If you have young children—and particularly if you and your partner are both working full-time—you know that evenings during the work week are the worst. The kids are cranky; you're cranky. You rush home to pick them up from daycare, deposit them in the hallway and instantly, they're clamouring for dinner.
My husband and I do an okay job of organizing meals for most of the week, but by the time Friday rolls around, we're often out of ideas and energy. So we often make the decision: let's go out to eat!
This seemingly simple solution to the dinner dilemma is, in fact, much harder than it looks. Dinner out, in our family, usually goes something like this:
5:30 p.m. - Throw the kids in the car and rush to a nearby family-friendly restaurant in a vain attempt to feed them before they get hungry and irritable. Upon arriving at said restaurant, realize that we have left behind critical items, such as the toddler's sippy cup and the preschooler's teddy bear. Too late. Ward off a temper tantrum from the preschooler with the promise of the iPad.
5:45 p.m. - Sit down at the table indicated by the hostess. She smiles kindly at the kids who, in turn, do their best impression of angelic cherubs. Knowing that time is of the essence, we order immediately.
5:46 p.m. - The toddler decides that she no longer wants to sit in the high chair. Refusing to be diverted by colouring or playing peekaboo with a table napkin, she attempts to climb out herself. Rather than risk injury, one parent decides to walk around with her for a bit—whereupon the preschooler decides that she, too, wants to walk around.
5:46 p.m. - 6 p.m. - While one parent waits for dinner to arrive, the other parent walks around the restaurant with both kids, trying to amuse them with such clever tactics as, "Look! It's a mirror! Who do you see in there?" and occasionally swigging from a glass of wine when passing by the table.
6 p.m. - The toddler decides that it has been WAY TOO LONG since food was forthcoming and starts to wail. Return to the table and attempt to force the toddler back into the high chair, which is much like trying to squish an octopus into a paper towel roll. Dinner has not yet arrived, so we break out the snacks to tide the toddler over. The preschooler, of course, wants a snack too. And milk. And a fork. And a napkin.
6:05 p.m. - Now that the kids are full of granola bars and goldfish bars, the food arrives. They pick at their food while focusing on dropping all available cutlery and attempting to play with the people at the next table. The toddler, bored, takes off her shoes and socks, and then chucks the rest of her food on the floor. The preschooler whines for the iPad. We negotiate with the preschooler while picking up things off the floor and, in between meeting various kids' demands, attempt to scarf down our own dinner.
6:10 p.m. - Both kids want dessert, but the toddler will only sit still if she's on someone's lap. One parent spoons ice cream into the toddler's mouth and helps the preschooler figure out the iPad while the other pays the bill.
6:15 p.m. - Pack up the leftover food and attempt to clean some of the detritus off the floor so that we're not totally embarrassed by the mess we're leaving behind. Chase after the toddler, who's sprinting for the exit, with her coat.
6:20 p.m. - Buckle everyone into their car seats and realize that the toddler is missing a mitten. One parent stays with the kids while the other goes to look for it. After five minutes of searching, realize that the toddler is, in fact, sitting on it.
Go home. Put the kids to bed. Collapse on the couch. And think about what we're having for dinner tomorrow.
Saturday, 18 January 2014
Friday, 10 January 2014
Coming Full Circle
Dear Mom,
So. As of this week, it's been two years since you passed away. I'd like to believe that you are in a better, brighter place, keeping an eye on us. But since I don't, perhaps it's time for an update.
The Arbiter of Justice, as we call her, is three and a half (or, as she will tell you, "three and eight-twelfths"), and she is a ball of boundless energy. She has the most wonderful imagination, and she's smart—so smart, in fact, that I sometimes forget she's a preschooler and treat her like the eight-year-old she will one day (too quickly) become. Although there is the usual arbitration over toys and competition for attention, she is surprisingly patient and loving with her younger sister—probably more than I ever was.
Our little Destructor will be one-and-a-half next week and is entirely her own little person, talking up a storm and making her opinions quite clear. She is an affectionate child—the kind who will climb into your lap for a cuddle or nestle her head in the tangle of your hair, to feel the warmth of your neck and the steady beat of your pulse. Of course, she adores her big sister and follows her everywhere.
