Smarter Than a First-Grader...

Ever worry that you'll never survive parenthood? That your kids really ARE smarter than you?

Yeah. Me, too.

But every once in awhile, I end the day feeling as though - for a brief, shining moment -  I know what I'm doing. Or that I'm really, really good at making it seem that way....

Here's a snippet of an hour-long POST-bed/lights-out conversation with Matthew, age 6:

Matthew: Mummy, did you know that some kids' parents give them treats when they're good?

Me: Is that so?

Matthew: Yes, it's true. Some parents give their kids toys when they're good at the grocery store, or just for being good without being told to.

Me: Wow. Those kids are lucky, eh?

Matthew: Yeah. Really lucky.

Me: Do you know those children personally or did you see them on TV?

Matthew: I can't remember their names, but I saw them one day.

Me: Oh, yeah? Where?

Matthew: At the grocery store. In their car. After they were done shopping and were sitting in their carseats, I saw their mummy give them treats.

Me: Huh. 'magine that. What was I doing, while this other mummy was giving her kids treats?

Matthew: Being mad because me and Luke didn't listen in the store and Luke ran away and I was sassy.

Me: Ah. I see.

Matthew at his devilish best. He's so cute, I'd forgive him anything.

*Brief pause for me to reign it in, having used up all my calm, measured tones on the above exchange*

Matthew: I think that other mummy must have been really proud of her kids, right Mummy?

Me: I'll bet she was. But, I'll bet she wasn't as proud of her kids as I am of you, right now.

Matthew: What?

Me: I am so proud of you, Matthew, for communicating your ideas and opinions to me so clearly. I love you very much. But I need you to know something else, too. It's very important. Are you listening?

Matthew: Uh huh!

Me: (in a tight, sweetness-laced-with-venom voice) The difference between me and that other mummy? I expect you to be good because it's the right thing to do, not because there might be a treat at the end of things.
That's not how it works in this family.(getting louudderr) IF I want to give you a treat because I can, then you'll get one. But you will not EVER  get a treat for doing as you're told, when you're told. (soft, deadly whisper) Is. that. clear?

Matthew: (dramatic, long-suffering sigh.) Yesssuh.

*Another pause for me to press my fingertips into my eye sockets, sending telepathic, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm soooo effing sorry!" messages to my mother.*

And then:

Matthew: Are you really proud of me for telling you all this stuff, Mummy?

*I freeze. Did he not just notice the yelling portion of this conversation? Could it be that he actually heard and picked out the one nice, Good-Mummy thing I really want him to hear, know, feel? Wow. I am rockin' this mummy-gig today. And here I thought I'd failed utterly. Pfffhhtt...*

Me: I am. I am very proud of you. You're a great communicator.

Matthew: Do you think you're proud enough that we can have ice cream for breakfast tomorrow?

Me: Uh, no.

Matthew: (giggling) It was worth a try, right?

That is was, my son. It was certainly worth a try.

And you?

Been outsmarted, outwitted, outmaneuvered and/or outfoxed by your kids lately?

 Tell me all about it.

Please.

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?

Welcome to Parenthood: Part II

* This is Part Two of a piece written for my neighbour, who has recently had her first child. For Part One, go here: Welcome to Parenthood: Part 1*

Breast vs. Bottle

This is a doozy - deciding whether to formula-feed or breast-feed. Since I've done both, I feel compelled to offer my opinion about both methods, both of which were the best decision that I could have made for my child. The formula-fed child is gorgeous and healthy and I loved watching him grow into himself. The breast-fed child is gorgeous and healthy and I loved watching him grow into himself.

Whichever you decide, know this: She will grow and thrive and love you.

Period.

Formula Pros
1. Anyone can do it. Even your husband who may try to claim ignorance. Don't let him. He can and WILL feed the child you both created. So there.
1 b) This means you can shower. Alone. For at least 20 minutes, 25 if burping takes awhile.
2. It doesn't hurt.
3. You can eat tons of spicy food and drink a glass of wine celebrating parenthood without worrying that you're risking your child's future mathematical skills.
4. As long as you have water and a bottle, you can feed the baby pretty much anywhere.
5. Around Month Six or so, you can prop the bottle in your baby's hands and she can feed herself.
5 b) You can shower.
6. There is no awkward fumbling about with clasps on your bra or worrying about exposing yourself to passerby. Or your father.
7. It's good for your baby, providing valuable vitamins and nutrients and other such yummy goodness.

