Pockets of Time

I'm sitting here typing this from my phone as my netbook takes forever to start. This ongoing battle with my netbook spurred a discussion yesterday with another parent about trying to function within little pockets of time.

You see, it is not exclusively because I'm used to operating on my iPhone and so all other modes of technology seem snail paced. It is that when I only have fifteen minutes to check my work email because L is watching the one show I allow her watch a day and C is rolling around playing, then I can't lose five minutes to a reboot, motherfreakin' java update, ultimate windows explorer fail followed by Google Chrome being unresponsive. (Don't even tell me I should switch to a Mac! Because I really want an iPad but I'm not sure I can work off of one full time.)

But the bigger question is, why can't I-we-lose those five minutes? Is it instant gratification withdrawal? I don't think so. I think it is the parent in us.

Most of us are accustomed to taking super fast showers, peeing with the door half open, eating while standing, and cooking meals that we prepped during a precious pocket of time.

Those pockets of time need to be capitalized on! They cannot be wasted waiting for my netbook to wake up and not god or anyone can save my partner if he forgot to plug it in overnight to charge after staying up too late watching "YouTube".

Pockets of time must have been the motivator behind text messaging. Ever try to have a conversation on the phone while your child naps or plays? Exactly. Nothing says "I need mama/daddy" like a phone. But a text? I can take all day to respond to that!

And in my case, I work from home with only sporadic day care. i I need to be able to reply to a dozen emails in less time them it takes for the end credits to roll on Dinosaur Train or Sid the Science Kid. I need to fit an hour's work into the twenty minutes I have while C naps and L paints a picture. Because ultimately, the email has to wait. As parents, we are all too aware of the horrors that emerge if someone's sugar crashes mid-spreadsheet update. We have experienced the mid-project update interruption from an early nap wake up.

And we'd rather be hanging out with our kids. So these pockets of time become precious and when they are taken away by technology failures it is destructive to our entire plan! It feels like an insurmountable obstacle that makes me want to hurl my netbook across the room and cry.

So I guess the one benefit of the reboot nightmare is that I can fully and completely relate to my one and three year old. And if you are wondering why I don't spend pockets of time on myself, it is because last week when trying to workout on the Wii, C rolled over and bit my toe-just for fun.

A google image search is never as innocent as you claim.

So I sat down tonight to finish my conference presentation. One of two. I thought I'd start with the less formal one, the more personal one. Every night for the last week I've tried to finish it but seven gazillion programs needed to update on the laptop and the netbook and the router was slow and Mark was looking yummy so there was always a distraction.
Tonight started out well enough, no tech issues save a concern about the "quality" of images that was going to pop up given my search terms which included "Wonder Woman tied up" But I digress. I was almost done when poof an image came up, (not of Wonder Woman) and it reminded me of something and bang!!! I was a sobbing blurry eyed mess who ended up curled in a ball around her baby. I was caught off-guard, thinking I had closed the door on any regrets or questions. But seeing a picture of that damn book cover, one we read every night together for months, the girls and I. I felt walloped by what they had-we had-I had missed out on. I doubt it makes much of a difference to L right now. And I'm equally sure if I bring it up to R she too would cry. But I won't being it up and I wouldn't go hug them in their sleep because I don't want to make them sad. I'm not that kind of mama.
And seriously, ultimately I was being very self involved. I couldn't talk to Mark about it as he is not my therapist and while I did spit out the basics of what was making me cry he couldn't have understood how deeply I was aching. I suspect he thought I was reading sad stories online or lamenting not being allowed to have another baby.
The irony is, reading a sad story, linked to by Glennon at Momastery who is just, wow-made me snap out of it. There I was sobbing over my big girls having prepared so well for so long for the homebirth that never was, while someone else was mourning the one year loss of her son. Seriously, I was breathing in the warm milky breath of my baby with two sleeping healthy girls in the other room and I had the nerve to turn into an emotional wreck because we didn't get to have a home birth with the big sisters present?!??!! Studying Midwifery can really screw with your mind and your priorities. Hmmm, I wonder if I can use that as my presentation title?
Also, watch out for those google image searches!

My Daughter, to the Core

When R was born everyone said she looked like Mark. Except both sets of grandparents. But that is another story.
From an anthropological perspective children generally look like their father at birth-it's reassuring I suppose.

R is now six and probably has fairly equal characteristics from both of us. Physical characteristics that is. Her personality is very similar to mine. So much so that even though she is only six; we have talked about how we will fight when she's a bit older because of it. But we will forgive each other easily and love each other deeply because of it. Mark also tells me he can see me in her when she's interrupted while reading or annoyed about something, that the look in her eyes is all mine. We share quite a few interests and maybe too many personality traits from being a complete mess if we are hungry, to hating the humidity but also our love to talk, eat, and read. And her big smile, that's me too!

But a classic example of how R and I are alike occurred today: R and L were taking a cooking class. They had just sat down after standing in a slow moving hand-washing line of 16 kids. A boy at another table was playing with a toy car. He overshot and it went flying landing underneath the table we were at. His mother looked at my girls expecting them to get it. Neither one moved. I was holding a squirmy Baby C so I wasn't going to budge either. The mom got up to walk over and she moved slowly still thinking one of my girls would get it especially after her son asked R to get it. The look in R's face basically said this "Are you freaking kidding me?! I'm not going to crawl under the table in this skirt and get my hands dirty. Hands that I just freaking stood in line -forever-to wash. Because you decided playing cars when we are here to cook, was a good idea. Seriously. And why can't you get it anyway? Or at least ask. Though my response is going to be to ask you if you're new."

And yes, she conveyed this all with a look. I know she did because not only is it exactly what I was thinking-except with a different f word in mind and maybe leading with the 'are you new?' -but she turned to me and gave me this all knowing smile.

That's my kid and we are so going to fight when she's older but at least I'll know exactly what she's thinking!

Are your kids like you? In looks or attitude? Does it make it easier or harder?

Taking a moment

For a brief moment today I started to feel pressed for time. It was a bit of a surprise to me, this feeling that has been absent since I finished my last course in school back in December. During the school term I felt pressed for time constantly. Mark was on full time parent duty two or three days a week while he worked more then full time hours. And I had to do all the full time mama stuff while balancing two very intense courses and growing a baby. It would be an understatement to say that I felt like I was barely getting by. I don't think I spoke to a single non-school friend; and I struggled to find time to get everything I wanted to do done. And ended up learning to just get what I had to done!

So this afternoon as the long weekend started to draw to an end I was caught off guard at my feelings of frustration. I was trying to look for work online; I was checking my calendar for class registration info; I still needed to finish editing a paper and finally start an intimidating reading list for a certificate I am hoping to pursue. But Baby C had other ideas. Her next set of teeth are coming through and she is in a lot of pain. I can tell because her little mouth is pulled so tightly and she's biting everything! L and R wanted to tell me about everything they were doing or thinking and Mark was getting some much needed gardening done. I wanted my time!

But as I stroked my baby's hair,applied ointment to L's latest scraped knee and listened to R rave about how nice daddy had been to let her go swimming again making it the best holiday Monday ever!!- I knew that it wasn't resentment for not being able to find time that I was feeling. It was in fact, resentment for needing to do all of those things that were crowding out my enjoyment of my girls.

And so I give you three magical mama moments that I was truly blessed to have experienced this weekend:

I want to cherish forever that moment when Baby C startled in her sleep, eyes flying open and then a soft smile lit up her face when she saw I was still there and she settled into sleep again. All the while I listened to my big girls laugh and chase each other outside playing the most non-sensical games.

I want to never ever forget the pure bliss I experienced waking up from a rare Sunday afternoon nap with two girls still asleep wrapped around me, my biggest girl reading at my feet-her long legs resting in mine, and Mark squeezed into the last few spare inches in the bed also reading.

