At the end of a long day

I'm struggling today, trying to figure out what to do with Alyce. She's been all kinds of crazy (for her), pushing my buttons, speaking meanly to me, speaking meanly about herself. I feel like no one told me things could be so hard already. Just wait until the teen years, every single person tells me, yada yada yada. But what about today? What about being seven years old and having so many feelings that don't just go away when you offer a hug? I thought hugs could fix everything.

This has so much to do with me, and not very much to do with Alyce. This is one of those times when I need to put my big girl pants on and be there for her, no matter what comes up.

We are cut from the same cloth, her and I, stubborn, fiery, and at the end of the day, deeply loyal. These emotions run deep and these conflicting feelings, of being so mad and loving so hard at the same time, can make for some trying days.

Today has been one of those days.

Do you know what no one ever talks about? How much it sucks when your kid pushes you away. I've been her everything for so many years now, and all of a sudden she retreats when she's mad instead of running over to me for solace. None of this is rocket science, I know.

Most human beings push others away when they're angry, push buttons when they're upset, push all those raw emotions to the side in favour of talking calmly about them. And I know Alyce is a human, but I don't, really. I still think of her as part of me, as this tiny creature who shares my personal space. Now she's growing her own space and I'm left wondering how to navigate all this new geography.

The day is coming to an end and we can all use a good night's sleep. Tomorrow we leave for the cottage for a few days and I know all the time playing with good friends will heal today's wounds. For both of us.

Be well!

xo

And it's done

Oh the school year, you've dragged on forever around these parts. It's the last school day for most Toronto kids today and at our house we are celebrating loud and clear. They say the school year is only ten months long, but this one felt more like sixteen or seventeen, like someone added a few months in there when we weren't looking. Only the cats are a little disappointed that summer vacation starts tomorrow. 

I've mentioned before that this is has been a hard school year for Alyce, so in large part our palpable excitement comes from a deep need to leave this year behind. Her second grade teacher was a bad fit for her sensitive little self and it sparked all kinds of problems. (I once made the mistake of explaining to Alyce what homeschooling was and ever since she's been trying to negotiate her own schooling here at home. Not going to work, Alyce, I have babies to catch.)

I had been noticing this year that Alyce didn't draw anymore. Our walls are covered in Shira's artwork (we could wallpaper two houses with the piles and piles of her daily creations) but Alyce wasn't contributing anymore. I thought maybe it had something to do with her school struggles and it broke my heart to think that some of her joy--joy that I had been used to seeing expressed in her drawings and paintings--might be disappearing. I had such a sad heart for her all year.

But as we went through the ritual of bringing piles home school work this week (one of my favourite rituals), Alyce showed me her sketchbook. An artist had visited her class a few months back  and gifted each student with an blank book for drawing and doodling. Alyce actually sparkled when she started walking me through the pages and I saw drawing after drawing filled with colour and most of all, joy. I started quietly crying because that's what you do when you're brought face to face with feelings you had been trying to avoid for so long. I have been so deeply worried about her for so long now and it was weighing on me more than I realized. 

Alyce's sketch showed me that she is way more resilient than I had given her credit for. She's had a hard year but she's okay, she's still my Alyce. I've gone through the book so many times now, turning the pages with a big grin on my face. Much like the grin on Alyce's face when she proudly showed me her favourite drawings.

 And Shira? No, we haven't forgotten about the other one. She glided through her school year, or more accurately, skipped through it. Junior Kindergarten was a safe and happy place for her, and for that I am grateful. She's just as excited for summer, however, because she's convinced herself that summer vacation means ice cream for every meal. Sounds delightful.

Be well!
xo

When we want what we can't have

When I was growing up we lived in a house I absolutely adored. It was very small brick house with green shutters and overflowing with beautiful trees, big and small. I had my own room with all of my favourite things tucked away in their place, a kitchen filled with delicious food, and a quiet street that was always available to play on. It was a great life, and most days it didn't seem to matter that almost all of my friends had more. My friends loved visiting our house.

But most of my friends had enormous houses, filled with rooms we could explore for days. Some of them had pools, garages filled with ski equipment, pianos in the living room, and what seemed like an endless number of toys. (One friend had Cabbage Patch Dolls in the double digits. Can you even imagine?) There were kitchens with two fridges to hold all of the food and bathrooms with cavernous jacuzzi tubs I secretly always wanted to try. Many friends had nannies at home with them, or women that cleaned their house every day. They went on trips to Disney or Whistler every year and spent summers at their cottages.

I was different from these other friends and I always knew it. What I can't remember is how it felt to be different. Is it because of these big houses and expensive clothes that I never felt popular? Is it a coincidence that my closest friends, friends I still hold dear, had families more like mine? I do remember coming home from days spent at my friends' houses or stables (yes, some of them owned their own horses) and going on and on to my mother about all the things my friends had. But was I upset with my parents for not giving me these things, too? Did I ever resent the middle-class-ness of my family? Was I grateful for the things I had?

I had plenty in my life. I had pretty clothes, ballet lessons five times a week, and books and toys for days. But did it feel like enough at the time? I just can't remember. I remember feeling envy sometimes, that seems perfectly human of me. But did I struggle with it? Because Alyce does, and it is eating away at her. 

Alyce is seven and generally loves everything about the world. She's shiny and bright and still skips or bounces as her primary mode of transportation. But lately she's been struggling with her second grade world. Like my family growing up, we are middle-class parents, earning enough to pay for the things we need, but not often enough to pay for all the things we might want all the times we might want them. We are an amazingly fortunate family. We eat good food, buy clothes when we need them, pay for medications when we need them, and we rent a home that is warm and comfortable. I have gratitude for miles and miles. 

Yet at school Alyce sees a world with so much more. So much. We live in a very wealthy part of Toronto and Alyce attends school with the kids of my own childhood. They take regular trips, have extra-curricular activities every night of the week, and I could go on and on about the things they have or do that we don't. I know these things because Alyce won't stop complaining about it, and of course, I see it, too. She feels very deeply that we belong to the have-nots while her friends have, have, have. Why don't we ever get to fly on a plane? she bemoans. Why don't we have stairs in our house, or a basement filled with toys? Or a trampoline or a cottage? she cries. She tells us that she hates our house. She asks me how much money we have in the bank. (One of her little friends walked into our house for the first time and asked me the same question.)

