I am at a loss. Wait, no I am not. Just had a brilliant idea. Will deal with brilliance in a moment...
Spouse is doing his neuroscience thing in California this week while in-laws and I keep the home fires burning...the boys are shattered with missing their father, I am in sore need of his calm, rational, normal view of life, and the Fan the dog, well, suffice to say we hit an emergency tonight when we realized she was out of food - and trust me, with a hungry labrador that constitutes an emergency.
How I will manage all of this once my in-laws return to South Africa is beyond me. Our new nanny is lovely and fits in beautifully, but still there is so much to do, remember and manage...I am terrified of what is to come. Topher is a gorgeous boy, but so intense, so demanding emotionally that it is hard to keep up with is needs - and Winston, well he is so easy, so compliant that he is easy to get lost in the shuffle of life and business.
I know everyone else manages this work-family thing with aplomb and grace. But I seem to be falling short.
Will get back to focusing on flash of brilliance, that of course, had nothing at all to do with what is really bothering me.
Showing posts with label motherhood. Show all posts
Showing posts with label motherhood. Show all posts
Thursday, September 17, 2009
Friday, September 11, 2009
Garbage, garbage, who's got garbage....
I live in a house obsessed by garbage. Or, more accurately, I live in a house with people obsessed by garbage. Spouse's obsession is expressed by expending an unbelievable amount of energy in avoiding taking out the garbage. MIL on the other hand can’t wait for the night before garbage day - she begins before dinner to scratch through the recycle bins, eyeing the neighbours ‘curb-sides for evidence of blue or black boxes, and packing up every stray bit of tissue, newspaper and flotsam into the bins. Topher, however, makes her look like an amateur. He is obsessed beyond all proportion with garbage and garbage trucks. We have, at last count, 5 toy garbage trucks – a virtual fleet – complete with toy garbage cans, bins and skips. And toy garbage. Yes, that’s right, toy garbage. My life is not complex enough, not full of enough crap, that I can’t find myself on a regular bases twisting bits of tissue, newsprint, cotton balls and foil into little teeny tiny crumpled up balls for Topher to use to fill up the toy garbage cans, bins and skips, which are then lined up on the living room floor for the fleet of toy garbage trucks to drive by and empty. And we aren’t done yet. No, despite having the afore mentioned fleet of toy garbage trucks, my eldest is bereft, deprived, crippled even, or so he tells me, by the fact that he does not possess a side-lifter garbage truck.
And this is not all. No, not by a long shot. In addition to the fleet of trucks, the crumpled up bits of pretend garbage and the various miniature bins, cans, and skips, he also must PLAY garbage. This entails loading up his boy-sized blue recycle bins and his boy-sized trash cans – all of which are housed IN MY LIVING ROOM – with sofa pillows, the morning’s newspaper, toast crusts and anything else that isn’t nailed down and then the show really begins. He “drives” the garbage truck (aka the sofa) complete with terrifyingly realistic sound effects, climbs down out of the “truck” to pick up a bin and toss it into the “hopper” (aka the other end of the sofa) before climbing back into the truck, starting up the compressor and the hopper, and then “driving on” to the next stop on his route. And god help any of us if we want to either sit on the sofa during this time, read the paper, or have a cushion to perch on.
As if this wasn’t enough of a zoo, now Winston has joined in. The other morning I found him sitting on the sofa, arms held out in front of him as though gripping a steering wheel and heard from his mouth the unmistakable sounds of vrrroooooommmm, errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrtttt, sshhhhhhhhhhhhhht beeepbeeeepbeeep – the sounds of the garbage truck on its route – while Topher tossed the contents of bins out onto the sofa next to Winston. HE IS ONLY 17 MONTHS OLD FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!!!!
So you can well imagine the excitement this morning when the garbage and recycling trucks lumbered down the street. There, sitting on our front porch still in their jammies and munching on toast, were my two blond haired obsessive compulsive angels (and their Ouma), waiting and watching the trucks going about their business. The boys shouted and waved at their heroes and were rewarded by honking horns and return salutes...life for my boys will never again be the same, for surely, in their minds, it can’t get any better than the day the garbage men honked the truck’s horn and waved at them.
Ah well. I console myself with the idea that winter will soon be upon us and it will be too cold for the boys to sit on the porch waiting anxiously for their heroes to ride up the road....but by then they will have a new hero......the snow plow driver. For the record, I am drawing the line at making pretend snow.
And this is not all. No, not by a long shot. In addition to the fleet of trucks, the crumpled up bits of pretend garbage and the various miniature bins, cans, and skips, he also must PLAY garbage. This entails loading up his boy-sized blue recycle bins and his boy-sized trash cans – all of which are housed IN MY LIVING ROOM – with sofa pillows, the morning’s newspaper, toast crusts and anything else that isn’t nailed down and then the show really begins. He “drives” the garbage truck (aka the sofa) complete with terrifyingly realistic sound effects, climbs down out of the “truck” to pick up a bin and toss it into the “hopper” (aka the other end of the sofa) before climbing back into the truck, starting up the compressor and the hopper, and then “driving on” to the next stop on his route. And god help any of us if we want to either sit on the sofa during this time, read the paper, or have a cushion to perch on.