I want to remember splashing in the pool with Mark holding Baby C;R and L squealing with laughter as we chased each other in the water with squeaky spray toys. And their cheers of encouragement as I swam without a flotation device to the ladder in the deep end.

The long weekend is over and I have all week to try to get to my to-do list. But more importantly I am truly blessed to have all week to spend with my girls because Mark goes to work for us. I am a lucky lady!

We didn't buy a zoo but it feels like we're packing for a move there!

I'm hoping to take my girls to the zoo tomorrow. 

Three things need to happen:my oldest child needs to fall asleep NOW; my youngest child has to promise not to try to kill me before/during/after the car ride (note to self:cut baby'sfingernails first thing in morning)  and finally the temperature really has to top out at 25 degrees. It'd be fabulous if the highways were congestion free but even if we left at 3am that wouldn't happen.

To help ensure the sanity and fun factor, I’ve asked my youngest sister to come with us. 

She loves the zoo.  My girls love her.  And its really nice to have an extra pair ofhands and eyes when it comes to shuttling three darlings through bathroom and eating routines.

I suspect that I’m actually going to lose sleep over this.  I’m a planner and I have not adequately prepared for this day trip.  Last year, I sent myself a half-dozen text messages in the middle of the night reminding myself of what to take.  Too bad I didn’t save them!  Except now I have to add a few more items to account for Baby C.  On the other hand, we’ll have a stroller to dump all our stuff in. minimum I need:

• a half dozen diapers;a couple of diaper covers; wet wipes; and plastic bags

• two changes of clothes for the baby; and one for each of the big girls and myself

• Camillia for teething and a teether

• two dfferent doses of Tylenol for the big girls

• several water bottles

• nuts, dates, cereal bars, fruit, sandwiches, and juice boxes

• fully charged iPhone, because I can’t take my camera with me.  It's just too hard to balance a DSLR with Baby C in arms. And, I’m admittedly bored with the animal photos that we never print and just need a few of the girls for the memory book.
 You

 know, the one we never get around to making every summer but always plan on and then wish we had.

• A couple of receiving blankets which are the multi purpose superstars of my life

• And cash because the parking at the zoo is freaking expensive; I’ll definitely need
coffee;the car will probably require gas; and I will buy my girls a drumstick and ride on the merry-go-round



Did I mention we only plan on being out of the house for six hours?


How long does it take you take you to get out the door with your kids?  Do you take more or less stuff?  And do YOU like the zoo?

Summer Holiday Hooray!

"I love my family. Summer holiday hooray. " Thats what R wrote on our unofficial summer schedule on Tuesday. Since then she's popped up in the kitchen to consult the schedule, make suggestions for changes, discuss alternatives with her sister, and request permission to create a graph based on it so she can chart her activities. Yes, she truly is my child.

Despite all appearances to the contrary, we are hoping to have a very relaxed summer.

At the same time, I'm worried that my girls won't have a great summer. But honestly, that's only when I compare myself to other mamas-real or imagined. I worry that all the other kids out there going to fabulous day camps, travelling seaside, riding their bikes to raise money for a cause and visiting every tourist attraction in the GTA plus building a treehouse.

My girls get a mama who whipped up a science experiment at 7am, face painted them, and churned homemade balsamic strawberry ice cream!! And those exclamation points are theirs because those are the things we love to do together that don't always fit in the weekends. So could I do more? Sure. Would more be exhausting and so not us? Definitely.

And that's why the thing to keep in mind is that "great" is all about perspective. I don't spend the rest of the year comparing myself to other mamas -I might borrow or learn from them so I shouldn't now. And some of that learning is recognizing that I do a pretty good job and what I do fits us!

Mark asked me if it was going to be too much for me to entertain the girls all summer. My genuine answer was twofold. One, we aren't raising kids who need to be entertained all summer And two, I'm quite possibly more excited than R that she's home for two months. In her words, " I love my family. Summer holiday hooray!"

How do you plan on spending the summer?

My Breastfeeding Story aka My Battle With My Boobs

Off the top (ha!), I will say, that I’m not here to judge.  Every mama does what is best for her and her baby when it comes to filling that baby’s belly so he or she can grow strong and healthy.  And I empathize with that paralyzing feeling of guilt that you are possibly making the wrong decision, regardless of what that is.  And it’s a pretty awful way to start out mamahood, second guessing your choice of milk and worrying about it.  But I’m not writing about that (today).  Instead, I’m going to tell you about my battle with my boobs.

Stories about breastfeeding are much like birth stories.  You generally only hear the horrible ones along the lines of “my baby wouldn’t latch properly and screamed at me and I nursed until my nipples were cracked and bleeding”.  And when I was pregnant for the first time, I heard a lot of those stories, often accompanied by some small piece of ridiculous advice or presumption such as: you should vigorously rub your nipples with a washcloth to get them ready; you have darker pigmentation so it won’t bother you.  Well, the first is a bad idea simply because vigorous nipple stimulation releases oxytocin which can start labour.  And the second bit, is based on science but I am here to tell you did not ring true.

Throughout my pregnancy with R, I kept waiting for the giant pregnancy boobs.  I bought a soft bra in a bigger size to grow into; I wore tight t-shirts and asked my partner if my boobs looked bigger.  I did not.  They did not.  This was a true physiological sign that something was going to go amiss with breastfeeding.  No one caught it.

The fact that I was ripped off the gigantic pregnancy boobs was actually not the first sign that breastfeeding, or rather milk supply, was going to be a problem.  The first sign would have been that I have PCOS (polycystic ovarian syndrome).  But neither my GP, who is awesome, nor my midwife, who is awesome, nor my naturopath recognized this potential barrier.  None of them caught the lack of big boobs as a sign, and certainly none of them mentioned that my bottoming out iron was going to be a problem for milk supply.  (Low iron had other concerns that were addressed).

Shortly after her birth, R latched with no problems.  She pretty much stayed there for the better part of six months.  I kid you not.  The first 48 hours, she nursed in my arms contentedly sucking up all the immune system building colostrum I could give her.  We nursed sitting up and lying down.  But her third night, she got hungry.  And then she got angry.  And Mark and I felt hopeless.  R latched and wouldn’t let go, she sucked away for about twelve hours straight until our midwife came for a home visit and squeezed my breast and re-positioned her and counted wet diapers.  I was reassured that my milk would come in soon and that my baby was getting what she needed.  I found that very hard to believe given the yells that would come forth when the milk did not.  I cried.  Mark held me.  He couldn’t hold R because she would just get angrier and then be harder to settle down.  My parents wanted to visit again and when they did my mother got angry with me for something and my father made me feel guilty about it.  So, yeah, not helpful.  Mark’s older kids were with us that night and feeling displaced so he had to spend time with them and all I could do was lie on our bed, tears streaming down my face as I desperately massaged my breasts and murmured to my baby girl. This would become an all too familiar routine.  That night, the fourth night, my milk came in.  I knew it came in, because I woke up to R gulping away.  I was flooded with relief and spent the night staring at my beautiful baby girl who drank with wide eyes looking up at me. 

But R and I would have a tougher than expected breastfeeding road.  She was a lazy nurser.  I say that with love, affection, and humour (now.  Not so funny then).  She would nurse for less than ten minutes and fall asleep. When she woke up, she’d do the same thing on the other side.  I tried rubbing her head and her feet.  At some point, more desperate measures were recommended in order to ensure she was taking in enough milk, and I had to rub her with a cool, wet washcloth.  She didn’t like that.  My nipples cracked.  My nipples bled.  My nipples healed.  I called La Leche League for advice, grateful that I had had the foresight to attend a meeting while pregnant so I at least knew the lovely woman I was speaking to.  I called my midwife who came to visit.  R was gaining weight slowly but steadily and she was a long baby so she looked like a scrawny monkey.  Gradually her cheeks got fuller and her body a little plumper. 

