I spent Saturday cleaning. The day before had been surfaces - cupboards and bathrooms and showers and toilets and whatever else appeared not quite perfectly clean. Saturday was floors, sweeping and mopping and scrubbing and washing mats until finally the house felt Ready.
Our fifth precious one was due on Sunday, but our last three had all been 5-8 days overdue so I wasn't holding my breath quite yet. I was predicting her arrival for the following Sunday, Father's Day. I did want the house to be Ready, though, just in case.
At 6:00 am on Sunday, I woke to crampy contractions, as I had each morning at 6 am for the past few days. They were irregular and minor and I paid no attention to them.
At 9:00 am, I went to the bathroom and discovered the slightest bit of bloody show. I crawled back into bed and told my half-asleep husband that the baby was coming today. The contractions continued to be crampy, irregular, and minor.
I had a shower around 9:20, during which the contractions become strong and regular but short. They stayed that way while I put clean sheets on the bed and folded a load of towels.
At my husband's prompting, I paged the midwife at 9:50 and again at 10:00. She called back to say that she was at another birth but would send another midwife from the clinic. We had discussed previously how much I did not like having a stranger in my home as the second midwife during Min's birth, so my initial reaction was are you KIDDING me?? But then she told me who it was; it was a midwife who had been part of my team for Kai's insane unplanned unassisted birth, so that was okay then. I was already quite fond of her and would be happy to have her be here.
After hanging up, we started timing my contractions at 10:15. They were consistently about 45 seconds long and 2-3 minutes apart. I was leaning on the dresser or on my husband and rocking through each one. They were strong but felt productive and easily manageable. We called the midwife again at 10:56 because she still wasn't here and things were feeling pretty serious. She said she was a few minutes out and to call her if the water broke. Less than 5 minutes later, my water did indeed break and we called back to let her know.
It was now 11:00. With my water broken, I knew the baby would likely be coming within the next couple of contractions. I moved to the shower, laid down a couple of towels, and got onto my hands and knees. The next ctx hit and it was strong. I lost my focus and allowed a bit of panic to set in and fight against the ctx, and while the baby did move lower, there was no crowning yet. After it eased, I managed to get one of my legs up so that I was in a better position. I calmed myself down, re-focused, and when the next ctx began, I worked with it and the baby was delivered entirely - head, followed by the slightest of pauses, and then the rest in one smooth motion, there into my waiting hands. It was 11:07 am, just over two hours from the time I had told my husband the baby would be arriving sometime that day.
At this point the midwife was on the stairs. So close, but once again we had unexpectedly had an unassisted birth. The baby began crying immediately. After resting there holding the baby for a couple of minutes, I looked at my husband and asked, "shall we check?" We unwrapped the towel and discovered, to my surprise, it was a girl!
We had a name for her before she was even conceived. Each of our kids had hoped we would have a girl. I would have been delighted either way, but I was grateful that our other daughter would have a sister.
I needed to shift positions, so I asked that we cut the cord now. Kai stepped forward and helped the midwife do so, and I handed our little girl to my husband. I moved into a more comfortable position and the placenta came without difficulty a few minutes later. I showered and moved into our bed. The midwife checked us over and both baby and I were fine.
The morning had been perfect. Everything had gone absolutely beautifully. There were no paramedics and fire fighters as with Kai's birth, no feeling of being swept along by the contractions as with Ell's birth, and none of the difficult decisions that came along with Min's birth. We had deliberately chosen this time to only have my husband, our kids, and the midwife there for the labour and delivery. We may have missed out on the midwife by a minute, but it was perfect anyway.
For our previous three homebirths, we had always included a dedicated support person for the kids. This time, however, we felt comfortable forgoing that (although I did have a wonderful friend on-call in case things did not proceed smoothly and an adult was needed for the kids). I am grateful that we made this choice. There was no pressure, no deadline. In the days prior, there had been no nervousness over whether the baby would arrive before whatever family member was coming to take care of the kids. No one was staring at their watch waiting for me to go into labour before they had to catch a plane back home. There were no extra voices or eyes in the house while I focused on birthing our child. It was simply perfect.
We had, as always, prepared the kids for the homebirth in advance. The kids had been in and out of the room during labour and knew that they were welcome to be there for the birth if they wanted to. Jay had been leading the midwife up the stairs and came into the bathroom just as she was born. Kai had been offered the opportunity to be there after my water broke, but had replied that he was listening to an audio book (C.S. Lewis's "A Horse and His Boy") and to please come get him after the baby arrived (all the laughter and tears at how perfectly "Kai" that reaction is). Ell and Min were both there, along with my husband, who had been, as always, a wonderfully supportive partner throughout the labour and delivery.
Our newest child (nicknamed Zoe in this space) is now five days old. Our first few days have been spent snuggling close as we rest, leaving everything else alone for a while. The world will wait; we will emerge when we are ready. The lovely husband is caring for each of us wonderfully. Zoe and I are working on getting a good (pain-free!) latch - after four other babies, I wasn't expecting this particular challenge, but here we are and we're figuring it out.
I am so grateful for the blessings of these past few days - her beautiful birth, her beautiful self, and each beautiful member of our family.
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Showing posts with label memories. Show all posts
Friday, 16 June 2017
Tuesday, 5 April 2016
The Rhythms of Our Days
We settled into a good rhythm over the winter, easy and natural, a comforting flow to our rainy days. I have not always been particularly good at this. It was not until my first child left behind his go-with-the-flow infancy that I was forced to begin to shape our days into a steady routine. I sought a predictable beginning, middle, and end, with room to wander as life lead us.
And yet it remained a challenge for my distractable and disorganized self. I wanted to mark the rhythm of our days, weeks, seasons, and years. I wanted the comfort and security of routines for my children. I wanted to continue our journey towards intentional living, ensuring that the things we valued were not forgotten as our time idly slipped away from us. I just wasn't very good at it.
It's been six years since I first recognized the value of rhythm in our days. I have managed to find that rhythm in certain seasons, steady and reliable, while during other seasons it has slipped away from me. It has been a trial-and-error endeavor, up and down, off and on, but overall there has been a positive progression. Now, at last, our rhythms shape and guide our daily lives, rooted with anchor points, carried along by intentional habits, and ever being fine-tuned to fit our needs.
Right now that rhythm begins before dawn. I get up early with the husband to fit in my run or yoga. I settle into my morning quiet time while he heads off to work and the kids continue to sleep. My early mornings have become more life-giving than I ever would have imagined, and I most definitely notice its absence on days when it doesn't happen.
During this quiet morning time, I read Scripture, pray, journal, and read from my current non-fiction book. This is the sort of reading that I find more challenging during the day, when I won't have the devoted time needed to focus on the words, or at the end of the day, when I'm too tired to give it the thought required. After reading, I review our upcoming day, and then I do a bit of work or writing if I have extra time. And drink coffee. Of course.
The kids wake up one at a time. Ell is nearly always the first, with baby Min close behind. Jay and Kai sleepily wander out eventually, unless we have time-sensitive plans and I have to wake them up (to a chorus of grunts and grumbles and roars, the little bear cubs). After reading a couple of story books while they wake up properly, it's time for breakfast, followed by a bit of play time. Mid-morning we settle in to our sit-down time together, which may include any or all of devotional time, reading, writing, math, and science or geography. By then it's lunch time, during which we have our history read-aloud.
After lunch is our daily quiet time. Min naps while the other three occupy themselves with solitary activities (reading, puzzles, games, and so on) or head outside for some backyard playtime. I work until Min wakes up. There's often time for a game or two before moving on to dinner preparations. Post-dinner is the usual busy evening activities of clean-up time, baths, teeth brushing, bedtime story, and so on. Before I go to sleep myself, I set out the various things I need for morning - coffee supplies ready, stack of books waiting, clothes chosen. That morning time is precious to me and I wish to waste as little of it as possible.
I have been focusing this year on cultivating a deeper sense of home, and rhythm, I've discovered, is an integral part of that. Rhythm provides the hooks on which to hang our activities, our priorities, and our values. I can wake up in the morning knowing that all of the thought is taken out of our plans - the myriad of daily decisions, the preparations, the choosing of what and when and how, the fitting in of what matters to us as time carries us along. I can just get on with what needs to be done, more fully present in the moment and with less worries for the next few steps ahead.
But our rhythms are continually being adjusted, and this spring season has called for new life to be breathed into these old winter routines. We have been setting down the pencils and spending all the lovely mornings outside, at the playground, the beach, or walking through our favourite wooded areas. Our afternoons are still similar, allowing the baby to get in his nap (I will call him a baby forever and ever and don't you try to make me start calling him a toddler already, I don't care if he's walking everywhere and getting into everything and throwing epic toddler tantrums to go along with his Very Big toddler opinions) and providing me with a consistent time in which to do my work.
I find these times of rhythm transitions to be challenging. I feel off-kilter for a while, feeling my way semi-blindly through our days. I miss the simplicity of knowing generally how the day will unfold, and decision fatigue wears on me quickly. Eventually, though, we settle into the new season, rhythm lighting the path ahead, an ever-evolving framework for our family to grow up in.
