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...

Random Rambles..

1. It's hot. Holy hell, it's so hot! Spent last night on the Reds' floor, as theirs is the only room with air-conditioning in it. Oh how I envy people with central air!

2. Waybuloo. It's that children's TV show about floating, yoga-teaching creatures. You know what else it is? Early childhood mind control. You mark my words. This same generation of kids who've learned downward dog from Treehouse will one day rise up and salute the makers of Waybuloo, eager to do their bidding.

3. It's not even 9:00 a.m. and I've already swept the floor. Twice. What does this say about me?

4. The Reds love flip-flops. I can't stand the feeling of anything between my toes, but oh, how I love the "flipflipflipflop!" sound on the sidewalk. Luke wears his on the wrong feet so he sounds like this: "flopflopflip!"

5. I miss snow.

6. This morning, Grumpy McGrouchypants (Luke) tumbled out of his bed, delighted to find me curled up on the floor. He flung himself into my arms and said, "Mummy, I kiss you!" except that when I puckered my lips to receive his kiss, the little bugger licked my cheek and then bit it. And then he growled and crossed his arms all "Hmphy"-like.

7. I think Luke might benefit from therapy. And I'm thinking of changing his name to "Hmph!"

8. I let the Reds watch TV during breakfast. Every. single. morning. And I only feel a little, tiny bit ashamed of it.

9. Another boy to Matthew recently: "If you open your mouth and say another word, I'll shoot you down dead," while pointing a toy gun at my son's head.

Poor Matthew looked so bewildered and a little bit afraid when he passed this story onto me.

I imagine that my face held the same sentiment with a little bit of irrational Mama Bear rage tossed in. I explained that Bully-Boy was likely only playing a game (he wasn't) and that the boy surely didn't mean to harm Matthew (he's 8 and wanted Matthew to go away, apparently) and perhaps Matthew might like to play on the swings for a bit? I then gently reminded Matthew that gunplay is discouraged and that hurting someone else on purpose is never acceptable.

But honestly? I wanted to march outside and rip that kid's face off. Still do.


10. Me, just now, to the Reds: "Who's my best boy?" and they both raised their hands, waving madly.

11. I have the smartest boys in the whole, wide world.

12. Holy CRAP, it's hot.

Dear Teacher,

God understood our thirst for

knowledge, and our need to be led

by someone wiser;

He needed a heart of compassion,

of encouragement, and patience;

someone who would accept

the challenge regardless of the

opposition;

someone who could see potential

and believe in the best in others . . .

so He made Teachers.

Dear Teacher,

In September of last year, I gave my Heart into your keeping. Nine months later, as I retrieve my excitable,  sensitive and Senior Kindergarten-bound little boy, I offer you a heartfelt thanks.

Thank you for making sure, during the emotional upheaval of the first week of school, that Matthew always had a hand to hold. Thank you for taking the time to seek out my eyes amongst the many as if to say, "Go on, Mama. I'll take it from here."

Thank you for creating a wondrous space for the children - one filled with bright colours and things to touch and feel and discover. For a comfy mat for stories and sharing and for walls brimming with the children's efforts, displayed for all to see.

Thank you for letting Matthew nap some afternoons and for putting him in timeout, too. Thank you for your consistency and for letting him know what's expected in your classroom - it allowed him to grow and find himself within the safety of boundaries and he often repeats the rules of school to his brother. I have adapted a few of your rules in our home and for those alone, I am enormously grateful!

Thank your for your enthusiasm and your energy and for being the one to take Matthew on his first ever school bus ride. He talked about little else for several days afterward and it delighted me. Thank you for your patience and humour: there are days when I am beyond grateful that I get to hand the reins over to you and can barely wait until the bell rings, signalling the beginning of your shift and one less son to run herd on during mine. How I wish that I could handpick you for Luke, when his turn comes in another year.