As if this wasn’t enough of a zoo, now Winston has joined in. The other morning I found him sitting on the sofa, arms held out in front of him as though gripping a steering wheel and heard from his mouth the unmistakable sounds of vrrroooooommmm, errrrrrrrrrrrrrrrtttt, sshhhhhhhhhhhhhht beeepbeeeepbeeep – the sounds of the garbage truck on its route – while Topher tossed the contents of bins out onto the sofa next to Winston. HE IS ONLY 17 MONTHS OLD FOR CRYING OUT LOUD!!!!
So you can well imagine the excitement this morning when the garbage and recycling trucks lumbered down the street. There, sitting on our front porch still in their jammies and munching on toast, were my two blond haired obsessive compulsive angels (and their Ouma), waiting and watching the trucks going about their business. The boys shouted and waved at their heroes and were rewarded by honking horns and return salutes...life for my boys will never again be the same, for surely, in their minds, it can’t get any better than the day the garbage men honked the truck’s horn and waved at them.
Ah well. I console myself with the idea that winter will soon be upon us and it will be too cold for the boys to sit on the porch waiting anxiously for their heroes to ride up the road....but by then they will have a new hero......the snow plow driver. For the record, I am drawing the line at making pretend snow.
Wednesday, September 9, 2009
Heigh ho, Heigh ho, it's off to school we go....
Topher just had his first day of school today. Wow. Amazing wow. He went off with a hug and a kiss and just one backwards glance and then bang. It was done. School. My first baby just went off to school. Wow.
His Ouma was with us - she cried buckets. Me, typically, I didn't. Well, not exactly. Instead, true to form I waited until I had taken him to the kindergarten drop off, driven MIL back home with Winston, then drove into work, fought with the parking attendants at the office, got coffee, rode two elevators and then, once safely embedded in my office with the door closed, I cried.
My beautiful, complex, complicated, smart, frustrating boy just started junior kindergarten. He has started his lifelong journey of education, good teachers, bad teachers, indifferent teachers. Started his life of days that I will know next to nothing about except that which he chooses to tell me...or that the school sends home in a tersely worded typed message - let us not get too rose-coloured-glasses here after all...this is Topher about whom I write....
But wow. Holy cow. Mercy Mother of God. School. Eeek.
Despite spending a huge portion of our adult lives in school, neither Spouse or I are a huge fan of school. He is a product of truly bizarre apartheid South Africa private schooling complete corporal punishment in high school, etc. I, well suffice to say I have yet to meet a school system or administration that I didn't want to bring to its knees for one reason or another. But spouse has his PhD from Cambridge and I, well there again I just had to go against the grain as well as adhere to that life-long tendancy to NOT finish things and am ABD (that is sooooo cheesy to even say, let alone write...) in History from Queen's, so I guess we have somehow along the way been co-opted into the school thing/hegemony. God help Topher. Given that combined background he is going to need every prayer that his Canadian-Irish Catholic relatives can throw at us .
I hope he likes school. He did today. Especially as there is a toy car transporter truck to play with and the toilet doesn't have a loud flush. He checked. And as long as he wasn't trying to flush the toy car transporter down the school toilet, I'm happy. Consider it a successful start to school. Well done, Topher. Mama loves you.
His Ouma was with us - she cried buckets. Me, typically, I didn't. Well, not exactly. Instead, true to form I waited until I had taken him to the kindergarten drop off, driven MIL back home with Winston, then drove into work, fought with the parking attendants at the office, got coffee, rode two elevators and then, once safely embedded in my office with the door closed, I cried.
My beautiful, complex, complicated, smart, frustrating boy just started junior kindergarten. He has started his lifelong journey of education, good teachers, bad teachers, indifferent teachers. Started his life of days that I will know next to nothing about except that which he chooses to tell me...or that the school sends home in a tersely worded typed message - let us not get too rose-coloured-glasses here after all...this is Topher about whom I write....
But wow. Holy cow. Mercy Mother of God. School. Eeek.
Despite spending a huge portion of our adult lives in school, neither Spouse or I are a huge fan of school. He is a product of truly bizarre apartheid South Africa private schooling complete corporal punishment in high school, etc. I, well suffice to say I have yet to meet a school system or administration that I didn't want to bring to its knees for one reason or another. But spouse has his PhD from Cambridge and I, well there again I just had to go against the grain as well as adhere to that life-long tendancy to NOT finish things and am ABD (that is sooooo cheesy to even say, let alone write...) in History from Queen's, so I guess we have somehow along the way been co-opted into the school thing/hegemony. God help Topher. Given that combined background he is going to need every prayer that his Canadian-Irish Catholic relatives can throw at us .
I hope he likes school. He did today. Especially as there is a toy car transporter truck to play with and the toilet doesn't have a loud flush. He checked. And as long as he wasn't trying to flush the toy car transporter down the school toilet, I'm happy. Consider it a successful start to school. Well done, Topher. Mama loves you.
Thursday, September 3, 2009
Honestly, I do
- Mama?
- Yes pet?
- MAAAMMMMA?
- Sigh. Yes pet?
- What are you doing?
- Getting ready for bed. Now go to sleep
- But what are you doing?
- Getting ready for bed.
- Are you in your jammies?
- No, not yet.
- What are you doing?
- Sigh heavily. Never you mind.
- What MAAAMMMA? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
- I’m going to the bathroom.
- Are you having a pee or a poo?
- Never you mind. It doesn’t matter.
- Is it a pee Mama or a poo?
Now, none of you, including Topher need to know this. But he is like a dog with a bone, so after debating with myself the evils of lying versus the evils of telling him the truth, I tell the truth. Suffice to say, you don’t really need to know.
- Now Mama? Right now you are?
