Confessions of a Terrible Mother

Tags

anger, breakdowns, five year old, parenting, stress

Dear Owl,

I’m sorry. I’m sorry that I am not the mother you deserve. I’m sorry that I’m not the mother I thought I would be, or that I think I could be, if maybe things were a little different.

I’m sorry that when I’m stressed, I revert to old patterns probably set in my childhood – I talk to you as if you are an adult. I treat you as if you an adult – a belligerent, unreasonable, whiny little adult.

You are not an adult, you are a child. But when I am stressed, I don’t see you that way.

And so, today happened:

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Thank You, 2015

Tags

depression, family, life, maternity leave, new years, parenthood, parents, pregnancy

I have mixed feelings about the passing of 2015.

Some parts of 2015 really sucked. My husband nearly killed himself, I ended up heavily pregnant, with a bacterial infection, working and caring for our four year old who also had a bacterial infection, while he was stuck in the hospital and unable to help.

My father broke his hip and overall has deteriorated markedly in his health.

My relationship with my son deteriorated, as my capacity to tolerate his extroverted highjinks hit a new low.

I spent a significant amount of this year coughing, exhausted, diabetic, extremely stressed, half-expecting to become a widow at any moment, researching the potential cost of burying my husband, and wearing Depends because I kept wetting myself.

On the other hand…

This year also brought me the generosity and love of the friends and relations who came streaming in to help during these difficult times. There were friends who picked Owl up at daycare when I was stuck at the hospital, and friends who brought Chinese food so that I wouldn’t have to cook, or took Owl for play dates so I could nap.

There was my mother in law, who is terrified of flying and financially limited, flying in TWICE to spend a grand total of three months sleeping on our couch, just to help.

On the first visit she made me diabetes-friendly meals and arranged snacks for me at a time when I was working and exhausted and could never have kept up the dietary management that was expected of me on my own. She put my son to bed at night and made him breakfast in the morning, she read to him and joked with him and brought some humor and pleasantry to a home that was seething in stress.

On her return she cooked and cleaned, entertained Owl and then held the baby so I could shower, get dressed, eat meals, and spend some quality time with my son.

And in between those visits, my parents flew in for four months. They took money from their nest egg to rent a place nearby, and my mother drove back and forth making meals and snacks, cleaning, and reading Owl bedtime stories.

Not only did it bring me much needed aid, but I got to spend time with my father while he still knows who I am.

And this year brought me Fritter, who made a safe landing on the shores of time and gave us the gift of a colic-free fourth trimester. She brings me joy every day with her grins and chortles, and I wouldn’t change a thing about her.

And with all of those months of support from our family, PH was able to retreat and rest and begin healing. While he is still very ill, I have seen more of the old Perfect Husband in the last three months than I have in the past two years. There are mornings when I come downstairs to find breakfast laid out for me, afternoons when he greets me at the door to take my coat and offer me a drink, and evenings when he rubs my feet and offers to run me a bath.

Whenever he has a good day, I feel like I could suffer another two years just for a chance at more days like that.

I feel like I could kiss 2015 for bringing me even one day like that, let alone as many as I have been gifted with these last few months.

2015 also brought me maternity leave, which I love because I am a lazy slob. I love being home with my baby and watching The Walking Dead or writing during her naps. It’s way better than working. I’m sad that there are only a few more months left. I have a lot of writing to get down in that time.

Yes, over all I am very grateful to 2015. I feel like it got handed a terrible set of cards but it played them all right.

2015 for me was a year of defeat and renewal, of family and love.

We survived it, and maybe it has made us stronger.

If 2016 can keep up with this upward trend, I think I can look forward to the coming year.

And if it can’t… well… Bring it, 2016.

Incredibly Belated Halloween Awesomeness

Tags

baby, costumes, Hallowe'en, skeleton

Sorry I have been so absent. Life is actually going fine, it’s just… full… and the blog has fallen lower down on the priority list. But I miss it so I’m catching up.

Look! Cute Halloween pictures!

Owl wanted to be a skeleton. Well, actually, at first he insisted on a cute Dia de Los Muertos dress costume with a pink frilly skirt (you know how he loves those).

I eventually caved to the demands with reluctance, not because it was a girl’s costume but because it was still three weeks until Hallowe’en and he has all of the focus and determination of a light autumn breeze.

