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.

Birth from the perspective of a midwifery student (conference presentation)

A month ago I had the honour of making a presentation at the Ontario Student Midwives Conference at Ryerson University.  As a midwifery student, currently on maternity leave, it was a great opportunity to reconnect with old friends, and meet in-person virtual friends.  It was also a tough place to be given the tenuous position I have as an actual student (more on that another time), and given my topic.  I had submitted two proposals and both were accepted.  One, was an editorial piece I've been working on for a while but a presentation I didn't actually get a chance to make due to a mini family crisis when my 3 year old dislocated her elbow! The other, was this piece below, one that I cried when writing but somehow managed to get through without crying.  Though, I made many of my fellow classmates tear up. Keep in mind, this was written to be spoken, and to be listened to for about ten minutes so it is long and the tone may be a little different from my "blog" writing.

Being a midwifery student is hard work.  Maybe harder then we thought it would be.  Maybe not.  Those of us who are mamas have so much to re-learn, how to see things from the other side, how not to interject every five minutes with “During my births…in my pregnancy…when I was breastfeeding’  and those who aren’t mamas have to learn that they are not at a disadvantage so stop feeling like that and move on!  I do remember, in my first year, during With Woman actually, thinking, how amazing it would be to have all of this information before having a baby.  To be able to tap into all of these extra resources, and wealth of knowledge.  Um, yeah, not so much.

As I was preparing to write this presentation I spoke (aka, Facebook’d) with a few mamas from the program.  They had vastly different experiences from me and from each other.  Planned home birth.  Planned hospital birth.  Things went according to plan.  They didn’t feel like they’d had any amount of pressure or expectations as an MEPer.  Maybe it was just me then? And then I read an amazing paper by one of my classmates.  She had looked into the experience of giving birth as a birth professional.  Of the women she had surveyed, all of them a birth professional of one kind or another, many had felt that there was a certain expectation around the kind of birth they were going to have, felt that there knowledge both helped and hindered them, and that it was hard to not be in control. 

Now, I’m a planner.  To a fault.  But I had worked really hard at not having a birth plan, though every one does to a certain extent.  I felt I had learned a lot about myself, my body, the way I give birth, and my babies during my first two pregnancies and births and during this pregnancy.  Unbeknownst to me at the time, I would come to learn a lot more about myself.

My girls...and Mark like to dress up as Superheroes. And as a mama you feel like one. I obviously have an innate power, two really: the ability to incubate and nurture a human life inside my very own body and the awesomeness that is lactating boobs!

So when things went a little sideways with my planned home birth I felt like Supergirl faced with kryptonite. Actually no, I wasn't on the ground squirming in pain, I was more like WonderWwoman being harnassed by her own lasso. In case you don't know, that's her main weakness.

  

I initially though of this analogy to bring some humor to my story, keep myself from crying, but the more I thought about it the more accurate it seemed. As a mama-midwifery student aka Wonder Woman, it was my own knowledge that was tying me up and forcing me into the ambulance and to the hospital. From a midwifery student perspective, that was the ultimate villain's lair. But from a regular mama perspective, it was the extra knowledge, the extra help from fellow students, the "extra" that was tying me up and imprisoning me in my decisions.

You see, non midwifery types, still amazing mamas of three, Breastfeeding, baby wearing, loving their kids mamas, they did not understand why I was so defeated at having given birth in a hospital and having stayed there for 23.5 hours. They understood that it had not been part of the plan; but these women, whom I didn't know all that well, simply said " but you made the right decision for your baby. You didn't really have a choice. Not one where one or more of the outcomes would have been acceptable.". My friends, the students, they all had a lot of different things to say. Sympathy instead of empathy, sorrow instead of support, shock instead of agreement.

So why didn’t I have a homebirth? Poop.  I suppose the more appropriate way to say it, is that there was meconium.  A lot of it.  Thick, pea soup sludge seeping into the birthing pool. 

And the reason I had to stay at the hospital was a GBS positive screen with insufficient amount of antibiotics administered prior to delivery. And here’s what I have to say to my fellow midwifery students:  Stop.  Stop thinking about the odds ratios, the research, the facts, the myths, and the alternatives.  As your classmate, I know now, and knew then all of that information. But what I also knew, was that the institution I gave birth in had a mandatory 24-hour stay policy for mamas and newborns with a GBS positive screen or they would call CAS. 

