A Toast to Fathers

In my blog, I focus on the trials and joys of motherhood—and trust me, there's a lot of material there. But I realized that I've ignored another important part of parenting: the fathers.

So, here's to the Dads.

Here's to the men who get up in the middle of the night to bounce screaming newborns and change dirty diapers and hug their exhausted, teary-eyed partners.

To those who spend hours carrying babies and toddlers—in Baby Bjorns or in their arms or on their shoulders—not because they have to, but because they want to.

To the initiators of tickle fights and roughhousing that usually ends badly but is crazy FUN for so long before that.

Here's to the kissers of boo-boos and wipers of noses, the bedtime-story readers and the sneakers of illicit snacks. 

To those who bring to our daily struggles a different perspective, a new approach or just plain, much-needed moral support.

And to the many men I know who cook, clean, wash dishes and do other household chores that nobody wants to do but are necessary to keep domestic life running smoothly.

Here's to our partners in our parenting successes ("We finally got the kid to sleep!/potty-trained/to stop biting her sister!") and failures ("Uh oh, I guess we should have baby-proofed that door...") —all of which we will (hopefully) learn from.

Here's to the men we love, whose children adore them.

I guess, if we really had to, we could do it without you. But we wouldn't want to.

Sweet Emotion

Tomorrow, I'll be putting my baby in daycare for the first time. I'd planned a nice, easy transition, taking her in for a couple of hours on Thursday and Friday last week...until she came down with a bad cold and I had to keep her at home.

So tomorrow morning, I'll be dropping her off in a "this-is-your-new-reality" kind of way and leaving her there. Alone, with people who are essentially strangers to her. All day.

Clearly, the idea is causing me some anxiety. She's been my constant companion for the past year, so the thought of watching her little face crumple when she realizes that I'm actually going to LEAVE her fills me with dread. Intellectually, I know she'll be fine—but that doesn't stop the butterflies in my stomach.

I've had debates with other parents about the nature of parenting: whether it's purely a rational exercise or whether emotion must also be involved. Some argue that parenting decisions must be made based solely on reason—for example, whether or not to vaccinate or how to discipline your child for bad behaviour—and I surely agree that reason must be a guiding force.

But for me, emotion and reason go hand in hand in parenting. Do I believe in mother's intuition? I'm not sure. But I do believe in trusting my instincts, however irrational they may initially seem.

As I mentioned in a previous post, Why I'm Still Nursing, when my baby was two weeks old, she woke up at midnight. She seemed really off to me: warm and a little short of breath. My husband and I debated what to do—after all, it was the middle of the night, and we had a sleeping two-year-old in the house—but I pressed him to take to emerg. So we drove to the hospital and waited for a couple of hours until we could see a doctor. He admitted her right away.

Not knowing what was wrong with her, they immediately started treating her for the most common truly serious illnesses. That meant watching my two-week-old cry and cry as the nurse tried to find her tiny veins to insert an IV, holding her little body inside a frightening-looking machine to get a chest x-ray, feeling helpless and vulnerable as she was whisked out of my arms for a lumbar puncture.

Thankfully, everything turned out okay. We made the "reasonable" decision to have them treat her, no matter how hard it was for us on an emotional level. But it was that feeling, deep in my gut, that something just wasn't right that brought us to the hospital in the first place—and it was the right place for us to be.

I don't know if it's the same for other parents, but I need to listen to both my heart and my mind when I'm making parenting decisions. Because the fact of the matter is, my love for my children and my desire to do the best for them are inexorably intertwined. I'm not sure I could separate them, even if I tried.

Back to the Grind

Next week is the end of my maternity leave. Like it or not, I'll be heading back to work.

Our new schedule isn't going to be easy. With a one-year-old who protests every diaper change and an often-uncooperative three-year-old, I can barely fathom how we're going to get everyone out of the house on time in the morning. And with my husband and I both working full time, I have no idea how we'll manage to get dinner on the table before someone melts down (It might be one of the kids, it might be me—it's too soon to tell.)

However, there are many reasons why going back to work is a good idea. It forces me to get out of the same jean shorts I've been wearing all summer. It makes me think beyond what time the baby napped and what we're eating for dinner. It provides an opportunity to interact with people who know more words than "mama", "dada" and "no". It gives me some freedom and personal space—and it will likely give my girls a mother who appreciates them more because of both of those things.

Whatever guilt I might have felt about putting my kids in daycare is mitigated by the fact that my eldest, who's been in daycare for a couple of years now, would rather be there than at home most days. There will be an adjustment period for my second, I'm sure, but she'll be okay.