She wants things she doesn't have, no big surprise. Don't we all want things we can't have? I think these thoughts as I try to talk with her about her feelings, as we try to show her the meaning of gratitude and contentment for the things we do have. I try to channel the language of all those minimalist living blogs I read all the time, but I don't know if she hears a word we say in these moments. It wasn't until today that I realized why. 

At the end of the day I think Alyce is unhappy because she feels different, and feeling different can hurt. In a world filled with seven-year-olds trying to negotiate social status and the (unfortunate) hierarchies that develop, Alyce feels alone. She watches her friends find familiarity in the things that they share and she feels excluded. I get that. Sometimes I feel excluded when I think about other families that have more financial security, own their own home, or go on regular vacations. There are days I long for these things, too, except most days (not every day) I return to a place of gratitude for the life we have because I love it. Comparing ourselves to others is a normal human exercise, but it rarely feels good.

How do we learn to be thankful for the things we have? How do our kids learn to feel comfort and gratitude for the life they are living? (Someone please tell me.) The truth is I know what to do. I can't force Alyce to feel grateful, I can only help her to practice it a little bit every day. Each night before bed we all share one thing for which we are grateful, and sometimes Alyce contributes and sometimes she doesn't. (Shira is usually grateful for either me or candy.) We talk as a family about the different lives people live here in Toronto, that not all children attend a school like hers. Once I explained that there are children in our city who don't have enough food to have breakfast in the morning. That one seemed to sink in. 

At the end of the day all this practicing gratitude will slowly help to strengthen her, but it won't fix her feelings of being different now, and that's what so hard as her parent. I want so desperately to make her feel better today. I want to run out and buy her things and take her on airplanes. But I can't and I won't, not for these reasons. I want to let her know her feelings are normal without confirming her belief that she is always going without.

Any suggestions? 

Be well.

xo

11 tips for being an ordinary parent

1. Show up at home after a long day at and give in to the craziness of that witching hour commonly called "after school and dinner time." Accept that you feel frazzled after a long day at work or say, midwifery school, and that your children are only going to make you feel frazzlier. Yup, that's a word. One child will be happy to see you and the other will be panicking about a permission slip that ABSOLUTELY must be returned and where is it, Mama, where is it, where is it? Then the other child will declare that she doesn't like her dinner, while the permission slip child suddenly has no pants on. Come to terms with the crazy. Just go make yourself some food and you'll feel better soon. And tell that child who doesn't like her dinner to go and help herself to some cereal.

2. Always say yes to reading your child a book. Unless you have to go out and study, and then you have to say no. Make sure you only feel a little guilty.

3. Definitely don't serve vegetables at every meal. You know they say you should always offer healthy veggies at every meal, but if it's been a busy day and you're exhausted, just give them the damn pasta.

4. Give them a lot of kisses.

5. Sneak a chocolate bar from their Halloween candy and deny it wildly when one of your children finds the wrapper in the garbage. Then tell them it's not nice to accuse people of stealing candy. Yes, it happened.

6. More kisses.

7. Try to get your four year old dressed in a shirt and leggings. Then listen to her yelling that she wanted tights, not leggings. Just listen. Then explain that you don't have time to change clothes because you need to leave for school in five minutes. Don't tell her it's your fault for getting her dressed five minutes before you need to school, that you spent too much time packing lunches that you should have packed the night before. Don't tell her because she doesn't care. Then get her the tights.

8. Tell your daughter you will sew her new pajama pants the next day, the ones that don't fit her because nothing seems to fit her tiny body, not these pants or the three you bought her last month. Then forget to sew them because you're buried in studying for reproductive physiology. Then forget them the next day because you're buried in writing this blog post. Then maybe sew them on the weekend so your tiny child has pants that don't fall down her bum.

9. Tell your children that everyone makes mistakes. Tell them you've made at least 75 this week alone.

10. Remember that your children need to wash their hair and make a note to do it that night. Then when you forget, remember to do it the next night. Then a few days later actually put them in the shower with a bottle of shampoo.

11. Make pancakes for breakfast because you just feel like it, even though it's going to make everyone run late for school. Then bring your four year old leggings.

How to visit the ROM with young children

Behind the Scenes

I should tell you it took two hours to get us there. Yes, we live in the middle of Toronto, but don't let that deceive you. Going anywhere with children adds years to most outings. First it took me a full hour to Prepare All The Things. What does a family of four need for a trip the Royal Ontario Museum? I'd be happy to tell you: diapers, wipes, a full change of clothes for two children, three, filled water bottles, tea, snacks, dinner, more snacks, two umbrellas, a stroller, an extra stroller seat in case I get Alyce gets tired on the way home, change for the subway, an extra sweater, and mittens and hats in case the weather changes later that night. Once that was done I just had to get two young children ready to get out of the house. Easy! (Matt was meeting us there from work, lucky duck.)

That took one hour. Next up was a 40 minute walk to the subway that takes me 15 when I walk by myself. Shira was bundled in the stroller, but then we have to account for Alyce's dawdling, because there are puddles! And things that look like worms! And a pile of melting snow! And an airplane! We finally arrived, wet from the rain, but motivated by our collective excitement to see dinosaur bones.

10 minutes later we found ourselves still excited about bones, but less excited by the fact that we were on a subway platform, a mere block away from the museum, but in front of a sign alerting us that the elevators at St. George station were down for maintenance. Awesome. Fortunately I only had one level to ascend and found an escalator on which to awkwardly balance the front wheel of my enormous stroller. (I was traveling on the north-south line; had I been coming from the dreaded east or west I would have had to unpack Shira from the stroller, help her up the stairs, and then carry the double stroller by myself, reassembling the entire package at the top.)

