At the tipping point.

Our family got away to Tofino this weekend. It was a trip in honour of Ardan’s first birthday, a sort of baptism for him in the Pacific. For Sean and I, a journey to regroup, look at the year behind and ahead in a space out of time—or so it feels there. We are feeling hopeful these days, excited about big changes in the wings. Within the year, we’d like to move to a smaller town and buy our first house, a little slice of space out of time all our own. And we are enjoying the anticipation and the question we find ourselves in. Where will it be? What will it be like? How will it change things? How can we make it the best home possible for our family?

Maybe not just coincidentally, I have been noticing examples of how life can sometimes blindside us. I read a quote recently that started it all off, something to the effect of “She wept, because life so often turns out so differently from what you expected it to be.” And then other things popped up—an acquaintance who is going through a tragic divorce. Sean telling me about a woman he once met who had been in 7 car accidents. A woman on Oprah who, in her 30’s, developed a strange disorder in her ligaments that started pulling her body slowly to one side so that she had to exist painfully leaned over, struggling to drink water and walk through doorways.

But it’s not just the unexpected, unlucky changes that sometimes blindside you—even your fondest dreams for can throw you for a loop when they are actualized. Having a baby, glorious loop though it is, surely teaches you that. I’m aware that no matter how much we plan and anticipate, we can’t know until we make the change what it’s going to bring with it.

I like change, don’t get me wrong. I also like to plan, anticipate, cover all the angles, make sure the changes we have choice in are going to lead to the best possible outcomes for our family. So the now knowing part is tricky for me. Scary, I dare say.

When I started writing this yesterday, I had to stop without finishing, because I didn’t have an ending. It all seemed to negative, and I wanted a way through that. Then another coincidence happened. I read "What if..." over at Mama Renew, about how we come to the tipping point where the desire to move forward is greater than the fears we have about what that may bring. It seemed to be written just or me. I realized that I am there, at that tipping point, so I have to stay outside the fear, or I will close myself off to the beautiful possibilities. So let the winds of change blow, and may they gently but firmly land us in a better place.

A letter to Boodge on his first birthday

I wanted to write something for Boodge first birthday, and it came to me that I wanted to write it to him, so it took the form of a letter. I have good intentions to do this every year--and you know what they say about good intentions....it's the thought that counts. That's what they say, right?

Anyway, good parenting intentions is a post for another day. Today, it's my son's first birthday, and I am celebrating with all of my spirit and love. Who knew it would feel so good? So, here is the letter. Hope you all enjoy.

Dear Boodge,
You are one year old. I had no idea how elated I would feel on this day, how proud and grateful. One year ago, as we waited for you to come, your father and I had no idea what to expect. We were both excited and apprehensive, but only had a vague sense of why. We needed to meet you—we couldn’t wait to meet you. And meeting you has been the most wonderful thing that has happened in both of our lives so far.

There will probably never be another year of our lives together that will be more physically intimate for you and I—maybe even so intimate altogether. So much of this year was spent holding you, rocking you as I watched your eyes slowly droop down to sleep, nursing you and listening to your sweet breathe-gulp-breathe rhythm, carrying you to soothe you when you were hurt or scared, or just needed to see what was happening at my level. I’ve wiped your snot and your drool and your pee and poo, even your vomit, and had all of them on me at one time or another. I’ve lifted you to look at cars, goats, flowers, photos, magnets, mirrors, CD players, plants, people, buffalo, and every other thing that captures your interest, which is everything from what I can tell. I’ve become so familiar with the heft of your body, the feel of your little hands on my skin, the softness of your belly. I love all of this so sweetly, and much as I can't wait to see you grow more independent, I will also miss it.

I read this year that once you have children, you enter this strange relationship with time. You want to freeze so many moments and just feel that happiness and beauty, forever. But also, you can’t wait to see what comes next. I have felt that so much. Your father and I have shared so much delight over you, so much laughter, and you will see from the thousands of pictures and videos we’ve taken that we wanted to stop time so often. I want to burn it all into my memory—the Mad Dog nursing when you were a newborn, the jumparoo-Riverdancing in your little orthopaedic shoes, the downy feel of your head, the way you crawled like a seal at first, the shriek in your giggle, your favourite babble words “Ogoi, ogoi, oyaaa, oyaaa, ajugajugajugajug, DA! DA!” But I know it’s futile, that I will forget. There is just too much that has happened, already.