CAS.  These three little letters.  Letters every parent – good or bad – dreads hearing.  Imagine, if you will, having just given birth to a beautiful, perfect little girl.  A beautiful birth.  An emotional high.  Conflicting emotions – the “wrong” kind of feelings are bubbling below the surface but you are pushing them down as you stare into the eyes – are they hazel?  Are they brown? – of your daughter.  Your midwives doing post partum things.  Your partner, leaning over you and your babe, kissing your head, pushing back your hair.  And all of a sudden arrangements are being made for you to stay overnight.  It doesn’t matter that the odds of your baby being affected by GBS are 1 in 300 to 1 in 1000.  It doesn't matter that you had some IV antibiotics.  You are free to go.  But if you check your beloved newborn out against medical orders, you will awake to Children’s Aid Society at your doorstep.  Now, consider again all of the informed choice, research, self-rightousness, strength, mama-bear protectiveness of not just your two older girls sleeping soundly at home, but of this new life you have never been away from.  And imagine, for a full minute, the idea of a stranger holding that baby and seriously considering that you are unfit.  

Being a midwifery student can really screw with your head and your heart sometimes and this was one of those times.  I knew my baby was fine, and safe.  I knew what to look for.  I knew the odds.  I knew my rights.  And I knew that my girls were going to wake up and be surprised at best, heartbroken at worst, that I wasn't there with the new baby.  But none of that compares to the even the most remote possibility of having to deal with CAS bureaucracy within the first 24 hours of my newborn’s existence.  I mean, honestly, I wasn't planning on letting the grandparents in the door!

As I prepared for this presentation I was searching for images and I came across the cover for a children's book about homebirth. And I came across gorgeous waterbirth photographs including ones of mamas with all of their children clambering to look at the newest sibling. And looking at these images, breaks my heart.  Every. Single. Time.  And there is no excuse for it.  When I speak to my partner, when I go over my story, when I speak to other mamas who aren't in the midwifery circle, it’s not really a big deal.  I had a beautiful labour.  I had a beautiful birth.  But most importantly, I had a beautiful baby girl.  But the fact that I read that damn book every single night for months, watched homebirth videos, and practiced birthing sounds and positions with my girls – all for nothing, that breaks my heart.  And, you can argue that they are young so they are fine.  To which I say, my middle monkey, she had to be reminded that we got to keep our baby.  And my oldest monkey who saw the middle one born, was also heartbroken and angry and we had a good long cry about it together. It’s hard to hear about other people’s wonderful water births with their children present because I didn't get that.  But that’s the midwifery student in me.  The mama in me, is grateful for having three healthy daughters.

 Sometimes I think that I’m not going to ever fully get over disappointing my girls by not having a homebirth for them.  And then, Mark reminds me that my girls are six and under and that sometime much sooner than I would like I will disappoint them in what appears to be a frivolous way to me – like, saying no to an Abercrombit Fitch sweatshirt, or to party they want to go to – and that will be the moment that sticks with them not that they missed Baby C’s birth. So, while many mamas probably dread the conflict of the teen years, I say, bring it on, it will totally  help me heal!  

So what does it mean to give birth while an MEP student? And what doesn’t it mean?

• Maybe because I wasn’t in Clinical Skills with my peeps, it didn’t result in numerous belly palpations, pulse takings, fundal measurements or fetascope listenings.
• It did mean that during Bruce’s lecture when he put up the graph of oral contraception – the one explaining why you have to take your pill at the same time every morning – even if you just hosted the end of the year party and your children aren't home to wake you up - that 50% of the class will turn around to shoot you a knowing look, and laugh.
• It does mean that at least twice you will be told you are huge and you will wonder how a future midwife feels like that’s an okay thing to a pregnant woman
• It does mean that you have a plethora of information –far more than even a well educated mama
• It means that you have expectations of being with a midwife, most likely a doula, that you will not freak out, that you will not request pain relief,
• It does mean when you go for your ultrasound and the technician makes assumptions about your sexual orientation, your desire to have the baby, the man in the suit being your husband, you hear Nadya’s voice in your head gently reminding you how you should never ever make those assumptions.
• It may or may not mean that you will cook and serve a delightful vegan meal for a dozen or so of your closest friends and family who all invade your house immediately.  Personally I came home and crammed my belly full of braised pork shoulder curry and rice.  And a Strongbow. And didn’t let anyone in the door for 48 hours.
• It means that when you are stuck in the hospital bed checking your facebook, one of your school friends will notice that you are at the same hospital she is making rounds in and will be the first to visit you.
• It means you can argue with the pediatrician and convince her to let you leave the hospital early.
• But it also means the L&D nurse will call you “one of them” for not letting her bathe your baby.
• It means that when you are forced to make a quick decision, it’s no longer impulse nor even informed choice that is guiding you, but information overload, and graphic visuals, anecdotes,  facts and figures clouding your brain.  And that no matter which way you lean, someone you go to school with, will offer their unsolicited opinion telling you that it was a misinformed decision.  And they do so because of the information in their head, not as a judgment, but it comes out very much as a judgment and a sentence “Guilty of not fulfilling the MEP student edict of perfect home birth!”  "Guilty of allowing the institution to dictate what you could do!"  "Guilty of submitting to the will of non-midwives!” 
• It doesn't mean that any of your decisions would have been different. Because you are a mama first.
• It doesn't mean that you are at a disadvantage.
• It doesn't mean that you are being judged.
• It doesn't mean that you failed in some way.  Unless you know, you actually failed.  But despite my hormone addled brain, I managed to pull off decent to hey-not-bad grades in my courses!
• It does mean that you will receive lots of love from wonderful women who will make the trek all the way to Mississauga just to visit you and your girls.