I kept the receipt.

Sure enough, two weeks later he spotted a green skeleton costume and immediately changed his mind.

I was annoyed but also relieved, because the girl’s costume had me concerned – he was supposed to wear his costume to school for the Hallowe’en parade and I didn’t want to expose him to misogynistic kids teasing him for wearing a girl costume.

I found a skeleton costume for the baby and I turned a kid’s skeleton t-shirt into a cover for the ergo and cuteness ensued.

Five

Tags

first day of school, five year old, growing up

Owl turned five last Tuesday. It was also his first day of school.

 Sounds like a big day, doesn’t it?

Except that his first day of school was barely 30 minutes long, and he had both of his parents in the room the whole time because apparently these days kids are eased into kindergarten at pace that can only be called geological.

His “first day of school” involved going to school, entering a classroom that wouldn’t even be HIS classroom, meeting a teacher that wouldn’t even be HIS teacher,  and listening to a story while Perfect Husband and I found his name on a list and signed up for a time for his “meet and greet” with his teacher the next day – a 15 minute time slot which would constitute his ONLY time at school for the next TWO DAYS.

I spent the rest of the day spoiling Owl heavily. It was basically a “yes” day. Anything he wanted to do, we did.

That included a long walk, a game of SET Junior, a game of pretend-restaurant, and baking cupcakes while babywearing.

It was exhausting. But he had a good day.

His birthday party was Sunday.

Last year’s party had been simple and had worked well, so we planned to duplicate it. I emailed the lady in charge of our complex’s party room bookings and reserved the room. The morning of his party I went to pick up the keys from her mailbox, but they weren’t there. I rang her doorbell and she looked surprised to see me.

“I thought I put them in the mailbox,” she said as her three year old peered out from behind her.

“Nothing in there,” I said. She reached behind the door and produced the keys.

“Sorry about that,” she said, handing them over. I thanked her and headed over to the room so we could start setting up.

But the party room was already set up. Beautifully. There were pink table clothes laid out on the tables, chairs neatly set in front of paper plate table settings, a big HAPPY BIRTHDAY sign on the wall, and quotes from the Mad Hatter’s tea party scattered around, written on paper tea pots.

Huh.

“Why is that stuff there?” asked Owl.

“I… don’t know…” I said. After a quick consultation with PH, I decided to go back to the key-lady.

“Hi,” I said to her when she opened the door again. “This sounds weird, but do you know why the room is already set up for a little girl’s birthday?”

The lady covered her mouth. “Oh my God…” she pulled out her phone and started scrolling frantically. “Oh my GOD…. I double booked it… I told you it was available Sunday but I meant to say Saturday… Oh MY GOD…”

She picked up her phone and called the other set of people. “What time is your event?”

At the same time as ours, it turned out.

I said we could have the party outside and that their kids were welcome to come out and join us.

By the time all of this was worked out, there wasn’t much time for setting up decorations outside. Our earliest arriving guests ended up hanging balloons for us.

 But with all of that, the kids had fun. They bounced in the bouncy castle, they chased each other on the playground, and after the cake, we went in to the pool and I let them all swarm me in a slightly-frightening, Lord of the Flies kind of way.

So now I present to you – my five year old.

He is rambunctious, but kind.

He loves his baby sister.

He loves to learn new things, and while he likes for me to read Roald Dahl or Mrs Piggle Wiggle to him, or to listen to my made-up stories about Rude Ronnie, Fraidy Freddie and other kids with behaviour problems, I can already see a preference growing for non-fiction books.

He likes to have the facts straight. “But actually,” is a common phrase as he corrects the tiniest of semantic details.

He loves to watch his father and I play video games like Spore, Minecraft and Super Mario Galaxy.

He’s a gamer who loves board games and picks up new games with ease.

He loves connect the dots, mazes, and other sorts of puzzles.

He loves other people, and doesn’t always understand how to react when they don’t embrace his company with the same enthusiasm.

He doesn’t understand “wanting to be alone for a while”.

He loves to swim, and is slowly improving through repeated lessons.

He has trouble sitting still, and treats all objects including other people like pieces of climbing equipment.

He is brimming with confidence. “But actually, Mom, I’m already a pretty good reader. But actually, Mom, I can probably do a rocket-ship under the water for FIVE SECONDS.”