- Well, no, unfortunately, not right now.
- When Mama?
Apparently, never again, or only once you have left home for university. Suffice to say during the last week we have had Topher into the children’s hospital twice, once for surgery and then back to emergency when he spent 3 hours clutching his side and telling us how it hurt inside. Upon arrival at the emergency room, he announced he was going to hop all the rest of the way and spent his time in triage catapulting over the filthy furniture. Needless to say, we called it a night shortly after. We’ve also gone through one antique chair, two toy school buses, one pair of size 4 boy jeans, and about 27 litres of milk.
I lovemyboysIlovemyboysIlovemyboysIlovemyboys. Really.
- Yes pet?
- MAAAMMMMA?
- Sigh. Yes pet?
- What are you doing?
- Getting ready for bed. Now go to sleep
- But what are you doing?
- Getting ready for bed.
- Are you in your jammies?
- No, not yet.
- What are you doing?
- Sigh heavily. Never you mind.
- What MAAAMMMA? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
- I’m going to the bathroom.
- Are you having a pee or a poo?
- Never you mind. It doesn’t matter.
- Is it a pee Mama or a poo?
Now, none of you, including Topher need to know this. But he is like a dog with a bone, so after debating with myself the evils of lying versus the evils of telling him the truth, I tell the truth. Suffice to say, you don’t really need to know.
- Now Mama? Right now you are?
- Well, no, unfortunately, not right now.
- When Mama?
Apparently, never again, or only once you have left home for university. Suffice to say during the last week we have had Topher into the children’s hospital twice, once for surgery and then back to emergency when he spent 3 hours clutching his side and telling us how it hurt inside. Upon arrival at the emergency room, he announced he was going to hop all the rest of the way and spent his time in triage catapulting over the filthy furniture. Needless to say, we called it a night shortly after. We’ve also gone through one antique chair, two toy school buses, one pair of size 4 boy jeans, and about 27 litres of milk.
I lovemyboysIlovemyboysIlovemyboysIlovemyboys. Really.
Wednesday, August 26, 2009
5 Reasons not to go home tonight….or to school…ever.
5. MIL and Poor Fan the dog are engaged in full out war over tomatoes…Poor Fan the dog is constantly sneaking into the garden to chomp tomatoes right off the vine – ripe or not, it makes no difference to her. MIL is incensed and has set up an obstacle course of slides, basket ball net, patio chairs and various push toys in an effort to keep Poor Fan the dog out of the garden.
4. Topher and Winston are wailing over lack of access to their slides, basket ball net and various push toys.
3. MIL is livid with me and spouse as we care not one little bit that Poor Fan the dog is munching on all the tomatoes.
2. Spouse is already in deep depression over the inevitable approach of winter.
1. I’m out of vodka.
And somehow I have to find the inner strength and serenity to deal with the inevitable approach of Topher’s first day at school. To be honest, it is not some sentimental weepiness or nostalgia that my little guy is now old enough to be heading off to kindergarten. Rather, it is the reality fast approaching that I am now embarking on a career of intercession and mediation between the school system and my spawn, and I suspect this is not going to be fun for any of us. Not Drowning, Mothering (http://notdrowning.wordpress.com) is all too clear in a I’d-rather-laugh-then-break-down-and-cry kind of way about the tyranny of late passes, missed days, school breaks, “professional development” days etc., and while her posts are dead funny, they also terrify me about what is to come. And, although the first day of school has not yet arrived, I have already had my first what-the-hell-was-that conversation with the school.
Back in June, the school sent an information package to parents and one of the pieces was a letter that outlined how the little sweeties would be introduced slowly to school. Part of this entailed me (although why I assume it has to be me and not spouse is something to save for another post) bringing Topher to school for a one-on-one classroom visit, AFTER which, the helpful information form written by the school clearly said, he would have the chance to attend, in a small group, school for 3 mornings over two weeks. Note this is to be AFTER the one-on-one visit. So blow me down if the school hasn’t buggered up the dates and times so that he starts attending school BEFORE he has his one-on-one visit.
I’m thinking, despite not being and educational specialist, this is not what they intended. But for the last 3 months I have tried unsuccessfully to reach the school to sort this out. Of course, being summer, no one is at the school to sort this out…until today. And blow me down again, but they don’t seem to be able to get a handle on the concept of BEFORE and AFTER…nor see the need to follow the procedure they have so clearly outlined in the ever-so-helpful information package.
So, here’s what I say: first time I get sent off to the office for a late pass, the first time I am late handing in a parent consent from, the first time I forget to call the attendance office to inform them Topher will be absent – and catch crap from the school for such infractions, I will haul out this coffee-stained, vodka drenched information package, wave it hysterically in their faces and yell “Cast not the first stone!!”
Now, I’m pretty sure I am not heading into this with the best of attitudes. Those who knew me during my own days at school will know that I have a perverse love of going up against the administration. But honestly, am I going to entrust the education of my son to a system run by adults who still are shaking on the concepts of BEFORE and AFTER? This does not bode well at all…not for any of us unfortunate to be thrown together in the education of Topher…
4. Topher and Winston are wailing over lack of access to their slides, basket ball net and various push toys.
3. MIL is livid with me and spouse as we care not one little bit that Poor Fan the dog is munching on all the tomatoes.
2. Spouse is already in deep depression over the inevitable approach of winter.
1. I’m out of vodka.
And somehow I have to find the inner strength and serenity to deal with the inevitable approach of Topher’s first day at school. To be honest, it is not some sentimental weepiness or nostalgia that my little guy is now old enough to be heading off to kindergarten. Rather, it is the reality fast approaching that I am now embarking on a career of intercession and mediation between the school system and my spawn, and I suspect this is not going to be fun for any of us. Not Drowning, Mothering (http://notdrowning.wordpress.com) is all too clear in a I’d-rather-laugh-then-break-down-and-cry kind of way about the tyranny of late passes, missed days, school breaks, “professional development” days etc., and while her posts are dead funny, they also terrify me about what is to come. And, although the first day of school has not yet arrived, I have already had my first what-the-hell-was-that conversation with the school.
