...But I LOVE my kids!

It happens all the time. I'll be talking with another mother, and she'll be sharing the latest trials in her house: "My two-year-old is so obstinate! He doesn't listen! He is driving me crazy!" I'll listen to the story and laugh and commiserate. But after a while, she'll pause for a moment, and a guilty look will come over her face. Then comes an abrupt about-face: "But I LOVE my kids...."—followed by an all-too-earnest diatribe on how wonderful motherhood is. 

I have to admit, I do it too. It's hard not to—no one wants to look like a "bad" parent. But I'd like to pass on a message to my fellow mothers: I get it. You don't have to defend yourself, and you don't have to explain.

My kids can be cute and cuddly, smart and funny. My husband and I often watch them at a party or a family get-together and smile at each other with a secret swelling of pride, thinking, They are so adorable! How did we get so lucky, to have such wonderful, beautiful girls? 

Sometimes, my kids are absolutely lovely. 

And other times, they are more akin to demon spawn.

But does admitting that mean we love them any less? Of course not.

My husband put it well the other day, as we were lamenting the horrid behaviour of our three-year-old over a glass (bottle) of wine. "Look at it this way," he said pragmatically. "If you had a friend who constantly burst into tears and threw massive temper tantrums and yelled at you that they weren't going to be your best friend anymore, would you like them all the time? Would you be okay with that kind of behaviour?"

No, indeed.

So let's collectively let go of the idea that we, as parents, have to handle the vagaries of our children's moods and desires with perfect grace. We're not perfect; they're not perfect. But we're hardwired to love our kids—so let's just accept that love as a given.

And let's be honest with each other about our struggles and feelings, so that we can find a solution, a coping mechanism or, at least, a measure of comfort that we are not alone. 

That's what I'm trying to do here.

Because, you know, I love my kids.

No More Babies

My youngest—my 13-month-old—seems to have changed overnight. She's walking now and starting to talk, and I'm amazed at how much she understands, even if she can't communicate it all yet. Every day, she's looking, sounding and acting more like a toddler: mischievous, opinionated, full of spirit and into everything.

So that means, this is it: I have no more babies.

The rational part of me—the part that dreaded having a newborn the second time around—is supremely relieved. I was walking through the baby aisle at Whole Foods the other day, eying the nursing covers and the bottles and the jarred baby food, and my overwhelming reaction was, Thank God I don't have to do that anymore! 

No more sleep deprivation (well, most of the time, anyway); no more frustration at trying to figure out what on earth the little creature is screaming about. No more marathon nursing sessions; no more pumping. No more living my life in three-hour increments based on a baby's sleeping/napping schedule. 

As my kids get older, it's getting easier—and my friends with older children tell me it gets easier still. I fantasize about the day I'll be able sleep in past 7 a.m. or go on vacation with my husband and leave the kids behind.

And yet.

No more babies means no more naps with a sweet-smelling newborn cuddled right up into my neck, searching for that warmth and comfort that she lost when she left the womb. No more tiny clothes or adorable but pointless shoes. No more waiting impatiently with a hard, swollen belly, wondering, What is this little person going to look like? Who is she going to be?
 
It means there's no longer anyone who is hopelessly, helplessly dependent on me. And, if I'm being honest, I'll miss that.

So when I nurse my 13-month-old to sleep knowing that this time might be the last time; when I watch her eyelids grow heavy and feel her warm hand clutch mine, I want to freeze that moment. And keep her a baby for just a little bit longer.

Double Standard

This morning, we took the kids out to brunch with our next-door neighbours and their kids, who are of similar ages. Any parent knows that meals in restaurants with small children are never relaxing occasions: much time is spent coaxing them to eat; the rest, trying to keep them entertained without letting them destroy the place. 

My 13-month-old recently starting walking, so naturally, she refuses to sit for more than 15 minutes at a time. And she's now going through every parent's favourite toddler phase: the obsession with stairs. Up the stairs, down the stairs, up the stairs, down the stairs....

At some point during her adventures, it became evident that she needed a diaper change. Urgently. My husband kindly volunteered and whisked her off to change her...only to return just a few moments later. The only change table was in the women's washroom. 

Reluctantly, I abandoned my coffee and carted her off to change one of those lovely diapers (why, oh why, do I ever give her corn?), but part of me was annoyed. Not at having to do yet another diaper change—after all, I've been changing diapers for one child or another for more than three years now—but because my husband didn't even have the option to do it. And it's not the first time we've encountered this scenario.

