, clingy, whiny child that is your Firstborn onto your partner's/father's/neighbour's/Jevhovah's Witness's lap.

Unlatch the Interloper from your breast while tugging on your stretched-out yoga pants and grimacing. Gag, for effect. Announce that you NEED a shower RIGHT NOW and quit the room.

 Lock the bathroom door, turn on the water and climb in. Curl up in the bottom of the tub. Never in your life will chilly enamel feel more like fluffy cloud than it does at this moment.  Enjoy the warmth and the steam and the feel of something other than baby-spit up, formula or breast milk coursing down your body. Revel in it, but be sure to turn your head away from the spray:

You want a nap, not to drown with your ass sticking up in the air.

3. Relinquish Control

This is harder than it seems. At first.

But after you've stopped expending precious energy on making it look like you've got it together, you'll feel tons better and the lack of sleep won't seem as bad. Don't get me wrong, you're still gonna feel like you did during the drop-into-a-coma-exhaustion-first trimester of your pregnancy only now your hair is falling out and your nether region is unrecognizable, but you won't MIND as much if you do the following:

a) Stop putting laundry away. Seriously.

Get four baskets, five if you've been ambitious and done the sheets and towels instead of hauling the holiday stuff out of the basement and spritzing your bed with Febreze. Put 'em in the living room, next to the umbrella and the potty. Don't fold it, just rummage as needed.

 (Incidentally, freshly-washed piles of teeny-tiny diaper t's make a pretty good pillow. Actually, smelly towels and soiled footy pj's work well too, in a pinch.)

b) Hubby needs things pressed? Give directions to the iron and ironing board. Heck, you can set the ironing board up next to the umbrella too, and he can starch his way through the hockey game. If you duct tape an old coffee tin to the metal rack where the iron sits, you've got a ready-made beer holder.

c) Two words: Kraft Dinner.

Toss in some cut up hot dogs, maybe some salsa for colour, some carrot sticks and a juice box and you're done. Two boxes of every child's comfort food and your Firstborn AND your husband can have leftovers for lunch the next day. Around here, we are big fans of  "Snacky Supper" which is essentially this: crackers, cheese, keilbasa, grapes and applesauce.

Naturally, this is eaten in front of the TV, under the umbrella. And if you use paper plates emblazoned with the Backyardigans? You are just about THE coolest Mummy ever.

d) Rethink your sleeping arrangements: Do you have a spare room? Couch? Beaten-up old armchair in the garage? Good. Move your husband there and bring the Interloper to bed with you. I realize that tongues are clucking even as I type this and yes, I am aware that both the American and Canadian Paediatric Societies frown upon co-sleeping, but this is my blog, so there. And for spluttering husbands/partners/disapproving mothers-in-law I must gently remind them that this is about Mama survival, NOT domestic bliss.

Shove a body pillow into the space where your husband used to be, but underneath the fitted sheet. Doing so will alleviate any concerns that the Interloper will roll off the bed or roll under a pillow and suffocate. Nursing whilst lying down takes some practice and you may find yourself contorted into all sorts of whacky positions but at least you'll be lying down in a dark room.

Ah, bliss.

I'm not sure that I ever really slept while nursing my Interloper 6,328 times a night, but at least I rested my eyes and my weary body. And while I wouldn't wish a 12-hour night shift on anyone, I definitely leaned toward inappropriate glee when my husband announced that I'd be bedding down without him.

 I enjoyed the special kind of freedom that comes with stretching out diagonally across the bed and not feeling my husband's feet with mine.

Alternately, you can haul the mattress from the guest room into your Firstborn's bedroom and have a cuddly camp out there, Interloper on one side of you, Firstborn on the other. In doing this you'll be resting your aching body AND alleviating a teensy portion of the guilt weighing down your soul re: the state of your Firstborn's sense of self/place/sanity/security.

You may be lucky enough to snatch five minutes of peaceful slumber in the Nursery during Sunday Mass. If you can manage to sneak away for a haircut and have an understanding and sympathetic stylist, you can don a pair of sunglasses and saw logs right there in the chair - the hairdryer should drown out the worst of your snoring.

Tip well.

In combination with all of the above, or as a stand-alone, make this your mantra, prayer and wish:

This too shall pass. This too shall pass. This too shall pass.

Because it will and it does and someday soon you will wonder how the heck you survived it, but you will.

You are.

Coming Soon:

Part II: Mama Guilt (aka: The Soundtrack of Motherhood)

Growing Your Family: Part II (Mama Guilt)

Motherhood = The Kingdom of Lost Minds

So, I've just returned from dropping the Reds off at the (air-conditioned) trailer, where their doting Nanny will let them frolic in the lake long after bed time and eat too many sweets. Bliss.