As I look at my girls—one with eyes like blueberries and the other, like pools of melted chocolate—I sometimes have this uncanny feeling of deja vu. I've been here before, once upon a time. Only you were the mother, and my sister and I were the blue- and brown-eyed girls. Now I'm the mom. I am you.
That's not to say I'm as good at it as you were. But I just want you to know: I get it now.
I can imagine what it was like for you to put your career on hold and stay home when my sister and I were small (a sacrifice you made for me, I know, because I was a preemie and you worried about my development). How we must have tried your patience; how many times you must have bitten your tongue, squeezed your fists and thought, This too shall pass. I understand how hard it was for you, when you did go back to work, to rush home to get dinner on the table, clean up the kitchen, throw in a load of laundry, get us bathed and in bed, and accomplish all of the other myriad tasks that no one really wants to do but that must nevertheless be done. I understand now how you must have craved time to yourself; how you must sometimes have wished for nothing more than to be alone.
And I understand, too, the anticipation of seeing those small, earnest faces burst into smiles as they run to greet you when you walk through the front door. The joy at hearing that wonderful word "mama" for the first time, which never gets old. The tidal wave of love for your children that overwhelms you in the smallest, most unremarkable moments but is always there beneath the surface, a vast and endless sea.
I wish I could have told you all of this when you were still alive. But since I can't tell you, I'll have to settle for telling other mothers. Mothers who, like me, are only human—who make mistakes and who sometimes struggle, too—but who still wake up the next morning determined, ready to keep going. To try again.
I get it. I understand. This frustrating, terrifying, glorious and awe-inspiring experience of motherhood binds us together.
And, of course, binds me to you.
So. As of this week, it's been two years since you passed away. I'd like to believe that you are in a better, brighter place, keeping an eye on us. But since I don't, perhaps it's time for an update.
The Arbiter of Justice, as we call her, is three and a half (or, as she will tell you, "three and eight-twelfths"), and she is a ball of boundless energy. She has the most wonderful imagination, and she's smart—so smart, in fact, that I sometimes forget she's a preschooler and treat her like the eight-year-old she will one day (too quickly) become. Although there is the usual arbitration over toys and competition for attention, she is surprisingly patient and loving with her younger sister—probably more than I ever was.
Our little Destructor will be one-and-a-half next week and is entirely her own little person, talking up a storm and making her opinions quite clear. She is an affectionate child—the kind who will climb into your lap for a cuddle or nestle her head in the tangle of your hair, to feel the warmth of your neck and the steady beat of your pulse. Of course, she adores her big sister and follows her everywhere.
As I look at my girls—one with eyes like blueberries and the other, like pools of melted chocolate—I sometimes have this uncanny feeling of deja vu. I've been here before, once upon a time. Only you were the mother, and my sister and I were the blue- and brown-eyed girls. Now I'm the mom. I am you.
That's not to say I'm as good at it as you were. But I just want you to know: I get it now.
I can imagine what it was like for you to put your career on hold and stay home when my sister and I were small (a sacrifice you made for me, I know, because I was a preemie and you worried about my development). How we must have tried your patience; how many times you must have bitten your tongue, squeezed your fists and thought, This too shall pass. I understand how hard it was for you, when you did go back to work, to rush home to get dinner on the table, clean up the kitchen, throw in a load of laundry, get us bathed and in bed, and accomplish all of the other myriad tasks that no one really wants to do but that must nevertheless be done. I understand now how you must have craved time to yourself; how you must sometimes have wished for nothing more than to be alone.
And I understand, too, the anticipation of seeing those small, earnest faces burst into smiles as they run to greet you when you walk through the front door. The joy at hearing that wonderful word "mama" for the first time, which never gets old. The tidal wave of love for your children that overwhelms you in the smallest, most unremarkable moments but is always there beneath the surface, a vast and endless sea.
I wish I could have told you all of this when you were still alive. But since I can't tell you, I'll have to settle for telling other mothers. Mothers who, like me, are only human—who make mistakes and who sometimes struggle, too—but who still wake up the next morning determined, ready to keep going. To try again.
I get it. I understand. This frustrating, terrifying, glorious and awe-inspiring experience of motherhood binds us together.
And, of course, binds me to you.
