Now You Are Three

June 13, 2011 by ·

Dear Connor,

Today you turn three. I can hardly believe it.

I know, that sounds trite. But as I write this on the eve of your birthday – with you asleep next door in your big boy bed (the one you insist on showing every single person who comes into the house, and the same one you never want to sleep in alone at night) – I feel a little bit stunned. Three years!

This is the first photo taken of you when you were born:

Looking back, it tells me so much of what I now know about you. You’re not a huge fan of being taken away from your mama. You know exactly what you think and aren’t afraid to express it. You’re sensitive to your environment, but if you want to be the loud one, nothing can stop you.

As well, the expression on your face is one I’ve seen many a time since:

Something has happened in the last few months. I don’t know when, exactly, but you stopped being a baby. I know you’re not a baby and haven’t been for a while, but until recently I had moments every day where I caught a glimpse of baby in you. Each time I held on tightly, knowing it was a fleeting gift.

I’ve only just realized it, but it doesn’t happen every day anymore. Hardly at all, actually. Even last week when you were sick you didn’t stay stuck to me in the same way you did when you were sick only a couple of months ago. You’re growing up.

And I’m growing up with you. Since I’ve been off work the last couple of months, I’ve been working on getting better and for a long time Daddy was taking care of you. He was doing all the hard stuff that I couldn’t do at the time, like getting up with you in the mornings and trying to get you to eat breakfast, putting you down for naps, doing baths and bedtimes. For a short and very scary time I wondered if I would ever be able to do those things. It seems so silly, but I couldn’t do them. I was too sick and I needed to take care of myself before I could take care of you.

Over the last couple of weeks, though, I’ve started being mom again and doing some of those hard things that used to set me off when you didn’t cooperate. At first I had to talk Daddy into letting me do those things, to let him know it was okay and to assure him that I’d ask for help if I needed it. And we always had back-up. So many people have helped us over the last few weeks – I only wish I could repay them with something other than endless thanks and undying love. We owe Grandma especially for being here at times when I needed someone to do what I couldn’t do with my own child. Sometimes you just need your mom and I’m so grateful for mine. I hope I can always be there for you, for whatever you need, the way she is there for me.

We’re doing well, though, you and I. Which is not to say everything is easy, just that I can handle the hard stuff better now. And my darling boy, sometimes you are a holy terror. I can’t tell you how many times someone in public has commented on what a handful you are. If only they knew. I could do without the screaming fits and the meltdowns over seemingly insignificant things, but I know that’s part of who you are – a passionate, expressive person. (And you get that from me but don’t tell Daddy I acknowledged that.)

The past three years have changed my life in ways I never could have imagined, and for a long time things were so hard I wasn’t sure I’d make it through. I know what happened to me was hard for others as well. Your dad is really annoyed that I didn’t get the help I needed soon enough. In one way I’m sorry too, because it meant he had to deal with a lot of things I wish he hadn’t had to. I can’t change that now, but I do know how much he loves me and I know how much I love him because we’ve been through this together.

Mostly, though, I really don’t resent what I’ve experienced. It was awful – don’t get me wrong – and it’s not over yet. But I’ve learned so much from it – about you, about our family, about myself and about life. I now know just how much love and support we have, and that’s a powerful thing.

My experience with postpartum depression has also taught me that every one of us has something to give. We all have ways of helping someone. Of changing someone’s life, even. A few people have helped change mine, and I hope I can do that for someone else.

I have found new passions and new sources of inspiration that I never would have found if it weren’t for this, and no one can ever take that away from me. This insight is one of the biggest gifts I hope to offer you – to live your life fully, to do what you feel you’re meant to do, and to love and be loved in the process.

I will love you always and forever,
Mama xx

Filed Under: Letters to Connor, Postpartum depression · Tagged With: , , ,

The “Difficult” Child

April 12, 2011 by ·

When Connor was really young – I don’t know how young, but young enough to still be considered an infant – I got a book from the library called Raising Your Spirited Child. My husband saw it on the stairs and gave me a funny look.

“Oh, you better believe we’re going to need that,” I assured him.

I skimmed the book and my resolve fled in fear at some of the descriptions of “spirited” behaviour. I don’t think I actually got to the how-to-deal-with-it stuff before promptly sliding it down the library’s return chute, out of sight.

I’ve thought of the “spirited child” concept many times since and I now know exactly what the author is talking about. The complete and utter meltdown because I’ve put his water in the wrong cup. The sheer determination this child shows in refusing to go to sleep easily or stay asleep once there. His spirit – unless sick – seems to know no bounds.

A Today’s Parent article about parenting the “difficult” child has me thinking about this again. “Difficult” isn’t really a word I like in the context of children and, besides, saying he’s “difficult” doesn’t really help people who don’t have difficult kids understand what’s meant by that. I do, however, like how the article’s author defines it:

First let me say that by “difficult” I mean kids who are more difficult to raise. In fact, more is the operative word here — more active, more inclined to explore (read: get into things), more emotional, more likely to question, more labour-intensive, more just about everything — apart from obeying, sleeping and playing by themselves.