I hope he keeps his confidence, and his kindness. I hope the keeps loving science but doesn’t lose his enjoyment of a good imaginary story.

I hope I can enjoy him for who he is without pushing him too hard to be someone he is not.

I hope I can help him be the best Owl he can be.

I hope that I’m doing an okay job.

I hope that it’s going to get even better.

Because my baby is gone. He has transformed into a school age kid, and I can’t believe it.

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Farewell to Four, or, F*** You, FOUR.

Tags

ages, four year old, kids, parenting, stages

I need to tell you something, and it’s hard to admit.

As a disclaimer, I want you to know that I love being a parent IN GENERAL. I loved Owl’s babyhood, I enjoyed his toddlerhood, and until recently I never once regretted his growth and change into a bigger and ever-more-complex-and-complete person.

Note the “until recently” part.

I have not enjoyed age Four.

On Our Own

So, our inlaws flew home at the end of July, and we’ve been hacking it on our own for the first time since January.

That’s right. We haven’t had to be proper, full fledged adults in EIGHT MONTHS.

I’ve forgotten how I did it all – how did I get dishes washed and Owl’s face wiped and keep him entertained ALL ON MY OWN?

Luckily, PH’s mood is more stable these days. He’s still struggling, but he’s further from the edge. He has a bit of energy – enough to get Owl his breakfast in the morning and help him into bed at night, and sometimes help out during the day either with laundry/tidying/dishes or simply taking our extrovert out of the house. Of course, he still thinks that he isn’t doing enough but compared to what he was able to do eight months ago, I consider this level of help freaking miraculous.

Besides, we’ve organized a bit of help for ourselves.

Last week we put Owl in a preparing for kindergarten camp which took him from 9 am until 3 pm every day, which was fantastic.

This week we could only find a gymnastics camp from 1-3 pm, so that’s where he is.

It’s wearing us out, but we’re managing.

PH deals with Owl in the morning and lets me sleep until Fritter wakes up between 8 and 9 am. Then I get up, shower, dress, have a diet pepsi, put Fritter in a carrier and her and Owl out on a looooong dog walk with Beloved Dog. Sometimes Fritter falls asleep on the long walk and so when we get home I can do some dishes and clean a bit while she snoozes.

The biggest problem is not the baby, although she complicates things and fills my arms for the majority of the day. It’s TALKING TO OWL. He wants to talk all the time. He wants to move all the time. If I take him out of the house it’s not so bad, but in the house he wants to be bouncing or swinging or climbing within my personal space while saying “Mom? Volcanoes esplode lava, right mom? Lava is hot rocks. Mom? The rocks are hot. Right Mom? Hot rocks make lava. The lava is so hot. Mom? What if lava esploded IN YOUR HEAD?”
It’s exhausting to introverts like PH and me.

So we take him out places. 

  
On really good days, I can arrange to meet a friend for a playdate, and then I can stand around and cuddle my baby and watch Owl playing with his friend and it’s adorable and I feel happy.

  
On days like that, I have time to reflect on how lucky I am. I’m lucky that so many of my friends have boys about Owl’s age. I’m lucky that I live in such a beautiful place. I’m lucky that Vancouver hardly ever has rain in the summer and so I can take Owl outside because otherwise I don’t know what I would do.

  
I was lucky to have so much help for so long.

And I’m lucky to still have a husband who can take Owl for a couple of hours in the morning, and help him brush his teeth at night, and sometimes even clean the house while I’m out on a playdate.

We have each other.

So really, we’re not on our own at all.

In Which We Risk Medical Emergency/Financial Ruin To Meet Firefly Stars

Tags

Andy Runton, comicon, emerald city comicon, Firefly, Gina Torres, Jewel Staite, labour, Owly, pregnancy, seattle, star trek, travel

Everyone said we were crazy to do it, and we knew that they were right.

You do not travel two weeks away from your due date.

You especially do not travel close to your due date IN THE UNITED STATES.

The cost of American health care is infamous. BC radio is filled with Pacific Blue Cross commercials featuring John Cleese, in which he plays a greedy American (?) doctor called Nigel Bilkington who does x-rays on you just to make sure you have your wallet on you before you even receive care.

(Want to hear? I found one here.)