But at just over three months old, she hit the expected growth spurt and became angry baby again.  She was attached to my nipple all the time.  All.The.Time.  Mark and I were already used to the fact that she was in my arms all the time and that wasn’t really a problem for me.  I was on maternity leave and she was my only baby.  But at three months it was different, and when I went to pump milk to give Mark a chance to feed our baby, I ended up with plugged ducts and full blown mastitis. 

Mastitis is a breast infection.  It is horrifyingly painful to nurse through it and worse to not nurse through it.  Your skin burns and swells on your breasts.  Touch is excruciating.  Cold shivers and hot flashes set in as does a fever, the shakes, and fatigue.  This is not the medical textbook definition I’m providing you with, it is what I experienced.  All while my baby would struggle against my breasts, flailing in my arms, and not settle no matter what I did, forcing me to change position, walk around, and cry – a lot.  I spent several days completely topless with her in the baby wrap trying to nurse upright from a rocking chair.  I sought the attention of a very sensitive massage therapist  who managed to  help ease some of the pressure and start the fluids moving and draining. 

When I recovered from that I realized that I had very little milk coming in at one time.  After months of only nursing for five to ten minutes at a time, my body was only producing enough milk for five to ten minute spurts.  Except now R was starving and wanted to nurse much longer.  This was compounded by the low iron, the hormone imbalances from my PCOS;and the three month postpartum hormone (mal)adjustments and so I ended up on a prescription for Domperidone that I took for over a year because every time I tried to wean myself off of it, my milk supply would go down.  Now, I have no scientific proof, but I am pretty sure that my horrifying weight gain once I went on the ‘scrip can be mostly attributed to it.

Before I started the prescription, which was offered various suggestions on how to increase my supply.  Primarily, to lie down skin-to-skin with my little girl, increase my fluid intake, and decrease my non-mama duties.  I took this advice happily.  I tried breast massage before every nursing session and hand pumping as my daughter nursed. I was advised to drink fenugreek tea.  It started leaking out of my pores and I reeked.  I mean, I sincerely stunk.  I couldn’t cope with it.  It was bad enough to be going through massive hormone upheaval, to feel desperate to feed my child, but to smell awful too – and my partner could not disagree – was horrifying to me.  At the time, midwives in Ontario could not write a prescription for Domperidone, and the Jack Newman clinic was too far away for me to reasonably get there, so I consulted my GP who provided me with a prescription but not a ton of advice on consequences and how to build up and wean off the pills.

The time that passed between getting the Domperidone and my milk supply increasing seemed like months.  I couldn’t go anywhere or be near anyone. I felt like I was failing my child.  I felt that somehow because I wasn’t producing enough milk for her; I wasn’t being a good enough mama.  I missed my cousin’s wedding because I just couldn’t bear to be around people while my child cried and wanted to nurse.  People like my parents who would have wanted to hold her and “comfort” her resulting in a more irate and now frightened baby as evidenced by every single visit when they would take her out of my arms and walk away and she would scream.

R and I went on to have a very successful breastfeeding relationship.  One might venture to say, an overly successful one as when I wanted to wean her, I couldn’t.  And when we did, at 2.5years old it was because I was crying with pain from sensitive nipples as I was pregnant with L.  R wasn’t getting any milk anymore at that point, it was just comfort.  And I wanted to at least preserve some of the good memories of breastfeeding.  We did.  I have a lot of good memories and I have a strong, beautiful, smart six year old girl who still sleeps with the soft pillow I used to tuck under my head when lying down to nurse her.  It was a long trip, both ways, but well worth it.

The Rise and Fall of the School Routine. Is it summer yet?

R is an awesome kid.  She loves her sisters (and us!).  She loves to read.  She loves school.  But she is not a morning person (like both her parents), and has a hard time falling asleep at night (despite a screen-free, sugar –free, relaxed bedtime routine).  R has always needed a plan.  From as young as two, we would lie in bed and determine what our plan for the day was going to be.  So it’s somewhat surprising to me that she has become such a layabout in the mornings and completely scatterbrained after school.

Two weeks before school started in August, we started waking up, getting dressed, having breakfast and walking to/from school.  One week before school we started doing the same thing, but at a school-appropriate time.  It was a slow build to get into a good routine where no one was crying from hunger, frustration or fatigue at the end of the day but we did it.  Christmas break was a small blip.  Baby C’s birth another one, and March break a bigger blip.  But we always managed to rebound.  Until now.

Disaster struck once it started to stay full light well past 8pm.  We hung black curtains in their room.  We closed the door to prevent the light from the hallway coming in.   L still had boundless energy and was keeping her big sister awake so we tried separate  bedtimes, but that lead to tears.  So we started taking walks after dinner; that backfired as it lead to a second wind for both of them and a longer more drawn out getting for bed routine with mandatory showers as opposed to baths after school.  We are sticking strong to an 8pm bedtime but often R is awake until almost 9pm.  (Later if we allow some extra reading time for her because our sympathy as night owls kicks in.)  With the later and later falling asleep time, comes the harder to wake up R.  And when I do get her awake, she is grumpy. 

Lately, the routine has started to crumble:  Alarm goes off, I call into R’s room.  I gently pull sheet off her, I cajole and then firmly peel her out of bed.  She wanders around like she is suffering from a slight hangover and comes to me with a barrette but no comb, with hairspray but no pony-o.  This goes one for a while.   While I ensure the two other girls are ready to go downstairs, she is supposed to finish her upstairs routine.  But when I check in on her silently, she is usually sitting half dressed on her bedroom floor reading a book.  Am I the only parent on the planet that has to tell her kid to stop reading?  Probably.  I proceed with my morning and eventually R makes an appearance in the kitchen, sometimes with a prompt.  She then notices that she hasn’t packed her snacks and is very sweet, sincere, and apologetic about it and gets started on that, taking up to ten minutes to actually get a yogurt from the fridge into her lunch bag.  I just don’t have it in me to send her to school without a snack because she forgot or to let her go with messy hair.  But, at this point we’ve moved to “Fine, be late, lollygag if you must but you are still walking to school not driving.” 

I'm not going to stress out about it, or stress her out about it.  I grew up in a household where more often than not you went to school having cried.  I'm talking daily.  And while we all know that my mother thinks I'm the child from hell, I have very distinct memories of her yelling at my youngest sister every morning before school too. So it wasn't just me.  And while I've been know to raise my voice on more than one occasion, I generally keep things quiet and efficient in the morning with room or flexibility because I don't ever want to send my daughter to school all wound up from a stressful morning. 

Some of the ways we do this is that after many chats, Mark and I have a very distinct set of chores we need to get done by 6am.  Some of it may seem like catering to our girls i.e., setting the table for breakfast, but they are only just 3 and 6.  Also, if we don't get around to it, they will do it and will just as easily empty the dishwasher.  Having it done already, just makes things go smoother. I'm not making excuses for their age - they both have a lot of responsibility every morning and evening.  Things they need to do to get themselves ready and to help me out not the least of which is getting themselves ready, and getting their own cereal.  I also wake up much earlier than I would like in order to be dressed, and have caffeine in my system before the two older girls wake up.  But these are the things that need to happen to keep things as low stress for my girls as I can.  I really, really, really, don't want any of us to get upset in the morning and while I can't control every variable, and there are mornings when I lose my temper, or one of them loses theirs, or things just fall apart, the good mornings, the mornings where we listen to music, do "knee ups" while the eggs are cooking, R makes me breakfast, L runs around dancing, and baby C sits in her chair laughing far outweigh the hard ones.  

Three more weeks of school until we can take a break from the routine.  But come mid-August, I need a new plan on how to convince my child that she needs to get all her stuff done before she picks up a book to read or stops to play with her sisters from September all the way to the end of June.  I’ll ask for advice in the summer but for now, I want to know:  Do your kids fall off the school routine bandwagon?  Were they never on it?  Do they stick to for the duration?