And yet it remained a challenge for my distractable and disorganized self. I wanted to mark the rhythm of our days, weeks, seasons, and years. I wanted the comfort and security of routines for my children. I wanted to continue our journey towards intentional living, ensuring that the things we valued were not forgotten as our time idly slipped away from us. I just wasn't very good at it.
It's been six years since I first recognized the value of rhythm in our days. I have managed to find that rhythm in certain seasons, steady and reliable, while during other seasons it has slipped away from me. It has been a trial-and-error endeavor, up and down, off and on, but overall there has been a positive progression. Now, at last, our rhythms shape and guide our daily lives, rooted with anchor points, carried along by intentional habits, and ever being fine-tuned to fit our needs.
Right now that rhythm begins before dawn. I get up early with the husband to fit in my run or yoga. I settle into my morning quiet time while he heads off to work and the kids continue to sleep. My early mornings have become more life-giving than I ever would have imagined, and I most definitely notice its absence on days when it doesn't happen.
During this quiet morning time, I read Scripture, pray, journal, and read from my current non-fiction book. This is the sort of reading that I find more challenging during the day, when I won't have the devoted time needed to focus on the words, or at the end of the day, when I'm too tired to give it the thought required. After reading, I review our upcoming day, and then I do a bit of work or writing if I have extra time. And drink coffee. Of course.
The kids wake up one at a time. Ell is nearly always the first, with baby Min close behind. Jay and Kai sleepily wander out eventually, unless we have time-sensitive plans and I have to wake them up (to a chorus of grunts and grumbles and roars, the little bear cubs). After reading a couple of story books while they wake up properly, it's time for breakfast, followed by a bit of play time. Mid-morning we settle in to our sit-down time together, which may include any or all of devotional time, reading, writing, math, and science or geography. By then it's lunch time, during which we have our history read-aloud.
After lunch is our daily quiet time. Min naps while the other three occupy themselves with solitary activities (reading, puzzles, games, and so on) or head outside for some backyard playtime. I work until Min wakes up. There's often time for a game or two before moving on to dinner preparations. Post-dinner is the usual busy evening activities of clean-up time, baths, teeth brushing, bedtime story, and so on. Before I go to sleep myself, I set out the various things I need for morning - coffee supplies ready, stack of books waiting, clothes chosen. That morning time is precious to me and I wish to waste as little of it as possible.
I have been focusing this year on cultivating a deeper sense of home, and rhythm, I've discovered, is an integral part of that. Rhythm provides the hooks on which to hang our activities, our priorities, and our values. I can wake up in the morning knowing that all of the thought is taken out of our plans - the myriad of daily decisions, the preparations, the choosing of what and when and how, the fitting in of what matters to us as time carries us along. I can just get on with what needs to be done, more fully present in the moment and with less worries for the next few steps ahead.
But our rhythms are continually being adjusted, and this spring season has called for new life to be breathed into these old winter routines. We have been setting down the pencils and spending all the lovely mornings outside, at the playground, the beach, or walking through our favourite wooded areas. Our afternoons are still similar, allowing the baby to get in his nap (I will call him a baby forever and ever and don't you try to make me start calling him a toddler already, I don't care if he's walking everywhere and getting into everything and throwing epic toddler tantrums to go along with his Very Big toddler opinions) and providing me with a consistent time in which to do my work.
I find these times of rhythm transitions to be challenging. I feel off-kilter for a while, feeling my way semi-blindly through our days. I miss the simplicity of knowing generally how the day will unfold, and decision fatigue wears on me quickly. Eventually, though, we settle into the new season, rhythm lighting the path ahead, an ever-evolving framework for our family to grow up in.
Thursday, 30 April 2015
What I Am Into - April 2015
April was an adjusting month for us. Our daily rhythms were evaluated, dusted off, and given a bit of new life as I entered a new season - or, perhaps, reached back for something from an older season. My accounting career has sat quietly to the side as our family has grown over the years, and for us, that was perfect. April, however, brought about a new opportunity, and we decided that the time was right to open that door again. I'm working part-time hours in my field, and thanks to the wonders of technology, I get to do it entirely from home. So my mornings are earlier and my afternoon quiet time has morphed into work time and sometimes I slip away for an hour in the evening or on the weekend; it's ideal for me as a homeschooling stay-at-home parent, and I'm relieved that it's been a smooth transition so far.
On My Nightstand:
It did indeed take me a while, but I finished Susanna Clarke's Jonathan Strange and Mr Norrell early this year. Such an incredible piece of literature. Easily the best written book I have read in a very long time.
I finally read through Lois Lowry's worthy Giver Quartet. Although I was startled by the sudden ending of the first book, everything was nicely tied up throughout the rest of the books. The final one, Son, was my favourite, but all of them were absorbing and compelling reads.
Speaking of finally getting around to reading, I started Madeleine L'Engle's A Wrinkle in Time Quintet. I quite liked the first three books, but the fourth one is sitting half-read on my nightstand and I'm not particularly fussed about ever finishing it. Truth be told, I rather strongly dislike it. I know, that's barely even allowed, given the L'Engle love from basically everyone who has ever written anything ever. Please don't throw too many stones.
I bought Randall Munroe's What If?: Serious Scientific Answers to Absurd Hypothetical Questions for the husband's Christmas present, and then promptly read through it myself as soon as he was done with it. Highly entertaining and interesting content.
I enjoyed Paula Hawkins' The Girl on the Train, as well as Liane Moriarty's Big Little Lies and The Husband's Secret. I read both Ransom Riggs' Miss Peregrine's Home for Peculiar Children and Hollow City straight through. Hello, 3am. Worth it. The accompanying photos are fascinating.
I've just started Laura Hillenbrand's Unbroken: A World War II Story of Survival, Resilience, and Redemption, and I'm utterly absorbed in it already.
Currently on the back burner are George Eliot's Middlemarch and Kate Atkinson's Life After Life.
On the Screen:
Not much, actually. I did watch Gone Girl, which was, incredibly, nearly as good as the book. I absolutely loved The Imitation Game. The Theory of Everything was both fascinating and disappointing; it was rather a depressing love story in the end.
In My Ears:
I have discovered that, for reasons entirely unknown to me, P!nk is absolutely perfect to listen to while I'm working. Put in the earphones, turn on the music, dim the various home sounds around me, and get a good hour of work done while P!nk does her musical thing. Love her.
In My Kitchen:
I've rediscovered the pleasure of yeast breads rising in my kitchen. Actually, that's a lie. They actually rise on top of my husband's computer, which is old and runs hot and rises bread just beautifully. I'm only a tiny bit devastated that he has a new computer on the way, after all these years - exciting for him, very very sad for my breads.
Anyway, my particular favourites recently include French bread, bread sticks, and rosemary olive oil bread.
In My Memories:
Jay ran a 10K marathon with his dad earlier this month. It was so neat to watch the two of them training and then running the race together. It's especially beautiful to have entered this stage where Jay's going to remember this sort of thing forever. While we love watching the little kids enjoy their experiences, knowing that it's contributing to a general sense of security and well-being and so on and so forth, there's just a little extra joy in knowing that some of the things we do will become actual real for-life memories now that our boys are getting older. I love that.
What I'm Looking Forward to in May:
You know, I'm simply looking forward to a quiet continuation of our new daily rhythms. This May holds no particular events and our calendar looks fresh and open and ready for as much sunshine as the weather has to offer.
Well, friends, that is What I've Been Into this past month. What about you?
Linking up to What I'm Into with HopefulLeigh...
Sunday, 14 September 2014
Too fast
It's only been two weeks and already, too fast, too fast.
There are those size 1 diapers that I mistakenly bought because I forgot that such a thing as newborn size existed until after he was born. They were so ridiculously big on him and now they fit him just fine.
(Let's not discuss how, when I first went to buy all the various post-birth necessities, I forgot about diapers altogether. Basically, the punch line is, I have run out of brain.)
His legs aren't all scrunched up anymore and his arms aren't nearly so scrawny and his face isn't wrinkled and his skull is lovely and round and he doesn't smell like birth and too fast, too fast.
How can he be bigger already? What did he look like last week? What will he look like next week? I'll forget about today but I don't want to, I just want to cling, collect each day and hold it right in my fist so I never forget what he looked like today and yesterday and tomorrow, capture his scent too, record every little facial expression and newborn sound.
I've spent hours each day just sitting here while he breathes the rapid newborn rhythm of sleep. The top of his head is baptized with endless kisses; I whisper steady murmurs of love. I inhale deeply every few moments. Close my eyes and savour the weight of him of my chest, knees pressed into the soft skin of my stomach. He shudders, shifts, sleeps on.
The kids gather round with books and games and kisses. I read aloud, imagining how my voice must sound to him, his ear resting against me. I play chess with the boy. The kindergartener works on his letters with me. Baby girl reaches over to play with my hair, thumb in her mouth, still, always, for now. Evening arrives and we move to the kitchen table while the husband and I play a board game, Pandemic or Power Grid or Ticket to Ride, or the three of us snuggle on the couch and watch Sherlock or Doctor Who or Top Gear.
Life continues on around us as I sit here with this growing creature. I know it will pass too fast, it already is, and I want to soak up these days while I can. Nothing is urgent; everything else can wait or continue as it will. I'm busy sitting with my baby.
There are those size 1 diapers that I mistakenly bought because I forgot that such a thing as newborn size existed until after he was born. They were so ridiculously big on him and now they fit him just fine.