On the way to the border there are big signs reminding you that even a day trip can result in a broken bone and thousands of dollars of debt.

It’s important to remind Canadians of this because we take free health care for granted.

PH and I have cross-border insurance.

But no insurance will cover you if you wander into the states while totally full-term and end up having a baby there. I can’t even imagine what an emergency C-section or something would cost.

So why would we go?

We go to Emerald City Comicon in Seattle every year. It has become a family tradition. Every year we get a new family portrait with some geeky-famous person. The first year was George Takei.

The next year was Patrick Stewart.

My new favourite family photo

I didn’t get around to posting about it last year, but we went again and got our photos taken with Alan Tudyk, otherwise known as Wash from Firefly as well as about a million other characters.

He put his arm around me. It was awesome.

This year, Levar Burton was scheduled to be there, and I couldn’t miss my chance at getting a photo with Geordie LaForge/The Reading Rainbow guy.

So we bought tickets. I bought a maternity shirt that read “The Next Generation” right over my belly.

We also packed a hospital bag.

We figured that if we drove like hell, we could probably get back to the border within a couple of hours, and there was a hospital just across the border. All I had to do was hold the baby in ’til we got there.

Everyone told us it was a bad idea.

They were right.

Adults Ruin Everything

Tags

adults, child safety, easter egg hunt, fail, how not to do an easter egg hunt

Grown ups are no fun.

We have known this since we ourselves were children.

But it is sometimes impressive to see how great they are at ruining a fun time.

Take the Easter Egg hunt we went to today.

We thought a community Easter Egg Hunt sounded like a fun time, and since entry donations support a local woman’s shelter, we also thought it sounded like a good cause.

The place was packed. Swarming. We were a little surprised. PH had to drop us off and park a klick up the road.

I got Owl registered and we found our way to the section for ages 3-4. I thought it was smart of them to divide it by age group so that big kids wouldn’t be snatching from little babies.

When we got there I discovered that “hunt” was a bit of a misnomer. The playground area had been roped off and little bags of chocolate eggs were strewn willy nilly over every horizontal surface within the small boundaries. I realized it would be less of a hunt and more of a grab-what-you-can. Think of the Cornucopia Blood Bath in The Hunger Games.

I positioned Owl close to the ropes, handed him his basket, and quietly advised him that if he was having trouble getting any candy, he should head up the playground equipment because the kids would probably scramble for the stuff on the ground first.

They started the count down. 10… 9… 8…

When the count go down to “go!” something strange happened.

I had been expecting all the kids to rush in and mob the playground.

Instead, the adults standing around the edge all grabbed their kids’ hands and shuffled in, creating a solid wall that Owl couldn’t get past, and sweeping up all the candy like Roombas so there was nothing left for the kids behind them.

I directed Owl to dodge between a pair of adults and try to get in front so he could actually, you know, hunt for Easter eggs.

He disappeared beyond the wall of adult bodies.

The adults had zombie-shuffled across the entire field, and it was packed with adult and small child bodies. The playground equipment was in complete gridlock, with children wedged into every available space and practically overflowing around the edges. None of them were my son. None of the kids around the base of the equipment were mine. Nor could I see him around the edges of the play area.

Now, I don’t usually worry too much if I lose sight of Owl. I may suffer from anxiety, but I also trust my kid and for the most part I trust other people. Owl knows he’s not supposed to go out of my sight and he isn’t the type to completely disappear. He doesn’t leave the general play area without permission. So when I lose sight of him it’s usually because he’s behind something or under something and simply out of my sight line.

But in this densely packed environment, with adults and kids swarming everywhere, I could see how easy it would be for a child to get snatched.

Lord, Give Me The Patience To Answer Questions My Child Can’t Possibly Understand The Answers To…

Tags

child development, four year old, frustration, impatience, parenting, questions, science

Like many small children, I think, Owl is a little scientist, and I’m not handling it very well.

I’ve always looked forward to explaining things to my children. When I was just a teenager I made sure to know why the sky was blue and why water boiled, so that some day I could explain it to my kids.

But I always imagined my kids understanding the answer.

For years, Owl and I have experienced mutual frustration with my inability to deliver answers that he can understand. On the bright side, his questions these days are actually coherent most of the time. He no longer asks me what a tree is doing or why I am driving him to school.