Thank you for putting me at ease as I trooped into the school each afternoon, straining a bit to get to Matthew whilst attempting - rather poorly, I'll admit - to corral his younger brother. Thank you for  impromptu updates and your own pride in Matthew's burgeoning skills. For remembering to say, "Au revoir" and for the warmth in Matthew's voice when he responds, effortlessly,  in French.YOU taught him that and it's a wonder to see and hear.

Thank you for saving and treasuring all his worksheets and projects and for pointing out how well his printing is coming along. For encouraging both Matthew AND me to keep reading and to enjoy the moments, instead of worrying about the technicalities of learning to read. For opening his eyes to the worlds that await through language and books.

Thank you for all of this and so much more and for doing it all with a gentle smile. This is your calling, Teacher and I'm so glad that your life's journey included the cradling, nurturing and freeing of my Heart, Matthew.

You will be greatly missed.

Merci!

Giddy Up!

I am not an "animal" person. Oh, I like animals well enough, just not enough to have any of my own. They're work and I am lazy. There it is.

But Luke. Luke loves animals. All kinds. He doesn't care one whit if a dog loping by is not known to us  - he wants to love the dog and will boldly march up to any owner and announce his wish: "I want to pet your dog, ok?" Big. Small. Mangy. Drooling. None of it matters to Luke, so long as he can hug the animal.

Ditto cats, including the feral one that appeared on our doorstep one morning last week. Luke was out the front door in a flash, toying with the cat's dirty, matted fur before I could even lunge across the room. And I'll be damned if that cat didn't roll over and purr.

Birds. Worms. Dragonflies. Ducks. Canadian Geese. So far, nothing is safe from Luke's special kind of loving embrace. Think, "I want to hug him and love him and call him George"...

And now? Horses. Lord help me, my beloved son, my very soul, is smitten with horses.

Smit. ten.

 It runs in the family you see, although I was not-so-secretly hoping that the "love horses" gene would pass the Reds by, given their mother's indifference. Alas. Couldn't be my niece and nephew - the ones who visit the horses daily with their mother. Oh, nooo. B. and K. have a healthy respect for the animals and are comfortable around them, but they are not, so far, drawn to them. Nope. LUKE is. Figures.

My mother-in-law, herself utterly animal-crazy,  is delighted at this newest development and has done very little to disguise her glee - and so I blame her, because really, this animal-obsession business is all her fault! SHE was the one visited a psychic years ago, who foresaw a curly-headed blond grandchild standing beneath a horse's belly, safe, comfortable and happy.

We assumed, naturally, that my sister-in-law would be parenting this not-yet-born little character, since she's the horse person. We assumed, quite understandably, that MY children would be content to read about horses instead. Much less mess that way.

But no. Luke, whose auburn locks have morphed to blond and curl gently at his ears, is happiest when getting dirty. In the barn or simply in the paddock he is fearless -  in his element and happier than I've ever seen him:

Sigh. I'd best be buying some boots. Mucking stalls is a particularly messy sort of joy...

The Learning of Lessons...

McDonald's, Saturday morning, around 10.

As promised, I took the Reds to PlayLand after gymnastics. They were looking forward to running off more energy and I was looking forward to them running off more energy and an extra large coffee, not necessarily in that order.

I loved it. Loved sitting in a warm patch of sunlight, leafing through the paper I'd already read online that morning, listening to the boys shrieking with laughter and calling to one another that they'd come to "save the day!" Loved that they were free to wander back to the table to gobble up another pancake and swill it down with orange juice before tearing up the indoor structure once again.

One of Matthew's schoolmates appeared, much to Matthew's surprise and delight. Peyton is a year older than Matthew, about a mile taller and had some very definite ideas about how the game of Chase was to be played. I sat quietly for a long time, waiting to see how Matthew would navigate around his friend's will, knowing that Luke would follow his lead and knowing too, that I would be watching.

I was proud to see that he was able to include his brother in their play, even if he did leave Luke to climb up the largest step unaided - one of only a handful of times that Matthew hasn't hovered close by, waiting to hoist Luke onto his belly and pat him on the back, saying, "Good job, Lukey!"