(Let's not discuss how, when I first went to buy all the various post-birth necessities, I forgot about diapers altogether. Basically, the punch line is, I have run out of brain.)
How can he be bigger already? What did he look like last week? What will he look like next week? I'll forget about today but I don't want to, I just want to cling, collect each day and hold it right in my fist so I never forget what he looked like today and yesterday and tomorrow, capture his scent too, record every little facial expression and newborn sound.
I've spent hours each day just sitting here while he breathes the rapid newborn rhythm of sleep. The top of his head is baptized with endless kisses; I whisper steady murmurs of love. I inhale deeply every few moments. Close my eyes and savour the weight of him of my chest, knees pressed into the soft skin of my stomach. He shudders, shifts, sleeps on.
The kids gather round with books and games and kisses. I read aloud, imagining how my voice must sound to him, his ear resting against me. I play chess with the boy. The kindergartener works on his letters with me. Baby girl reaches over to play with my hair, thumb in her mouth, still, always, for now. Evening arrives and we move to the kitchen table while the husband and I play a board game, Pandemic or Power Grid or Ticket to Ride, or the three of us snuggle on the couch and watch Sherlock or Doctor Who or Top Gear.
Life continues on around us as I sit here with this growing creature. I know it will pass too fast, it already is, and I want to soak up these days while I can. Nothing is urgent; everything else can wait or continue as it will. I'm busy sitting with my baby.
Thursday, 4 September 2014
The day before Labour Day
Our newest son was born at home at 11:02 pm on Sunday, August 31, 2014, weighing 8 lbs 8 oz.
We are all, as always, madly in love with this beautiful little person.
Now, for those interested, the long version...
My sisters had arrived. Our van purchase had been finalized. The baby's due date had come and gone, as had the next few days, and still there was nothing more than the occasional contraction here and there. Which would have been fine, except that my sisters were, by unfortunate extenuating circumstances, leaving first thing Monday morning.
I spent that week giving the baby the usual cajoling - spicy food, birthing brownies, long walks, and so on - but all it did was leave me with heartburn and sore hips. Twice I considered and then decided against a membrane sweep from my midwife, as nothing seemed to indicate that my body was on the verge of labour. Like his siblings before him, this baby was in no rush to leave his cozy womb.
Sunday morning dawned somewhat more hopeful. The contractions were more frequent and of a different nature, crampy and lower like the ones that had preceded our daughter's birth. We went for a walk in hopes of helping things become more established, but by mid-afternoon it was all still rather flaky. Mild, irregular, nothing much to write home about. Still, it was something, so at 4:30, I made the decision to call the midwife and request a membrane sweep.
The risks of the sweep seemed very minimal at this point; either it would tip the contractions into a more established zone, or it would all fizzle out again after some discomfort. The midwife came, swept, and went, and we soon settled in to Sunday dinner (lasagna - I was done with spice-induced heartburn at this point). The contractions did indeed gradually pick up. When labour seemed well established, with contractions coming strong and steady, the husband insisted that I call the midwife before we ended up with another unplanned unassisted birth. I agreed, and by the time she arrived at 8:30, I was feeling rather grateful that I hadn't waited any longer. My midwife immediately called for the second midwife and the waiting began, everyone certain it wouldn't be much longer now.
Then it all stopped.
Too many eyes on me? Too much pressure to hurry up and birth this baby before the girls had to leave? Just a simple matter of false labour thanks to the sweep done earlier that afternoon? A bit of a pause, or a full-out stop? The midwife, with my gratitude, had everyone leave the room for a while. A bit of space, some breathing room, time to collect our thoughts. The husband and I talked.
One of my sisters came in to tell me that our mom had suggested we try to change the flights to the following day (we won't get into how the flights were supposed to be that day to begin with, but when I went to book them, she couldn't possibly take the day off work to drive to the city to pick the girls up on the Tuesday instead of Labour Day - those "unfortunate extenuating circumstances" I mentioned earlier). I decided it was worth a try, gave my beloved WestJet a phone call, explained the situation, and asked if we could switch to the exact same flight, just one day later.
Well, we could, for $500.
Unfortunately, $500 for the possibility that maybe-I-will/maybe-I-won't have the baby during that additional 24 hours really wasn't in our budget. Especially not with the new van sitting in our driveway, ready and waiting to seat our soon-to-be-four children. But she absolutely could not wave the difference in the (exact same, one day later) flight fees; disappointed, I chose to leave their flights as they were and hope for the best.
Thanks for nothing, WestJet.
I hung up the phone and the husband came back into the bedroom, asked what I wanted to do now.
"I want to watch Doctor Who." What? We hadn't yet got around to watching the newest episode, and I needed a distraction.
"Are you serious?" he asked.
"Yes."
"...Okay! I'll be right back with the laptop." He's a good man, he knows when not to argue.
I paced the room while we watched the Doctor enter the Dalek. The midwives sat talking quietly together outside the door. The girls corralled the children, who were quickly approaching the over-tired and over-excited stage. Everyone waited, but other than the occasional mild contraction, things were looking decidedly unhopeful.
Halfway through the episode, the midwife came in to check on us. I was feeling more than a little discouraged by this point. The midwife gave us a few different options: she could send the second midwife home for some rest while staying herself for a while longer, we could try some different positions and movements to see if labour picks up again, we could try some other methods to encourage labour...or she could break my water and the baby would in all likelihood arrive very soon afterwards.
It was 10:00 at that point and I wasn't feeling labour. My dilation had been at 4 cm when the midwife arrived to do the sweep, and a quick internal check confirmed no change. To me, the options were either go to bed or get this done with.
Any other baby, I'd have gone to bed. But we had flown my sisters out here with the intent that they be at the birth, and it wasn't their fault that their return flight ended up having to be earlier than we had initially planned. It meant a lot to them - and to me - that they be there for the delivery.
We discussed the various risks and possible outcomes of breaking my water. There were no guarantees. But I was six days past my EDD, I had been in active labour, and my midwife expected that in all likelihood, breaking my water would result in the baby arriving within the next hour or so.
The husband and I discussed it some more. It was so far outside my typical view of birth to consider breaking my water for no purpose other than to hurry things along, and I was having a hard time with the idea. Even the sweep had been beyond my comfort zone; I prefer to leave baby alone, let him or her arrive when they're ready, medical reasons aside. I confessed my anger that by having my sisters come, I had also given my mother this small measure of inclusion in and influence over my labour.
"But it's like that Doctor Who quote you love: Just because there's some bad, the good things don't become less important. You've enjoyed having your sisters here. You want them here for the delivery. This isn't her choice, it's yours. I feel comfortable with either option. Do what feels right to you."
Oh. That man. I wiped away a few tears, took a few deep breaths, and told the midwife I wanted to have my water broken.
At 10:18, the midwife broke my water, reminding me as she did so that a warm shower would help ease the transition. I shut the laptop at the foot of the bed before she began; I couldn't have my water broken while a Dalek had such a direct view of the proceedings. The experience was uncomfortable, to put it mildly, and I was grateful to step into the hot shower as soon as it was done.
The contractions picked up immediately. They were indeed more intense, but the water was lovely on my back. Each contraction was preceded by a gush of water; I'd lean into it, knees bent, moaning low while reminding myself to keep breathing, keep breathing. Then it would ease and I'd rock and sway through the interim cramps, talking with whoever was at the door at the time - sometimes a sister, one of the kids, the midwife, or most often the husband.
The husband kept asking if he could get me anything. Finally, feeling amusingly annoyed by the question, I asked for a TARDIS so I could pop a few minutes into the future when this would all be over. He explained why that wouldn't work (nerd), so I suggested an epidural instead. He winced at the thought of a needle, and I agreed - even then, the idea of having a needle inserted into my spine sounded like someone's idea of a sick joke. We chuckled about that until the next gush of water indicated the arrival of another contraction.
The intensity continued to build and I knew it was almost time. After one contraction nearly brought me (literally) to my knees, I told the husband to turn off the water and call the kids in while I knelt on the shower floor. The midwife slid a towel and blanket under me, the next contraction hit, and I hollered low through the push. I reached down to control the speed of arrival as the head emerged, followed, as always, by that blissful sense of the worst of it being over. After a very brief pause, the next contraction delivered the rest of the baby, which I guided forward and lowered onto the waiting blanket. It was the first time I had caught my own baby.
The baby let out a cry, then relaxed into the blanket. It had been 45 minutes since my water had been broken, and everything had gone as perfectly as it could possibly go. The next 15 minutes are a blur of congratulations, discomfort, joy, and that lovely moment of "Well, what is it?" "It's a boy!" Our two costume-loving middle children had attended the birth dressed as a knight and a dragon, and everyone else had been there to witness the moment as well.
After the placenta arrived, the oldest boy cut the cord, grinning the whole time. The midwife passed the baby to his Daddy while I took a short but glorious shower. Clean, I slid gratefully into bed and watched as everyone said hello to this new little person.
Our sweet youngest son is four days old now. He's healthy and snuggly and nurses well and what more is there to say? We are so grateful for his presence in our home and our family.
We are all, as always, madly in love with this beautiful little person.
Now, for those interested, the long version...