Baby C is my baby Hulk.  That is to say, she’s a happy baby, until she's not.  (And you don't want to make her angry.) Which is to say she is perfectly healthy.  Ultimately, there is no guarantee that she would have been had I stood my ground and not gone to the hospital.  But just looking at her, while she nurses, or laughs, or yells at the floor for not letting her defy gravity, I can’t say that I would make any decision differently except for – and this is the most contentious issue – maybe, just maybe, planning on a hospital birth.  If I’d planned a hospital birth with my girls present then they would have been there for the birth.  But, that wasn't really the images and experience I wanted for them, for me, for us.  R has one homebirth under her belt already, and while L will never get to see a sibling being born at home, neither will Baby C just by being the baby.  But, I figure most of my friends and classmates are younger then me and a few of them will probably have babies of their own one day – so hopefully, they can witness that.  You don’t mind do you ladies? 

At the drive-in at least someone got to second base.

Last night Mark and I decided to go see a movie. An actual new-ish release on the big screen. Exciting times for parents of a breastfeeding baby who thinks pumped milk in a bottle is only to be used for blowing raspberries! At the suggestion of a friend, we went to the drive in so we could take Baby C with us.

Brilliant right? We raved about the sheer genius of it! What could be easier then leaving our big girls with their awesome aunt, bringing along Baby C and everything she needed in a diaper bag and my boobs?! Mark even remembered a flashlight and a lighter for the bug repelling diffuser (diluted tea tree oil nothing toxic).

As we drove, we were in that happy parent place of astonishment we'd never thought of going to the drive in before and euphoria of two Friday night dates in a row. Baby C wasn't even yelling during the drive. This was so going to be a good night!

We parked; nixed the idea of sitting in the back with the hatch open as we didn't have pillows or blankets; re-parked; grabbed popcorn and drinks; almost dropped said confections; and set ourselves up for almost three hours of Dark Knight Rises. We were even so bold as to make plans for future return trips.

I loved the nostalgic feel from the neon signed snack bar serving the standards but also deep fried pickles and onion rings to the national anthem starting the show and the Looney Tunes cartoon lead-in with no trailers. I loved seeing people in pajamas and questionably shaped bottles hidden in paper bags tucked under camping chairs. Baby C was happy to hang out with us as we waited.

And then it got dark.
And then it got loud.
And then Baby C decided to kick the dials on the console repeatedly switching the station so we'd lose the sound among other things. Make note of this last bit, it is key.

In our delerium, we'd forgotten that Baby C isn't a newborn nor is she a toddler. Newborns are easy. All they need is a boob. Seven month olds? Not so much Toddlers are chatty and get tired but can be distracted with food, games, and snuggles. Seven month olds? Not so much.

Let me cut to the chase in case you haven't already guessed: Baby C hated -with all of her 28" and 24lbs-the drive in! Try fighting that in a small space. She wanted to be in her bed, on her sheepskin, with a soft light glowing and relative quiet. She did not want to be cradled, carried, or rocked. She did not want to lie down in the bucket seat beside me and nurse. What was I, new? Why did I think my child who despises the car would want to spend three hours in it just because she was in my arms? The punching, biting, scratching, kicking, and screaming was giving the surround sound a run for its money. And every time she settled for 30 seconds the action in the movie would rise and the soundtrack would boom! Or, Mark would just have to have a man-ful of popcorn or fumble for a drink. Finally about two hours into the movie-no I'm not exaggerating but yes she only started to act up 45minutes in-she fell asleep. And the truck warning lights all flared, beeped, and died.