We made, two hours later but relatively unharmed. It's March Break in Ontario, so Alyce is off school all week. Matt and I are dividing up the week in terms of work and being home with the girls, but we wanted to do something special as a family. We have a membership at the Ontario Science Centre, but we visit the ROM much less frequently. (Note to self: living in Toronto is a good, good thing.) There has been a special dinosaur exhibit on for months with some new-to-North American-museums dinosaur bones from South America, Africa, and Asia. I've been meaning to take Alyce for some time, but like most things I waited until its last week in Toronto. However, the plus side to my procrastination this time around is that admission to the Ultimate Dinosaurs exhibit during March Break, after 4:30 pm, is 35% off. Finally, waiting until the last minute pays off.

What to expect while visiting the Royal Ontario Museum with young children

Excitement
Silliness
Chaos
Interest
Fear of bats (re: bat cave)
Stickers
Bouncing
Running
A meltdown or two, especially if you're there in late afternoon or evening.

All of the above, plus:

You'll learn things: If you have a child in kindergarten who just finished a unit on dinosaurs, she will probably tell you things like, That dinosaur must have been a herbivore because its teeth are flat, or, That's a fossilized skull. I do, and mine did. Next she'll tell me that when I travel in space I'll need to wear an oxygen tank because there isn't any oxygen in space, which we need to breathe. No wait, she already told me that last week.

They'll dress up like a dinosaur: The dress-up clothes in the kids section will probably be their favourite part and you'll remember that you've been meaning to find some non-princess, non-fairy, non-ballerina clothes for their dress-up bins at home. I can't really roll my eyes over their daily need to dress up like princesses when all of their dress-up clothes are, wait for it, princess dresses. I'm not always the smartest parent.

The bees are always winners: At the ROM you'll find bees--real live, buzzing, honey-making bees. They can buzz back and forth between their hive and the outside world through a plastic pipe running through a nearby window (to taunt the nearby university students, Matt declared). The best part is that the bee keeper kindly painted a white dot on the Queen Bee so that she's easy to find amidst all the other manic honey bees. Once your child spots the Queen he'll receive a sticker that declares his Queen Bee finding mission a success. Success!

If you're looking for something to do this week, the Ultimate Dinosaurs are only there until March 17th. If you want to avoid large crowds of people, you might want to skip the fancy dinosaurs and just go next week. Not that they're not awesome, but there is an entire museum to see, and your kids will probably just want to play dress-up anyway.

How is your March Break going?

Be well.

How to stop breastfeeding my two year old

I have no business posting any advice for how to wean your child. The only advice I really have is how to stop breastfeeding Shira, because that's what I did. Four and a half weeks ago. Thirty-three days ago. Thirty-three missed naps ago. Six hundred tantrums ago.

Can I tell you a secret? Shira is completely fine. I know she misses her milk but she's coped, well, like a child who was ready to stop breastfeeding. It's sort of how I imagine I'll feel when I finally curb my sugar intake. I have no true desire to stop eating sweets, but once I get them out of my system I frantically hope expect that I won't miss it. Maybe it's nothing like that, but my point is that Shira has shined as a non-breastfeeding toddler. The first few days were filled with requests to have milk, but even when she cried to nurse her tears were not the sobbing, devastated kind. They were more like the annoyed, not getting her way kind.

Can I tell you another secret? I am not completely fine. I miss breastfeeding Shira so much. So much that I want a support group. I listed all the reasons I love breastfeeding Shira here and here, so I won't bore you with the details of my feelings, except to tell you that I miss her with my entire body. I feel a magnetic pull to sneak her into bed and nurse. I would not be lying if I told you that more than one night I *almost* woke her up in the middle of the night to breastfeed her just one more time. For Pete's sake.

So while I can't really offer any definitive how-to lists on how to wean your toddler, I will offer you a few things I learned along the way, since some of you have asked. If anything I'm here to tell you that there are many ways to stop breastfeeding, many reasons for doing so, and many, many feelings you will probably experience along the way. And so this is parenting.


Try and try again

I actually tried to stop breastfeeding this August when I was heading out of town for a wedding. I knew we were getting close to the end of breastfeeding, and since I was going to be away for three days and two nights, it seemed like the perfect time. Turns out we weren't close yet, not even really in the same neighbourhood. Or city, even. Shira was fine while I was gone and then collapsed in some combination excitement/horror/judgement, weeping for milk when I walked in the door. So we continued.

When the time came for us to try again (this was around mid-November), I began talking with her about it. She continued nursing five, six, or seven times a day, but we'd talk in between about how my body made milk for her when she was born, but now she had grown and grown and finished all my milk! Once I chose the day that would be our last nursing together, I got right to it. Shira, I told her gently, Mama's milk is almost gone. You ate it all up! You have grown and grown. She pouted a bit, but agreed. She continues to accept that I no longer have milk, though sometimes she still accuses me of having milk in my breasts. One day she even claimed to smell it, asking me where I put it. If only she knew that when she wasn't looking milk was actually spilling out of me.

Not breastfeeding feels kind of terrible for awhile

At least it did for me. Some mothers wean more gradually than I did. I went from constant nursing to nothing. I never claimed to be very smart, but I will say in my defence that Shira would have none of that nursing only before bed business. I tried that for weeks, in fact, it was part of the reason I decided to stop completely. Shira wanted milk all day, all the time. Had she reduced the number of breastfeedings to one or two a day I'd probably still be nursing her. (Sob.)

My drastic weaning meant that I was faced with some very uncomfortable weeks ahead of me. I expected to feel engorged for a few days, but obviously I was delusional and still drunk on my last breastfeeding high. The first few days were actually pretty easy, breast-wise. They grew in size and defied gravity a bit more, but otherwise just a little sore. Then came the plugged ducts, self-expressing, hot showers, and tears. This lasted a week. I would also leak in my sleep and whenever Shira spoke. But after two weeks most of the pain and discomfort went away, along with a cup size.

It's a great excuse to buy a cute toy.

We decided to give Shira a special stuffed animal to help her with the transition, and I think it worked out really well. I found her a red corduroy puppy (she has a thing for puppies) and I let Alyce give it to her on the last day I breastfed her. Alyce explained to Shira that my milk was going to be gone the next day and that if she ever felt sad about its disappearance she could squeeze her new puppy. Shira agreed to the new arrangement and called it Milk Puppy. I think it's an excellent name. And she squeezed the daylights out of it for the first three weeks. Now he's usually invited into her crib at bedtime, having joined the ranks of her Backyardigans and Pink Puppy.