All the way home (note to self: 28 through Bancroft and down is NOT just a bit longer than your normal route, you moron. Check the map BEFORE being spur-of-the-moment-y.) I worried.

Worried that Luke will fall in the lake and no one will get to him in time. Worried that Matthew will see Luke fall in and go after him...and that no one will see him in time, either. That the hypnotic lure of a campfire will be too much for both boys and that they'll be burned and traumatized for life.

Worried that my mum will fall ill, or fall period, and Matthew won't remember the "911" drills I've done with him.  Worried that a dog will bite Luke (Matthew's too cautious to get close) or that Matthew will fall down the trailer stairs, a misguided Superman. Worried that the car won't start, their carseats won't be fastened properly or that some drunken fool will run them over.

Yes, I recognize the sheer lunacy of these worries and yes, I sometimes worry about my sanity. Well, ok. I worry about my sanity more than sometimes, but that's not the point.

The point is - at WHICH point will these fearsome, ulcer-inducing "what-ifs" stop? As a mum, I mean. At which point will I actually sleep through the night, uninterrupted? Even though both boys are given to nocturnal wanderings, they DO sleep through until morning and do so quite often. Unfortunately, I can't remember that last time I did, because if they don't wake me, I wake up anyways, just to check on them.

When will I let go of the irrational idea that the boys are safest with me and that I can in any way control their destinies? (In and of itself, this idea is ludicrous. All things considered, the children are probably safer with their grandparents, really. I'm forever telling them to "Go outside and play!" while Nanny will actually play WITH them.)

Matthew believes that I have magical, all-seeing eyes in the back of my head. He also believes that I know the answer to everything, it's just that sometimes it takes me awhile to remember the answer. (Really, it just takes me awhile to sneak off to Google to find the answer, but I digress...)

The problem now is that I have begun to believe that I have magical, all-seeing eyes in the back of my head and that if I'm not there, something terrible's going to happen.

 Nope, no God complex here. Uh, uh.

Is it me? Am I the only mother on the planet who feels this way because if so, I'd better book a few more therapy sessions and quick. Deeeeeepppp breath, Bellymonster.

Now that I am home and there is no frantic message from my mum saying that someone has stolen the children (Yes, I checked the phone straight away. Yes, I am paranoid beyond all reason) I need to relax.

I need to go to the gym and work out withOUT wondering if the boys are fine in the daycare at the Y. I need to grab a book and go sit on my back porch withOUT reaching for the monitor so that I can hear the silence that is their empty room. I need to relinquish control and simply BE.

Must remember to enjoy these precious hours to accomplish all the stuff that usually gets left until they've gone to bed. Must remember that Nanny is also a mummy and she has magical, all-seeing eyes, too.

New mantra: Nanny has magical, all-seeing eyes. Nanny has magical, all-seeing eyes.

Must call Nanny's cell, just to remind her...

Matthew is FOUR!

Darling Matthew,

Today you are FOUR. How swiftly these years, these halcyon days have flown by. I am so grateful to have been a part of it all and to have tucked away in my memory every precious moment with you.

Matthew, you are growing into such a wonderful little boy. Erm...big boy. You are bright and funny and as much as your non-stop chattering wears me out some days, I miss it when you're not here. Miss your questions and your constant "why's?" when you're at school and it's only Luke and I clattering about the house, waiting.

I love you more than all the tea in China
I love you more than all the stars in the sky
I love you more than all the bubbles in the bathtub
I love you more than you ask me, "Why?"

Thank you for asking tough questions that make me think long and hard about the world and our place in it. For remembering Uncle Andrew with such light and love and for missing him. How lovely to know that your heart accepts a cloud-filled, high-in-the-sky Heaven and that a God who watches over us pleases you, too.

Since you were born I have been slowly drawn back to the church of my own childhood - seeking comfort in the rituals that transcend both language and borders. I'm so happy to see that you've already developed a love of hymns and music and singing out with joyous abandon.

I love that you sing along with every song in the car, no matter how silly, random or sad. That certain pieces of music can bring you to tears is lovely too, albeit heartbreaking to see. You are a sensitive soul, Matthew James and the world needs more souls like you. Is lucky to have you.

Thank you for singing through supper and teaching a rapt Luke all the gestures and faces for "Five Yummy Apples." I am so happy that you're adjusting so well to school life and that you've formed such a close, warm bond with William, Sweet William. Together, you will have many, many adventures, ones I hope you'll share with me over milk and cookies upon your return.