My sisters had arrived. Our van purchase had been finalized. The baby's due date had come and gone, as had the next few days, and still there was nothing more than the occasional contraction here and there. Which would have been fine, except that my sisters were, by unfortunate extenuating circumstances, leaving first thing Monday morning.
I spent that week giving the baby the usual cajoling - spicy food, birthing brownies, long walks, and so on - but all it did was leave me with heartburn and sore hips. Twice I considered and then decided against a membrane sweep from my midwife, as nothing seemed to indicate that my body was on the verge of labour. Like his siblings before him, this baby was in no rush to leave his cozy womb.
Sunday morning dawned somewhat more hopeful. The contractions were more frequent and of a different nature, crampy and lower like the ones that had preceded our daughter's birth. We went for a walk in hopes of helping things become more established, but by mid-afternoon it was all still rather flaky. Mild, irregular, nothing much to write home about. Still, it was something, so at 4:30, I made the decision to call the midwife and request a membrane sweep.
The risks of the sweep seemed very minimal at this point; either it would tip the contractions into a more established zone, or it would all fizzle out again after some discomfort. The midwife came, swept, and went, and we soon settled in to Sunday dinner (lasagna - I was done with spice-induced heartburn at this point). The contractions did indeed gradually pick up. When labour seemed well established, with contractions coming strong and steady, the husband insisted that I call the midwife before we ended up with another unplanned unassisted birth. I agreed, and by the time she arrived at 8:30, I was feeling rather grateful that I hadn't waited any longer. My midwife immediately called for the second midwife and the waiting began, everyone certain it wouldn't be much longer now.
Then it all stopped.
Too many eyes on me? Too much pressure to hurry up and birth this baby before the girls had to leave? Just a simple matter of false labour thanks to the sweep done earlier that afternoon? A bit of a pause, or a full-out stop? The midwife, with my gratitude, had everyone leave the room for a while. A bit of space, some breathing room, time to collect our thoughts. The husband and I talked.
One of my sisters came in to tell me that our mom had suggested we try to change the flights to the following day (we won't get into how the flights were supposed to be that day to begin with, but when I went to book them, she couldn't possibly take the day off work to drive to the city to pick the girls up on the Tuesday instead of Labour Day - those "unfortunate extenuating circumstances" I mentioned earlier). I decided it was worth a try, gave my beloved WestJet a phone call, explained the situation, and asked if we could switch to the exact same flight, just one day later.
Well, we could, for $500.
Unfortunately, $500 for the possibility that maybe-I-will/maybe-I-won't have the baby during that additional 24 hours really wasn't in our budget. Especially not with the new van sitting in our driveway, ready and waiting to seat our soon-to-be-four children. But she absolutely could not wave the difference in the (exact same, one day later) flight fees; disappointed, I chose to leave their flights as they were and hope for the best.
Thanks for nothing, WestJet.
I hung up the phone and the husband came back into the bedroom, asked what I wanted to do now.
"I want to watch Doctor Who." What? We hadn't yet got around to watching the newest episode, and I needed a distraction.
"Are you serious?" he asked.
"Yes."
"...Okay! I'll be right back with the laptop." He's a good man, he knows when not to argue.
I paced the room while we watched the Doctor enter the Dalek. The midwives sat talking quietly together outside the door. The girls corralled the children, who were quickly approaching the over-tired and over-excited stage. Everyone waited, but other than the occasional mild contraction, things were looking decidedly unhopeful.
Halfway through the episode, the midwife came in to check on us. I was feeling more than a little discouraged by this point. The midwife gave us a few different options: she could send the second midwife home for some rest while staying herself for a while longer, we could try some different positions and movements to see if labour picks up again, we could try some other methods to encourage labour...or she could break my water and the baby would in all likelihood arrive very soon afterwards.
It was 10:00 at that point and I wasn't feeling labour. My dilation had been at 4 cm when the midwife arrived to do the sweep, and a quick internal check confirmed no change. To me, the options were either go to bed or get this done with.
Any other baby, I'd have gone to bed. But we had flown my sisters out here with the intent that they be at the birth, and it wasn't their fault that their return flight ended up having to be earlier than we had initially planned. It meant a lot to them - and to me - that they be there for the delivery.
We discussed the various risks and possible outcomes of breaking my water. There were no guarantees. But I was six days past my EDD, I had been in active labour, and my midwife expected that in all likelihood, breaking my water would result in the baby arriving within the next hour or so.
The husband and I discussed it some more. It was so far outside my typical view of birth to consider breaking my water for no purpose other than to hurry things along, and I was having a hard time with the idea. Even the sweep had been beyond my comfort zone; I prefer to leave baby alone, let him or her arrive when they're ready, medical reasons aside. I confessed my anger that by having my sisters come, I had also given my mother this small measure of inclusion in and influence over my labour.
"But it's like that Doctor Who quote you love: Just because there's some bad, the good things don't become less important. You've enjoyed having your sisters here. You want them here for the delivery. This isn't her choice, it's yours. I feel comfortable with either option. Do what feels right to you."
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| (Source) |
Oh. That man. I wiped away a few tears, took a few deep breaths, and told the midwife I wanted to have my water broken.
At 10:18, the midwife broke my water, reminding me as she did so that a warm shower would help ease the transition. I shut the laptop at the foot of the bed before she began; I couldn't have my water broken while a Dalek had such a direct view of the proceedings. The experience was uncomfortable, to put it mildly, and I was grateful to step into the hot shower as soon as it was done.
The contractions picked up immediately. They were indeed more intense, but the water was lovely on my back. Each contraction was preceded by a gush of water; I'd lean into it, knees bent, moaning low while reminding myself to keep breathing, keep breathing. Then it would ease and I'd rock and sway through the interim cramps, talking with whoever was at the door at the time - sometimes a sister, one of the kids, the midwife, or most often the husband.
The husband kept asking if he could get me anything. Finally, feeling amusingly annoyed by the question, I asked for a TARDIS so I could pop a few minutes into the future when this would all be over. He explained why that wouldn't work (nerd), so I suggested an epidural instead. He winced at the thought of a needle, and I agreed - even then, the idea of having a needle inserted into my spine sounded like someone's idea of a sick joke. We chuckled about that until the next gush of water indicated the arrival of another contraction.
The intensity continued to build and I knew it was almost time. After one contraction nearly brought me (literally) to my knees, I told the husband to turn off the water and call the kids in while I knelt on the shower floor. The midwife slid a towel and blanket under me, the next contraction hit, and I hollered low through the push. I reached down to control the speed of arrival as the head emerged, followed, as always, by that blissful sense of the worst of it being over. After a very brief pause, the next contraction delivered the rest of the baby, which I guided forward and lowered onto the waiting blanket. It was the first time I had caught my own baby.
The baby let out a cry, then relaxed into the blanket. It had been 45 minutes since my water had been broken, and everything had gone as perfectly as it could possibly go. The next 15 minutes are a blur of congratulations, discomfort, joy, and that lovely moment of "Well, what is it?" "It's a boy!" Our two costume-loving middle children had attended the birth dressed as a knight and a dragon, and everyone else had been there to witness the moment as well.
After the placenta arrived, the oldest boy cut the cord, grinning the whole time. The midwife passed the baby to his Daddy while I took a short but glorious shower. Clean, I slid gratefully into bed and watched as everyone said hello to this new little person.
Our sweet youngest son is four days old now. He's healthy and snuggly and nurses well and what more is there to say? We are so grateful for his presence in our home and our family.
Friday, 29 August 2014
The Edge
Sometimes I linger too long at that place between fully awake and fully asleep. There are half-dreams and half-thoughts, the remains of the night and the beginning of the day. I don't feel ready to surrender to wakefulness, but neither can I seem to fall properly back to sleep. And so I linger there, on the edge.
Eventually I give in. Open my eyes. Today my reward is the sweet sight of baby girl fully and totally asleep. Her thumb hangs halfway out of her mouth, her other arm resting against the swell of her soon-to-be (any day now, any minute) baby brother or sister. Under that arm, her two constant companions are pinned between us: the doll I made for one of her brothers, and the rainbow dinosaur her aunt and uncle brought back from Brazil. Behind her lay her three blankets, one Grandma-knit, one Oma-sewn, and her car blanket that somehow migrated to her sleeping space during the past few hot weeks. She is utterly abandoned to sleep and I marvel at her, study this toddler-baby who is both so small and so big at once.
At the end of the bed, the husband is fastening his belt. It felt like only moments ago he had been pressed against my back, arm over me as we slept, interrupted by his alarm (Doctor Who theme, because we're geeks like that) reminding him to get out of bed every few minutes. No contractions meant I couldn't rescue him from this last work day of the week. He kisses me goodbye and leaves quietly. He'll text me later, I know, asking me to go into labour so he can come home from a boring day at the office, and I'll reply in faux-annoyance but it's been five days of this and the annoyance isn't entirely a joke at this point.
Some days I manage to fall back asleep after he leaves. Today I stay awake, just lying there quietly, thinking, until baby girl wakes up too and her early-riser brother hears her babbling and bursts into the room and the day has started, time for breakfast. My time of lingering is over.