 

Not everything will suck

When I stopped breastfeeding Alyce I felt as though I had lost her. Of course I didn't really, but for a kid who only snuggled with me while nursing, not nursing meant few, if any, opportunities to shower her with hugs and kisses, or simply just to look at each other, quietly, for a few minutes. Matt quickly took over morning and bedtime routines, something he hadn't had the chance to do in two years. I know I was still important to her, but I felt left out. I dreaded this happening again. Dreaded with all my heart.


Matt tried to tuck Shira into bed for the first two nights, but she was devastated. For more than two years I had helped her transition to bed and now what? No milk and no Mama? That hardly seemed fair. I had just assumed that me putting her to bed would be too difficult and confusing for her, troubling for her because I would only be offering my smile and not my milk. She had nursed to sleep every night of her life and I was afraid she couldn't handle my sudden withdrawal. I assumed, wrongly it turns out, that I would be left out of the bedtime equation for a long time.

Fortunately for me (because this is about me, let's not kid ourselves), she still needed me. Unlike Alyce who processed the whole experience a bit differently, Shira wanted everything else the same, just minus the milk. She was happy to snuggle in bed with me before heading into her crib, snuggling and singing and talking about her day, just like we used to. The only difference now was my shirt stayed down. I have to admit, it was a lovely development. Unexpected, but desperately needed.

This is all I have for now. Like I said, I'm not really happy with all this. I reluctantly admit that we're all doing well, that I have a happy and healthy little girl who is learning new ways to cope with the demands of everyday. While she used to turn to breastfeeding for comfort and solace, now she's learning to rely on other things.

Plus she has Milk Puppy.

Portraits of sisterly competition

When it comes to parenting two children, I really have no idea what I'm doing. Sometimes there is a lot of yelling and bickering and pushing over such life-threatening matters as one sister looking at the other sister when she didn't want to be looked at. Other times these two work collaboratively to develop such new and exciting games as "Car tag" or my personal favourite, "How many times can I get my little sister to say the word Poop." Some days I just sit back and watch the show.

Yesterday I was home with Shira while Matt was at work and Alyce at school. Since I've stopped breastfeeding my days at home with Shira have been easier. Over the last few months so much of my time was spent negotiating with Shira over when, where, and for how long she could nurse. She would turn to me whenever she was faced with a particularly tough challenge or disappointment, or if she was hurt, diving into me for some help feeling back to normal. Breastfeeding gave the both of us resources to deal with our ups and downs, mine included. Now Shira is ready to deal with such challenges on her own, and though she's never very far from me, I've been able to stay in the background a little bit more and watch as she creates a world on her own, and even more fun, a world with her sister.

Beginning around eleven yesterday Shira began to set a Shabbat table using their small table in the playroom. She had been poking around the dining room while I was trying to hang some photos on the wall (only seven months after moving in!) and I was trying to distract her from my hammer with the shiny kiddush cup and candles we use for Shabbat dinner. Seeing how excited she was to play Shabbat, I offered her a small table cloth and the flowers from our dining room table. Four hours later she had crafted one of the most elaborate, beautifully designed, unicorn and pony festooned table that was fit for the finest of Shabbat celebrations. She'd even settled some of her best friends, two very attentive Backyardigans, in for a fine evening of singing and eating. As I reluctantly pulled her away from her project to pick-up Alyce from school, her biggest concern was, as you probably guessed, that Alyce would come home and destroy all her efforts. Or maybe just look at it the wrong way.

 

That didn't happen. I had prepared Alyce for Shira's table as we walked home together from school. I told her that Shira was feeling very proud of her work and was concerned that other people might touch it. Alyce and I assured Shira that no one would destroy her table or even ask to touch anything. I naturally prepared myself from some big, big arguments once we got home, but instead I sat back and watched as Alyce, inspired by Shira's own creativity, began to create her own table in the living room. Ladies and gentlemen, I present you with Competitive Shabbat Table Setting.

My only role in this was to dispense the necessary table clothes, a few special cups, and to spell the names for the place cards Alyce designed. The girls collected pine cones and dead leaves outside to adorn their tables, in addition to the traditional tying on of birthday balloons from a weekend party we attended. Alyce and Shira energetically ran through the house for almost an hour beautifying their tables for Shabbat (which I should mention doesn't arrive until Friday night). 

I did this sort of thing with my friends growing up, but I'm feeling gifted lately as I watch more and more impromptu sibling adventures. It isn't always this collegial, and even this rather calm afternoon celebration including one vigorous push from Shira which caused Alyce to land bottom first into a box of blocks. (Shira is getting very good at apologizing and Alyce is getting better and better at forgiving every day.) But I feel as though they are breaking me in, sometimes gently, other times not so much, toughening up my parenting skin as the mother of siblings. My university roommates, both siblings, used to tease me relentlessly that I was too soft and couldn't take the noise, beatings, and intensity that comes from having been tortured annoyed loved by brothers and sisters. They thought I was soft.

Do you think I'm soft? Maybe don't answer that.

Alternatives

I am writing these down mostly for posterity’s sake. When Alyce and Shira are teenagers they ought to be able to roll their eyes at the ridiculous songs they were subjected to as babies and toddlers (and still even as kindergarteners). When they are adults they will be reminded that their Mama loved them so much that she was willing to embarrass herself publicly just so they could have a record of the silly things they enjoyed as children. When they are adults with babies of their own, they will finally thank me for all my hard work, since the work will already have been done for them. I am offering a few parenting cheat-sheets, if you may.

Sometimes I change song lyrics because the originals are cruel and completely lacking in joy. Others are not only joyless, but chock full of child abuse. Rock a baby in a tree? Don’t secure her? Watch the cradle and baby plummet to the ground below? No, thanks, I’ll make up my own words, rhyming or not. This is the case for the first two examples below. I assume you’ll know the melodies.