I miss you when you're at school, my darling. Thrilled as I am to know that you're enjoying yourself and to have special one-on-one time with Luke, I miss your sweet laugh, your endless stories and seeing the world through your eyes. You have a sweetness about you - an innate need to please, to reach out, to care. Yesterday, even though you really, really wanted to play by yourself, you made sure to set aside some special toys for your brother so that he could play by your side. Cracks my heart - both the desire to be on your own and the way you quietly show him that he is loved and special.

I love that despite all this growing up business, you still crawl into bed with me each morning, seeking heat and cuddles. I love that you often fall asleep with your hand on my face, as you've done from early on. Stalling method or not, I love that you often save your best, most-involved tales for the quiet of your bedroom after dark. Love how you recite with me:

Matthew is his Mama's very heart, his Daddy's pride and joy!
Matthew is Nanny's treasure and Papa's best big boy!

I hope you know that they're not just pretty words at bedtime, Matthew. They are truth in rhyme. You are indeed my very heart and Daddy is so, so proud of you. You are Nanny's blessed treasure and her every joy. When you were born, she came alive again and you bring all sorts of magic to her days simply by being. You. Papa too - you make him laugh so much Matthew and have given him another chance to play and frolic and get dirty. Another chance.

Yes, your defiance and sassy mouth challenge my sanity some days, Matthew. I see so much of me in your petulant stance, your slamming-door temper and the proud upward tilt of your chin when you're in trouble. I see me and it shocks me, infuriates me, makes me wary, worry, wilt...and love you even more.

On this your fourth birthday, I promise to tell you "Yes!" more often and to let your pour your own juice for breakfast. To spend less time "getting through" and more time simply being - with you. I promise to yell less, listen more. To give you space as you need it and to always be a safe place to land.

I am so proud to be your Mummy and thank God every day for the wonder that is you. Thank you for choosing me.

I love you.

Mama

Move Over, Mommie Dearest!

Matthew is almost four and is testing, testing, testing and pushing every boundary, every wall, every godforsaken button his wily little mind can find.

I love him. I do. But God help me, there are days when I wonder who has entered my son's body, because my wee, sweetpea leprechaun is behaving like an IMP, and not in a good way.

He was fine this morning. Delightful, even. But then he had a nap and I'm not sure what happened while he slumbered but it was like a completely different child emerged from his bed. Sure he LOOKED like my fire-haired lovey, wore the same Curious George underpants (backwards, as he now insists on dressing himself) and adorable, sleepy look.

And then he opened his mouth and out came a sassy-mouthed, attitude-tossing, dirty look-throwing, petulant BOY.

Bedtime came....and went. He was hungry, thirsty, had to pee, had to poo, had a sore leg, itchy mosquito bites AND he'd lost Lamby somewhere in the vast expanse of queen-sized sheets.

Finally, finally, as I hovered over the toilet with my clearly exhausted, yet gamely smart-mouthed son, who'd so been SO desperate to poo yet again, he'd removed his Pull-Up and pj bottoms whilst sliding down the stairs, I sort of lost it.

"Matthew," I said sternly, fixing him with my best, never-before-failed glare, "you had BETTER have a poo in there, or you'll be in BIG trouble!" And squeezed him leg a little harder than necessary, to press my point home.

"Oh, I have a poo, Mummy. Watch!" And didn't he scrunch up his adorably-freckled nose and close his eyes, straining so hard to push out a poop he tooted?

"See?" Such glee. Such pride.

"I see no poo, Matthew." Another icy glare.

"It was a little poop, Mummy. But it was so little, it already went down the hole."


Mummy: 0 Matthew: 345,078, 021

The evening's performance ended shortly thereafter, with much crying and gnashing of teeth and wails and not all of it from Matthew.

Half an hour passed and I scrubbed furiously at the dishes in the sink, mad at myself, mad at Matthew, tired, frustrated, let down, ashamed....standard fare, really. And then I heard a plaintive"Muuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuummmmyyyy!" from the room at the top of the stairs. DAMN IT!

Grim-faced, resigned, I trudged up and sank to the bed, sighing, "What now, Matthew?"

He was sleeping soundly, one lean arm wrapped around Lamby. Achingly still and calm.

But just beyond him, on the other side of the bed, head barely visible...stood Luke. Crying. He'd been searching for me, seeking comfort and snuggles and I was so busy being pissed off, I hadn't even heard him.

He's sleeping now, too. But something tells me that my dreams will not be restful ones, this night. This parenting business is so wonderful. Except for the moments like these.

The ones that hurt my very heart and soul.


I suck.