This year has been intense for all of us. Your father and I have changed and weathered a lot—but that pales when I think of the changes you’ve accomplished. You started out this wee floppy thing, with nothing but your, and my, instincts to rely on. Now you are a little man, walking, talking, dancing, playing games with us, waving and smiling like the Queen of England from your stroller, flashing your mischievous eyes. And you did it all with such cheerful grace. One thing I learned from you this year is that we all have a natural, amazing capacity to grow and learn in exactly the way we need to, if we just trust the process. You never thought to doubt the process. I hope I can help you hang on to that.

I hope I can hang on to that, and to allow you to grow into yourself, nurturing who you are and helping you discover what makes you thrive. I feel so blessed to have been given the chance to raise you, to show you through this world. You are nothing short of amazing. So happy birthday little Boodge. And thank you, thank you, thank you for coming to us. Here’s to a long life together.

Love,
Mama

A year into the journey, a Mama surrenders.....

Last weekend I celebrated my first Mother’s Day, and next week is Ardan’s first birthday. A whole year since that squirming creature emerged from the primordial muck inside me and showed me to a new horizon, vivid with a sunrise of emotions. Joy, love, wonder, frustration, disappointment, surprise, bewilderment, anger, perseverance, delight, pride. I’ve been walking towards that horizon steadily now, and feel the need to stop and look at where I’ve come from.

People tell you all the time that when you become a mother, everything changes. But the experience is so profound that words of warning are too puny to make a difference. There’s no way to tell someone what it will be like, not only because the change is too enormous, but also because it happens uniquely to each individual. How motherhood changes us depends on who we are, how we were raised, how much stability we have in our lives, whether we wanted to become a mother, and countless other factors. Not the least of which is the baby we create, since all of those are unique too.

I’ve always loved the archetypes of the three phases of womanhood—the Maiden, Mother, and Crone”. I never considered how the transition between phases might be sad, or graceless, as well as exciting and growth-producing. I became a mother the day my baby was born, or even conceived, but the “Maiden” that I was before still hung around. And I have to say, she hasn’t always been helpful. She has stood looking over my shoulder, pointing out things like, “You haven’t slept more than three hours in a row in months now,” and, “I guess evenings are not going to be the same for a looong time…if ever.” She holds the memory of life before, the life to which I can not return. Not that I want it back, either—just some parts of it. Uninterrupted conversation. Long easy baths. Sleeping in. Leaving the house in 2 minutes or less. Daily yoga practice.

Don’t get me wrong—I love being a mother more than anything I have ever done, and I am deeply grateful for the opportunity. But I struggled to accept the changes that came with motherhood. All my relationships, with friends, family, parents, and my husband, seemed to rotate suddenly on the single point of Ardan. My career ambitions evaporated for a while. The daily work I did this year was often work I don’t enjoy—laundry, cleaning, organizing—repetitive tasks that don’t require mental engagement. There was so much to process, and but my usual ways of coping (journaling, long solitary walks, sleeping well, exercise) were not always available or possible anymore.

My default coping strategy (when I am not coping well) is to become Supermartyr…able to put aside her own needs with unparalleled resentment, denying all help offered, proving her own superior ability to handle everything. I realize now that I fell into that role at home. “Look how hard I am working. Look at my back pain and my sleep deprivation. I’m the one suffering, I’m the one going through so much change, I’m the one sacrificing.” It was my mother who gently pointed this attitude out to me on her recent visit, although I had already begun to recognize it myself. Supermartyr hates when people point out her flaws.