Eventually I give in. Open my eyes. Today my reward is the sweet sight of baby girl fully and totally asleep. Her thumb hangs halfway out of her mouth, her other arm resting against the swell of her soon-to-be (any day now, any minute) baby brother or sister. Under that arm, her two constant companions are pinned between us: the doll I made for one of her brothers, and the rainbow dinosaur her aunt and uncle brought back from Brazil. Behind her lay her three blankets, one Grandma-knit, one Oma-sewn, and her car blanket that somehow migrated to her sleeping space during the past few hot weeks. She is utterly abandoned to sleep and I marvel at her, study this toddler-baby who is both so small and so big at once.
At the end of the bed, the husband is fastening his belt. It felt like only moments ago he had been pressed against my back, arm over me as we slept, interrupted by his alarm (Doctor Who theme, because we're geeks like that) reminding him to get out of bed every few minutes. No contractions meant I couldn't rescue him from this last work day of the week. He kisses me goodbye and leaves quietly. He'll text me later, I know, asking me to go into labour so he can come home from a boring day at the office, and I'll reply in faux-annoyance but it's been five days of this and the annoyance isn't entirely a joke at this point.
Some days I manage to fall back asleep after he leaves. Today I stay awake, just lying there quietly, thinking, until baby girl wakes up too and her early-riser brother hears her babbling and bursts into the room and the day has started, time for breakfast. My time of lingering is over.
Thursday, 21 August 2014
This hot and sticky summer
This summer has been hot days and cold iced tea, week after week, as we make our last memories as a family of five and prepare to become six. And what treasured memories they have been...
Reading poems to the kids as we drive along the dark highway, breaking up the arguments and the he-touched-me's with some Roald Dahl and A. A. Milne and whatever else I could find on my phone.
Going to sleep smelling like a campfire and waking up eager for that one-dollar five-minute shower. New friends at the campground and new words brought back to the tent and new freedoms as they head off to play some more while we try (again) to get the campfire to stay lit. Hiking, museums, and dinosaurs (oh my).
The boy's first time getting lost in the neighbourhood, and remaining calm while walking fast and then relief and hugs and dried tears and reassuring words. And then a printed map and a review and trying again and sweet success. Swim lessons and ice skating lessons, badges and goals.
Weeding the garden again and again (and again and again and) the way it becomes one more reminder of the inner weed-yanking that must happen endlessly within me. Fresh carrots eaten daily, green tops strewn around the yard by children with more pressing matters to attend to than keeping the yard tidy: playing soccer, riding bikes, drinking cold water from the tap.
Cherry stained fingers and boxes of blueberries, handfuls snatched by hungry children every time they walk by. Blueberry jam spread on toast, jars of it stored for future less bountiful months.
A certain baby girl's second birthday, with balloons and chocolate zucchini cake and gifts and a new birthday skirt, elastic still safety pinned together at the back because she won't take it off long enough for me to finish the waist. A new backpack and a beautiful Oma-made quilt and puzzles and joy and celebration and singing, all for this delightful child.
A new van and a borrowed bassinet and soft lambskin and tiny clothes, all in preparation for the newest little one, any day now. Waiting. Waiting.
Good moments and bad moments all jumbled together, grace and impatience and apologies and naps and love and laughter and tears. Every day a bit of everything, messy but mostly good, I think.
Reading poems to the kids as we drive along the dark highway, breaking up the arguments and the he-touched-me's with some Roald Dahl and A. A. Milne and whatever else I could find on my phone.
Going to sleep smelling like a campfire and waking up eager for that one-dollar five-minute shower. New friends at the campground and new words brought back to the tent and new freedoms as they head off to play some more while we try (again) to get the campfire to stay lit. Hiking, museums, and dinosaurs (oh my).
The boy's first time getting lost in the neighbourhood, and remaining calm while walking fast and then relief and hugs and dried tears and reassuring words. And then a printed map and a review and trying again and sweet success. Swim lessons and ice skating lessons, badges and goals.
Weeding the garden again and again (and again and again and) the way it becomes one more reminder of the inner weed-yanking that must happen endlessly within me. Fresh carrots eaten daily, green tops strewn around the yard by children with more pressing matters to attend to than keeping the yard tidy: playing soccer, riding bikes, drinking cold water from the tap.
Cherry stained fingers and boxes of blueberries, handfuls snatched by hungry children every time they walk by. Blueberry jam spread on toast, jars of it stored for future less bountiful months.
A certain baby girl's second birthday, with balloons and chocolate zucchini cake and gifts and a new birthday skirt, elastic still safety pinned together at the back because she won't take it off long enough for me to finish the waist. A new backpack and a beautiful Oma-made quilt and puzzles and joy and celebration and singing, all for this delightful child.
A new van and a borrowed bassinet and soft lambskin and tiny clothes, all in preparation for the newest little one, any day now. Waiting. Waiting.
Good moments and bad moments all jumbled together, grace and impatience and apologies and naps and love and laughter and tears. Every day a bit of everything, messy but mostly good, I think.
Monday, 24 February 2014
Why I was up at 4:00 in the morning to watch hockey
Oh sure, there's the Canadian thing. We are hockey and all that. The Canada vs. US game on Friday had been worth the watch, and the women's gold medal game had been even more worth it the day before (a very Canadian "sorry" to you on both counts, America). Neither of those games, however, involved getting up far too early in the morning.
If you'd asked me if I was going to wake up at 4 a.m. to watch hockey during the last Olympics, I'd have laughed and laughed and laughed. And then laughed some more when I woke up nice and refreshed at a reasonable time the next morning. And then probably not have even watched the rebroadcast. Just the score, thanks, that's good enough for me. Oh, Canada beat the US and got the gold medal? Excellent. Go Canada.
So it wasn't dedication to the sport that had me yawning on the couch at 4:00 in the morning on Sunday. All of the hockey enthusiasm in this house may get contagious at times, but not that contagious.
No, I was up for this:
I was up for the sheer memory of it. For opening the kids' bedroom door and finding the boy already awake in his excitement. For trying to wake up the younger, as per his request, only to have him refuse in his sleep and then admonish me the next morning for not getting him up. I was up for honey toast between the first two periods. I was up for snuggling together on the couch under blankets and sweatshirts and fuzzy warm pajama pants. I was up because it speaks my husband's love language when I show interest in his passions. I was up for the boy's giggles and that bright light in his eyes that I love so much. I was up for very un-Februaryish snow falling in the darkness outside.
I wasn't up for the game. I was up for another family memory to add to our story.
If you'd asked me if I was going to wake up at 4 a.m. to watch hockey during the last Olympics, I'd have laughed and laughed and laughed. And then laughed some more when I woke up nice and refreshed at a reasonable time the next morning. And then probably not have even watched the rebroadcast. Just the score, thanks, that's good enough for me. Oh, Canada beat the US and got the gold medal? Excellent. Go Canada.
So it wasn't dedication to the sport that had me yawning on the couch at 4:00 in the morning on Sunday. All of the hockey enthusiasm in this house may get contagious at times, but not that contagious.
No, I was up for this:
I was up for the sheer memory of it. For opening the kids' bedroom door and finding the boy already awake in his excitement. For trying to wake up the younger, as per his request, only to have him refuse in his sleep and then admonish me the next morning for not getting him up. I was up for honey toast between the first two periods. I was up for snuggling together on the couch under blankets and sweatshirts and fuzzy warm pajama pants. I was up because it speaks my husband's love language when I show interest in his passions. I was up for the boy's giggles and that bright light in his eyes that I love so much. I was up for very un-Februaryish snow falling in the darkness outside.
I wasn't up for the game. I was up for another family memory to add to our story.
Tuesday, 4 February 2014
With praise and thanksgiving
I was quiet during January, wasn't I? I would apologize but truly I needed that time of mostly quiet. Let the words just sit for a while, rest, rise like dough left warm and covered on the counter. And rise they have.
Words aren't the only thing that have been growing in the quiet of January, though. New Years Day brought the most surprising and joyful news in the form of two blue lines. Our fourth precious child had nestled himself or herself quietly into my womb, no announcement or fanfare, just a silent little stowaway until our News Years Day discovery. What better way could there be to start off a new year?
Of course, amidst the excitement and joy there were those other feelings too. Four kids? We wanted four but maybe we were crazy. And so soon? We had expected this stowaway to settle in early this summer, based on our previous delayed returns of fertility. And me, a now-pregnant bridesmaid in May, my dress will never fit, and another cherished wedding will be missed, with the baby due only a handful of days before that one, oh dear. And our marriage, we have made such progress, such progress, will pregnancy and then babyhood serve to undo that?
Ah, fear. How quickly I allow it to rise up and choke out my joy.
But many deep breaths were taken and many prayers were offered and many fears were spoken aloud to one another and it all settles down eventually. The wonder if it all sinks in and those worries seem less important. (Although we are desperately sorry that we will miss the wedding of my dear sister-in-law and her lovely husband-to-be. Even so, what could be more perfect than a wedding and a new baby at the same time? What a blessed time for our family.)
The boys are completely thrilled, as I knew they would be. Then again, the older one has suggested that twenty children would be about right, but after discovering that the female body can mature up to 400 eggs, he wondered if that was an option for us. Yes, these are the sorts of conversations we've been having around here. I think I'm answering his questions well so far, but heck if it isn't a bit nerve-wracking nonetheless.