Wednesday, 1 January 2014
Sticker Shock
My family recently purchased those stickers that you put on the rear windshield of your car—the corny ones that represent different members of your family. We selected a tough guy playing hockey for my husband, a stylish-looking woman holding a glass of wine for me (which, thanks to my husband, is affixed at a slight angle, making her look tipsy), a dancing girl for my eldest daughter and a little girl holding a teddy bear to represent my youngest.
I know some people hate those stickers, but I have to admit, I kind of love them. I like the snapshot they provide of the people around me. This family has four kids; that one has a dog, a cat and two goldfish; these people like to ski and those ones like to travel. But I'm also aware of what a reductive picture they portray.
I read a blog post a couple of weeks ago by a mother discussing the way we represent our families on Facebook. Her message was, Let's show the real family behind the photos—with its fights and tears, trials and tribulations—not just the happy, smiling moments that most people present to the world. And I think that's an admirable goal.
My family isn't perfect. Heck, it's only 2:30 p.m. on New Year's Day, 2014, and I've already yelled at my three-year-old for throwing a tantrum. I long ago came to terms with the fact that I will never be one of those mothers who home schools her kids and buys only organic produce with which to effortlessly whip up wholesome family meals each night. But, at the same time, I am more than the images shown by the stickers on my car or the photos on my profile page.
I love my husband, I love my kids. And we are doing the best we can, day by day, to navigate the twists and turns that life brings us—making mistakes and, hopefully, learning something along the way; finding bright spots of joy and hope in mundane routine. And that's what I hope you'll see behind the stickers when you watch our car go by: a family.
I know some people hate those stickers, but I have to admit, I kind of love them. I like the snapshot they provide of the people around me. This family has four kids; that one has a dog, a cat and two goldfish; these people like to ski and those ones like to travel. But I'm also aware of what a reductive picture they portray.
I read a blog post a couple of weeks ago by a mother discussing the way we represent our families on Facebook. Her message was, Let's show the real family behind the photos—with its fights and tears, trials and tribulations—not just the happy, smiling moments that most people present to the world. And I think that's an admirable goal.
My family isn't perfect. Heck, it's only 2:30 p.m. on New Year's Day, 2014, and I've already yelled at my three-year-old for throwing a tantrum. I long ago came to terms with the fact that I will never be one of those mothers who home schools her kids and buys only organic produce with which to effortlessly whip up wholesome family meals each night. But, at the same time, I am more than the images shown by the stickers on my car or the photos on my profile page.
I love my husband, I love my kids. And we are doing the best we can, day by day, to navigate the twists and turns that life brings us—making mistakes and, hopefully, learning something along the way; finding bright spots of joy and hope in mundane routine. And that's what I hope you'll see behind the stickers when you watch our car go by: a family.
Thursday, 19 December 2013
Signs and Symbols
It starts with the smallest trigger. I'm driving to the GO station, listening to people phone in to a Christmas contest on the radio to win a trip to a Muskoka resort. The woman on the line wants to give the trip to her mother who, a year ago, had serious health issues and wasn't expected to recover. She did and is stable now, so the woman wants to do something nice for her and thank her for taking care of her grandson. "She's done so much for me," the woman sobs, and you can hear the love and gratitude in her voice.
And suddenly, I'm sitting the GO parking lot, and I'm crying, too. Because where is my mother to take care of my kids? And why isn't she hosting Christmas, as she always used to do? And why can't I give her something to thank her for all she's done for me? Yet even as I'm crying, I'm remembering my Mom's advice for holding back tears: "Look up!"
I don't know if it's just that I'm more reflective at this time of year, remembering this period as the beginning of the end of her life, or if there's something more to it. But everywhere I look these days, I see signs of her.
I pick up a book from the bookshelf and realize it's one of hers. I pull out a gift bag to wrap a Christmas present and, with a jolt, see that the tag on it is in her handwriting. I go to write this blog, and a calendar reminder comes up on my computer: Mom's birthday is today.
These moments, those touches—so brief, so fleeting. I dread them because they often bring dark thoughts and tears at a time of year that's supposed to focus on joy and celebration. But I welcome them, too, because they're all I have left of her.
I don't believe in heaven—though I wish I did—so I can't believe she's looking down on me and the family I've built with my husband and my girls. Still, I'm grateful for what remains: the sweater that, to this day, smells of detergent and tobacco; the scraps of paper I kept with her handwriting. The small but undeniable signs that she was here, that she left an impression on the world. That she loved me. I'll keep searching for those signs of her presence.