Just as I was pulling out of that mess, a friend sent a link to Oprah’s site. Oprah had interviewed authors Amy Nobile and Trisha Ashworth during a show on motherhood. Nobile commented that we have to realize that we can never again be the person we were before we had children. “You have to reinvent yourself,” she said. It was a great relief to hear this. I think it was then that it clicked for me that if I measured my contentment the way I had before, I would not be content. The Maiden in me was always seeking, striving to become best self. The Mother becomes herself, is defined by, her responsibility for and to her children. So much of my life now is about tending my camp, and my seeking is in how to balance being mother, wife, and a person at work in my community as well as I can.

I don’t pretend I have become completely reinvented, but I am learning. I am learning to accept the work of mothering gracefully as part of what comes with the incredible blessing of having a child. I am learning how to find balance, to use resentment as a cue to ask for what I want instead of to throw guilt around. Because when you have a baby it’s not just about you anymore—that’s the other thing people tell you all the time.

Most importantly, though, I am learning to surrender. Surrender to the changes that have come, and continue to come, surrender my desire to control what cannot be controlled. Surrender to the wonder of watching this delightful little being change every day, bringing new questions and new joys. Surrender to the love of my family, to the help that they offer, even if it isn’t always offered exactly when or how I want it. Surrender to the relationships that have drifted apart, and the ones that have become so much closer. Surrender to the sick baby that needs me at night, the feisty baby that crawls away with poopy bum, the sweet baby who wants to nurse between explorations. The more I surrender, the less I resent. And the more I am able to appreciate the short years and long days of mothering.

Taking it to the next level.....

One of the first lessons Sean and I learned when we had a baby is not to talk about things that are going well, as in: “Oh, he loves his carseat.” Or, “What sleep deprivation? This baby is a great sleeper.” Some lessons, though, must be repeated until we have truly learned them, and so the other day I found myself boldly stating how lucky I felt that Ardan had never thrown up (minus a very few big spit ups when he was little). Then in the next breath, I offered to help my friend whose 2 year old had a stomach flu by doing her 4 year old’s preschool drop off and pick up.

What possessed me to tempt the Great Mother, who we all know is, among other things, a trickster? Two days later, still blissfully ignorant of the games she was plotting, I noted that Ardan’s sleep seemed restless. “It’s the spring energy,” I told my cousin as we shopped at the local herbal medicine store. “He’s so excited by the sunshine!” The lack of sleep, I figured, explained his whiny clinginess too.

“Quiet child tea.” Said the nice, quiet proprietor of the store.
“Oh yeah, would that help with his sleep?” I asked.
“It could, and yours too….”
Sold! I scooped some into a bag, at the same time I joking that if the answer to sleep was so simple, everyone would know about it. But you can’t blame a girl for trying….

So yesterday, I brewed up a cup in the afternoon, and I slipped it into the sippy cup last night. Ardan had totally refused dinner, no matter what I offered, but he was happy to sip it down while he bounced in front of my chair, eating scraps of pizza that I handed him from my plate. At 8:30, I nursed him to sleep and went to join my husband for some wine and vegging. By midnight, and the wee one was stirring, so I kissed Sean goodnight and decided to go to bed myself.

I slipped in to bed next to his little pyjamaed body—he was crying now, ready for Mama’s comfort. He began to nurse, only to pull off and cry harder. And then suddenly vomit was spewing from his mouth and he was sobbing, heaving, scared. He crawled through the first spew towards me, saying “Mama”. My heart, in spite of the situation, melted at the sweetness of it—at 11 months, he’s just barely learning to say Mama. Then that sweet mouth opened again with a heave and spewed sour all over my chest, chunky vomit that trickled down my shoulders and into my hair.

“Oh, poor baby.” Oh, foul smell. How did I forget about the smell of vomit? My own stomach is pretty solid, I rarely do it myself. Each time I inhaled to speak words of comfort to Ardan, my breath caught at the smell. He was on top of me now, slipping around on my chest. He heaved back for a third and fourth expulsion, and I shouted for backup.

Lying in a pool of vomit, holding a soaked and crying baby…not the best way I have ever ended a Saturday night. Sean changed the sheets while I stripped and soothed Ardan, and we all retired to the living room, where Ardan proceeded to dance the jig repeatedly and practice all his sounds (especially the pig one) with joyful enthusiasm, smiling and laughing maniacally. Was it the Quiet Child tea? Was he on some sort of hallucinogenic baby-trip? Or was it the stomach flu, the Great Mother reminding me of my cockiness, initiating me into a new club of motherhood?