Back in June, the school sent an information package to parents and one of the pieces was a letter that outlined how the little sweeties would be introduced slowly to school. Part of this entailed me (although why I assume it has to be me and not spouse is something to save for another post) bringing Topher to school for a one-on-one classroom visit, AFTER which, the helpful information form written by the school clearly said, he would have the chance to attend, in a small group, school for 3 mornings over two weeks. Note this is to be AFTER the one-on-one visit. So blow me down if the school hasn’t buggered up the dates and times so that he starts attending school BEFORE he has his one-on-one visit.
I’m thinking, despite not being and educational specialist, this is not what they intended. But for the last 3 months I have tried unsuccessfully to reach the school to sort this out. Of course, being summer, no one is at the school to sort this out…until today. And blow me down again, but they don’t seem to be able to get a handle on the concept of BEFORE and AFTER…nor see the need to follow the procedure they have so clearly outlined in the ever-so-helpful information package.
So, here’s what I say: first time I get sent off to the office for a late pass, the first time I am late handing in a parent consent from, the first time I forget to call the attendance office to inform them Topher will be absent – and catch crap from the school for such infractions, I will haul out this coffee-stained, vodka drenched information package, wave it hysterically in their faces and yell “Cast not the first stone!!”
Now, I’m pretty sure I am not heading into this with the best of attitudes. Those who knew me during my own days at school will know that I have a perverse love of going up against the administration. But honestly, am I going to entrust the education of my son to a system run by adults who still are shaking on the concepts of BEFORE and AFTER? This does not bode well at all…not for any of us unfortunate to be thrown together in the education of Topher…
Monday, August 17, 2009
Far too much angst for a Monday....
Why do I work? It is a question that is in the forefront of my mind at the oddest of times, and to be honest, hovers quietly in the back of my mind most of the time. Today, it is right now squarely at the forefront, largely because of the most recent post at one of my regular blog reads, the Mama Bee (http://themamabee.wordpress.com/)
There is no one reason – and the reasons have changed and shifted over time. Like just about every woman, I work because my career provides an intellectual outlet – provides challenge, community, experiences, and allows me to make a contribution. It has also ensured that I was independent – able to feed, house and clothe myself. But married now with two young children and a husband who is professionally successful, as well as able to support the family financially as the sole income earner, I am continuing with my career. Why? Why isn’t mothering enough?
In part, there are in the back of my mind the experiences I had seen and heard, primarily of women friends of my mothers…one who returned home one day to find her entire family home striped of its contents except for her and the children’s clothing, the house listed for sale, and the bank accounts frozen or emptied. Her husband was missing – well, not really missing it turned out, but on a plane to Saudi Arabia with his girlfriend to a medical posting. He, apparently, had grown tired of their marriage and his life and had quietly planned for months this “escape” while also ensuring that he would not lose a single asset or dollar along the way. She spent the next years in poverty, struggling to find the joint marital assets and to support herself and her high school aged children. As well, there is was my own grandmother, who had similarly been faced with building a life as a single mother to a young daughter and 4 nearly (but not quite) grown sons when her husband drained the limited family savings before leaving with another woman – and my grandmother had to find any kind of work available to a poorly educated woman during the 1940s and well into her 70s. The fear of real destitute poverty was, I know, never ever far from her mind.
So I suppose these examples made a deep impression on me - I don’t want ever to be unable to support myself or my children – to worry about the next mortgage payment, grocery bills, or paying for swim/soccer/hockey/music/art classes. And to make sure that doesn’t ever happen, I am unable to place myself in a position where someone else earns the financial resources that provides for the family. I have to be able to pay for it all, or else I would panic…really and truly.
I am also a better mother for working and having a career – solely because I am a happier person…I like competition, I enjoy coming out the other side successful on a difficult negotiation or issue, I thrive on being busy, pushed, and contributing to public life in addition to the contribution made as a mother. But all my reasons for working and mothering are mine alone – they are a product of a highly personal experience and exposure to women who found themselves vulnerable, through no fault of their own, and found their children also vulnerable as a result. So do I support the idea of the “collective” suggested by Mama Bee? Intellectually, yes I do. The more women (who are also mothers) there are in senior positions, whether in the private or public sector, the more likely it is that doors will open earlier and more welcoming to our daughters, nieces and friends; the more likely it will be to see women taking longer parental leaves, to see work places and the market shift to be more accepting of different kinds of work arrangements. But in my heart, I know I work because I must…for my own intellectual and emotional well-being and to ensure the economic well-being of my family. And because my reasons are so intensely personal, I cannot step over to the Mama Bee’s position that would suggest another woman’s choice to leave the career path “contribute(s) to the negative view of mothers in the workplace.”