Soon, another boy entered the fray. New boy Malcom was the same height as Matthew, though a year younger and needed some help on the steepest climb. His Mum gamely climbed up, eager and encouraging. (I, meanwhile, offered up a silent prayer of thanks that Luke had Matthew to help him and that I could stay in my warm spot, sipping coffee and trying not to look smug about it.)

Malcom approached the boys, asking if he too, could play. Matthew froze mid-scurry and shifted his gaze to Peyton, seeking guidance. In a stunning, silent display of power, five-year-old Peyton inclined his head and offered only a slight frown.

No.

That left Matthew to stutter through an apologetic explanation, "Not right now, ok? Peyton's in my class and we're playing a special game," while I blew out the breath I hadn't known I was holding and squared my shoulders. A "teachable moment" had arrived and for once, I'd recognized it straight away instead of hours later - too late - the way I normally do. Eager to pounce on said moment, I pushed back my chair and stood.

But before I could utter one word or beckon Matthew down, Malcom's Mum began to bellow, "Not right, now? Oh, well, that's fiiine. We'll play together, Malcom, since these boys don't want to play with you. That's fine. We'll have more fun anyways, you and me. We'll have lots and lots of fun together if those boys don't want to play..."

And on and on and on she went, sliding into a high and nasty sing-songy voice that made me want to cringe and punch her in the mouth at the same time. I gritted my teeth and called Matthew, sternly so he knew I meant business and so that Malcom's Mum would shut the hell up.

Down he tumbled, breathless and confused. One look at my face had him looking downcast, which pretty much broke my heart but I pushed on, determined to teach him the value of...I'd forgotten what exactly, but knew it had something to do with being kind and nice and playing with others.

So, I asked him how he'd feel if he'd approached some boys and they didn't want to play with him. He blinked at me before murmuring that he'd be sad. I asked him to imagine if that's how Malcom felt when he was told that Matthew and Peyton didn't want to play with him? Matthew countered with, "But his Mummy's playing with him, Mummy. He's not by himself."

That stopped me long enough for Peyton to chime in with this gem: "He doesn't have to play with that boy if he doesn't want to."

 I wheeled on an unsuspecting Peyton, speaking as icily as I could through the smoke that I'm SURE was steaming out of my ears, "Peyton, that may be the rule in your family, but in our family, we try to include everyone in our games, ok?"

With that, I wordlessly motioned Matthew back onto the playground and though he dutifully went, he looked decidedly unhappy about it. I heard him mumble to Malcom that he'd like to play, if Malcom still wanted to, which of course, Malcom did.

And so they did - all four of them, until Peyton wanted to play Spiderman with Matthew alone and voiced his preference out loud. Instantly, Malcom's mother started up again, "Oh, those boys are done playing with you, Malcom. That's fiiinnneee, if they don't want you anymoooorreee. I'll play with you, Malcom, we'll have so much fun, just you and me."

(Voice in my head: ShutupshutupshutupOhdearLordpleasejustshutthehellupalready!)

No longer relaxed or hearing happy shrieks of laughter from my children, I called the two-minute warning and began gathering our things, willing myself to unclench my jaw, painfully aware that the "teachable moment" had passed and that I'd bungled it completely.

All the way home, I went over and over the scene in my mind. For days, I've been worrying at it, like a dog with a bone. Have since realized, to my chagrin, that Saturday's "teachable moment" was not meant for Matthew.

Instead, the lesson was mine.

I must learn to separate my own need to please from Matthew's need to find his own way. If Matthew chooses not to play with another child, then so be it.  If that choice is a direct result of another child's influence, then so be it. This is Matthew's journey, not another chance for his Mama to get it right.

Thusly humbled, I remain a work in progress and as always, grateful to my son for teaching me. Again.

Though if I were to "accidentally" tread on Malcom's Mum's heel, should I see her again, in the places where children play...it may not be a teachable sort of moment, but it would be an entirely satisfying one.

Just sayin'.