A Perfect Match

Day-Old Child

My day-old child lay in my arms.

With my lips against his ear

I whispered strongly, "How I wish -

I wish that you could hear.

"I've a hundred wonderful things to say

(A tiny cough and a nod)

Hurry, hurry, hurry, and grow

So I can tell you about God."

My day-old baby's mouth was still

And my words only tickled his ear.

But a kind of a light passed through his eyes

And I saw this thought appear:

"How I wish I had a voice and words;

I've a hundred things to say.

Before I forget I'd tell you of God -

I left Him yesterday."

-Carol Lynn Pearson

In thinking about what kind of Mother's Day post I wanted to write, I thought about doing something serious.  You know, talking about how wonderful it is to be a mother and the fierce love I have for my children. 

Then I thought I'd scrap that idea and do something funny.  Kind of like a Top Ten list of "You Know You're a Mom When...."  My number #1 would probably be being shat on and not flinching.

And then, earlier today, I came across a book that my mother-in-law had bought for me when I was pregnant with my first child.  When I flipped through its pages back then and read its poetry, I thought the writing was beautiful, but it didn't quite resonate with me....yet. 

I've read "Day-Old Child" by Carol Lynn Pearson many times since (it sits on my daughter's bookshelf).  The words, of course, affect me on a far deeper level than they did with my pregnant self.  The particular poem, above, is my favourite from the book.

To say that a child is a gift from God and a complete blessing is an understatement.  I'm a firm believer that God chooses the children we have.  Their perfect little souls.  Their lives matched with ours. 

I was meant to be Katherine and Jack's mom.  They were meant to be my children.  We were put together on this earth.  That, I know.

Happy Mother's Day to all the beautiful, tireless, incredible moms. 

8

I've noticed the biggest change in her over the last year.

Gone are the dimples in her hands.  Gone is the lisp in her speech.  Gone are the training wheels from her bike.

She doesn't take my hand as we cross the street any more.  She prefers just to stick close to my side instead. 

She questions why I still have to walk her to the bus stop.  She wonders why I fuss and kiss and cuddle her so fervently. 

My heart screams to hold on to her, yet she slowly pulls away, not needing me as much any more. 

The baby I held in my arms at 27 years old has vanished. 

She's 8 today.

Intelligent.  Wise beyond her years.  Knows when to step back; knows when to step in.  Compassionate, empathetic, sympathetic. 

She's the baby who would sit back and simply observe. 
She's the kid who knows when I've had enough - emotionally, physically, mentally - and always makes me feel better in the form of a joke, a hug, an "I'm sorry."

She's the newborn baby I held in my arms and cried as I mourned the loss of my pre-child life. 
She's the kid I now cry for when she's experienced hurt or a broken bone or needed stitches.

She's the baby who I dropped off at daycare at 8 months old and felt a sense of self again as I returned to work. 
She's the kid who I'd given anything for to be a stay-at-home mom and available to her whenever she needed me. 

Her increasing independence taunts my heart.  Oh, how I admire her as she grows; yet how I wish time would freeze. 

My first-born.  My baby girl.  8.



Survival

I am so tired.  Like, all the time.

OK, so I am iron-deficient/borderline anaemic, and my Vitamin D levels are completely depleted.  But, wow, I look at myself in the morning sometimes, and I don't know who's staring back at me.

The wrinkles I've accumulated over the last few years, along with the pale pale skin that's reflected in the mirror, really worry me sometimes. 

Thank God for MAC.

I try to eat well and make healthy, nutritious meals for my family (we do have one night a week where we eat at a restaurant, and by "restaurant", I mean we make it as far as McDonalds).  For the most part, though, our meals include lean meats, veggies, whole grain carbs, and fruit.  While I don't have a set exercise regimen, I'm never sitting down.  I'm constantly on my feet, all day, every day.

At the end of the day, however, after I've worked a full day, picked up the kids, made dinner, cleaned up from dinner, put the kids to bed, unpacked backpacks, made tomorrow's lunches, and, phew, finally sat down, I simply cannot function.  I literally feel like I've been drugged.

A couple weekends ago, I was having a lovely dinner with my best friend.  She's a mommy to two children under two years old, and I've got my own two.  We were discussing how exhausting it is to be mothers. 

"I literally take it one day at a time.  I can't think about tomorrow," I explained to her (while stuffing my face with an incredible salad)(see, I try to eat well). 

"It's survival," she simply stated.