There is no one reason – and the reasons have changed and shifted over time. Like just about every woman, I work because my career provides an intellectual outlet – provides challenge, community, experiences, and allows me to make a contribution. It has also ensured that I was independent – able to feed, house and clothe myself. But married now with two young children and a husband who is professionally successful, as well as able to support the family financially as the sole income earner, I am continuing with my career. Why? Why isn’t mothering enough?
In part, there are in the back of my mind the experiences I had seen and heard, primarily of women friends of my mothers…one who returned home one day to find her entire family home striped of its contents except for her and the children’s clothing, the house listed for sale, and the bank accounts frozen or emptied. Her husband was missing – well, not really missing it turned out, but on a plane to Saudi Arabia with his girlfriend to a medical posting. He, apparently, had grown tired of their marriage and his life and had quietly planned for months this “escape” while also ensuring that he would not lose a single asset or dollar along the way. She spent the next years in poverty, struggling to find the joint marital assets and to support herself and her high school aged children. As well, there is was my own grandmother, who had similarly been faced with building a life as a single mother to a young daughter and 4 nearly (but not quite) grown sons when her husband drained the limited family savings before leaving with another woman – and my grandmother had to find any kind of work available to a poorly educated woman during the 1940s and well into her 70s. The fear of real destitute poverty was, I know, never ever far from her mind.
So I suppose these examples made a deep impression on me - I don’t want ever to be unable to support myself or my children – to worry about the next mortgage payment, grocery bills, or paying for swim/soccer/hockey/music/art classes. And to make sure that doesn’t ever happen, I am unable to place myself in a position where someone else earns the financial resources that provides for the family. I have to be able to pay for it all, or else I would panic…really and truly.
I am also a better mother for working and having a career – solely because I am a happier person…I like competition, I enjoy coming out the other side successful on a difficult negotiation or issue, I thrive on being busy, pushed, and contributing to public life in addition to the contribution made as a mother. But all my reasons for working and mothering are mine alone – they are a product of a highly personal experience and exposure to women who found themselves vulnerable, through no fault of their own, and found their children also vulnerable as a result. So do I support the idea of the “collective” suggested by Mama Bee? Intellectually, yes I do. The more women (who are also mothers) there are in senior positions, whether in the private or public sector, the more likely it is that doors will open earlier and more welcoming to our daughters, nieces and friends; the more likely it will be to see women taking longer parental leaves, to see work places and the market shift to be more accepting of different kinds of work arrangements. But in my heart, I know I work because I must…for my own intellectual and emotional well-being and to ensure the economic well-being of my family. And because my reasons are so intensely personal, I cannot step over to the Mama Bee’s position that would suggest another woman’s choice to leave the career path “contribute(s) to the negative view of mothers in the workplace.”
Tuesday, July 21, 2009
Ahh...home sweet home....
Typhus, typhoid, H1N1, cholera – god only knows what it is but disgusting sickness has descended on our chaotic home like a biblical plague. Winston has been spewing fluid from both ends for a week now and totters pathetically around on stick legs looking every inch like a poster child for a children’s charity serving the third world; Topher is leaking thick, viscous green snot from his nose like nothing I ever want to see or experience again in my lifetime and clutching his neck screaming “it hurts right to my bones!”; husband is snuffling and shuffling around the house like a dishevelled sanatorium in-patient; father-in-law is lumbering (barely) pathetically from room to room when he isn’t lying in bed groaning, while mother-in-law and I carry on, feeding, bathing, wiping, swiping, stripping beds, doing laundry….all the while popping any pill that even remotely promises to get us through another hour without collapsing in feverish heaps.
But I think we may just have begun the long climb out of this fetid darkness….this morning, after the carpenters arrived at 6:30 a.m to continue building the front porch following a two-week unexplained absence, after pulling the dog out of the tipped over trash bin where she was supplementing her scientifically approved diet with day old shrimp shells, rotting lemons and something that for the life of me I still can’t identify, after getting the sofa ready to be picked up and replaced due to leaching leather dye (sometime between 9 and 1 o’clock today – could they be any more vague?), after husband announced he had a flight booked to leave this afternoon and would be gone on business until the weekend, after emptying the dishwasher, making 3 breakfasts, organizing the day’s wash which in addition to the usual boy mess included the previous night’s fun and entertainment of feces-covered baby blankets and 2 quilts, after trying 4 times without success to have even one sip of my coffee, I surveyed the scene and realized: Topher was not gripping his neck in agony, Winston was actually eating some solid food and drinking again with real gusto, father-in-law was well enough to surface before noon to wait for his food to magically appear before him, mother-in-law was calm and in control, and the sun was actually shining. So I did what any self-respecting, intelligent, exhausted woman would do – raced for a shower, dressed, grabbed my car keys and headed to the office where at least I had the faint hope of getting to drink a cup of warm, if not hot, coffee. And here I will stay until duty forces me back to the little bit of hell that is my home to chauffer family members to doctor appointments and then make dinner, clean up toys, bath, nurse, sing to and cuddle two little boys into bed, and then pour myself the world’s biggest, coldest, driest martini on record.
Wish me well. It has already been a very, very long day.