Formula Cons

1. It can be expensive. If you buy the ready-made tins, you'll pay for the privilege and the powdered stuff involves measuring and teaspoons, which is a LOT to deal with at 3 a.m.and you've been awake since yesterday.
2. It involves measuring and teaspoons and access to hot water at all times.
3. You may find that your child's sensitive digestive system does not appreciate certain formulas. Half-open and discarded tins of various formula brands will pile up alarmingly in your recycling box until you find the right one.
4. The poop of a formula-fed baby is, quite possibly, the worst smell known to man. Unless you've wandered into my house after Luke has filled his diapers, at which point, your baby's poop will smell like roses. I'm just saying.

Boob Pros

1. Breast milk is free.
2. Breast milk is always the perfect temperature and portable.
3. Although a light breeze going by hurts them, your boobs look absolutely fan-friggin'-tastic in ANY shirt    you own. Take photos because they will never be this high and smokin' hot again. Trust me.
4. It's good for your baby, providing vitamins and nutrients and other yummy goodness ending in "oxidants."
 5. If conversations bore you or you just want to drift off for 20 minutes, you can use nursing as an excuse to leave the room. Ditto for any social obligation that you resent having to fulfill: wedding, funeral, baby shower, Pampered Chef party...
6. You are, literally, growing a human being with your body. Powerful, heady stuff.


Boob Cons

1. Nursing hurts.
Holy mother of God, it hurts so much - in the beginning - that your toes curl at the mere thought of nursing and you've taken to hunching over while walking because every time your baby so much as whimpers, your milk lets down and you're simply assuming the position in advance. This too shall pass. Eventually.

2. Nipples.
Everyone will have an opinion about the state/shape/size/dimension and usefulness of your nipples. You will find yourself talking about your nipples with strangers in the ER, the Health Unit or the nursing room at Sears. Some of those strangers may even reach out as though they mean to TOUCH your nipples, especially women who've nursed so many children they consider themselves honourary lactation consultants.

Here are some examples of the sorts of things you will ponder or be asked. Or both:

Are they inverted? Why are there hairs on them?
Is the baby sucking them so that they look like a lipstick, and if so, is she creating the right shape for the nipstick, because it's supposed to matter.
Do your nipples bleed or itch and why are that woman's purple?
Is the baby getting enough nipple or not enough?
Does she prefer one to the other and in the name of all that's holy, will the ever stop feeling like they're on fire?

This too shall pass.

3. Thrush.
It's itchy and painful - like the yeast infection it actually is, just not in the spot you'd previously envisioned before reading this - and makes you crave bread and sweets and then you fart. A lot. (Which is neither here nor there, except that you may have noticed that since giving birth, farts ripple from areas of your body not previously known for flatulence. Anything you can do to alleviate that sort of weirdness is recommended.)

You can get a prescription for thrush, but it involves the coating of nipples and then rinsing before nursing, so be warned. Gentian Violet is purple and you coat it on your nipples before nursing, too, only the baby will suckle it off, which a) saves you from having to rinse your nips 5,678 times a day and b) coats her tiny, perfect mouth and rids it of any lingering yeast.


4. Mastitis.

Take the drugs.


Speaking of boobs....

S-E-X (alt. title: Are you effing kidding me?)

You're gonna have to do it again, sometime. Perhaps even sometime soon. If you have a wise and compassionate OBGYN or midwife, s/he will write a note to your husband, excusing you from sex for the next three months. It's unlikely, but s/he might, if you ply her with wine and chocolates first.

If you have any friends or relations who "did the deed"  before their six-week check up, make certain that they do NOT, under any circumstance, mention this fact in front of your husband.


If you have "that" friend or relation who insists that she made gentle love in the hospital bed mere hours after pushing a human being into the world through her vagina, stop speaking to her immediately. NEVER speak to her again. If YOU are that woman then even thought we're neighbours, you'll understand that I can no longer speak to you.

Let's say you did not receive a "get-out-of-sex" card and are dreading looking forward to a passionate reunion with your husband. Here's the truth:

It's gonna hurt. Maybe a lot. Maybe for several months afterward. BUT:

It gets better. You may find yourself buying stocks in lube and wine from the County, but it does get better.

I promise.