Three Girls and a Budget

Last week Mark had a co-worker do a complete double-take when he found out that we have three kids and Mark has two older kids as well.  “Wow!  And your partner doesn’t work?  My wife and I can barely afford our one child.  She’s an investment banker and I pull in three figures.  But you, wow, five kids!?!?! ”  I’m paraphrasing here as I obviously wasn’t at the conversation; his wife could very well be a teacher not an investment banker and he might barely make over 100K.  Either way, they make more money than we do.  Which is important for my point here:  it’s all about the lifestyle decisions.

But before we get started, let's quickly cover two glaring issues. One, I do work, as a mama at home full time, as a student midwife, and as a consultant whenever I can.  Two, obviously, if all five of the kids lived in the same house it would be cheaper, and I'd have a much happier Mark.  And I could - and probably will - write about both things at some point.  But back to our budget choices:


We moved out of the sketchy part of a cool neighbourhood in downtown Toronto to buy a house in the suburbs.  Not a big house.  Not even a real house according to Annette Benning’s character in American Beauty, as well as my mother-in-law and Mark’s aunt.  But the price tag on the house was about half of a place in our old ‘hood.  Do we miss being able to walk to St.Lawrence Market, a movie theatres, brunch spots, work, university…you know, everywhere?  Sure.  Do we lament that our mortgage is the same as most people’s rent?  Not so much.  Or, at all.

We buy our furniture from Ikea.  Sure, unique pieces, or you know, furniture we don’t have to assemble and then tighten bi-annually with an allen key, would be fabulous.

We have a Wii Fit (courtesy of Optimum points), a front yard, a pool (came with the house), two parks in the ‘hood, bikes, jump ropes, hula hoops, and second hand skates.  And we walk to and from school.  By this I mean, our girls aren’t registered for multiple teams and lessons to get their 60 minutes of activity a day.  Yes, I’d love for R to play soccer and L to take gymnastics but it really wasn’t in the budget this year.  And at three, L has no idea what she’s missing out on.  R feels it a little bit, for about five minutes whenever a classmate mentions their soccer team.  But that’s five minutes a week so she’ll live.

I believe the saying is “Go big or go home.”  So we do just that for birthdays.  R just had a birthday and we spent about $50 on food (homemade sliders, homemade chocolate cupcakes, watermelon and lemonade), decorations, and craft supplies.  Her friends ran around the yard playing tag, drew on the sidewalk, painted pots, and planted seeds.  Mark’s aforementioned coworker spend 10x that much on his child’s party.

We don’t take vacations.  At least not very often. Mark had stipulated that I had to pay for any vacations we took.  So I basically drank and cooked my way Montreal as the tickets were purchased using Air Miles earned primarily at the LCBO and less so at Metro.  Our hotel was on the last of our Aeroplan and was not a boutique hotel.  We didn’t pay the upgrade to first class.  We didn’t go for three-course fondue which our girls would have loved.  We didn’t take the carriage ride through Vieux Montreal.  We didn’t eat at Garde Manger which broke all of our hearts.  We didn’t get room service, or movies (that’s what the laptop was for). We didn’t even get the cute Canadiens jersey in pink (And by we, I mean, “me” on this one.).

We don’t buy organic and I can’t support the little guy.  This is probably the most contentious thing I’m saying.  And I’m not suggesting that the health of my girls is worth less than anything else.  Their physical and emotional well-being is our number one priority.  But organic milk is more than twice the price of regular milk.  Organic beef, lamb, or chicken is triple the cost.  And the research, the actual academic research, does not support the need for me to spend exorbitant amounts of money on small amounts of food that isn’t regulated to the high standards it needs to be.  So we buy our groceries from No Frills and Costco. 

We are not solid examples of how to budget well, we try, but we have some weak spots :

I turn the air conditioning on as soon as the thermostat hits 30 outside.  It’s an indulgence but it keeps me from acting crazy so win-win.

My girls and I spend a portion of our grocery budget at the farmers’ market twice a month from May to October.  Doesn’t seem harmful except we normally eat everything we bought by Monday morning.  Hence, we only go every other week, or our food bill would double.

We buy R brand name, sturdy kids shoes because they have to get through two other sets of feet.  But all three girls generally sport the latest in Joe Fresh, Old Navy, and whatever brand Costco is carrying because we don’t buy very many pieces and after weekly washing, and given different body types(not style/fashion) not all of the clothes are going to survive the duration.

We have cable and Netflix.  I am the first to agree that cable is extremely hard to justify EXCEPT that I negotiated with the provider and our cable bill is – wait for it - $10/month.  When that deal expires so does our cable.  And in the interim, our girls still don’t know we have cable and therefore watch very little actual TV.  Food shows, Justice League, and Avengers excepted of course.  Netflix, personally I think is a bit of a waste of coin in my opinion but as Mark points out we don’t go to the cinema, or concerts, or shows, or the bar so…yeah.

You get the point.  Money is tight.  But you make your choices.  We like food so we spend a bit more money on groceries.  We like to spend time with our friends so we invite them over for food, we cook and they bring the wine.  Also, we accept gifts of wine or any hard spirit for random occasions such as Simcoe Day, Labour Day, the day after any family get together…

What do you “give up” to save money and where do you “spurlge”?

That Kid at the Party

If this feels a bit rant-y, it’s purely unintentional.  Just another random observation in the life of a suburban mama.

We recently went to a toddler’s birthday party.  We had fun.  Our girls had fun. Our hosts were the epitome of gracious, funny, laid back, and patient.  Wow, were they ever patient especially in the presence of "that kid".  

Let's first quickly review who "that kid" could be:

-sulky kid who makes everyone miserable

-boisterous/distruptive school ager who jumps on and off your furniture rampaging through your house

-snobby kid who doesn't want to play or interact with the host's kids

-center of the universe kid who is generally appalled when the host doesn't think so too

-hippie young kid with no sense of rules or boundaries

-needy kid who has to constantly interact with adult host or generally needs to get their own way

The last example was at the party we went to.  And I mean, seriously, had it been me, I would have at minimum rolled my eyes, or pretended not to hear.  Well, let’s be honest, had it been me, I wouldn’t have allowed an eight (ten?) year old neighbour to attend without her parents.  Because as I said, it was a toddler’s birthday party which translates to lots of doting relatives, and friends of the parents and their kids.  None of our host’s kids are the age of the needy kid in question.  Obviously the party's hosts are much, much nicer than me  - and no, I'm not being sarcastic, they really are.  But, I’ll describe the sitch that would have had me white knuckling the chair while tersely smiling and you think about what you would do:

Girl:  Someone stole my shoe can you help me find it?

Host: Wow!  That’s crazy.  It’s gotta be out there honey.  (While feeding birthday girl, making introductions, and assessing the rain versus bouncy castle situation).

Girl:  But I need my shoe.  Someone stole it.  Can you get it? Maybe everyone should come in because it’s raining.  I’ll go get them.

Host:  No, the castle is covered, they’ll be fine. (Still feeding birthday girl, offering drinks to adult guests, and engaging in other conversations).

Girl:  Well can you help me climb back into the castle then?

(Me, silently:  Seriously?!!!?  Seriously?! Where are your parents?!)

Later on:

Girl:  I think the baby is ready for cake.  Can you cut the cake?

Host:  It’s still frozen honey; we need to wait ten minutes.

Girl:  Well, what time is it?  I have to go home at 6:30pm.

Host:  We could try to cut the cake but it probably won’t work.  Why don’t you go play and I’ll call everyone when it’s ready?

Girl:  Awwwwwww.  Pleeeeeaseee?  You should cut the cake now.

(At which point, I interject mentioning how the it will just be frustrating for everyone if we try to cut a frozen solid ice cream cake before it’s ready.  I am totally ignored by girl.  No offense taken as she really wasn’t talking to me. )

Host:  I’m happy to send a piece home for you and your sister if you miss the cake cutting.