I know, without a doubt, that going back to work is the right decision for me.

And yet.

In an earlier post, I wrote about cherishing the "lasts". This "last", for me, is a big one. We don't intend to have any more kids so this is my last maternity leave, the last time I'll experience that bittersweet swelling of pride and sadness as I drop my youngest off at daycare for the first time. Sad at being separated from this little being whose life has been so closely entwined with mine until now, sad that she'll probably have a tough day as she comes to terms with her new reality...but also amazed and proud of how much she's grown and what a smart, gorgeous little girl she's becoming.

I'm ready to go back to work—and she may not realize it, but she's ready, too.

So I'll kiss her goodbye and try not to cry as I let her go. Whatever tears we both shed, I know that, for her, this is just the beginning. There's a whole world out there for her to explore, full of promise and possibility. I just hope she'll let me come along for the ride.

Don't Worry, Be Happy

I'll admit it: I'm a worrier. I'm the kind of person who, when something minor happens, mentally jumps ten steps ahead to the worst-case scenario. It's my way of managing expectations: if I imagine the worst, then what actually happens can't be all that bad....

But if I was a worrier before, then having kids opened up a whole new world of worries for me. Especially the first time around, I found I was constantly judging my decisions, questioning my instincts, filling my mind with self-doubt. 

Each new stage brought a fresh wave of worries. 

Infant: Is she gaining enough weight? Is it too early to start solids? Is she going to smother herself if I let her sleep with a stuffed animal?

Toddler: Should we take away her soother? Is she ever going to learn to potty-train? She's coughing a lot...should I take her to the doctor?

Preschooler: How do I deal with these temper tantrums? Why won't she listen? Am I doing the right thing by disciplining her?

Even with my second baby, I found myself worrying. Is she nursing well enough? Should I wake her up to feed her? Is it bad to swaddle her when she's more than three months old?

And then there are the ridiculous worries:

The baby's been sleeping for a long time...what if it's SIDS?
I got really mad at my eldest today—does she think I don't love her? 

Those irrational worries stem from my deepest, darkest fears. Fear of my inadequacy as a mother; fear of a cruel and dangerous world that, despite my best efforts, I can't control.

As a parent, one of the hardest things to do is to trust your instincts and your sound judgment. There's no instruction manual for motherhood, no magic set of rules or strategies that will make your kids turn out perfectly. And as much as you want to protect your children and keep them safe, you also have to give them space to grow and develop on their own.

So I'm trying, really trying, not to worry so much because it's pointless—and it's exhausting. Kids are all different, and there's no one on earth who knows my kids better than I do. That doesn't mean I won't get it wrong sometimes.

But it does mean that, most of the time, I'll get it right.

 

Out With the Old, In With the New

Right now, our family is going through a lot of changes. We had a big garage sale last weekend and got rid of a ton of things we're not using anymore—including the black sweater and most of the baby stuff, since my youngest is one now and hardly a baby anymore. 

We recently got the exciting news that we're going to be on the home reno TV show "Leave it to Bryan". We've been scrambling to get organized and arrange childcare in time for the filming, and our property looks like a demolition zone.

And, in just two weeks, my youngest will be starting daycare and I'll be going back to work.

As parents, we spend a lot of time creating and enforcing rules and routines for our children. Mealtimes, play times, bedtimes...their little lives are governed by these daily routines. So when they need to adjust to new circumstances, we worry. What if my baby hates her daycare? What if my eldest is too young to stay at her grandmother's house for a week? What if, what if, what if.... 

The funny thing is, kids have an amazing ability to roll with the punches. It's the parents who find it hard to change.

After my first mat leave was over, I remember dropping my eldest daughter off at daycare for the first time. When she saw that I was actually leaving her there, her little face crumpled and she started to wail. I beat it out of there and barely made it out of the room before bursting into tears. 

For the next few days, every time I dropped her off, she'd cry. I felt horribly guilty for leaving her—until a kindly staff member said to me, "You know, she only cries for about five minutes after you leave and then she's fine." Huh. As it turned out, she wasn't pining for me all day. And soon, there were nothing but smiles when I left for the day. That actually hurt a little...for me, that is.

Sure, my baby is probably going to be upset when I drop her off at daycare for the first time. But it won't be long before she adjusts to this new reality—probably faster than I'll adjust to our crazy new routine of dropoffs and pickups, full-time work and scrambling to fit some fun into the evenings.

Change can be scary, because it means letting go of what you know and embracing uncertainty. It often means moving out of your comfort zone in search of something new, different, better. But whether you like it or not, change is inevitable—and in parenting, it's the only constant.