Rock-a-bye baby, in the tree top.
When the wind blows, the cradle will rock.
When the bough breaks, the cradle will fall.
And down will come baby, and Mama will catch her.


You are my sunshine...
The other night dear, while I was sleeping,
I dreamed I held you in my arms.
 And when I woke up, you were beside me.
And I gave you lots of hugs and kisses.

Other times I create new lyrics because I just have no idea what the originals are, shy of the first line or two, and I’m forced to improvise at three in the morning. If I’m being honest, I have to admit that if I had needed the lyrics while nursing Shira I would have just looked them up on my iPhone, since I always had it with me while nursing. So let us be thankful that I was forced to be creative when I made this next one up for Alyce, because now I can share this gem with the world.

Hush little baby, don’t say a word.
Mama’s going to show you a mockingbird.
And if that mockingbird won’t sing,
Mama’s going to show you her diamond ring.
And if that diamond ring won’t shine.
Mama’s going to grow you tomatoes on a vine.
And if those tomatoes on the vine aren’t red,
Mama’s going to build you a brand new bed.
And if that brand new bed’s too big,
Mama’s going to give you three chubby, little pigs.
And if those chubby, little pigs aren’t fat,
Mama’s going to show you three singing cats.
And if those singing cats won’t meow,
Mama’s going give you a dairy cow.
And if that dairy cow won’t milk,
Mama’s going to give you some Chinese silk.
And if that Chinese silk’s not soft,
Mama’s going to build you a Brooklyn loft.
And if that Brooklyn loft’s just right,
Mama’s going to hug and kiss you goodnight.

You’re welcome.

When complicated is better than simple

There was a mum sitting next to me at Starbucks this morning and I couldn't help but listen in as she spoke with her three year old daughter. I was initially drawn to the harsh tones of her voice, scolding her daughter for running in the through the coffee shop, for running back and forth between tables, for doing everything, well, like a three year old. She told her daughter some version of "no" about a hundred times in the span of ten minutes, and I wanted so badly to run over to her and tell her yes. Yes, you can twirl around. Yes, you can climb on all the chairs. Yes, colour anywhere on the page.

I'm not sharing this with you not because I want to shame this mother or judge her or put her impatient parenting on display. She was impatient with her daughter, but so was I not ten minutes before when Alyce starting pouting before going to school. We're human, all of us. In addition to her impatience, this mum was also kind, made her daughter laugh, and the two of them were clearly in love. I think I'm going to get the following parenting advice tattooed somewhere on my body: It's complicated. Relax.

Since I'm kind of afraid of tattoos, I'll just write it here one more time: Parenting: It's complicated. Relax.

I've written a lot over the past couple of years about how much I struggle with with hard parts of parenting. I love, I mean really love, being a parent. I am blessed beyond measure with my two daughters and if we're lucky we'll have more one day. I am also blessed beyond measure to have my own mother, who more than anything has taught me to love my own children with utter abandon. (That's the two us above, circa 1980. Isn't she gorgeous?)  As parents we are gifted with pieces of advice that aim to remind us to take a breath and to be gentle on ourselves, and while I mostly embrace these reminders, there is one piece of advice that has always irked me.

I hate it when people try to tell me to keep things simple. Keep it simple, they often say, it doesn't have to be complicated. I get it, I really do. At the end of the day we just love our kids and that is enough. But here's the thing: parenting is complicated! There are so many feelings that come and go during a single day of parenting that simple is simply out of the question. Alyce alone has roughly 6,389 emotions in a single day, which competes neck and neck with my own variations. Simple? Rarely. Complicated? Always. If I don't acknowledge that parenting means feeling both impatient and elated in the presence of my children, then my only other option is guilt, over not keeping my cool enough or rising above their crazy moods. Sure I'll accept that as the adult I should have fewer tantrums, but I can't rule them out completely. Life just isn't like that.

At the end of my life I will be grateful for the simple things.  I will remember the way it felt to hug Alyce every single morning after she crawls out of bed all warm and bed-headed. I will remember how much I loved breastfeeding Shira well into her third year (we all know this is going to happen). And I will never forget the way my whole body smiles when my family is together. But if we erase the complicated in favour of the simple, even if our intentions are good, we will lose something.

As a parent on any given day I will lose a little patience, dance in my kitchen, read twenty books, wish I had more time to myself, and be smothered in kisses. There is nothing simple about it, but I welcome it nonetheless.

On the depths of their emotions

We have a firm rule in our house, one that you might need in yours, too: stickers go on paper and people. Repeat with me: paper and people. Everybody: paper and people! You get the idea. If any of you have tried to scrape off a worn-in sticker from a nice stretch of hardwood floor or a freshly painted wall, you understand where I'm coming from. I have no interest in standing against the magic of stickers, but as with most things in life, boundaries are important.

For the most part the girls follow this rule but we do have missteps from time to time. I usually roll my eyes to the high heavens when I spot a misplaced sticker, but when I came across this yesterday I could only smile. I don't know where Alyce received the alphabet stickers, and I don't know when she escaped to her bedroom to stick them on her bedside table, but at some point in the past few days Alyce used rainbow letters to spell out the name of her best friend. A friend left behind at her old school in another town, but who is obviously never far away in her thoughts. 

I find myself constantly underestimating the emotional depth of children. Yes, Alyce and Shira bounce along a spectrum of emotion every day, jumping from feeling to feeling with almost a new one every minute. It would take only a short visit at our house to stand witness to the highs and lows of childhood. There is excitement over opening the paints, devastation over one sister's discovery of the other sister's hidden treasure, thoughtfulness in a moment when one recognizes the other is hurt and needs help, over-the-moon delight when I finally agree to a cup of hot chocolate. But it's the depths of these emotions that get me every time. 

I think many of my struggles as a parent to Alyce and Shira comes from not acknowledging how real these highs and lows feel to them. I grow frustrated, as I did this morning, over Alyce dragging her feet to choose a dress for school, but maybe I would be less so if I took a moment to remember how upset she was when she awoke from a nightmare this morning, how those raw feelings might still be lingering only thirty minutes later. Or maybe if I thought about how much joy she feels wearing an outfit crafted exclusively, if not quickly, by her. When Alyce feels sad about her new school, something she is feeling less and less these days, I need to remind myself that she misses her friend. Alyce is not a baby but a sensitive, loving, excited, joyful, and stubborn little girl whose feelings for her friends--or her toys or her favourite food--are as real as yours or mine. They can't be dismissed. I love my own friends deeply; so does she.