Someone else:  Where is your sister?

Girl:  She’s at home with the babysitter.

(Me, silently:  And there you have it!)

When finally cake cutting time arrives, Girl plants herself directly beside the birthday girl and despite repeated very pleasant requests with explanation, continues to interfere with the highly anticipated, photographed, recorded, cupcake smashing and exploration.  I’m willing to bet money there are several photos that are going to have to be cropped to keep this non-relative out of the family pics. 

If that had been me, two things would  have happened.  One, I would have staged an earlier in the day cupcake smashing to capture on film.  And two, I would have physically removed that kid from the general vicinity.  I’d like to think I would have assigned her some knd of responsibility like handing out napkins or something bt I doubt it.  I would have just seen red at someone interfering in my kid’s birthday cake and...oh  wait, had it been me, that kid probably would have been sulking in a corner from my letting her know she was being a pain in the butt from earlier in the evening.  And that folks is why I’m never going to be the favourite mama amongst my girls’ friends.  I’ll be their favourite mama – most of the time – and that’s totally fine with me. 

Ok, but here’s the thing.  How do I keep my girls from becoming THAT girl?  R is super helpful and used to adults treating her as the more responsible kid of the group.  But as most 4-6 year olds (and older?) she becomes fixated on things and pouty when she doesn’t get her way.  Neither of which is tolerated here so hopefully that helps.  Let’s be totally clear.  R is a gracious guest, plays well with others, mostly uses her manners, and cleans up after herself.  I just honestly don’t think the girl at the party had any idea she was being a pain in the butt and that her opinion on when the cake should be cut wasn’t wanted or more accurately, wasn’t needed.  

Ultimately, I just felt badly for her.  The girl has a younger sister, a nice mom whom I've met, dad is around, grandmother who is lovely.  But clearly, she was either feeling needy or used to getting her own way or both; and her time limit was stressing her out. Also, being eight or so, she had no idea her ants and needs were imposing on the host.  But isn't that why your parent should be there?  This wasn't the party of a peer, she was out of place at the party through no fault of her own. And I've seen this happen to R when she was four and more introverted.  We were at a big gathering of families that were all new to her so I stuck close and we kept our attendance short.

Mark and I have been to other parties with lots of kids ranging in age in attendance and there you will find either the sulky teenagers or the dramatic ones who feel like they are your peer and dominate all of the conversations.  I’m talking about the older tween/barely teen contingent.  We’ve also encountered kids in that group who play with our girls and we wish lived closer to babysit, or who smilel politely whenever they look up from the book they are reading or show they are watching not on full blast.  Fingers crossed – my girls end up in the latter groupings.  I’m just wondering if there is any way to ensure that?  Other than of course, to be present at family oriented parties with them and not bring them to the parties of our peers unless they are specifically invited.

Other thoughts or suggestions?  Have you ever encountered "that kid" at one of your own parties?  Which type?  (We've encountered a few!) Whaddya do? 

Must we talk about that magazine cover again?

Last week I decided that I was NOT going to write about the Times Magazine cover.  You know the one, with the 4 year old kid in camo pants standing on a chair to breastfeed.  The reason I wasn’t going to write about it was because neither did the magazine.  The Time article is about Dr.Sears and attachment parenting of which extended breastfeeding can be a part of.  So why give more virtual ink to a cover (im)purely created to expose a breast and sell magazines, stir up controversy and sell magazines, use misdirection and sell magazines?   After all,  I thought that the Huff post did an excellent job critiquing the cover:  http://www.huffingtonpost.com/lisa-belkin/no-i-am-not-mom-enough_b_1507550.html  But I wouldn’t have started a blog if I was content to let other people do all the talking and writing, albeit more eloquently that I.

I’ll say upfront that my initial reaction was that it was pretty awesome to have a breastfeeding mama on the cover of any non-parenting magazine.  And I have no personal objections to the appearance of the mama on the cover.  Though I know some pretty stunning mama’s and I’m sure any one of us are just as cover worthy!

My issue with the cover wasn’t of the photograph but the blaring, hugely inaccurate and downright rude headlining question “Are you mom enough?” 

To which my response is: “Are you new?!?!”  Seriously, how “new” do you have to be to dare to ask that question of any mama? 

Simply  getting out of bed every morning to provide your child with everything – that’s EVERYTHING-he or she needs to thrive physically, emotionally, and socially in this world  is being “Mom enough”  All of this, ALL OF THIS while braving the intrusions of those who do not have you and your child’s best interests, when they voice their opinion on breastfeeding is being “Mom enough”.  Especially if you manage to hold back and not punch that stranger in the face for feeling like you needed yet another unsolicited opinion.  

Did I breastfeed my girls until past the age of two?  Absolutely.  Was it completely my choice or did my toddlers bully me into it?  Absolutely.  Do I think that makes me more of a mama than my mama friends who didn’t breastfeed at all?  Not on your life.  Do I think that makes me less of a mom than my mama friends who breastfed their babies longer?  Not on your life.

Whether you adhere to attachment parenting or not.  Whether you believe it takes a village to raise a child or not.  Whether you have an ever supporting partner like I do or not.  Breastfeeding is a very personal choice because its a personal commitment that is made easier by "public" support regardless or where you land on the decision. But the bigger personal commitment is the one to do everything you can to make sure your baby knows how much you love them from the time they are born and beyond.  Being “mom enough” doesn’t mean letting your child climb up on a chair to breastfeed.  It means being able to crouch down and give them a hug whenever they – or you- need it.

Mama's Day

The always provocative Julie Cole over on the Mablehood asked “What don’t you want or Mother’s Day this year?”  And I can say quite honestly:

I don’t want Mark to cook lunch or dinner for me.  Mark is an expert weekend brunch maker.   But any other meal, and he lives up to my moniker for him “The half-naked, fully angry chef”.  Enough said really.  I like to cook.  In fact I love to cook.  So if I could get a free pass to Whole Foods and time to cook a lovely meal for all of us, that would pretty much be perfection.  I do, however, have a baby who likes to nurse constantly, and a pool in the backyard I’ve been begging Mark to open.  So, raw oysters on the half-shell with freezer cold vodka on Saturday night will more than suffice as a gift from Mark.  And many, many, hugs, smiles, and kisses from my girls on Sunday with whatever they want to make me for breakfast would be fabulous.  (And I’m not presuming.  I heard my girls whispering about making me breakfast.)

I don’t want a spa day for two reasons.  One, that much time alone makes me antsy, I get anxious about my girls, and I start to think of the other things I could be doing.  And two, the spa treatments I need are not relaxing nor soothing.  They involve ripping hair off my body and trying to find a soft layer of skin on the bottom of my feet.  Ugh.

I don’t want jewellery for Mother’s Day because I think it’s just odd for my partner to thank me for having babies I wanted to have and worse yet for my girls to think they need to “pay” me with expensive gifts for the pleasure of being their mama. 

Which segues perfectly into what I wanted to write about. 

In the past, I’ve noticed that Mother’s Day seems to be a day to give mom a break from the kids; and Father’s Day is all about getting Dad to spend more time with the kids. This message seems to be very loudly broadcast this year by women.  Maybe it’s because I’m more tuned in to social networks now then ever, but there seems to be a plethora of women writing about Mother’s Day and how they both want that extra time to sleep-in but even an hour is fine; the ability to go to the bathroom uninterrupted or at least with the door closed; appreciation/acknowledgement from their partner; and time to themselves. 