As for baby girl, well, she has no idea. It's a new experience for me, having a child who doesn't understand that Mommy is going to have another baby in a few months. Pregnancy has always been a beautiful time of watching them prepare for their new role as an older sibling. Closer spacing this time around makes for a different experience, and I hope that we can all handle this upcoming transition smoothly. I worry for her, just a little, and for me too, but things always turn out better than expected in the end.
How funny that I once mourned our inability to have our children two years apart like we wanted, and now I'm nervous about having received just that opportunity! Well, it will be a new adventure for us - and time for a mini-van, too!
This fourth little one will arrive at the end of August, making me eleven weeks along right now. S/he has been good to me so far, with only the slightest bit of nausea some evenings. We had the good fortune of seeing the little bean via ultrasound at eight weeks, lifting his or her little head and waving around his or her arms. I'm excited about the upcoming weeks - hearing the heartbeat, feeling those first movements, hopefully leaving the last of the nausea behind as I move into the second trimester.
Whatever worries we may have, it is joy that we feel far more abundantly. Thank you, Lord.
Words aren't the only thing that have been growing in the quiet of January, though. New Years Day brought the most surprising and joyful news in the form of two blue lines. Our fourth precious child had nestled himself or herself quietly into my womb, no announcement or fanfare, just a silent little stowaway until our News Years Day discovery. What better way could there be to start off a new year?
Of course, amidst the excitement and joy there were those other feelings too. Four kids? We wanted four but maybe we were crazy. And so soon? We had expected this stowaway to settle in early this summer, based on our previous delayed returns of fertility. And me, a now-pregnant bridesmaid in May, my dress will never fit, and another cherished wedding will be missed, with the baby due only a handful of days before that one, oh dear. And our marriage, we have made such progress, such progress, will pregnancy and then babyhood serve to undo that?
Ah, fear. How quickly I allow it to rise up and choke out my joy.
But many deep breaths were taken and many prayers were offered and many fears were spoken aloud to one another and it all settles down eventually. The wonder if it all sinks in and those worries seem less important. (Although we are desperately sorry that we will miss the wedding of my dear sister-in-law and her lovely husband-to-be. Even so, what could be more perfect than a wedding and a new baby at the same time? What a blessed time for our family.)
The boys are completely thrilled, as I knew they would be. Then again, the older one has suggested that twenty children would be about right, but after discovering that the female body can mature up to 400 eggs, he wondered if that was an option for us. Yes, these are the sorts of conversations we've been having around here. I think I'm answering his questions well so far, but heck if it isn't a bit nerve-wracking nonetheless.
As for baby girl, well, she has no idea. It's a new experience for me, having a child who doesn't understand that Mommy is going to have another baby in a few months. Pregnancy has always been a beautiful time of watching them prepare for their new role as an older sibling. Closer spacing this time around makes for a different experience, and I hope that we can all handle this upcoming transition smoothly. I worry for her, just a little, and for me too, but things always turn out better than expected in the end.
How funny that I once mourned our inability to have our children two years apart like we wanted, and now I'm nervous about having received just that opportunity! Well, it will be a new adventure for us - and time for a mini-van, too!
This fourth little one will arrive at the end of August, making me eleven weeks along right now. S/he has been good to me so far, with only the slightest bit of nausea some evenings. We had the good fortune of seeing the little bean via ultrasound at eight weeks, lifting his or her little head and waving around his or her arms. I'm excited about the upcoming weeks - hearing the heartbeat, feeling those first movements, hopefully leaving the last of the nausea behind as I move into the second trimester.
Whatever worries we may have, it is joy that we feel far more abundantly. Thank you, Lord.
Friday, 20 December 2013
On the occasion of your fourth birthday
It's funny how it happens - one day you're three, and then you wake up the next morning as a newly minted four year old. The whole day is a celebration of you and you, beautiful boy, reveled in it.
After I got a birthday smile out of you (it's not hard - saying "stinky ____" usually does the trick, because you're you and you think talking about stinky things is just the funniest thing ever), I tried for a quick photo of all three of you. Amidst all the squirming and blinking and grimacing and fooling around, I managed to get this one. Your sister is actually looking at the camera, your brother is doing his very best to look and smile and not move a muscle, and you're just patiently smiling away. You know this is your day.
As group pictures usually do, the chaos soon morphed into your sister sitting on your lap trying to rip your jaw off while you laughed and laughed. She loves you and you are endlessly patient with her. Good thing, too, since this sort of thing often happens.
Then we took some selfies. Because selfies are cool, yo.
And yes, I'm wearing a scarf. Our new house is freezing. I miss the gas fireplace in our old house. The lovely husband laughs at me for wearing a scarf in the house, but I'm warm and he's cold so who's laughing now, huh? I knit that scarf a couple of years ago and it is the softest smooshiest thing ever.
Birthday pictures taken care of, you and your brother went off to play. You came out a few minutes later, having been transformed once again into a princess. Sometimes you're a knight, sometimes a princess; it's all good with you.
I snapped the picture, you gave birth to a baby, your brother caught it ("It's a girl!"), and the two of you ran off again. Congratulations on your new bundle of joy.
You came back every half hour or so to ask if you could pleeeeeease just open one present, but I made you wait until your daddy got home from work. Sorry buddy. We went to IHOP for lunch because that's what you asked for, then came home to wait out those last hours until you could finally see what was in those wrapped packages.
At last it was time.
You were thrilled to get the Lego Mirkwood Elf Army from your grandma. Lego and the Hobbit, two of your three favourite things.
Your daddy read The Hobbit to you guys as a bedtime story last year, and you soaked it all up. Now he's reading The Lord of the Rings - you three are nearing the end of The Two Towers - and none of us expected how head-over-heals you would fall for that world of elves and wizards and orcs and men. You know details that I don't even know, talk about it all the time, pretend to be Gandalf or Boromir or any of your other favourites. Nearly every day you come up to me and say let's talk about Lord of the Rings! or do you want me to tell you who I like best in Lord of the Rings? and I listen and nod and tell you my favourites too (Aragorn, without a doubt, and Gandalf too).
Your love for that world is so strong that there is, of all things, a Gollum hanging on our Christmas tree. I just never in a hundred years would have expected that, but there he is, swinging away next to my 1983 Baby's First Christmas bulb. You saw him on that day when we were choosing this year's Christmas ornaments and there was no budging. Gollum or nothing, that was your stance, so Gollum it was. Thanks, Hallmark.
You also loved the costume your Oma made for you. The accompanying card said that opinions varied as to what exactly it was - possibly a bear, a wolf, or a even beaver - but you didn't hesitate. "It's a Minotaur!" you roared, and you gave us an appropriately frightening growl. Minotaurs are your new favourite mythical beast, so sure, we'll go with that.
You had already received most of your birthday gifts when we celebrated your half birthday, because you had to wait an extra week past your due date and placed your birthday precariously close to Christmas, with its own influx of gifts. Still, your daddy and I couldn't resist the one present that was sure to earn us that long-lashed wide-eyed grin and squeal that we love so much.
Hockey shirts. Four of them, from four of your favourite hockey teams. When I said Lego and the Hobbit were two of your three favourite things, hockey would be that missing third.
"Winnipeg Jets!" you shouted, except that you pronounce it "win-a-pig", always, every time, no matter how many times I try to correct you. The Jets were followed by Chicago Blackhawks (and a little squirm of joy from you), Buffalo Sabres, and Nashville Predators. The teams that will never make it into our house if your dad has any say? Boston Bruins (the "big bad Bruins"), Ottawa Senators (this is a Toronto Maple Leafs home, thankyouverymuch), and Montreal Canadiens.
After a dinner of your requested birthday meal, salmon and rice, it was time for cake. You asked for a strawberry cake with pink icing, so I found an appropriate recipe and gave it a go. You were pleased, at any rate.
You blew out the flickering flames and started licking the icing off the candles.
Then you licked the icing off your slice of cake and declared yourself full.
A birthday just wouldn't be complete without one more little surprise before bedtime. Sparklers on the balcony were just the thing, I thought, and you and your siblings agreed.
The only birthday wish you didn't get? There was no snow for the snowman you'd hoped to build. Well, there's nothing a mother can do about the weather...but you just never know what God might have in store for you the following morning.
Happy fourth birthday, my beautiful boy. Two days ago you were my favourite three year old. Now you're my favourite four year old. I love you.
After I got a birthday smile out of you (it's not hard - saying "stinky ____" usually does the trick, because you're you and you think talking about stinky things is just the funniest thing ever), I tried for a quick photo of all three of you. Amidst all the squirming and blinking and grimacing and fooling around, I managed to get this one. Your sister is actually looking at the camera, your brother is doing his very best to look and smile and not move a muscle, and you're just patiently smiling away. You know this is your day.
As group pictures usually do, the chaos soon morphed into your sister sitting on your lap trying to rip your jaw off while you laughed and laughed. She loves you and you are endlessly patient with her. Good thing, too, since this sort of thing often happens.
Then we took some selfies. Because selfies are cool, yo.
And yes, I'm wearing a scarf. Our new house is freezing. I miss the gas fireplace in our old house. The lovely husband laughs at me for wearing a scarf in the house, but I'm warm and he's cold so who's laughing now, huh? I knit that scarf a couple of years ago and it is the softest smooshiest thing ever.