Now snuggle up with your daughter. Tomorrow, we'll talk about sleep and why housework is overrated.

Love,
Belly

Welcome to Parenthood: Part 1

*This is Part One of a "Welcome to Parenthood" piece I've been working on whilst waiting for my neighbour to give birth to her first child. Part Two to follow...*



My across-the-road-neighbours have just become parents. I haven't been over yet, wanting to give them the space to delight and coo over their perfect pink bundle, but I've had a present wrapped and waiting for weeks.

It's the card that's had me up nights, pacing the hallway. What to write? Something wise. Something witty. Something that says, "Hey there. Welcome to the toughest job you'll ever love," without sounding like an ad for the armed forces.

For Jessica

Love:

This is it. Her. Every triumph, every disappointment, every decision, every heartache, wrong turn, right choice, wish-upon-a-star and bitter regret has led you here to this moment, to THIS child and nothing will ever, ever be the same.

You will understand, possibly for the first time, what it is to love another person with your whole heart, without conditions. (You may now realize that you'd been previously misled, believing that your love for your  husband was unconditional. Phffttt. Whatever. The sooner such drivel gets taken out of wedding vows, the better off we'll all be. But I digress...)

Your marriage is forever changed - no longer are you a unit. You are a family. Allow your gratitude and overwhelming affection for your husband to buoy you on the days when you want to throw him out the window. Praise his efforts to dress or bathe the baby, even if he's doing it all wrong.  Tell him that men who wear babies - in their arms, on their chests, on their backs or on their hip - are sexy and that you read online that they resume marital relations sooner than the average. (This blog counts as "online" just so you know.)

A newfound appreciation for your loved ones may surprise you, but I urge you to enjoy it. There will come a moment, in the middle of it all, when it will occur to you that this is how YOUR mother felt when she held you for the first time. It will stun and awe you and you will, not for the first time but perhaps most profoundly, feel part of a powerful kind of sisterhood. Call your mother, whether she's across the country or just in the next room. Say, "Thank you for loving me this much" and watch her face soften and bloom. She knows.

Mama Lenses
Now that you are a mother, the world will shimmer with previously unseen beauty - you will smile at strangers more often and exchange a secret, knowing look with every woman with a stroller. Isn't it all so amazing? I am delighted to tell you that this feeling doesn't ever entirely go away.

Conversely, the nightly news will bring you to tears and you will feel crushing guilt that you brought a child into such a terrible, war-filled, violent, depressing world. Suddenly, every show on TV will be about a child/mention a child/have a cast of characters who were, at some point, children themselves and this will prove to be your undoing.

These feelings don't ever really go away, either, but you will gain some perspective around Year Three, when you are in Potty-Training Hell - a terrible and depressing place all of its own. See? It all balances out, in the end.

Sleep:

As you rock and snuggle her tiny, perfect form long, long into the night (or perhaps greet the day with her tucked up close, next to your heart) you will feel more like a woman than you ever have before and you will think to yourself, "I was born so that she would be, too."

You may also think things like, "If my tiny, precious angel doesn't let me sleep soon, I am going to KILL myself."

This too shall pass. Eventually, she will settle into a routine of her own choosing - you will learn to adjust your bedtime schedule accordingly. You will also learn to sleep standing up at the sink,  whilst eating yesterday's toast.

In the meantime, if you have any friends or relations who say things like, "I wish I had some advice for you. Mine slept like an angel, straight through the night, from birth," stop talking to them immediately. In the bubble that is New-Parent Land, there is no room for liars.

Welcome to Parenthood: Part II

Operation No-Yell: "And on the seventh day, Mummy...."

yelled.



You were expecting something different, perhaps?

Ha!

In my defense, Mr. Super-Sassy-Pants and Mr. I'm-Not-Listening-Nah-Nah-Boo-Boo had it coming.

It's 6:30 pm, a full half hour before their bedtime and they are in bed, lights off. Matthew didn't get a story and even though neither boy has brushed his teeth, I am not going back up there.

Weirdly, I don't feel TOO badly about the yelling. What a change from the beginning of this week!

During the past seven days, I have reached a number of interesting conclusions about parenting,  the nature of discipline and myself:

 MOST of time, if I'm yelling, it has nothing to do with the children and everything to do with me. I am learning to recognize that and correct it before the vocal fireworks begin and all around, things are much better.