But I think we may just have begun the long climb out of this fetid darkness….this morning, after the carpenters arrived at 6:30 a.m to continue building the front porch following a two-week unexplained absence, after pulling the dog out of the tipped over trash bin where she was supplementing her scientifically approved diet with day old shrimp shells, rotting lemons and something that for the life of me I still can’t identify, after getting the sofa ready to be picked up and replaced due to leaching leather dye (sometime between 9 and 1 o’clock today – could they be any more vague?), after husband announced he had a flight booked to leave this afternoon and would be gone on business until the weekend, after emptying the dishwasher, making 3 breakfasts, organizing the day’s wash which in addition to the usual boy mess included the previous night’s fun and entertainment of feces-covered baby blankets and 2 quilts, after trying 4 times without success to have even one sip of my coffee, I surveyed the scene and realized: Topher was not gripping his neck in agony, Winston was actually eating some solid food and drinking again with real gusto, father-in-law was well enough to surface before noon to wait for his food to magically appear before him, mother-in-law was calm and in control, and the sun was actually shining. So I did what any self-respecting, intelligent, exhausted woman would do – raced for a shower, dressed, grabbed my car keys and headed to the office where at least I had the faint hope of getting to drink a cup of warm, if not hot, coffee. And here I will stay until duty forces me back to the little bit of hell that is my home to chauffer family members to doctor appointments and then make dinner, clean up toys, bath, nurse, sing to and cuddle two little boys into bed, and then pour myself the world’s biggest, coldest, driest martini on record.
Wish me well. It has already been a very, very long day.
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
I just read the most recent post from http://notdrowning.wordpress.com/ and just about lost my dinner laughing. Oh my god, too funny for words and rang all too true, except for the black lacy underwear part as it has been far too long since that has been a staple of my wardrobe.
But it rang true otherwise, this whole too much information syndrome that infected me at motherhood..... I was actually was on a professional phone call today when I found myself launching into a story about how my preschool son likes to make his penis into shapes. As in “Look Momma, it’s a snowman” or “Look Momma, I made an angel with my "wikkkee” Personally, seeing my son discover his "wikkkee" has brought my pre-marriage dating history (like there is any other...well, actually....no seriously hon, that was just a joke....) into a stage of understanding that 10 years of therapy could not. Men and their “wikkkees”...it is a complete, compelling and non-replaceable relationship. But I digress. Point was that on a professional call I actually started talking about my son and his penis. Totally out of context to anyone else who doesn’t share my seriously and prolonged sleep deprived state of existence, with a baby still gnawing on my breasts twice a day, all sorts of bodily fluids splashed on me before my first cup of coffee in the morning, and oh my god where are my clean nylons for that interview, and why in god’s name is the baby wearing his brother’s underpants on his head kind of life.
It is a bit cliche to say "I don't remember signing up for this," but it is true. I don't. I don't remember other career moms showing up at work with peanut butter smears on their suit jackets, or pulling out Tonka toys and diapers instead of the required meeting notes from their purses as all sorts of on lookers smirked and shook their heads. Before motherhood I don't remember starting my day off at 5 a.m with someone with a near full set of teeth sucking on my breast as though life depended on it before then having to clean up in the following order: dog puke from the back door mat, brown and yellow "refuse" from a nappy, pee off the change pad, the baby, myself, then pick up dog shit from the river parkway walk as I try to loose the martini bulge that I conveniently choose to call the last five baby pounds, wipe another baby ass, help the three year old aim for the toilet with his wikkkee spraying merrily around the bathroom like a coked up fire hose....coffee still pending, I might add.
Nope, this isn't what I thought would be my lot when we decided to "give it a whirl and see what happens." Love my life but hate the associate body fluids. Too much information, I know.
But it rang true otherwise, this whole too much information syndrome that infected me at motherhood..... I was actually was on a professional phone call today when I found myself launching into a story about how my preschool son likes to make his penis into shapes. As in “Look Momma, it’s a snowman” or “Look Momma, I made an angel with my "wikkkee” Personally, seeing my son discover his "wikkkee" has brought my pre-marriage dating history (like there is any other...well, actually....no seriously hon, that was just a joke....) into a stage of understanding that 10 years of therapy could not. Men and their “wikkkees”...it is a complete, compelling and non-replaceable relationship. But I digress. Point was that on a professional call I actually started talking about my son and his penis. Totally out of context to anyone else who doesn’t share my seriously and prolonged sleep deprived state of existence, with a baby still gnawing on my breasts twice a day, all sorts of bodily fluids splashed on me before my first cup of coffee in the morning, and oh my god where are my clean nylons for that interview, and why in god’s name is the baby wearing his brother’s underpants on his head kind of life.
It is a bit cliche to say "I don't remember signing up for this," but it is true. I don't. I don't remember other career moms showing up at work with peanut butter smears on their suit jackets, or pulling out Tonka toys and diapers instead of the required meeting notes from their purses as all sorts of on lookers smirked and shook their heads. Before motherhood I don't remember starting my day off at 5 a.m with someone with a near full set of teeth sucking on my breast as though life depended on it before then having to clean up in the following order: dog puke from the back door mat, brown and yellow "refuse" from a nappy, pee off the change pad, the baby, myself, then pick up dog shit from the river parkway walk as I try to loose the martini bulge that I conveniently choose to call the last five baby pounds, wipe another baby ass, help the three year old aim for the toilet with his wikkkee spraying merrily around the bathroom like a coked up fire hose....coffee still pending, I might add.
Nope, this isn't what I thought would be my lot when we decided to "give it a whirl and see what happens." Love my life but hate the associate body fluids. Too much information, I know.
Wednesday, June 24, 2009
With Apologies to President Obama...