It helps me to remember these things. Parenting books are often so preoccupied with helping us through all the (very important) basics of food and sleep and safety that we're all at risk of forgetting how one of the greatest challenges and gifts of parenting your children is learning who they are, how they feel. I sometimes get so preoccupied with the details of care and how to manage these details within the organization of our larger family, that I forget that one of my most important jobs, and probably the most fun, is to watch. Just watch. 

The controlling perfectionist grown-up in me often ends up worrying about routine and habits and structure, all fine things in their place, but I hope I can remember more often that I can still parent from the background. It's such a balance, isn't it, to let our children feel these depths without trying to manage them? They need these depths, just like we do, to learn who they are in the world. They need to love their friends and feel sad about sisters colouring on the wrong paper and get angry over their mama saying, No, Alyce and Shira, we can't stay up and read anymore, it's bedtime. Just like I need to cry sometimes when my day juggling work and life is hard, or how I need to dance sometimes because I'm just so happy to be near my family.

How do you remember these things?

On not yelling at my children

It turns out that I'm not a perfect parent. I'll give you a moment while you pick your jaw up off the floor. Then you can take a second to roll your eyes. Go ahead, I'll wait.

I've been struggling with my imperfections lately. While this is sort of the story of my life, it's felt especially raw lately when it comes to my learning how to parent my almost-five year old. I'm not going to sugarcoat this for you: all of a sudden I've discovered that I'm a parent who raises her voice. No matter your own approach to parenting, this is not a strategy I wish to continue. Anger is one thing, yelling is another. Anger is an intense emotion connected to feelings of hurt, frustration, and helplessness. Yelling is an act of aggression.

I'm not a yeller by nature. I don't remember my parents yelling beyond a few arguments with each other now and then. Once I spent a week with another family where yelling was the primary mode of communication and all I wanted to do was run home and hide under the covers. Sure, I got excited from time to time and raised my voice, but yelling was not my thing. It made anger feel terrifying. Expressing feelings of anger and frustration are good things, and to be honest I wish I'd done more of that growing up. Instead I spent most of my time ensuring that other people were happy so as to avoid anger in the first place. The healthiest emotional habit? Maybe not, but this is me.

I adore these children of mine, love the family we have created. But I've learned that certain conditions lead me to feeling helpless against how I angry I feel sometimes. Did you know that a four year old can make you really angry? She's filled with rainbows and sunshine yet sometimes I find myself irritated beyond measure by her behaviour. I know, she's four. She's pushing boundaries, testing limits, learning (far too quickly, I might add) how to stand on her own in the world. Sometimes my anger comes from pure frustration (will she please FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THE THINGS just put her shoes on), other times from hurt feelings. No matter the source of these feelings, the reality is that I am the parent and she is the child learning from me. What do we learn from yelling? We learn to dominate, to use force, and to act unkindly in the face of a challenge. I'm pretty certain that these are not the messages I want to pass along to my children.

Yes, yes, of course we all have moments. Does it feel good to yell sometimes in anger? Yes. Does it feel good to yell sometimes in anger at your child? Never. In fact I never want to do it again.

Fortunately our home is a wonderful place to be, and this yelling habit of mine is new and infrequent. But I know in my heart that yelling is just not for me. I prefer my passion in the form of kisses. I have no interest in hiding my strong emotions but I want my family to see me channel these emotions for good, not evil. I want to show Alyce that we can speak to each other kindly even when we disagree. I am human, I make mistakes, but I can still work toward an ideal I hold so dearly. Alyce isn't blind, she can see me struggling, but my hope is that what she will see--what she will remember--is not that I yelled sometimes, but that I tried so hard to learn from my mistakes. And the best part is that she is learning, too.
 
How do you handle yelling in your house?

P.S. Just for the record, Shira is in a fort in that top photo, not a prison. I swear.

Kid Therapy

You know what I haven't written about much lately? Parenting. Yes, that's right, I have two children and we spend a lot of time together. You must be tired of me going on and on about myself lately, am I right (maybe don't answer that)? No matter how relieved I have been to return to Toronto, life has felt awfully heavy lately, sort of molasses-like. I'm dragging a bit, can you tell?

One of the markers of parenthood for me is how no matter what else is going on in my life, my young children don't care. Struggling with new career steps? Not their concern. Worrying about a decision you made two years ago? They'd rather paint. I should rephrase that part about caring, though, because while they don't care in that traditional "what accommodations can we make to help you through this transition" kind of way, they'll get right and dirty to help me relax and get over myself. Feeling a bit indecisive about life lately? I suggest you take your four year old to an outdoor showing of The Lorax, popcorn and cookies included. Having a rough day managing deadlines? Relax a minute and just get under the covers with your two year old already. Read that book together, you know you'll feel better. This isn't about playing the role of martyr and ignoring all those very real grown-up concerns, but taking full opportunity of the way my children know how to take care of me. Sure, Alyce can't carry on a decent conversation about savings accounts, but she did make me fourteen drawings last week, with no less than 6442 hearts. I'd be silly not to take that therapy when it's being excitedly thrown at me each day after school.

I started this blog as a way to remember the details of our chaos and lately I've had a few moments that have left me hoping that I don't forget any of it. Do you know that feeling? I'm going about my day when all of a sudden I find myself in the middle of an act or experience or sentence that I know--I just know--I'll want to keep with me. None of these moments are transformational or even original. I expect that parents the world over have felt the same way with their own children, in that universal way in which parents are made to smile that soft, knowing smile  as they watch their children be, well, children.