Now his questions are actually VALID, but he still can’t understand THE GOD DAMN ANSWER.

That’s not his fault. He’s FOUR. He’s a bright kid. Some day he’ll probably be winning science awards. I’m sure that no one finds it more frustrating than he does. But it still doesn’t make it easy when I’m constantly being badgered for questions that I can’t answer.

He doesn’t just want to know IF he can have a sandwich. He wants to know WHY he can have a sandwich. He wants to understand the PSYCHOLOGY behind my willingness to acquiesce to his request. He doesn’t think that “because you said you were hungry and you asked for a sandwich and it’s lunch time and we have the ingredients to make sandwiches so I considered your request and decided it was reasonable” is sufficient FOR SOME REASON.

He doesn’t just want to know how to make his little McDonald’s toy car go. He wants to know WHY pressing the lever makes it go, and any attempt at explaining physics to him will simply result in a more pressing “WHY?”

Even if he could understand Newtonian physics, asking WHY physics works that way enters a realm of science that Nobel Prize winners have not been able to answer.

This morning, he asked a series of increasingly in-depth questions which basically led to him questioning the entire fabric existence of the world as we know it, and there was no answer I could give him that didn’t involve trying to explain quantum mechanics. A lot of the time I have to settle for “because that’s how things are.”

I’m beginning to wonder if things like religion and superstition weren’t invented by harried moms just trying to shut their kids up. It’s EXHAUSTING, especially when you get to the end of a very long discussion only to feel like it was entirely useless.

Here is a sample transcript from our drive home from daycare this evening:

Owl: Mom… why do my boots fall off when I put my feet down?

Me: Because they’re loose.

Owl: But why do they fall?

Me: Why do things fall, Owl?

Owl: Because of gravity?

Me: Right.

Owl: Why does gravity pull things down?

Me: Because that’s how gravity works.

Owl: But how does it work?

Me: I… you’ll understand more when you’re older. Very big things have gravity and pull things towards them.

Owl: Yeah. And the Earth is big so it has gravity!

Me: Right.

Owl: Why doesn’t SPACE have gravity? It’s big.

Me: I… because space isn’t a THING, honey, it’s empty, it’s the place that holds everything else. Things that are IN space have gravity, like planets and the moon.

Owl: And us.

Me: We’re too small to have gravity. Only very big things like planets have gravity.

Owl: Or like those streetlights.

Me: … No… the streetlights don’t have gravity. They’re small.

Owl: They’re bigger than US.

Me: Not big like the EARTH, Owl. Only VERY BIG THINGS have gravity.

Owl: And everything on the Earth is small?

Me: Right.

Owl: Why everything on the Earth is small?

Me: Everything on the Earth is SMALLER THAN THE EARTH, because otherwise it wouldn’t fit on the Earth. Size is relative, right? An elephant is big compared to us, but small compared to the Earth. We are big compared to an ant, but small compared to an elephant. That TREE is big compared to us but small compared to a skyscraper. Right?

Owl: Right. And the Earth is big compared to everything.

Me: No… The sun is bigger than the Earth, right?

Owl: Yeah.

Me: So the Earth is big compared to you and me, but small compared to the sun. The sun is small compared to a bigger star. Stars are small compared to a galaxy. Galaxies are small compared to the whole universe. RIGHT?

Owl: Right. Because space is big.

Me: Yes.

Owl: Even a whole CAR could fit in space.

Me: …Pardon?

Owl: A car. I said A CAR. A CAR could even fit in SPACE!

Me: A car?? Of COURSE a car could fit in space, EVERYTHING is… OH LOOK WE’RE HOME NOW.

And so I am exhausted and frustrated after a mere 5 minutes with my child. And the worst part is knowing that these are the conversations I always thought I would enjoy. I worry a lot, too, that my frequent simmering impatience is going to have a negative effect on his curiosity and self esteem.

I’m hoping that I will enjoy this more, when he actually understands that street lights and cars are smaller than the entire universe. I’m sure he will.

In the mean time, at least PH doesn’t mind this sort of thing. If he were well I think I would hand all child care responsibility to him until Owl developed the ability to understand basic science. As it is, I’m just going to have to find some way to fight my constant frustration.

Any tips?

Maybe I should just introduce him to God.