So early this morning in the bathroom, while taking care of personal business as I held shut the under-the-sink cupboard with one foot, held to toilet roll with one hand, and made a mad grab for the falling towels from the towel rack with the other, I sprung up from my perch to smash a mosquito against the shower wall. Got the mosquito, while 14 month old Winston got into the cupboard, unravelled the toilet roll and pulled all the towels off the rack. It is still early days, but I think he has inherited my multi-tasking (dis)ability…
But it all led to the idea popping into my head: What was the big deal about U.S. President Obama’s fly killing move the other day? I mean, crap, he was just sitting there, both hands and feet free for pete’s sake. Which led me to starting thinking about just how male-dominated the media is…I mean this killing a fly with one blow merited THAT much press coverage? Try stuffing a tantruming 2 year old into a snowsuit, boots, hat and mitts when you are 8 months pregnant, similarly bundled in winter gear (like I didn’t already feel fat enough without also being wrapped up in bulging down outerwear) and then carry him – and the packages from the shopping centre - out to the car while he thrashes, screaming at the top of his lungs all the way that you are not his “good mommy, I want my good mommy right now” AND then fend off security as you try to throw him into the car seat as he arches his back and flails about. Now that is worthy of world wide media attention.
I mean really, a million times a day across the globe, women are killing metaphorical flies (or here in Canada, mosquitoes) barehanded in one blow, not as they sit calmly unencumbered in arm chairs, but while they have preschoolers hanging off their necks, climbing up their legs, babies tugging at their tops, opening up cans of paint and wandering around with nail guns in their tiny hands. How about a little media recognition of that for a change? And a whole lot less about this Mommy War nonsense.
But it all led to the idea popping into my head: What was the big deal about U.S. President Obama’s fly killing move the other day? I mean, crap, he was just sitting there, both hands and feet free for pete’s sake. Which led me to starting thinking about just how male-dominated the media is…I mean this killing a fly with one blow merited THAT much press coverage? Try stuffing a tantruming 2 year old into a snowsuit, boots, hat and mitts when you are 8 months pregnant, similarly bundled in winter gear (like I didn’t already feel fat enough without also being wrapped up in bulging down outerwear) and then carry him – and the packages from the shopping centre - out to the car while he thrashes, screaming at the top of his lungs all the way that you are not his “good mommy, I want my good mommy right now” AND then fend off security as you try to throw him into the car seat as he arches his back and flails about. Now that is worthy of world wide media attention.
I mean really, a million times a day across the globe, women are killing metaphorical flies (or here in Canada, mosquitoes) barehanded in one blow, not as they sit calmly unencumbered in arm chairs, but while they have preschoolers hanging off their necks, climbing up their legs, babies tugging at their tops, opening up cans of paint and wandering around with nail guns in their tiny hands. How about a little media recognition of that for a change? And a whole lot less about this Mommy War nonsense.
Tuesday, June 23, 2009
No wonder we can't have world peace....
So…yesterday’s Globe and Mail - self titled “Canada’s National Newspaper” – ran a short collection of articles on the “Mommy Wars” - this supposedly never ending feud between stay-at-home moms and working-outside-the-home moms over …well, I’m actually not really sure what the feud is about. Mommy Wars are supposedly between these two groups of moms about who is the better mother, what is better for children, selfless vs selfish…but what is really at the root of it somewhat escapes me. Although I suspect if we all think back to high school we can all remember a group of young women that just weren’t happy unless they were making someone else miserable.
I’m not particularly interested in whether the women staying at home raising their children approve or disapprove of my own decision to work and have a career in addition to being a mom to my two wonderful (and right now, filthy) boys. They can snub me at playgroup and the playground, keep in their tightly knit cabal and gossip to their hearts content within my hearing (although it is often viciously about each other, pity whoever among their group that is absent that day!!), and rebuff all efforts at common civility in what is a shared community space. But they may not step over my children in the sandbox as though they were bothersome Dickensian street urchins; they may not behave as though the play structures are there for the amusement of their offspring alone by shooing and blocking my own darlings; and they may not turn a blind eye when their tots bang or push either of my children but intervene vigorously when the same behaviour is dished out to one of their friends.
I don’t care if they believe all women should produce only children in this capitalist society of ours and then stay put to raise them, or if they believe that my “selfish” decision to work places my children at risk, or if they are jealous, bitter, thwarted or bored; happy, fulfilled, challenged, or entertained. I care that they show my children the same kindness, consideration, and interest that I show to all children that I encounter. I care that children are taught by a parent about friendship and common civility, about generosity, sharing, conflict resolution, and respect for others – even with they are different from us in how they look, sound, or in what they do. I suspect if we all raised our children that way we could finally put an end to the nonsense of Mommy Wars…certainly we all have more important things to fuss about, don’t we?
I’m not particularly interested in whether the women staying at home raising their children approve or disapprove of my own decision to work and have a career in addition to being a mom to my two wonderful (and right now, filthy) boys. They can snub me at playgroup and the playground, keep in their tightly knit cabal and gossip to their hearts content within my hearing (although it is often viciously about each other, pity whoever among their group that is absent that day!!), and rebuff all efforts at common civility in what is a shared community space. But they may not step over my children in the sandbox as though they were bothersome Dickensian street urchins; they may not behave as though the play structures are there for the amusement of their offspring alone by shooing and blocking my own darlings; and they may not turn a blind eye when their tots bang or push either of my children but intervene vigorously when the same behaviour is dished out to one of their friends.