Like yesterday when Alyce's kindergarten teacher informed me that Alyce has been hiding her own possessions in the lost and found box, again. This time it was her lunch bag. She does this because she finds such delight in the act of solving the mystery of her missing item. She's lost and found multiple pairs of shoes, mittens, more than one jacket. Come to think of it we're currently "missing" a few items right now. Thanks, Alyce. Or how a friend noticed yesterday that Shira rolls her eyes back into her head a bit as she descends into a kiss. Ecstasy, these kisses are to Shira, she could give them all day long. Then there was that time were those times I walked in the room to find her naked as the day she entered this world. She's growing up, that Shira, and so learning the freedom that comes from declaring that clothes-free is far better than clothed.

Yes, Shira, it certainly is. And today I'll take an extra moment to remember that. 

Dear Alyce

First day.

Dear Alyce,

We often write letters to people when we aren't quite sure how to say what we're feeling in person. Or, maybe when we really want to make sure that we're heard. We talk a lot, don't we? Sometimes you do most of the talking, other times it's me who can't stop going on and on. Do you like our conversations? Do you wish they were mostly about princesses and rainbows and sparkles, and less about responsibilities and manners and growing up? You might, and I'd understand that. You're four (and a half) and your primary job in life is to surround yourself with things that make you smile. On most days I want you to concern yourself with imaginary friends, fairy tales, dress-up clothes, and dancing, but sometimes I have to direct your attention to things that don't at first seem like any fun at all.

Like school.

You and I are alike in more ways than I ever could have imagined. We both adore moving our bodies to music and singing loudly in the car. And I think given the freedom to do so, you and I could spend the rest of our days wandering around the city, bouncing from bakery to bakery, delirious from all those quality carbohydrates. I think you'd choose chocolate cupcakes every time, and I would probably alternate between an airy pastry of some kind and a good baguette with some chocolate. We also both love so hard that sometimes we get all wound up in the intensity of those feelings. Because we love so much we get hurt a lot, not in the grand, dramatic kind of heartache, but by those smaller (though powerful) wounds. And don't think I haven't noticed how much time you spend worrying about other people's feelings. I could write a book on that skill, and I'll lend it to you some time, though I'd rather not. And it's funny, isn't it, how we can so immediately become wrapped up in each others feelings?

Off to school.

This happened a few mornings ago. It was your first day of senior kindergarten and your first day at a new school. Holy cow, that's big. Of course you were a junior kindergartener last year, but somehow that seems so beginner, so part-time (and to think you were only three years old)! But this year is different and no matter our preparations, it caught all of us by surprise, taking the wind out of us a bit on Tuesday morning. Now you are four (and a half) and you're ready for the big-time (or the full-time, at least). I have been so excited for you, eager to help you pick out your favourite backpack, lunch bag, and back-to-school gold sparkle shoes. Now if only you'd put them on your feet instead of carrying them around all day. (That you carry your special treasures with you at all times in bags or in your hands is one of the things about you that sneaks into my heart, never to leave.)

They are awfully nice shoes.

But Tuesday morning was a tough one. I had stayed up late the night before making you a special back to school card and planning a chocolate chip pancake breakfast. I even put the good linens on the table. I am a hopeless (hopeless!) romantic when it comes to school. No matter the rough ending of my dissertation, school has always filled me with the same kind of joy that Mondays bring me, though on a much bigger scale. I love the potential of school, of all the things you can learn and all the ways your world can change. When I was younger, though a bit older than you, I'd daydream about running away to a school for dancers, or a private school where I could wear a uniform (influenced as I was by Fame and Dead Poet's Society). When I watch you take for your first steps toward school, my heart beats a bit faster because I can already see how much you and I are alike. I can already see how you look ahead to your own transformations, even at four (and a half). You are so ready to step out into that world.

That first day I was eager, I often am, and I was unprepared for your reaction that morning. Of course it really isn't a surprise that you rejected my card and refused chocolate chip pancakes. You were hurting and scared and all the while you were watching me, aware of how you were hurting my feelings and caught between wanting to make me happy and wanting to put your foot down in the face of your big first day. I am not going to school, mama. Not even once, you declared repeatedly. Not that you said much at all. You marched around the house trying to show me how much you were hurting by trying to convince me that you didn't care about anything at all. But you did care. You were missing your old friends, worried about making news ones. I tried to be brave in the midst of all these hurt feelings, but mostly I was disappointed that you didn't like my card or my pancakes.

Of course, and it was plain to see, my hurt feelings weren't really about you turning your nose at my card, but were about that panic settling in under my skin, that realization that you were leaving. Until now you've always been mine at home, even when you spent time in that other world. No matter anything else, you're still mine, and I'll hold on as tight as I can, even when I'm not paying attention to myself. Because if I had been paying attention I would have seen that the card, the linens, the new school clothes were really about me avoiding an enormous sense of grief over my first child growing older, and happier and stronger and funnier and sillier. Yes, of course, I'm grateful that I have the blessings of a healthy family and my grief isn't over the sadness of ill health or tragic circumstances. But it is still a grieving. Watching you grow is a complicated sport. I am cheering for you, encouraging you to reach further and faster, but I also kind of just want you to stay behind with me.

No wait, I don't want you to stay behind at all, I want you to move forward. And I'll always be here if you want to fill me in on the details. Like I said, it's complicated.

All of those feelings emerged when, a few moments before it was time to leave, you found your way into the kitchen where I was nursing my own sad heart and asked me if you could have some breakfast. I asked you what you wanted, and you only replied, I want you, mama, before running into me so hard I almost lost my balance. Your emotions, like mine, had finally come to the surface and you were able to just cry for a few moments, exposed as we were. I scooped you up on my lap and we sat for a few minutes, maybe more, just hanging out with each others fears. And then that was it. We love hard, we get hurt hard, but then we just get things done, you and me. You quickly ate your pancake (the ones I had planned the night before) and we all set off for school, you, me, Shira and Papa. Somehow I just knew that I should pack your back-to-school card, and I'm glad I did. You showed it proudly to your new teacher and have barely let go of it since.

There are many good things that come out of such intensity, so please don't ever apologize for that. Do apologize to your sister, however, who four days later is still completely devastated by your departure each morning. I guess you've got it all figured out now, but Shira still feels a bit lost. Thank you for giving her such big hugs after school each day. It brings her so much joy, which helps take some of the edge off of the fact that you run to her first after school, not me.  I don't mind waiting.