Whatever it was….the point is taken. I am newly humbled, sitting here feeling twinges of nausea myself as Ardan sleeps it off on a sunny Sunday afternoon. I will not tempt the trickster again. Or so I like to believe. But really, I’m sure I will….sometime, somehow, I’ll lead myself to believe I’ve got something figured out in this wild motherhood adventure. And the Great Mother will smile and rub her hands with glee, and reach out to take me to the next level.

For the Ladies....Happy Women's Day

It’s International Women’s Day, and I don’t want to let it go by without honouring all of the women that make my world go round. Men are great, of course, but women! It has been my incredibly good fortune to be surrounded by amazing women my whole life, and they have given me so much strength, inspiration, and laughter. When I think to list all the things these women have brought to my life, I am overwhelmed.

My maternal grandmother brought my extended family together in feasts of wine and good food, allowed me to curl my little girl body into her soft folds, and showed me that joy can survive even unthinkable losses. My paternal grandmother inspires me to speak my mind frankly and be grateful for by blessings rather than complaining about my misfortunes (though she’s better at both than I am). Both have taught me to love literature and language and care about what’s going on in the world, and have shown me that growth is lifelong.

My mother taught me compassion for others, and to keep an open-heart to everyone as much as possible. She showed me that we can go deep into our darkness and come out stronger, humbler, wiser, and steadier. I am thankful every day for her friendship and support, the unwavering, unequalled love that a mother gives, that I understand now from experiencing it myself, and am in awe of. That love I often took for granted, but which literally gave me my life, nurtured me steadily and unwaveringly, taught me everything, from language to cooking to how to play nice, only to release me, gradually and unselfishly, into the world on my fledgling legs with tears and pride in her eyes.

And then there are my woman peers—my sisters-in-law, my cousins, my dear friends—collectively, I think of them as my “sister-women”, and I am blessed with so many. These are the women who can split a side with me in laughter, and who can witness my tears with a gentle smile of understanding and offer words of comfort, or tears of their own so I don’t cry alone. They went out with me and shook booty on the dance floor when we were single, and now they sit on the floor and admire my baby’s naked booty wiggling across the living room.

These are women of courage, not afraid to live honestly and outside the mold, women of love and passion, loyal, fierce women, who move through change and loss with grace, bringing back new wisdom to share with me. With a single glance, they can assess the emotional nuance of a situation and offer help, rocking a restless baby or showing up ready to pack up an apartment or sending a song that will comfort my soul. We have grown together in friendship, and together ridden the waves of this ever-changing ocean of life. For each and every one of them, I am so grateful, and I to each one I wish the most blessed of lives.

Thank you, thank you, thank you—my heart is full with all of you women.
Here is a song for you: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rSwMWv0pbpk

Braving the Economic Storm Together

When I was 8 months pregnant, home from work one day, my property manager came to the apartment door. “I hate to do this,” he said, looking ashamed. “What,” I replied glibly, “Another rent increase?”
“No. I’m sorry. You’re getting evicted.” Just like that. Time stopped. Shock kicked in.
“You’re not serious,” I replied. We were great tenants, and had been for 4 years. But he was serious. The building was being sold, and the owners wanted their son to move in—or so the story was.

Shady, to be sure, since the buyer was a rich property speculation company and our building was in a prime location to be destroyed so condos could be built. But we didn’t have time to risk the legal battle—we had to find a home to bring our baby to. Sean and I kicked into high gear, driven with a singleness of purpose I don’t think either of us had felt before. Crying and worrying were secondary to finding a place to live. All our other obligations became nuisances. I sat at work looking at apartment listings, left early to go look at them, and didn’t stop until a new home was secured.

Had this happened a year before, when we weren’t expecting, it would have been different. We could crash anywhere, then, we could move again if necessary. But with a baby, security was so much more critical. We felt incredibly vulnerable, and at the mercy of economic powers that were sweeping us aside, uncaring.