I'm not a martyr, not by a long shot, and I'd love a little bit of all of those things, but not this Sunday.   Because I'd miss my girls and Mark.  After all, if it wasn’t for the cooperative –and fun-participation of Mark and the very presence of my three girls, I wouldn’t be a Mama.  So why would I want to celebrate Mother’s Day without them?  R, L, and baby C are...well, they are awesome! Baby C’s gummy silent laugh; little L’s devilish grin; and R’s sweet smile are the things that get me out of bed in the morning, because they energize me.  Sure, I want to bury my head under the pillow when it’s a Saturday and only 6:30am.  But I spent 10 months, three separate times, eagerly waiting to meet my girls, taking the best care of myself ever, and now devoting all of that time and energy into taking care of them.  And I lose a lot of sleep regretting not being more patient or a better mama in general with my lovely girls..So the idea of not getting to spend Mother’s Day with them beaming smiles at me and showering me with drawings and handmade trinkets (L and I spent yesterday morning making paper flowers for her to give me so that she wouldn’t feel one-up’d by her big sister), makes me more sad that I can say.  They want to make me breakfast.  They want to hold my hand and say my name every 90 seconds to tell me something only the six and under crowd would feel compelled to tell you immediately!  And I want to be there for it.  Too many children don't have mamas and too many mamas don't have children they can spend any Sunday with.  I am truly blessed to have children, and without them not only would I not have anything to celebrate this coming Sunday; my life would be less of a celebration .

So for Mother’s Day this year, I want to be a better Mama – to R, L and baby C.  I want to have more patience and less frustration.  I want to continue to listen to their made up stories and songs.  To continue to play with them and cook for them and take them for walks.  I want to appreciate every single hug and kiss and smile.  My girls are the light of my life and I want them to know it.

Oh, and for the record, Mark can feel free to purchase jewellery for me at any other time.  Though preferably not hand it to me carelessly and say “It was really cheap as the store was closing.”  Which is how it went the last time he bought me a necklace. Seriously.

A Mama’s Cooking Challenge

Right now, I’m in the process of reading Medium Raw by Anthony Bourdain.  In it, he has a chapter  where he postulates that every kid should be taught basic cooking skills and he’s not talking KD or hotdogs.  Rather, there is a list of kitchen skills he feels everyone should be able to do, most of which you should be able to accomplish by the time you are 18 and headed out of the nest:  chop an onion and generally possess basic knife skills including how to sharpen a knife; grill a steak properly; cook a roast to perfect temperature without a thermometer; roast a chicken perfectly; survey, buy, and prepare in season vegetables (having successfully distinguished raw from ripe from rotten); make the perfect omelette; filet a fish; cook a lobster or a pot of mussels; make a pot of rice.

I couldn’t do any of these things by the time I was 18.  I spent a lot of time in my parents’ kitchen, doing homework, or hanging out with my dad while he ate dinner.  But I didn’t do more than bake cookies or banana bread until I was 18 and then was only to make variations on pasta primavera when my mother wasn’t home.  My mother didn’t believe in shopping for a particular meal.  She only had two or three cookbooks that were 20 years old before I was 20.  You had to cook what was in the house and there was an overlying threat of “finishing it all” because even if it was a failure or tasted amazing you’d “wasted” food by cooking something different. But my mother didn’t enjoy cooking, she despised grocery shopping, and food was functional.

As a mama, my goal is to guarantee that my girls can do all of the skills Bourdain lists and hopefully more, enthusiastically.  I’m fairly certain they will enjoy cooking for more than a means of survival.  Already, one or both of R and L will with regularity ask if they can help me in the kitchen – and not just when I’m making chocolate cake.  They peel garlic, shred herbs, dip thin slices of aubergine into cornstarch/flour, eggs, and breadcrumbs.  They mix masa into tortilla dough and ground meat into hamburger patties.  They can, without any prompting pull out all of the ingredients for a basic cake. From the age of two, R would flip through my cookbooks, and list off ingredients she could see in a photo.  I would tell her what we had, and she would then tell me what we could make from it.  L’s approach is to tell me we need to go grocery shopping to buy the items she needs to make whatever food she happens to be craving.  Grocery shopping is a family field trip and can only be improved by the opening of the farmers markets in the spring.  R has been known to fake being sick on Friday mornings only to magically recover in time to go buy lunch at the local farmers market.  She’s in kindergarten so I let it slide.  Mark suggests that given my love of food, I’d let it slide anyway.

When  I mentioned the list to my girls, they asked me to read it to them and wanted to know what they could start practicing. So I figure we are already half-way there.  Frankly, I can’t wait until they are old enough to pass on some of the more menial prep cook tasks to!  For now, they are spending hours pouring over the cooking class schedule from Loblaws and Whole Foods.  Personally, I’m thinking I need to just conduct these classes out of my own kitchen for some extra cash.  What do you think?  Mini goddess cooking classes, my place, this summer?

The cooking show

Yesterday, L hollers from the living room where baby C is lying beside her, “Mama, come quick!”  I dash into the living room assuming a minor baby sister vs.little big sister crisis “What’s up?” I ask.  “Chuck is on! Sit down with me! Ummm, yumm, he’s making creamed spinach, I like spinach!”  That’d be Chuck Hughes, from Chuck’s Day Off, and a Montreal restaurant we tried to go to last spring but it was closed much to the heartbreak of my five year old.  So if Chuck ever reads this, perhaps, he can give us a call, and let us know what the hours are so I can bring my escargot eating, French-rack of lamb-requesting, gianduja cake-making children for dinner.  When I relayed this anecdote to my partner, he wasn't particularly surprised; nor was he surprised when I told him R had also watched Chuck and now wants me to make her a tempura runny egg.

This situation is not unusual in our house.  My girls and I are constantly watching one or the other of our favourite food shows and then recreating the meals.  It's been this way since I was pregnant with R and had a few weeks off work before I gave birth.  I’d watch cooking shows, walk to the market and buy the ingredient for one or more dishes I’d just seen made and go home and cook.  Rather than stop, this “habit” grew when I became a mama. Because all of a sudden, I didn’t just have a hungry audience (Mark) , I had a rapt audience member (R).  I recently confessed to my girls that I often pretend I’m hosting a cooking show while I’m cooking.  And as a mama of girls that love to help me cook or bake and enjoy food as much as I do, they completely understand. Well, that, and they are 3 and almost 6, so pretending to cook for a panel of judges or an audience, comes naturally to them.  But, I digress. 

So, yes, I have a running narrative mostly in my head but often out loud, as I prep and cook.  I rarely cook anything fancy anymore and based on my presentation alone never mind my rule breaking) I would definitely be told to “please pack my knives and go.”  But, here, in my home, I am a top chef mama.  My girls will try anything once.  Often more than once.  They have been my prep cooks since they could pull the leaves off a sprig of rosemary.  They are highly opinionated on what should be eaten with what; they live for the farmer’s market and grocery shopping in general, and have been known to eat a lunch of artisan bread dipped in olive oil, aged balsamic vinegar and a hunk of stinky cheese just as easily as they slurp up pasta puntanesca, dig into tongue curry, lentils, and basmati rice, or chow down on lamb burgers with a boursin centre topped with a tomato confit.  Don’t get me wrong, there are days they start randomly picking carmelized onions out of their dish, and take grimacing sips of roasted red pepper-tomato soup.  But unlike a top chef, I don’t have to take the criticism, and here at home, the judges can pack their plates and starve or hunker down and eat it.

Who do you cook for?  

Home birth at it's best: The story of L's birth three years ago

It was about this time (8:40pm) three years ago that my water broke all over my bed.  I was watching an episode of The Wire with Mark.  R was hanging out with her aunt in the other room watching a movie on the laptop and playing with the new fairy sticker book Mark had bought her just for this very day.  It was L’s due date and I’d been having some mild contractions throughout the early evening.  I’d called my sister and Mark before their work day ended to let them know, that despite the odds (of having a baby on their estimated due date) it seemed like I was about to go into early labour. 