I don’t care if they believe all women should produce only children in this capitalist society of ours and then stay put to raise them, or if they believe that my “selfish” decision to work places my children at risk, or if they are jealous, bitter, thwarted or bored; happy, fulfilled, challenged, or entertained. I care that they show my children the same kindness, consideration, and interest that I show to all children that I encounter. I care that children are taught by a parent about friendship and common civility, about generosity, sharing, conflict resolution, and respect for others – even with they are different from us in how they look, sound, or in what they do. I suspect if we all raised our children that way we could finally put an end to the nonsense of Mommy Wars…certainly we all have more important things to fuss about, don’t we?
Thursday, June 18, 2009
Saint Kate
Lately I’ve been getting up at 5 a.m. – not because I want to, mind, but because the Winston is determinedly up at that hour. Not so long ago he would cuddle for an hour in bed next to me, allowing me a few more precious minutes of sleep, but not any longer. The boy is up and no amount of snuggling, cuddling, nursing, whispered cursing or threatening is going to get him to lie still for one more moment.
So, I’m up too. Now, a reasonable person right now is asking, “Why isn’t your husband getting up once in a while and letting you sleep in?” – to which I say, “Brilliant question!” But I have no answer. I suspect is the “penis rule” – you know, the one that means they have to hold the remote control, dress the kids in dirty clothes, consider mowing the lawn once every 10 days a major contribution to the household chores, can’t figure out how to open the dishwasher to put in dirty dishes….I think you get the drift. The “penis rule” also seems to cover both hearing the baby cry at ungodly hours and getting up at an equally ungodly hour with a crying baby.
But actually, I’m okay with this ungodly hour thing. Because it is an amazing ace in the hole. I’ve got this routine….nurse Winston, pull on some over-stretched Lulu Lemon things, grab sneakers, the dog and Winston and head out into the dawn for a walk. Summer had finally arrived to our sub-arctic mosquito swamp so it is lovely – and we walk through the parks down to the river and back into the neighbourhood to do some hills. Winston is happy in the stroller playing with his toes and blowing raspberries at any passing joggers, Fan is happy sniffing the air and running through the long grass, and I am contentedly deluding myself that this walk is going to help firm up my stomach and tighten my ass. Best of all though is that when we get back home, the house is still dark and quiet….I can have coffee, read the paper, eat breakfast and absently poke yoghurt into Winston’s mouth in relative peace and quiet.
No histrionic Topher, no husband banging through cupboards looking for what is right in front of his nose, no mother-in-law singing out inane non sequiturs, no father-in-law standing about in his socks, waiting for someone to notice he is hungry so the food can magically appear in front of him…. just Winston and I munching and slurping away. And for all this, this getting up early, enjoying the fresh air, a peaceful breakfast alone, I get an added bonus….everyone thinks I am a saint. A martyr. A gasp – good mother! Genius. Now I just need to figure out what my party trick is going to be this January when it is minus 30 outside…..
So, I’m up too. Now, a reasonable person right now is asking, “Why isn’t your husband getting up once in a while and letting you sleep in?” – to which I say, “Brilliant question!” But I have no answer. I suspect is the “penis rule” – you know, the one that means they have to hold the remote control, dress the kids in dirty clothes, consider mowing the lawn once every 10 days a major contribution to the household chores, can’t figure out how to open the dishwasher to put in dirty dishes….I think you get the drift. The “penis rule” also seems to cover both hearing the baby cry at ungodly hours and getting up at an equally ungodly hour with a crying baby.
But actually, I’m okay with this ungodly hour thing. Because it is an amazing ace in the hole. I’ve got this routine….nurse Winston, pull on some over-stretched Lulu Lemon things, grab sneakers, the dog and Winston and head out into the dawn for a walk. Summer had finally arrived to our sub-arctic mosquito swamp so it is lovely – and we walk through the parks down to the river and back into the neighbourhood to do some hills. Winston is happy in the stroller playing with his toes and blowing raspberries at any passing joggers, Fan is happy sniffing the air and running through the long grass, and I am contentedly deluding myself that this walk is going to help firm up my stomach and tighten my ass. Best of all though is that when we get back home, the house is still dark and quiet….I can have coffee, read the paper, eat breakfast and absently poke yoghurt into Winston’s mouth in relative peace and quiet.
No histrionic Topher, no husband banging through cupboards looking for what is right in front of his nose, no mother-in-law singing out inane non sequiturs, no father-in-law standing about in his socks, waiting for someone to notice he is hungry so the food can magically appear in front of him…. just Winston and I munching and slurping away. And for all this, this getting up early, enjoying the fresh air, a peaceful breakfast alone, I get an added bonus….everyone thinks I am a saint. A martyr. A gasp – good mother! Genius. Now I just need to figure out what my party trick is going to be this January when it is minus 30 outside…..
Friday, June 12, 2009
Here I go....
The boys are both asleep, the husband is out with friends, the in-laws are safely tucked away in their basement suite, and I am taking a moment to renew an acquaintance with a long-ago friend - writing.
I have survived a week of career frustration, night battles over bedtime with a tenacious 3 year old, early pre-dawn mornings nursing a baby, meal preparation, laundry, grocery shopping, cuddling, reassuring, soothing, and fulfilling others. Now I need to find my own voice, my own pulse, my own skin.
Now where on earth did I put them?
I have survived a week of career frustration, night battles over bedtime with a tenacious 3 year old, early pre-dawn mornings nursing a baby, meal preparation, laundry, grocery shopping, cuddling, reassuring, soothing, and fulfilling others. Now I need to find my own voice, my own pulse, my own skin.
Now where on earth did I put them?
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