Yep. That's right. I was now sitting in a full theatre parking lot/field with a cranky baby finally sleep on top of my exposed chest, my cell phone battery at 20% and my engine light is on. It seems, our beloved baby in her wild thrashing as we passed her back and forth, hit the a/c dial. And we didn't notice because it was on low, already cool from the sunroof being open and loud from her and the movie.

Now, I don't know much about cars but I'm not a mechanic's daughter for nothing. I am also the "wife" of a worst-scenario get silently infuriated guy. So I kept my mouth shut for twenty minutes. Then I called my Dad. Then I called a tow truck. And with two safety nets in place, ample time having passed, I suggested to Mark that this being a drive-in theatre, dead car batteries and/or over heated cars are probably an extremely common occurrence and they probably have a battery and jumper cables. Mark didn't believe me: not about it just being the battery, not about the boost being easy.

It was. And it was.

Obviously, we didn't stay for the second movie.

But the funny thing is, as we were driving home chatting quietly as Baby C had fallen back asleep in her car seat, Mark and I agreed that it had still been a good night. It may not have been very "date-like" between the angry baby and car trouble but at least someone got to second base...it just happened to be the baby. There's breast milk all over the windshield to prove it.

When was the last time you went to the drive-in? And who were you with?

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?

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?

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?  

Blame Timothy Olyphant (and 8 other reasons) for my Delinquent Blogging Habits

1. The whole point of a blog is to fulfill a narcissistic desire that other people care as much about what you have to say as you do about saying it (writing it).  But I have no idea if anyone is actually reading my entries never mind eagerly anticipating my next semi-witty post. As such, I'm not hugely committed to writing on the weekly basis that I had hoped to.  Now, if someone wanted to pay me for this...I'd be all over it!


2.My girls have decided they need to call my name approximately every 90 seconds that they are awake.  And sometimes even when they are sleeping (I kid you not.).  I'm not going to get into how much I love my girls, love hearing what they have to say and how much they love talking to me because in a few years they won't blah blah blah.  Any mama worth her mama title knows this.  And any mama not up for sainthood also knows that you can get diddly and squat done when your kids need to talk to you every 90seconds 20 out of 24 hours a day.  Even when their daddy is standing right in front of them willing to talk, listen, or do.


3.My phone is poopy.  What's that you say, in the middle of a contract so not eligible for a free upgrade yet? Then by all means my phone should stop working consistently.  I use my phone for the majority of my online interactions because it's easy.  But for reasons beyond my understanding,the touch screen is starting to fail, the apps don't work consistently and when drafts of emails and text messages disappear, I'm not going to risk that with a blog entry.  Also, sometimes my gadgets know when I'm coveting other gadgets and stop working out of spite. My phone must know that I was recently lured into wanting an iPad despite my solid stance against succumbing to dark side. (More on this another time I'm sure.  If I can stop being a delinquent blogger)


4. I'm under the delusion that all of posts have to be deeply meaningful...or at least long.  And, as of yet the technology to extract posts from my head that I think up when not near a keyboard - does not exist. Besides, I'm out of practice.  I used to be an avid journal-er and so was much better at writing personal perspective pieces.  But that was before I went back to school and had three children so that my writing as of late has consisted of text messages to myself of grocery lists, reminders, and 12-20 page academic papers.


5.I've developed a thing for a Kentucky Marshall.  Or more accurately, Timothy Olyphant in Justified.  I don't why.  His character is a bit of an ass.  I've never been particularly into the cowboy-type.  He's certainly no Jon Bon Jovi (Oh, wait, maybe I am into the cowboy-type.  As long as it's just pretend.)  My new "interest" has resulted in marathon viewings of the show's three seasons.


6.I continue to enjoy the conversation - and other things - offered up by my partner. Easy distractions from the computer. And I haven't even bought him a cowboy hat yet.


7.I recently re-discovered my love of reading and my ability to whip through a good book in a day or two.


8.My interactions with the grown up world are somewhat limited and as a result so is my content. Also, holding balancing my netbook on my knee while breastfeeding my almost 3mos old is both mildly painful for me and potentially a bump on the head for her. (Don't worry, I haven't let it slip yet.)


9.I like to sleep.


Do you have secret crush on a TV cowboy? 

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?