Still now, I periodically bring baked goods to my property manger, as if that will somehow stop such a thing happening again. But the smooth pearl of comfort in my heart, then and now, is the knowledge that we have wonderful friends and family who will help in any way they can if we need them.

Now, as I watch the crash of the economy, I can’t help thinking about all the families that are out there feeling even more vulnerable than we did. Losing not just apartments but homes they worked so hard for, losing jobs that they were loyal to for years, losing money they put aside to send their children to university, losing pensions that they counted on to take them through retirement. I feel for families with young children who are wondering what if, what now, what are we going to do?

These are scary times. They are also times when good people, wanting to hang on to security for their families, can be abused by bosses and landlords and banks that hold the power. They are times when we have to keep our heads up and decide what really matters. And then put our heads down, and push forward towards whatever that is. We will all discover new resourcefulness and strength as we are tested by this economic storm.

My heart goes out to the families, young and old, who are reeling from the sudden shock of the economic crash. But maybe we’ll gain from all this too, in realizing that if we have each other, and we are safe, warm, and fed—that is all we really need.
My hope is that this challenge will teach us a new way to feel secure, through community rather than consumption.

Mama's Milk

I was just online looking up how coffee was discovered. I had a hunch that it was discovered by mothers, and I had to laugh to see some story about Joe goatherd who saw his goats looking lively and took the berries to a medicine man.

Maybe, but I prefer to believe it was some Mama with a baby on her back, foraging for food, who ate some beans and suddenly her sleep deprived brain cleared. Miraculously, she found she could make it through a day of repetitive tasks and labour, and still be patient, loving, and entertaining. And, as Mamas will, she shared the magic bean with all the other Mamas, thus spreading it the world over. And to her, I am eternally grateful.

Maybe my appreciation the dark brew is stronger because I gave it up for a while. I’ve been drinking coffee, literally, since I can remember. All my mornings of high school and university began with a cup of coffee. I poured it out of rounded flasks while serving breakfast at the pancake house, an old thrift store pot in my first apartment, a bodum during my single living days. Finally I was pouring it from one of those 40-cup office things into a huge cup after cup while I struggled with brain death in my first and only cubicle job.

And then I started to get stomach pain, and feel sort of dark inside, as if my gut was getting coffee stained. So I gave it up—switched to green tea, with soy milk and organic cane sugar. I was happy with green tea for about 5 years. It was earthy, and so good for me. Coffee had turned me off, and I didn’t plan on going back.

And then I had a baby. Sweet, amazing baby with the smile that makes my heart leap with joy. But often at night, his alter ego comes out, waking up sometimes every hour--unsettled, cranky. I’m sure every Mama knows the feeling of waking up thinking “Noooooooooooooooooo.” You drag yourself out of bed, carrying the extra 20lbs of baby. Your head is in deep in a fog as you shove small bits of banana into your baby’s mouth, scraping dried up food from the floor below him whenever you bend to pick up the spoon he keeps dropping. His smile, buoyant as it is, makes you a little…nervous, as you wonder how you will keep up with this level of raw life-loving today?

And you sip your coffee. And after a while, you notice the fog is just--gone. It’s as if you slept 8 hours instead of 4. You feel sure you can make it to naptime, maybe even further. You’re ready to get on the floor and babble gibberish at the top of your lungs.

It’s that promise that has brought me back to coffee with a zealous appreciation. When I wake up in the morning and smell the pot on (dear hubby is usually up before me and baby, working from home) I inhale the promise of a good day. Sometimes when I fall off into exhausted sleep, praying to the Great Mother for a good night, I am also already thinking how good coffee will be in the morning.

Coffee is Mama’s milk. Every Mama whose home I visit has a pot of coffee on the go, or even an espresso machine on the counter. Cupholders on our strollers are more important than a hand brake, even, and maybe more useful, since we may be more quick to notice something like the stroller rolling into traffic.

So I salute that foraging Mama of my imagination, way back in time in Ethiopia, who dared to discover those beans. I hope her soul is resting somewhere with her feet up, sipping a warm cup of Java.