My sister came by and Mark came home with fresh fruit and fruit juices as per my request.  I gave my midwife the heads up but she didn’t seem overly committed – given that my labour with R had been 36 hours, there was no rush especially considering I didn’t feel like I was in labour.  I played with R, I puttered, I ate dinner, I showered, I settled in for a night of TV on DVD watching and warm kisses with Mark.  And then I was hit with a pretty big contraction and started to climb off the bed to work through it and my water broke all over the bed.  The bed I had not yet made up with the double layers of bed sheets and plastic sheets for our planned home birth.  We paged Chris our midwife again and she said she’d head over to see where things were.  Mark filled the birthing tub and I drank some juice, talked to R to let her know we were definitely having the baby soon and climbed into the tub. 

Getting into the birthing tub was such a blissful experience for me.  During my labour with R, we didn’t have one and the only place I’d found any relief or comfort had been in the shower but that had still not been great.  Climbing into a pool of warm water provided me with a cocoon of heat and safety.  I genuinely felt like I’d managed to carve out a safe and private space for my labour.  The birth pool was set up in our living room, there were two soft lit lamps on, a music mix playing on low on my iPod, and not a clock in sight.  (I had unconsciously created an environment the exact opposite of my labour with R.)  R came running through the house to pour some water on me, rub my back, and then ran back to hang out with her aunt.  Her aunt who wanted to stay as far away as possible from the whole “birth thing” as she put it.  Being present for someone else’s labour is clearly not for everyone but my sister is the best aunt one could ask for and it was very generous of her to be there given her feelings on my nudity, blood etc.

My midwife and her student arrived shortly and set up all of their things and wanted to check me.  I reluctantly got out of the tub and let them do so, asking spontaneously that they not tell me how far along I was.  R came back to the living room where we’d covered our couches and floor with old but clean sheets and towels, and fed me ice chips.  After dealing with my midwife and the student being horrified we didn’t have a pile of postpartum supplies in a special box (I swear they were obsessed over the fact I didn’t have 8 receiving blankets and a baby hat in the living room but still in the closet about 12feet away- our old place being small.)  I climbed back into the birth tub and moaned “open” out loud, rocking in the water on all fours for what can only be described as bum labour.  With R, I had twisting cramping, rolling never fully ending contractions.  But this time, everything was happening in behind and it was actually something I could cope with, work through, and quite honestly, wasn’t too bothered about.  Mark poured warm water on my back, wiped a cool cloth on face, fed me juice and ice chips.  He was an incredible birth partner.  I don’t know how he managed to do all of that in a way that made it seem like it was happening simultaneously and in exactly the way I needed it to. 

Just before 10pm Chris asked me to come out of the pool so she could check me again.  She wanted to know if it would be okay for the student to check afterwards.  I didn’t want to get out of the tub but if I had to, I didn’t mind the student checking as well.  So I lay down on the couch, Chris told me I was at around 8cm and then I got hit with a wave of contractions and I told her and the student to get out of my way and that I needed to stand up to work through them.  It seemed so much harder and faster.  I started to panic.  I was standing and Mark was holding me, and the student was encouraging me to climb back into the birthing tub because I was screaming that I thought I had to go to the bathroom, and that I didn’t know what was going on and R was in the room and started to cry so my sister took her away.  And then I felt a burning sensation.  I put my hand between my legs and much to my surprise…I felt a head!  I had gone from “about 8cm” to baby crowning in the time it took me to stand up and take a few steps.  The panic and screaming had only been about 90 seconds long as I went through transition.  I really wish my midwife had explained this to me; however she wasn’t in the room and it happened insanely fast. Knowing this, being able to explain it to myself, helped me focus. I was flooded with relief and everything became crystal clear.  “Mark!  That’s her head!  That’s our baby’s head!”  I said excitedly.  I happily (yes, happily!) called for R to come back, promising her that I was okay, that our mini monkey two was coming right now. Meanwhile, baby’s head was descending rapidly, my midwife was across the room still on the phone with the backup whom she had been telling I was at 8cm not that I was actually giving birth!  I now had two hands on the head and was laughing from the very pleasant sensations of birthing.  I wouldn’t necessarily go so far as to call it an orgasmic birth; but it was tickling!  R was watching from the arms of my sister, both wide-eyed, for different reasons.  Mark was holding me as I stood. Encouraging me and later he would admit to thinking he was going to have to drop fast to catch our baby because he didn’t think Chris was going to walk over to us in time.  But she did and knelt in front of us and said seriously and rapidly that I was going to have to do some movement as the shoulders were sticky.  “Ok!  What do you need me to do?”  I asked and in an instant I had one leg propped on the couch and out came baby L.  I honestly don’t think Chris thought I’d be able to move that fast into such a position.  I went from 8cm at 10pm to holding my baby at 10:08pm. 

I sat down on the couch as our baby was placed on me.  They couldn’t actually bring our baby all the way up to my breast because the cord was so short.  R was right beside me at this point and as she had wanted, she got to tell me that the baby was a girl.  Mark told me that R just kept checking on me and when he asked what she was doing she said “Waiting to see the placenta come out too.”  Eventually it did and it took a while – they had to remind me to focus on pushing and massaged my uterus too.  But I was so enthralled with our new baby, I didn’t pay too much attention.  I did see the placenta which we kept in and actually not only froze but moved with us to our new place for burial.

Mark dressed little L in the clothes R had picked out for her.  We had a shot of bourbon.  We impatiently waited in bed, where we’d relocated after my shower, for the midwives to leave.  It seemed to take forever when all we wanted to do was lock the door and go to sleep.  R climbed into bed beside L despite the fact that her own bed was actually attached to our bed, she wouldn’t leave her baby sister.  And in the morning when she woke up and found that Mark had moved her, she climbed right back over him and put her arm protectively, lovingly, and gently around little L and it has pretty much been there ever since either literally or figuratively – and I hope it’s always there. 

While I truly believe any birth that results in a wonderful new addition to the family is the perfect birth; I will admit that little L’s birth was about as midwifery home birth perfect as one could hope for.  

I locked myself in my car yesterday and it wasn't for some "me" time.

When baby C was born I started picking R up from school 30 minutes before the end of the school day.  This allowed me to pull up to the front of the  school, grab her and go.  It meant  I didn’t have to wrestle baby C out of her car seat, into the carrier and then navigate L through crazed parental parking attempts.  After March break we returned to regular pick-up time as we started walking instead of driving with C cozily nursing or sleeping in the carrier and L bouncing all the way there and back.  

But it was cold yesterday so we drove and parked in a prime spot.  It was quite early and C was starting to fuss at a low but ever increasing rumble.  So, I climbed into the back seat to nurse her and tell stories to L.  I obviously turned the car off and closed the door. After settling baby C back into her car seat I opened the door to go get R (who’s classroom was directly in front of my parked car, so I could see the parked car at all times.)  

Oh, wait, scratch that – I attempted to open the door but it wouldn’t open.  I clicked on the button on my key fob and pulled on the handle again.  “Ok, breathe.”  I thought.  :Just lean forward and press the unlock button from the driver’s door.”  I yanked,  I swore under my breath.  By this time, L could sense something was wrong and inquired as to why I was still in the car.  Panic actually started to set in.  It got worse when I turned to look at the back of the car (it’s a cross-over, to help with imagery) to see if that provided a way out, and dropped my phone.  Now remember also, the windows are up fully and tinted so even if panic overtook me and I started yelling and banging on them, at full dismissal time, parents and kids are trying to get home and not looking for a crazy mama who locked herself in her own car.  I realized I was going to have to climb into the front seat.  Now, while I am short, I am not small.  I am also the opposite of graceful and agile.  So while the exit strategy may seem obvious to you, it required me to:

a)stop panicking

b)grab the booster seat I’d tossed in the front and put it in the very back

c)unlock C’s baby seat and slide it towards me

d)climb over the base of C’s seat and between the two front seats (narrow space!)without getting tangled in the gear shift, front mirror etc.

e)explain my crazy antics to L

ALL while keeping my outstretched, stretchy jeans from falling off my ass that I was in grave danger of landing on!