But then he’d probably want to know why God exists and how God was made and why God happened to make green that particular wavelength and…

TuTu Cool For School

Tags

boy, child development, clothing, feminine, feminism, gender, preschooler, three year old, tutu

Every parent I’ve spoken to agrees – the selection for girl clothes is way better than the selection for boy clothes. The girl section is always twice the size of the boy section, and full of adorable pea coats, polka dot dresses, and bluejeans with butterfly embroideries. Meanwhile, the boy section is full of grubby looking t-shirts covered in corporate characters like Batman and Ninja turtles.

I guess Owl agrees, because one day we were trying shorts on him in the store and he looked longingly over to a rack of pink tutus and said wistfully, “Someday… when I’m a girl… I’m going to wear that.”

PH and I exchanged looks. We looked at the price tag of the tutu. Seven dollars.

“We can get that if you want,” I said.

“No, but those are for girls.”

“Yes, they are,” I said. “But you can PRETEND you are a girl. I mean, you wear a fireman suit sometimes, but are you a really a fireman?”

“No! I’m a little boy!”

“Well, you can pretend to be a girl just like you pretend to be a fireman.”

“Okay! Let’s try it on!”

He has never been so excited about a piece of clothing. He carried it proudly to the cashier, and insisted on donning it the moment the transaction went through.

We were pretty amused, and took some pictures, and tried to cherish this moment while it lasted. We got seven dollars worth of cuteness just that night at Montana’s alone, where he did pirouettes for the admiring waitress.

That was months ago.

He STILL loves his tutu.

We won’t let him wear it to school, ostensibly because tutus are dress-up clothes, and it is no more appropriate to wear tutus to school than to show up in his shark costume. The real reason, though, is that there is a boy at his school who is a little punk and would tear him a new one. This charming child introduced words into his vocabulary like “dead” and “kill” and “gun”. The same kid also taught Owl that pink is for girls, among other things. Once I took him to school with his nails painted and he came home and said “Little Punk says that nail polish is FOR GIRLS.”

God knows what would happen if Owl showed up in a tutu.

We’re not just trying to protect Owl’s feelings – we don’t like things like that parroted at him and we’re not going to set up opportunities for him to receive a lecture in gender norms from some four year old peer.

Other than that, he can wear it pretty much anywhere. He wears it to the store and playing around our complex and out to the park. He wore it to a boy’s birthday party, using the logic that birthdays are a dress-up occasion. We couldn’t argue it and so he went. No one teased him. One larger boy did see and point, but Owl didn’t notice. The other three year olds didn’t even blink.

 

He was just another boy… in a tutu.

He even sleeps in it most nights. Last night he didn’t sleep with it, but he must have put it on first thing in the morning because he was wearing it when he crawled into bed with me this morning, saying “I’m pretty now, Mom! I’m VERY PRETTY.”

We don’t know if this is a phase or not. We used to think so, when he was a baby. It was his love of pretty dresses that turned me into a feminist. We thought he’d outgrow it once he understood about gender. Now we aren’t so sure. He spotted a doll in PH’s study and wanted red lips like her, so I came home to find him wearing lipstick.

For the most part, he seems all boy. He likes to pretend he’s a super hero who fights bad guys. He likes to shoot things, and destroy things, and he has the restless energy of a male child. But he really likes to do these things while wearing a pink tutu.

Maybe these are the sort of passing inclinations that all children have, and PH and I have seen more of it because we don’t discourage it. Maybe other boys admire tutus and their parents just nod and keep walking, which is what we almost did.

Or maybe he’s a cross dresser. Or maybe he’s a trans girl (although I don’t think so, his mind is still pretty masculine). Or maybe he’s gay. Or maybe he’s just Owl, an active boy in a tutu, like Puck in the performance of A Midsummer’s Night’s Dream that PH and I attended recently.

Will this be Owl in twenty years?

We don’t care.

Maybe he will grow out of this and then be humiliated by all of these photos of him in a tutu. If so, we’re going to have a word with him, and try to explain that admiring the feminine is not a shameful thing. If a girl can admire the masculine and play with tools, what’s wrong with a boy admiring the feminine and playing ballerina?

That’s the part that I don’t want him to outgrow. I want him to always know that it is okay to be whoever he wants to be.

As long as the Little Punks of the world don’t wreck it too much for him.