She waits all day long for you to come home from school.

I'm not sure if you'll remember this, but the first thing you said to me after school on Tuesday was this: This was the best day ever. Ever.  I think our work here is done. We are quite the team, aren't we?

Love,
mama

But they're so little

I wanted to share with you this photo of my cousin, Joanne, and her little boy. I think it was probably taken soon after his birth because the two of them have that perfectly contented look on their faces, one that speaks of relief, delight, exhaustion, and, of course, love. And exhaustion.

The thing about this photo is that today this little boy left for college. Yes, you read that right. For college. This week, as our children begin or return to school, I want you to think just for a moment about this photo.

Our children are going to grow older.

They might throw themselves into the world, or reluctantly step into it, but no matter the path, they will grow. My Alyce begins senior kindergarten on Tuesday (along with so many little ones I have the privilege of knowing and loving) and when I look at this photo I am immediately reminded that my (sometimes loud) complaints about the perils of parenting young children are often misplaced. Yes, I'm a bit tired. Yes, I wish Alyce would wait patiently for me to answer her 5,398 questions each day. Yes, I would like to do at least one task a day uninterrupted.

But now I know the secret: it won't always be like this. I can already hear my future self lamenting over the passage of time. I am already asking Matt if he remembers when Alyce learned to sing (shortly after birth, it seems, and shows no signs of stopping) or how she used to mispronounce the word yogurt. She is already growing up. Rather than focusing on the complaining (though there will still be a few complaints, since, well, I'm a human being), I would like to think instead about how I struck gold. It doesn't get much better than my little family and I know it. Let's not waste our time with other thoughts.

Alyce is leaping and dancing through these years and I better quit bothering with complaints and just focus on catching up with her. Thanks, Joanne, for the heads up. 

Smile

We spent the morning at a photographer's studio. I love photography. I am in awe of what people can do with a camera, like an actual camera that isn't my iPhone. And while I don't know what it's like to work under the pressure of potentially unhappy customers, we didn't really have fun. Yes, I'm sure we will get an incredible photo at the end of it all, and since the photo session was a gift from my mum and stepfather, I'm grateful that we had the opportunity. But trying to coerce my children to sit for the perfect shot is not my idea of a good time.

I don't have good feelings about bodies being in the centre of attention on a good day, or more specifically, my body being the centre of attention. Blame the mean boys and girls of my youth, my penchant for baking, my hips' homage to Ruben, or my years in ballet, but I've never been a big fan of my body, and this generally makes me feel uncomfortable in any setting where attention is thrown my way, even when it's positive. (This is not my best trait, but it is who I am. I even annoy myself, like when someone compliments my hair and all it does is make me feel terrible about the rest of body. Just accept a compliment, already.)

As a parent I often struggle with just how much attention is given to my daughters' looks. Don't get me wrong, their beauty stops me in my tracks. But they are my kids, and I'm hard-wired to think so. And I am also stopped in my tracks by their thoughts and feelings, and even sometimes by their jokes (Alyce over breakfast today: What letter makes honey? Me: I don't know. Which one? Alyce: "B"!) But strangers who only meet them for a few moments, or acquaintances we run into only now and again, they always focus on their looks and they just can't seem to stop going on. And on. In some ways this attention make me feel proud because I know that it isn't their good looks that gets the attention, but their enormous hearts that shine through their faces. But other days I start to worry about what Alyce and Shira are learning from all this attention.

Like most things, I'm conflicted (surprising, I know). Rebecca at Girl's Gone Child made an excellent point about raising our girls to enjoy their own beauty, and it has stuck with me since I read it last year. She writes:

I want my children to own their beauty, not be ashamed of it. I want them to know how to take compliments and to return them because we are the sum of all of our parts. In order to have healthy bodies we must know how to properly care for them, not ignore that they exist. Our bodies are more than just shells. They bring pleasure and yes, even happiness when treated with respect and love. So ignoring our daughters' physical selves does not protect them so much as it sets them up for potential guilt and insecurity. (Find the rest here.)

This is good stuff: we are the sum of many parts, bodies included. But my challenge comes in the form of having absolutely no idea how to teach my girls to love their bodies but not become defined by them. For them, right now, their bodies are praised. But let's face it, a few mean (or simply thoughtless) comments down the line and all of a sudden that praise turns to critique, and when that happens I want them to stand on the knowledge that their worth comes from more than bodies. I grew up thinking I was somehow second-class because I wasn't as skinny as my friends. Now that I'm a mother to two girls, I find myself in a bit of a defensive position when it comes to bodies.

Relax, you're thinking, and you're probably right. This isn't the first time I've over-thought something. At the end of the day I try to teach my girls to enjoy their bodies and not to take things too seriously. We dress up as princesses and fairy ballerinas, dress up in my clothes and make-up, and then spend hours forgetting about what our bodies look like as we chase each other around the park playing tag and secret agent. What I didn't like about this morning was that I felt like we signed up for an hour of picking on my daughter's bodies. It became an exercise in choosing the best clothes, brushing the hair out of Alyce's eyes, and placing their bodies just the right way. When the photographer asked if I could fix their wispy, fly-away hair, I said no, that's who they are. When he wanted them both smiling directly into the camera, I refused to beg constantly for them to listen and sit still. When he looked disappointed by their ability to listen, Matt and I were laughing on the sidelines at Shira's determination to thwart his every attempt at control. I think we were terrible customers, but I was unwilling to make this a moment for (mostly) Alyce to feel as though there was something wrong with her, that her body didn't look just right for the pictures. There are so many things for them to learn as children, between all the talk of manners and rules and learning how to be a kind and generous human being, I'd rather not make an issue out of some fly-away hair.

This gift from my mum is a wonderful one, and I can't wait to see what pictures did come out of today. If we ever do this again I'll see if we can find a photographer able to come to our house and follow them around, capturing them the way I love best: up to no good. For now, though, I'll mostly just enjoy these blurry photos I took with my iPhone. They're blurry because Alyce and Shira are children and don't like to sit still. Also, I was laughing so hard. That's way more fun than static free hair styles and matching dresses.