Go ahead, you can pee yourself laughing now.

Needless to say, the first thing I did once free from the car, was re-set the back door locks from "child-lock" to standard. (Just on R's side because she would never try to open it without explicit permission)

Have you ever found yourself trapped in an odd location? Has a child-safety feature ever trapped or foiled you to this extreme?

Children's Books, Part 1

I have 17 minutes to write this before I go to bed.  Coincidentally I was inspired by a recent episode of Up All Night where “the Fonz” guest stars as one of the main character’s Dad.  He plays a role, where if you grew up during a certain time you will recognize as a parody of Ezra Jack Keats, children’s author and illustrator.

When I was six, I got my first public library card and I was very impressed with myself for knowing where to find books by Ezra Jack Keats; my favourite one, was A Letter to Amy.  But I’m sure I was introduced to him at school via the librarian reading us “A Snowy Day”.  It was the beautiful water colours that I enjoyed and on some level, the fact that the main characters were not white.  While I was not African-American, nor was I growing up in New York, I was drawn to the brown- skinned characters and their urban “adventures”.   Adventures such as going for a walk in the first big snow; learning to whistle, mailing a party invitation to a crush. I never realized how much of an imprint these books left on me until I was pregnant with my first daughter, and I bought her Keats’ Neighbourhood as a present.  I read them to her while she was in the belly and when she was just a baby.  Now, she reads them to herself and her sisters.

There are so many other books I’ve passed on to her that I grew up loving (I will definitely write more about).  But I think the Keats’ books meant so much to me because picture books – of a high quality – were rare things to own.  I had dozens of books as a very young child, but the illustrations were of varying quality, and they were typically fairy tales.  Not like the dozens,- close to a hundred- picture books my girls have by award winning authors Mo Willems, Emily Gravett, Oliver Jeffers, and Canadians Melanie Watt and Jeremy Tankard to name just a few.  These books are hilarious, cheeky, and smart.  Many of them have  a direct appeal to the grown-ups reading them – from Scaredy Squirrel’s neurosis to Willems’ Knuffle Bunny Free epilogue bringing my partner and I to tears it so obviously written for the parents.   It’s easy to find and buy children’s picture books now. And, I confess that we go to the bookstore more than the library, but we do go there – to borrow fiction and non; books by familiar authors and new ones; books that are older and books that are brand new.  But be it at the store or in the library, I’ve yet to come across a collection that speaks to me the way the Keat’s books did.  And they really did speak to me and I spoke back.  Because in this very vivid memory I have of my first visit to the public library (I could retrace that path exactly if I had to), I remember talking to myself and the books as I chose them.  I wonder if my girls will have a memory of a children’s picture book like that?

Did you grow up with picture books that had and continue to have a special place in your heart?  Who are your current favourite children’s authors?

Birth Centres Come to Ontario

I woke up at 5am this morning.  Not unusual for a mama of a newborn; ironically, baby C was sound asleep.  This actually worked to my advantage as I dragged myself out of bed, and proceeded to try to make myself relatively presentable for the public.  I have a love-hate relationship with having my photo taken.  I pretty much hate it unless I can “art direct” it or delete it.  Oh, and I prefer if you only take my photo from the boobs up, preferably after I’ve been to the salon and spa.  But with a mere twelve hours notice, “the public” was going to be lucky if I didn’t have spit-up in my hair.  Not that I want to further promote that stereotypical image of a new mama, just that my baby is quite fond of projectile spit ups whether I burp her or not.  It’s just a fact.  

So up at 5am, makeup on, a slapped together outfit that was not photo—worthy (But the only thing I can manage given the weather and the four piles of laundry still to be done as my resident laundry-doer aka partner extraordinaire Mark, has been in bed horribly ill since Friday night and I’ve been the sole source of entertainment, rule-enforcement, household duties, and nourishment of both body and soul)  my three girls dressed in matching black outfits, baby nursed, promises of takeout breakfast made, school lunch and bag packed for R, and out the door we headed.  

We arrived on campus just before 8am and thankfully snagged a parking spot right in front of the building.  I was warmly welcomed by our first midwife who caught R and L(barely, but that’s another birth story), at St.Mike’s and at home respectively. The director of our program and several members of the AOM greeted us enthusiastically as well.  It was odd being told that my trek to the event was heroic.  I had figured, I was going to be up anyway! And really, if you are going to talk-the-talk, then walk-the-walk.  Or in my case, drive through rush hour traffic with three girls under the age of six, and to show your support for other mamas and their midwives, and love every minute of it!

I was one of three from my cohort of midwifery students, though there are many others there, and one of maybe eight or ten mamas with baby-in-arms.  Our photo was taken repeatedly and all I can think about that now is not "wow, I should google us and see if we made it onto any major media outlet" but rather "holy crap, I was sweating so profusely under the press lights, my pants were falling down, my shirt was riding up, and my hair was inflating – what a picture that is going to make."  Oh, and if we did end up on TV, that’s me just to Mr.McGuinty’s right, nursing my baby while she’s in a sling.  So, that would officially make it so that not just everyone I know will have seen my breasts, but possibly hundreds I don't know.

One of the things I noticed while there was that various people kept ushering us closer to the front because “make a good picture.”  I’m sure it’s meant as flattering, and I really don’t mind, but I wonder what that means.  Is it because my girls have bright smiles, and are matching outfits with their baby sister in untraditional black?  Is it because I’m both midwifery student and midwifery client?  Or is it because I’m brown?  And frankly, I suspect it’s a combination of all three with an emphasis on the latter.  Midwifery clients in Ontario tend to fall into one of two categories:  upper middle class and white or non-white and so new to the province they don’t have a health card yet but can still receive free care from a midwife.  I am neither, my girls are varying shades of butterscotch, and yes, we look pretty damn cute.  And so if our "look" unintentionally broadened the image of a midwifery client, than I'm okay with that too.

  

I gave two interviews supporting birth centres – a long and hard fought victory for women in Ontario. If I'd had time to clear my foggy brain a bit, I probably would have been able to speak to how the road to achieving a commitment to fund birth centres was very similar to my mini-adventure getting from the 905 to downtown TO at rush hour with three girls:  an alarm going off, stumbling through the darkness, waking up fully, thankful for the prep and planning the night before, working hard to maintain a sunny disposition despite obstacles including but not limited to a lack of support and limited vision, illuminating my path with headlights, and then ultimately a warm welcome into a room of familiar faces and unfamiliar ones all smiling at me and my babies. But, I'm not that articulate on the spot. And instead said something along the lines of this : While I myself, don’t need one, I think of women who live in extended family situations or tiny apartments with no space for a birthing tub, or who simply need the security of a more official space that is not medicalized, perfunctionary and oozing illness the way a hospital does.  I’m hoping to be one of the privileged midwives to work at one in a few years.  


I’m not sure if we’ll end up on any of the news reports of press clippings, it’s been my experience that the media tends to choose one family to focus on and the baby that Premier McGuinty was holding up in the air, or the family of six kids probably “trumped” us but I’m not a media hound and so I don’t particularly care either way.  I went to show my solidarity and support for midwives, birth centres, and the women, babies, and families that will benefit from this great step.    


And yes, it was also pretty cool to write “press conference with the Premier and the Health Minister Deb Matthews” on my five-year old’s late slip under “reason”. 

Here's baby C, looking exhausted after all that time maintaining her image in front of the media, as a reminder of why it is so important to support midwives and mothers: healthy babies

Here's the link to the official release:http://www.ontariomidwives.ca/press-releases/page/midwives-welcome-opportunity-to-lead-new-birth-centres-in-ontario

What do you think of birth centres coming to Ontario?  Would you have used one/would you use one?