And look up.
And suddenly, I'm sitting the GO parking lot, and I'm crying, too. Because where is my mother to take care of my kids? And why isn't she hosting Christmas, as she always used to do? And why can't I give her something to thank her for all she's done for me? Yet even as I'm crying, I'm remembering my Mom's advice for holding back tears: "Look up!"
I don't know if it's just that I'm more reflective at this time of year, remembering this period as the beginning of the end of her life, or if there's something more to it. But everywhere I look these days, I see signs of her.
I pick up a book from the bookshelf and realize it's one of hers. I pull out a gift bag to wrap a Christmas present and, with a jolt, see that the tag on it is in her handwriting. I go to write this blog, and a calendar reminder comes up on my computer: Mom's birthday is today.
These moments, those touches—so brief, so fleeting. I dread them because they often bring dark thoughts and tears at a time of year that's supposed to focus on joy and celebration. But I welcome them, too, because they're all I have left of her.
I don't believe in heaven—though I wish I did—so I can't believe she's looking down on me and the family I've built with my husband and my girls. Still, I'm grateful for what remains: the sweater that, to this day, smells of detergent and tobacco; the scraps of paper I kept with her handwriting. The small but undeniable signs that she was here, that she left an impression on the world. That she loved me. I'll keep searching for those signs of her presence.
And look up.
Monday, 16 December 2013
I Love You, But...
My three-year-old is always pushing the boundaries: exploring what's acceptable and what's not; what we'll tolerate and what we won't; whether or not we actually do what we say we're going to do. And when she does go too far—and knows it—she's figured out ways to lessen the impact.
Often, when we're in the middle of yelling at her for something, she'll interrupt to say sweetly, "Mommy (or Daddy), I love you." She's figured out, quite astutely, that the sentiment softens us somewhat...because who can maintain a good righteous indignation in the face of a child's innocent expression of love?
Effective as that strategy may be, it rarely causes a total about-face. Both for continuity purposes—because my husband and I agreed that, as parents, we'd make a real effort to follow through on our promises and warnings—and, let's be honest, because she can be really, really frustrating, I find myself saying, "I love you too, but...," and then continuing with the reprimand. "I love you too, but you can't take things away from your sister like that." "I love you too, but you're not behaving very nicely."
What troubles me, more than the scolding, is the "but". With that qualifier, am I inadvertently teaching her that my love for her is conditional upon better behaviour, being nice, being a "good girl"? If so, what a grave mistake I've made.
My darling girl, you drive me to distraction ten times during the course of the day—sometimes during the course of a single morning. You yell and cry and challenge my authority almost daily, sometimes bringing me to anger or tears, too.
But whatever else you may question in life, know this with absolute certainty: I love you. Unequivocally, irrevocably, unquestioningly, unchangingly. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you, and there's nothing in the world that you could do to change that.
No ifs ands or buts.
Often, when we're in the middle of yelling at her for something, she'll interrupt to say sweetly, "Mommy (or Daddy), I love you." She's figured out, quite astutely, that the sentiment softens us somewhat...because who can maintain a good righteous indignation in the face of a child's innocent expression of love?
Effective as that strategy may be, it rarely causes a total about-face. Both for continuity purposes—because my husband and I agreed that, as parents, we'd make a real effort to follow through on our promises and warnings—and, let's be honest, because she can be really, really frustrating, I find myself saying, "I love you too, but...," and then continuing with the reprimand. "I love you too, but you can't take things away from your sister like that." "I love you too, but you're not behaving very nicely."
What troubles me, more than the scolding, is the "but". With that qualifier, am I inadvertently teaching her that my love for her is conditional upon better behaviour, being nice, being a "good girl"? If so, what a grave mistake I've made.
My darling girl, you drive me to distraction ten times during the course of the day—sometimes during the course of a single morning. You yell and cry and challenge my authority almost daily, sometimes bringing me to anger or tears, too.
But whatever else you may question in life, know this with absolute certainty: I love you. Unequivocally, irrevocably, unquestioningly, unchangingly. There's nothing I wouldn't do for you, and there's nothing in the world that you could do to change that.
No ifs ands or buts.
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