Birthday pictures taken care of, you and your brother went off to play. You came out a few minutes later, having been transformed once again into a princess. Sometimes you're a knight, sometimes a princess; it's all good with you.
I snapped the picture, you gave birth to a baby, your brother caught it ("It's a girl!"), and the two of you ran off again. Congratulations on your new bundle of joy.
You came back every half hour or so to ask if you could pleeeeeease just open one present, but I made you wait until your daddy got home from work. Sorry buddy. We went to IHOP for lunch because that's what you asked for, then came home to wait out those last hours until you could finally see what was in those wrapped packages.
At last it was time.
You were thrilled to get the Lego Mirkwood Elf Army from your grandma. Lego and the Hobbit, two of your three favourite things.
Your daddy read The Hobbit to you guys as a bedtime story last year, and you soaked it all up. Now he's reading The Lord of the Rings - you three are nearing the end of The Two Towers - and none of us expected how head-over-heals you would fall for that world of elves and wizards and orcs and men. You know details that I don't even know, talk about it all the time, pretend to be Gandalf or Boromir or any of your other favourites. Nearly every day you come up to me and say let's talk about Lord of the Rings! or do you want me to tell you who I like best in Lord of the Rings? and I listen and nod and tell you my favourites too (Aragorn, without a doubt, and Gandalf too).
Your love for that world is so strong that there is, of all things, a Gollum hanging on our Christmas tree. I just never in a hundred years would have expected that, but there he is, swinging away next to my 1983 Baby's First Christmas bulb. You saw him on that day when we were choosing this year's Christmas ornaments and there was no budging. Gollum or nothing, that was your stance, so Gollum it was. Thanks, Hallmark.
You also loved the costume your Oma made for you. The accompanying card said that opinions varied as to what exactly it was - possibly a bear, a wolf, or a even beaver - but you didn't hesitate. "It's a Minotaur!" you roared, and you gave us an appropriately frightening growl. Minotaurs are your new favourite mythical beast, so sure, we'll go with that.
You had already received most of your birthday gifts when we celebrated your half birthday, because you had to wait an extra week past your due date and placed your birthday precariously close to Christmas, with its own influx of gifts. Still, your daddy and I couldn't resist the one present that was sure to earn us that long-lashed wide-eyed grin and squeal that we love so much.
Hockey shirts. Four of them, from four of your favourite hockey teams. When I said Lego and the Hobbit were two of your three favourite things, hockey would be that missing third.
"Winnipeg Jets!" you shouted, except that you pronounce it "win-a-pig", always, every time, no matter how many times I try to correct you. The Jets were followed by Chicago Blackhawks (and a little squirm of joy from you), Buffalo Sabres, and Nashville Predators. The teams that will never make it into our house if your dad has any say? Boston Bruins (the "big bad Bruins"), Ottawa Senators (this is a Toronto Maple Leafs home, thankyouverymuch), and Montreal Canadiens.
After a dinner of your requested birthday meal, salmon and rice, it was time for cake. You asked for a strawberry cake with pink icing, so I found an appropriate recipe and gave it a go. You were pleased, at any rate.
You blew out the flickering flames and started licking the icing off the candles.
Then you licked the icing off your slice of cake and declared yourself full.
A birthday just wouldn't be complete without one more little surprise before bedtime. Sparklers on the balcony were just the thing, I thought, and you and your siblings agreed.
The only birthday wish you didn't get? There was no snow for the snowman you'd hoped to build. Well, there's nothing a mother can do about the weather...but you just never know what God might have in store for you the following morning.
Happy fourth birthday, my beautiful boy. Two days ago you were my favourite three year old. Now you're my favourite four year old. I love you.
Monday, 21 October 2013
Sights and Sounds and Smells
It's fall and I'm in love with rainbow trees, red tips cascading down to orange and yellow, with the last green holdouts hanging around the bottom. Red leaf-carpets on the ground remind me of cherry blossoms in spring; the two make nice bookends to the equinoxes, I think.
We drive past the fall rainbow trees on our way to pick up their daddy from work. They sit in the backseat, those boys and that girl, and the boys ask endless questions while the girl shrieks. The middle one tells us about his "reflections", which from the sound of it are basically laser beams that come out of his eyes in the dark and help him see. Oldest scoffs, does not, but then he relaxes and joins in and soon they're having laser beam fights with their eyes and now there's even more shrieking.
I've memorized the smells of the 45 minute route from our house to the husband's work. We begin in the sun-warmed car, but the smell of french fries soon takes over as we pass the McDonald's on the corner. A little further down we pass a restaurant that invariably makes me think someone in the backseat has either thrown up or pooped in their pants, which so far has only been the case once; I was amused at that coincidence, having discovered the poop only seconds before passing that particular restaurant. Life is funny sometimes. As we turn off one main road and onto another, the smell of fried chicken takes over. Further down, as we drive over a bridge, the earthy smell of logs floating down the river invariably catches my attention. I always breathe deep here; I love the smell. Soon after we arrive at his work and begin the sensory journey in reverse as we head back home.
We won't be making the drive for much longer though. Early mornings to make the long commute coupled with late nights when he takes transit and long drives when we pick him up have taken their toll. We looked at many (many) houses that were reminiscent of the last time we looked for a place to rent, but we've finally found one that has that perfect trifecta of location, yard, and nice house. We dropped off the security deposit and will now spend the next four weeks purging and packing and moving. Oh my.
It's not perfect, the new place, but it's clean and updated and nice. I'll miss the cozy feeling of carpets beneath my feet, trading them in for all hardwood floors - a bonus to most, but not my cup of tea. Cushy area rugs will be Priority Number One. And our beautiful walls - our bright yellow kitchen, the calming pale blue bedrooms, the lavender bathroom, the hard-to-describe-but-sort-of-teal living room - will become solid peach throughout. I'm grumpy about it and also ashamed of my ungratefulness, that we should have found such a lovely place and yet I'm pouting about paint colours and hardwood floors. I expect we'll make it feel like home in time.
Now it's late and the house is quiet. Our days are so full with so many changes happening at once; I arrive at the children's bedtime feeling jittery and unsettled. Now comes the exhale. Breathe. Relax. Rest. Begin again tomorrow.
We drive past the fall rainbow trees on our way to pick up their daddy from work. They sit in the backseat, those boys and that girl, and the boys ask endless questions while the girl shrieks. The middle one tells us about his "reflections", which from the sound of it are basically laser beams that come out of his eyes in the dark and help him see. Oldest scoffs, does not, but then he relaxes and joins in and soon they're having laser beam fights with their eyes and now there's even more shrieking.
I've memorized the smells of the 45 minute route from our house to the husband's work. We begin in the sun-warmed car, but the smell of french fries soon takes over as we pass the McDonald's on the corner. A little further down we pass a restaurant that invariably makes me think someone in the backseat has either thrown up or pooped in their pants, which so far has only been the case once; I was amused at that coincidence, having discovered the poop only seconds before passing that particular restaurant. Life is funny sometimes. As we turn off one main road and onto another, the smell of fried chicken takes over. Further down, as we drive over a bridge, the earthy smell of logs floating down the river invariably catches my attention. I always breathe deep here; I love the smell. Soon after we arrive at his work and begin the sensory journey in reverse as we head back home.
We won't be making the drive for much longer though. Early mornings to make the long commute coupled with late nights when he takes transit and long drives when we pick him up have taken their toll. We looked at many (many) houses that were reminiscent of the last time we looked for a place to rent, but we've finally found one that has that perfect trifecta of location, yard, and nice house. We dropped off the security deposit and will now spend the next four weeks purging and packing and moving. Oh my.
It's not perfect, the new place, but it's clean and updated and nice. I'll miss the cozy feeling of carpets beneath my feet, trading them in for all hardwood floors - a bonus to most, but not my cup of tea. Cushy area rugs will be Priority Number One. And our beautiful walls - our bright yellow kitchen, the calming pale blue bedrooms, the lavender bathroom, the hard-to-describe-but-sort-of-teal living room - will become solid peach throughout. I'm grumpy about it and also ashamed of my ungratefulness, that we should have found such a lovely place and yet I'm pouting about paint colours and hardwood floors. I expect we'll make it feel like home in time.
Now it's late and the house is quiet. Our days are so full with so many changes happening at once; I arrive at the children's bedtime feeling jittery and unsettled. Now comes the exhale. Breathe. Relax. Rest. Begin again tomorrow.
Thursday, 26 September 2013
One and wonderful
Ah, my baby girl, such is the lot of the third child to have their first birthday reflected upon more than a month late, isn't it? My apologies, my love.
You, though, are not a child to be ignored. Such personality! Fun and quirky, you demand laughter, interaction, and applause - from us, at least. You're less assertive around those you don't know, but even then your shy face is so inviting of coos and attention, and of course no one can get enough of those cheeks of yours.
Because you never like to be without something in your hand, you've carried around the oddest little security objects over the past year. It's often a Duplo person or a ball or, when I'm within reach, a fistful of my hair, but you're not fussy, you'll take whatever's nearest. Most recently, you became attached to a small tube of stretch mark cream (it didn't seem to do much for me anyway, so you're welcome to it). You'd fall asleep with it clutched in your adorably chubby little fist and reach for it first thing in the morning. Well, if only we were all so easily pleased, right?