And she hit the nail on the head for me.  It's survival.  I couldn't have simplified it in a more concise way. 

I know, I know.  It's not a very optimistic way to look at life and motherhood, but, for the most part, yeah, it's survival for me right now.  When you have small children, a very busy schedule, and extremely limited help, damn right, it's survival. 

I do see the light at the end of the tunnel, I'm not going to lie.  But, when I'm sitting on the couch at the end of a very long day, and my husband is staring at me with worry in his eyes for my sanity and health, I start to think that it has to get better.

In one of his movies, Jack Nicholson once said, "Is this as good as it gets?"  I know it'll get better.  They're still so young, and so I am (relatively).  And I know without a shadow of a doubt that there are a million other mommies (and dads - we can't forget the dads) going through the same thing.  Parenthood is tough, yo! 

When it's all said and done, though, it's completely worth it. 



Klepto

First it was a light-up ball.  Then a little wooden Christmas tree.  Soon after, one lone linking cube.  Last week it was a blue wooden building block. 

My four year old son has turned into a petty kleptomaniac. 

Up until yesterday, he was bringing home items from school.  Little inanimate objects slipped into his backpack when his teachers weren't looking. 

I'd find these items after school and ask him about it.

"Jack, where did this linking cube come from?"

"Uh, school." (Except you have to imagine this with a lisp.)

"Really?  Are you allowed to bring it home?"

"Well, it was just lying on the floor."

"Alright, buddy, but it doesn't mean you can bring it home.  It doesn't belong to you."

*He ponders it for a moment.  Turns around and walks away.*

And I stand in the kitchen by myself, linking cube in hand.  Do I email his teacher?  Do I let it slide? 

Yesterday, we went to the store to pick up a few items.  As we were approaching the check-out, I noticed a silver shiny object enveloped in his little fist. 

It now became a test of morals.  Would he leave it at the store?  Or would he walk out with it, bringing up his level of kleptomania from a small-time classroom thief to low-level shoplifter?  I subtly alerted my husband and we watched him carefully on the way out. 

Well, I'd like to say he did the right thing, but, alas, it came time for me to call him out on it.

"Jack, can I have your hand to cross the street?  Oh!  What's this in your hand?  Did you pay for that?"

Truth be told, all it was was a piece of metal used for the shelving fixtures in the store.  But, damn it, it was now a matter of principle! 

His face instantly dropped.  He.was.BUSTED!  An embarrassed smile crept across his face, immediately followed by an explosion of tears.  Not only was he caught, but he was caught red-handed!

I scooped him up, marched back into the store, and handed it over to the poor teenager at the Customer Service desk who looked completely confused.

"Can I help you?" she asked, looking from me to the crying child burying his face in my neck.

"Yes, I'd like to give this back to you.  My son needs to learn that he can't STEAL things from stores."

"Ummm....ok....thanks?"  Poor girl.  She'll understand someday.

We walked back outside, where he got another earful from both my husband and I about how he can't take things that don't belong to him and how the police could get him for it and how he could go to cold, nasty jail for this type of thing. 

Yeah, a little overkill, but you gotta start young, right?

I don't know if this is a sign of things to come.  I think he's testing his boundaries and seeing how far he can get.  Admittedly, there were a couple moments in yesterday's drama where I had to turn my face away from him because all I could do was laugh. 

He was, however, simply gutted yesterday at being caught.  We're talking a tear-soaked shirt, a snot-covered face, and slight hyperventilation on his part. 

I think hope he got the message.

Little Luxuries

When I was a little girl, one of my most favourite things to do was to lock myself in the bathroom and go through my mother's make-up drawer.  I loved looking at the rainbow of eyeshadows and the beautiful reds and pinks of her lipsticks and the feel of her brushes and the perfumed smell of her pressed powders.  I remember one day opening up that make-up drawer and seeing a Lancome compact. I knew it was expensive, and I was secretly thrilled that she had bought something so nice for herself.


My mom was a stay-at-home mom, and, even as a child, I remember simply knowing that she always put us ahead of herself.  Most of her days were spent taking care of us, packing our lunches, making incredible Greek food, baking up amazing treats.  We used to laugh at the impeccable stripes her vacuuming would create on our carpets; she would chase us out of the living room because we were leaving footprints all over her stripes.