This describes Connor exactly. Everyone who meets him comments on how “busy” he is. He gets into everything. He comes by his emotional nature naturally (ahem) but even I’m surprised sometimes at how immediate and explosive his reactions are. My mom once commented that he’s the type of kid who needs four parents. Let me assure you – as one of the two parents he has, I’m well aware we’re understaffed.

The “except” part of that description applies too. Obey? Not so much. And he’s not good at playing by himself – less so, even, than the average almost-three-year-old. And have I mentioned that he doesn’t sleep well? There have been times it felt like he didn’t sleep at all.

The Spirited Child book offers the same observation:

Research shows that spirited kids are wired to be “more”—by temperament, they are more intense, sensitive, perceptive, persistent, and uncomfortable with change than the average child.

“More” sums it up perfectly. Everything about Connor is “more”.

 

 

 

 

I’m a Type A and an introvert (which are not, as you might think, mutually exclusive qualities). I like to be busy, but on my terms. I like to have control over things. And at the end of the day I like to come home and decompress with a little quiet time. Having all of that and being a mom to a toddler – especially one who is “more”  – do seem to be mutually exclusive. I know it comes with the territory, but it’s tough for me. Really tough.

My husband and I have always talked about how we think this side of him is a good thing. I’d much rather have a happy, active kid than one who sits there like a barnacle on a rock.

I’m starting to appreciate what this actually means. The summary of the Spirited Child book notes that spirited children “possess traits we value in adults yet find challenging in children.” Quite coincidentally, my therapist pointed this out recently too.

Connor is smart, curious, creative, active, attentive and really, really loving. I do value those qualities in him now, even if I don’t always appreciate the side effects.

I really, really hope he carries those qualities with him to adulthood, and I’m willing to do my part as his mom to support that.

Filed Under: Motherhood · Tagged With: , ,

Birds of a Feather

February 20, 2011 by ·

In my late 20s, I spent several days crammed in a van with my parents and three (adult) siblings driving halfway across Canada – from BC to Manitoba – for my grandmother’s memorial service. When I tell you this is the type of experience I wish for my son, you’ll think, “That’s it. This chick is definitely crazy.”

I’d say you have to understand my family to get it, but you don’t. We’re like any number of other families out there – we drive each other crazy at times. Sometimes we’re in touch a lot and other times I can’t remember when I last saw my brother. We compare ourselves and find fun and comfort in our similarities. We contrast ourselves and joke that our youngest sister is adopted. We are there for each other – always, unfailingly, without question.

So when all the logistical hurdles have been tackled and it turns out the most logical – and least frighteningly expensive – option for getting us all to the service is to drive there, in a van, together, none of us balks. It will be nothing less than an adventure.

Picture a van with miles and miles to go on the Trans-Canada. Each of us likes to be prepared for any eventuality (we get it from our mother) and this means none of us packs light. The van is crammed. Full of people, full of bags, full of cameras and things to do and music to listen to. And somewhere, beneath all of the people and all of their stuff, is an urn.

This suddenly occurs to me.

“Mom, where’s Grandma?”

“Under the seat.”

Silence.

I knew she had to be with us. She has to get there somehow. But I didn’t actually stop to think about the implications. I have a brief, “Oh my God. Mom!!” moment but it quickly passes. Of course she’s with us. It couldn’t be otherwise. I do briefly wonder if Grandma thinks we’re all crazy but realize she knows us well enough to know. We totally are. And I know she’s glad this is how this trip has turned out to be.

We drive.

We’re six people who are very similar and very different all at the same time, and between swim meets and family trips we’ve spent a lot of time in vehicles together. I know how this could go. I know how it would have gone in the past. I cross my fingers no one asks my middle sister where she wants to eat. (Kidding, Michelle! I know we’re long past the days where we’d all choose somewhere and you wouldn’t want to go and would have a fit about it.) (She’s going to kill me for this.)

We drive.

We were smart enough to get a van with a DVD player, so we watch movies.

We drive.

When movies get boring, we turn on the music. We have very, ahem, different tastes in music, and that same middle sister usually wins for having taste that’s agreeable to most of us. So we pop in her disc of tunes.

We drive.

We’ve left BC behind. We’ve left Alberta behind. We’re long past the ocean, which all of us love. We can no longer see the towering Rockies, to which all of us return repeatedly because there’s something there that draws us back. (Two of us live there now, and I won’t be at all surprised if we all end up back there again.) We’re now in Saskatchewan. It’s pretty, but flat. Nothing but miles and miles of highway in front of us.

The music plays and we drive on.

None of us is particularly shy about singing along, and over the last couple of days there have been various voices joining in for a chorus here, a verse there.

One track ends, and another begins. And suddenly we’re all belting out the same song.

“Movin’ right along in search of good times and good news,
With good friends, you can’t lose,
This could become a habit.”