Come on, folks—it's not the 1950s anymore. In our family, we share responsibility for taking care of our children. My husband pays his dues in everything from diaper-changing, to feeding, to entertaining a squirmy baby on four-and-a-half-hour plane ride. Granted, the restaurant was an older one, but it irked me that the natural assumption was that any diaper-changing on the premises would be done by the mothers.

I don't want to read too much into this; I'm not suggesting that the lack of change tables in men's restrooms is to blame for an uneven division of labour in child-rearing. But I do think  it propagates a stereotype that we've been trying to get past and which, for many families, is patently untrue: women are responsible for the "dirty work" of having babies.

Having helped to bring these children into the world, there's no reason why men can't take equal responsibility for raising them. And our culture, from restaurants to retail, should support that.



  

Honesty Is the Best Policy

I'm currently re-reading We Need to Talk About Kevin. If you haven't read it, it's a very well-written, if fundamentally chilling, piece of fiction about a mother whose son grows up to commit an atrocious crime.

The story is written from the mother's perspective, and the description of her reservations and fears about motherhood is quite realistic. She's a career woman who abandons trips to Paris for Play Doh, who has trouble balancing her new family with her existing sense of self, who struggles with her identity as a mother. Sound familiar?

That deep-seated fear of failure...I think it even starts in pregnancy. When I went into labour with my first child, my water broke late at night, and the nagging pain eventually turned into back labour. (Side note: if you haven't experienced back labour, it feels like someone is driving knives into the base of your spine. People say you forget what labour feels like—I remember exactly what it felt like, and it was the worst thing I've ever experienced.)

After 24 hours, my doctor concluded that the labour wasn't progressing and recommended a C-section. Exhausted and emotionally drained, I burst into tears. I'd wanted the opportunity to push the baby out, to prove that I was strong enough to bring another human being into the world. Needing a C-section felt like a cop-out—as though I was already failing at motherhood before I'd even had the chance to start.

Similarly, during those first few sleep-derived months with a newborn who wouldn't nurse, so many people said to me, "Enjoy this time...it goes so fast!" And they were right: it does go fast. But for much of that time, I felt tired and frustrated, thinking maybe I just wasn't cut out for the gauntlet of motherhood. I kept wondering, Why am I not enjoying this? What's wrong with me? And I still feel that way sometimes: when I lose patience with my eldest, when I second-guess a decision I've made—or when, frankly, I just don't want to be around my kids for a while.

Motherhood is full of moments that make us question ourselves and our abilities. Our children stress us, test us, try our patience. So why do we feel the need to be tough all the time? Why do we feel that we have to be perfect?

We're all in this together. And the greatest gift you can give to another mother isn't a toy or a baby book; it's your time and understanding. 

Or, you know, an offer to babysit.

Love in Snapshots

"Just PICK something!" I cry in exasperation, as my three-year-old dithers over whether to wear the pink sundress with the polka dots or the pink sundress with the hearts on it. My husband comes in to commandeer the three-year-old...meanwhile, I try to stuff a squirming one-year-old into her clothes as quickly as possible. Unwilling to lie on the change table, changing her is somewhat like changing an octopus—it seems like she has at least eight limbs.

Once everyone is dressed, there's a flurry of activity as my husband and I try to sort out who needs to bring what to where, and who's taking which car. Does everyone have shoes? (run back upstairs to get shoes for the baby) We need a cheque for the daycare today! (run back upstairs for the cheque book). The three-year-old is thirsty. The one-year-old is climbing the stairs.

Finally, everyone is out of the house. I'm racing to the car, and if I hurry, I might just have time to get a coffee without missing my train....

Now that I'm back at work, our morning routine is hectic, and the evening routine isn't much better. We're always rushing, there's always something that needs to be done, and we're always behind.

So much of parenting is like this. We're always looking forward, planning ahead to the next event, anticipating the next crisis....

And then, there are moments that give you pause. 

I watched my three-year-old on the swings at the park today—she's just learned that if she pumps her legs, she can move herself without needing a push. I watched her long, tanned legs move back and forth, her blond hair waving in the breeze, the evening sun on her face as she laughed with a friend swinging beside her. And I thought, My God—she's so big. So tall. So grown up, compared to the little baby I remember.

We need those moments, I think, to remind us that the essence of our lives isn't the daily grind. It's not the early mornings and the cranky evenings; it's not the lost shoes, missed connections and hasty kisses.

Love is in the snapshots—the moments that remind us why we chose this path. Why we wanted a family, and why we get on this crazy merry-go-round, day after day.

In the rush of life, we can't afford not to take the time 
To be present,
To watch and enjoy the miracle we've made,
And to breathe.