Every once in a while, my dad and mom would get all dressed up for a night out.  For the first time in a long time, she'd put on a beautiful dress and her fur coat, apply her make-up and do her hair.  She'd ask me to paint her nails for her, and I happily obliged.  She took my breath away when she was all done up.  She looked and smelled (Chanel No. 5!) incredible, and I loved that she was finally taking time out for herself.  She was simply beautiful.

Now that I'm a mother, history is repeating itself.  While I wear make-up to work every day, it's a rare weekend you'll catch me with it on.  In fact, every weekend, I wear the same grey sweatpants my best friend gave to me years ago when she no longer needed them, and a hoodie that's about 10 years old. 

A couple times a year, I'll treat myself to something really nice.  With it, though, always comes a huge sense of guilt that I place on myself.  A couple weekends ago, for example, I bought myself a Michael Kors purse and its matching wallet.  Standing in line, waiting to pay, I nearly talked myself out of it. 

Wow, I could really put that money towards something for the kids.  Imagine all the clothes I could buy them with the money I'm spending on one purse and wallet.  I'm a horrible mother.

It's hard, as a mother, to justify these purchases for myself, as I'm sure it was for my mother with three children to clothe and feed.  In the end, though, I do it (with my husband encouraging me all the way), and, you know what, it feels really good.  Being a mother can be a really thankless job at times, and, damn it, we deserve it every once in a while! 

These days, my mom is always telling me that I have to take care of myself first if I want to be able to take care of my children.  I finally understand and agree with that.  While it's hard at times to justify it, I need to put me first.  And if that means buying myself a little luxury every once in a while, I'll do it. 

Now, someone pass me that Tiffany & Co. catalogue....

Stuck

The other day I was reading about active dying.  Don't ask.  Something I had seen earlier that week had peaked my curiosity on the process of active dying, and I decided to read up on it.  It's actually fascinating, our departure from this world. 

But that's a whole other blog post.

As I was going through this particular article, I remembered something else I had once read on people who were dying and had the chance to reflect back on their lives.  Almost 100% of them had said that they wished they hadn't worked so hard during their lifetime.  They wished that they had focused on the more important things in life. 

I think it speaks volumes.  Sometimes, my husband and I come home from work, absolutely exhausted, and we start our second jobs - preparing dinner, feeding the children, getting them ready for bed, cleaning up and packing lunches for the next day.  Sometimes a load of laundry or mopping of the floors is thrown in there for good measure.  We plop down on the couch at the end of the night, and silently sit in our exhaustion and watch TV.  Then we go to bed, wake up the next morning, and do it all over again.

Is this really it? 

I mean, come on, this can't be it for the next 30 years when we finally retire, can it?  Fine, our kids will be grown and gone from the home, but is this how life is meant to be lived? 

I'm convinced that there are other options.  Maybe it's becoming my own boss?  Maybe it's finding a job I really love so that it doesn't even feel like work?  Maybe it's winning the lottery and never having to work again?  Yes, that's it.  I like that one. 

Don't get me wrong.  I don't shy away from hard work.  Ask any mother - raising children is, hands down, the hardest, most gruelling work out there. Couple that with a 9-5er and it's downright inhumane.  I love my mommy gig; it's the other part that blows. 

All I know is that I'm not going to settle for this.  I can't.  There has to be more than this.  I want more time with my husband.  I want more time with my children.  I want to travel the world.  I want to live a simple life. 

Someone, anyone, find me a little island that I can go live on with the bare necessities - away with the cell phones and the Internet and big homes and fancy handbags (although I do love my new Michael Kors - I'll have to take that one with me)!

I'm just feeling....stuck.  Somewhere between this life of work, work, work and a new life of fulfilment and simplicity and my family. 

I'll find it.  I know I'll get there.  I'm determined. 

Nine Months

A lot happens in nine months.  Babies are made.  A school year passes.  Major holidays are celebrated. 

The last nine months for my family and me were a rollercoaster of emotion and tears and fears and the unknown.  And it feels so good for it to be over.

In the last nine months, my husband underwent two surgeries to remove his cancerous thyroid. 

In the last nine months, he's been to over 25 doctors' appointments.

In the last nine months, he's visited four different hospitals for tests and ultrasounds and blood work and nuclear medicine scans.

In the last nine months, I've looked at him and worried that he's really not well.

In the last nine months, I've contemplated what my life would be like without him.

In the last nine months, an incredible team of surgeons, nurses, pathologists, endocrinologists, GPs, ultrasound technicians, nuclear medicine doctors, and oncologists have healed him. 

He's cancer-free.  Again.

God is good.