The Muppets. Does anyone else have a family who would have a Muppets song on a road trip mix? This is totally normal for my family. And it’s totally normal that we’d all be singing along.

“Movin’ right along,
Foot-loose and fancy free.
Getting there is half the fun; come share it with me.”

Driving and singing. There’s nothing really that stands out about this, except that this is how my family is and I’m grateful for it. Then comes the moment.

“Movin’ right along.
Hey LA, where’ve you gone?
Send someone to fetch us, we’re in Saskatchewan!”

Peals of laughter. My mom is laughing so hard she’s crying. Of course my magical sister would have this song on her mix. Of course we’d hear this song, this line, while we’re driving along the highway in Saskatchewan. All six (seven?) of us, in a place none of us has visited often – some of us never before and never since. A place we’ve never all been together.

“Movin’ right along.
We’re truly birds of a feather,
We’re in this together and we know where we’re going.”

I want this for my son. I want him to have a family he can laugh with and cry with and drive a thousand miles with. I want him to have shared experiences that pop up at just the right moment, that make him laugh and cry at the same time, and that define his family in ways it’s hard for outsiders to understand. I want him – no matter the circumstance – to know that we’re in this together and we know where we’re going.

—–

This is another post in response to The Red Dress Club’s memoir prompts. This week’s assignment was to choose a memory, recall it in detail and then investigate what this memory means. I had a hard time choosing a memory and when I first started working with this one I wasn’t sure where it was going. But of course the meaning was there all along.

Post dedicated to my awesome family, which includes my husband who, while he wasn’t there for this, fits right in to the craziness. Birds of a feather, indeed.

Filed Under: Postpartum depression · Tagged With: , ,

5 Minutes to Yes

February 15, 2011 by ·

July 21, 2007.

Running. Running so fast I almost want to laugh but I’m afraid if I do I’ll have to stop running and I don’t want to miss this plane.

Signs in German are flashing past over my head. I don’t register what they say – I’m just following numbers looking for 36N – but the fact that they’re there registers somewhere deep in my consciousness, pulling up old memories.

Your dad is running with me, darting around families and business people and little old ladies, all of whom are taking way too long to meander towards their gates, secure in the knowledge that they’re not about to miss their flight. I catch a glimpse of him, running fast but delicately, the way he does, springing off his toes as though this wasn’t a sprint. I know he probably wants to body check some of these slow people, but he’s way too polite for that.

I don’t know where your Farmor is – she’s gone on ahead, driven in a much more stately manner in one of those golf cart things that’s blessed with a horn to move the herds of travellers when someone needs to get somewhere fast. There wasn’t room for us, but I prefer the run.

I’ve been in lots of airports in my time. Lots? Enough. I’ve been fortunate with travel, confidently encouraged by your Grandma to go places I wasn’t sure I was brave enough to go. Now, running through the Frankfurt airport, the memory that’s stirring is of the first time I was here, as a shy, scared 15-year-old about to embark upon an adventure. I want you to know this feeling I have now. This knowing that it’s scary, yes. And exciting and overwhelming and life changing. To get to spend time in another country, another culture, is a gift. I’ve done it as an exchange student – here in Germany for four months, without my family, without all that’s familiar to me, without even really knowing the language – leaving me with the knowledge that I can do it. I’ve done it as a backpacker – on my own, and with others. With your dad. I’ve done it as a tourist. I’ve done it as a professional who has occasionally had to pretend that getting up and talking in front of a whole bunch of people I don’t know, who have years more experience than I do, is a piece of cake. Having done it, I know those experiences are what make me who I am. Having done it, I will always choose to do it again. I will always choose yes.

But for now I’m running. The lights overhead are bright and the airport is busy. It’s full of the sounds of people – people talking, people laughing, people rolling wheeled suitcases down laminated halls. But I don’t really hear these things. I hear your dad’s footsteps beside me. I hear my own heart pounding in my chest. I hear, occasionally, an airport announcement and I listen more closely to see if they’re calling our names.

It has seemed like ages, but it’s really just a matter of minutes and we’re there. Farmor is there and we’ve made it, with some time to spare even. And right next to our gate is a book shop. Right out front is a display featuring the latest – the last – Harry Potter book, which has just come out today. Your dad doesn’t hesitate – walks right into the shop and buys a copy.

I wish I could share this feeling with you. This feeling I have here, now, in this scene – the trip to Sweden to see family, the run through a familiar-and-yet-not airport where I first found my wandering spirit, the last-minute dash to buy a book we both can’t wait to savour. It’s a scene bursting with things that make life so beautiful and things I hope life will offer you. And when the offers come, I hope you will choose yes.

 

———

This post is in response to a new series of memoir prompts at The Red Dress Club:

For this week, we want you to imagine that after you have died and your daughter/son will be given the gift of seeing a single five-minute period of your life through your eyes, feeling and experiencing those moments as you did when they occurred. What five minutes would you have him/her see? Tell us about them in the finest detail. Maximum word count: 700 words.


 

Filed Under: Letters to Connor · Tagged With: ,
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