My children respond much better to praise and quiet voices than to hollering and anger. Huh. Go figure, eh?

Everyone has a opinion about Operation No-Yell. Some roll their eyes, some nod sagely, others want to know every detail of the past week, eager to either learn from my experience or to tear it all to bits. I am both thin AND thick-skinned about this: I know that I am good mother - my changing how I parent (or attempting to) is not an admission of defeat - it is an effort to be better. To be MORE.

To be better more often.

Not surprisingly then, I bristled at the assumption that I am trying to Super Mom, or that I am most concerned with being friends with my children instead of their guardian and protector and teacher. After chewing, bristling and spluttering indignantly, I realized an important truth:

I am not attempting to be anything more than the kind of mother  that I am absolutely meant to be and more importantly, the kind of mother that my children deserve.

I feel empowered and invigorated by this realization. I don't think that there is any shame in admitting that I need help or guidance. A friend of mine is horrified that I blog about my failings (perceived or otherwise) and can't understand why I feel compelled to reach out to the world at large - leaving myself open to criticism and judgement.

What I know for sure is this:
,
I reach out because that is who I am. I overshare, too. I feel too deeply, talk too much and seldom stop to think before I speak, emote or act. I reach out because I trust that those who know me best will understand and support me. I trust that those who don't know me will be drawn to my honesty and imperfections. I hope that they will recognize something of themselves in me and feel comfort. Kinship.

I write about who I am - as a wife and as a mother I am a work in progress.

I write about who I want to be: more often than not, a better wife and mother.


These parenting waters are tricky to navigate and as the boys grow into themselves, they take me into uncharted territory. Seems to me that by reaching out and admitting that I am lost, I stand a better chance of being found. Or of someone handing me a map.

Thanks to all of you for being part of the journey!

His Mother's Son...

Michael Jackson died today. He was 50 years old.

I won't pretend to be saddened by news of his death. I did not know him, nor love him. Nor will I miss him. I acknowledge that his contribution to music was huge and long-reaching and will likely continue to be for generations to come. He was enormously talented...and terribly broken. His death has stunned the world and as I write this, the world thinks only, it seems, of him.

I, however, am thinking of three others: My brother, my mother, and his mother.

Through these Mama lenses, through which I now filter every aspect of my world, I mourn another mother's loss. That Michael Jackson was a troubled, tortured soul is well-documented. But he was Katherine's son - by some accounts her most beloved and for her, I ache.

Watching the news tonight: everywhere, on every station footage of the boy he was, the man he morphed into and speculation about what might have been his future life, abounds. And I sat here, agog, watching, waiting...feeling a viciousness and weird, out-of-place sense of familiarity with the story unfolding before me, practically in real time.

Like my brother, Michael died of a heart attack, found not breathing at his home. Like my brother, he was rushed to hospital, where he was pronounced dead. Another brother, gone too soon. Someone else's brother, taken so swiftly, with so much left unsaid, undone. Secrets.

And I chuckled darkly, as it dawned on me that I was not saddened, even as I saw hundreds gather outside the hospital where he lays now, cold and alone. I was pissed.

Pissed because THIS is how it should have been, how it felt, when my brother died, taken so swiftly, with so much left unsaid, undone. I wanted then, as I do now, for the world to simply stop. My brother is dead, my brother is DEAD, I wanted to scream at strangers - be quiet! Be silent. Be STILL.

For Michael Jackson, it seems, the world has stopped, if only to catch its collective breath, to gasp in surprise, in shock. I even took a perverse sort of pleasure in flinging open the front door as my husband arrived home this evening to announce, "Michael Jackson died!"

Children of the 80's both, Mark and I watched the news, awash in memories, quietly trading commentary on the commentary. Mark, typically chilled and watchful, absorbing. Me, not-so-typically cynical and spewing venom. Pissed.

And then suddenly the anger faded as I made the connection between Michael Jackson and my darling Andrew and I sort of wilted and stopped talking altogether. Thought about my Mum and wondered if she's watching the news, if she'd even know who Michael Jackson is (was) and if she'd be sad, too, thinking of Andrew.

Thought about Michael's mother and realized that the only truth that matters is this: No matter what sort of man Michael Jackson was (or wasn't), what he did (or didn't do) and whether or not we agree with the lifestyle he chose, he was still somebody's son.

My prayers tonight are for her - simply a mother, bidding her son farewell.