Not that you're always content. Most of the time, yes, but your mood can swing with the best of them, happy one moment and distraught the next. You throw yourself backward, cry at the insult of smacking your head, then use your feet to push yourself across the floor on your back. You make a sad little "ooooo" sound, complete with round pursed lips. I try not to laugh at you, but oh, the cuteness. I can't get enough of you.
Your Daddy is utterly smitten with you as well. It's been heart-warming to watch him with you this past year. He was a pretty shy new father when your oldest brother was born. He didn't really know what to do with that little crying bundle. But that baby grew into a wild toddler and he warmed up to fatherhood with relish. When his second son arrived, he was pretty convinced that toddlers were his job and babies were mine. But you! You came along and he was certain that you liked him right from the beginning. I think he was just a little less gun shy the third time around, but who knows, maybe you really did like him better than your infant brothers did.
And now it's you taking your first tentative steps. Three, four, five, and then you fall down and look up with that proud grin on your face, just waiting for the laughter and applause. We give it happily, little one, just as happily as you give out kisses. You open your mouth wide and press it against our cheeks and we melt, all of us. Well, except for that one time when your kiss became a bite on your brother's lip. He wasn't happy about that and he let the whole grocery store know it, and then you joined in, the two of you sobbing your eyes out in front of the applesauce. Such is siblinghood - and motherhood - sometimes.
The one thing you won't tolerate is your father and I hugging. Kissing, of course, is right out. You start squawking as soon as we dare bridge those last few inches between us. Apparently you have no interest in any younger siblings right now. Don't worry, baby, I'm in no rush; I'm quite happy to enjoy your own sweet babyhood. But I'm not going to stop hugging your father, so get used to it.
You're still my snuggler, my cuddler, my sweet little thumb-sucker, and now you're growing into my sunshiny toddler as well. Happy (very belated) birthday, my love. I look forward to discovering more about the fascinating person God created you to be with each passing day.
You, though, are not a child to be ignored. Such personality! Fun and quirky, you demand laughter, interaction, and applause - from us, at least. You're less assertive around those you don't know, but even then your shy face is so inviting of coos and attention, and of course no one can get enough of those cheeks of yours.
Because you never like to be without something in your hand, you've carried around the oddest little security objects over the past year. It's often a Duplo person or a ball or, when I'm within reach, a fistful of my hair, but you're not fussy, you'll take whatever's nearest. Most recently, you became attached to a small tube of stretch mark cream (it didn't seem to do much for me anyway, so you're welcome to it). You'd fall asleep with it clutched in your adorably chubby little fist and reach for it first thing in the morning. Well, if only we were all so easily pleased, right?
Not that you're always content. Most of the time, yes, but your mood can swing with the best of them, happy one moment and distraught the next. You throw yourself backward, cry at the insult of smacking your head, then use your feet to push yourself across the floor on your back. You make a sad little "ooooo" sound, complete with round pursed lips. I try not to laugh at you, but oh, the cuteness. I can't get enough of you.
Your Daddy is utterly smitten with you as well. It's been heart-warming to watch him with you this past year. He was a pretty shy new father when your oldest brother was born. He didn't really know what to do with that little crying bundle. But that baby grew into a wild toddler and he warmed up to fatherhood with relish. When his second son arrived, he was pretty convinced that toddlers were his job and babies were mine. But you! You came along and he was certain that you liked him right from the beginning. I think he was just a little less gun shy the third time around, but who knows, maybe you really did like him better than your infant brothers did.
And now it's you taking your first tentative steps. Three, four, five, and then you fall down and look up with that proud grin on your face, just waiting for the laughter and applause. We give it happily, little one, just as happily as you give out kisses. You open your mouth wide and press it against our cheeks and we melt, all of us. Well, except for that one time when your kiss became a bite on your brother's lip. He wasn't happy about that and he let the whole grocery store know it, and then you joined in, the two of you sobbing your eyes out in front of the applesauce. Such is siblinghood - and motherhood - sometimes.
The one thing you won't tolerate is your father and I hugging. Kissing, of course, is right out. You start squawking as soon as we dare bridge those last few inches between us. Apparently you have no interest in any younger siblings right now. Don't worry, baby, I'm in no rush; I'm quite happy to enjoy your own sweet babyhood. But I'm not going to stop hugging your father, so get used to it.
You're still my snuggler, my cuddler, my sweet little thumb-sucker, and now you're growing into my sunshiny toddler as well. Happy (very belated) birthday, my love. I look forward to discovering more about the fascinating person God created you to be with each passing day.
Wednesday, 4 September 2013
Because she needs me
She turned one whole year old during our month away, and I need to write it down, all the little things that make her the child I am so crazy in love with. Right now, though, she's holding tight to my leg, thumb in her mouth, and it's something different that I want to write down today.
My content child, my happy child, my joyful laid-back easy child, has become a clingy koala who despairs of life whenever I am too far away for her comfort. This is especially apparent when it comes time for her daily nap.
Gone are the easy days of whispering her naptime benediction in her ear as I lay her down and close the door behind me. I knew that could change any day, but somehow I didn't expect it to come after a full year. It has, oddly, made it more difficult for me to accept.
Whether it was the giant routine disruption that was our August, a shift in her developmental stage, or some other cause, I fought against it for the first few days. It was always so easy with her! Why won't she just go to sleep? I have things to do!
But nothing eases change quite the way acceptance does, and so I accepted. Book in hand, I settled down beside her, and now we share a quiet mid-day break. I read while she squirms around until sleep overtakes her. It's lovely, really, when I accept it instead of fight it as an intrusion or demand on my time.
I stayed with her brothers when they needed me, and now I will do the same for her. It may have taken longer for her to arrive at the stage where she feels my absence so keenly, but here she is, and here I am, for as long as she needs me.
Sleep well, my love. I'll see you when you wake.
My content child, my happy child, my joyful laid-back easy child, has become a clingy koala who despairs of life whenever I am too far away for her comfort. This is especially apparent when it comes time for her daily nap.
Gone are the easy days of whispering her naptime benediction in her ear as I lay her down and close the door behind me. I knew that could change any day, but somehow I didn't expect it to come after a full year. It has, oddly, made it more difficult for me to accept.
Whether it was the giant routine disruption that was our August, a shift in her developmental stage, or some other cause, I fought against it for the first few days. It was always so easy with her! Why won't she just go to sleep? I have things to do!
But nothing eases change quite the way acceptance does, and so I accepted. Book in hand, I settled down beside her, and now we share a quiet mid-day break. I read while she squirms around until sleep overtakes her. It's lovely, really, when I accept it instead of fight it as an intrusion or demand on my time.
I stayed with her brothers when they needed me, and now I will do the same for her. It may have taken longer for her to arrive at the stage where she feels my absence so keenly, but here she is, and here I am, for as long as she needs me.
Sleep well, my love. I'll see you when you wake.
Just writing along with the EO...
Friday, 30 August 2013
August memories
Bare feet slapping on chalk-covered sidewalks. Bathing suits and sandals and hair filled with sand. Freshly mown grass and the sandal that is no more. Fat caterpillars and oohs and squeals and laughter. Ticks, bee stings, scrapes, cuts, and tumbles. Bandages and kisses and only a little bit of worry.
Water, water, water. Water to drink, water to swim in, water to spray and splash and even jump on. Canoes and waterslides, lifejackets and victories. Water pouring down from the sky, then, as we began our journey back home, hail pounding down, like stones being thrown to run us out of town.
A full week's worth of driving, twenty-five days away from home, and somehow we all survived. Long highways through the bug-covered windshield. Charlotte's Web and Henry Higgins and Treasure Island. Growing boys and an exuberant baby and missing daddy and disappointment when (my) expectations are too high.
Sunshine and thunderstorms and lightning shows. Late mornings and later nights, slow days and full days. Sunsets so perfect they leave you breathless with gratitude and wild with wonder that such beauty could exist in this sin-sick world.
Family visits, hello, goodbye, see you again but never soon enough. Motels and floors and beds that aren't ours. A first boyfriend for one sister and a first breakup for another, and gratitude that I could be there for both. Love and heartache, isn't that just the stuff of life? Long talks and little sisters, why must they make the same mistakes I did? But maybe some things you have to walk through yourself before hindsight shines down its clarity.
Tents and sleeping bags, campfires and marshmallow roasts, stars and songs. Fingers sticky, hearts happy, souls satisfied. Worn out kids sleeping in the grass. Blackberry bushes fairly dripping with berries, thorns scratching at arms and legs as we fill buckets and bags and bellies with gifts straight from the Creator.
It's good to be home again. Summer was wonderful, but now I'm ready for autumn's quiet and rest.
Water, water, water. Water to drink, water to swim in, water to spray and splash and even jump on. Canoes and waterslides, lifejackets and victories. Water pouring down from the sky, then, as we began our journey back home, hail pounding down, like stones being thrown to run us out of town.
A full week's worth of driving, twenty-five days away from home, and somehow we all survived. Long highways through the bug-covered windshield. Charlotte's Web and Henry Higgins and Treasure Island. Growing boys and an exuberant baby and missing daddy and disappointment when (my) expectations are too high.
Sunshine and thunderstorms and lightning shows. Late mornings and later nights, slow days and full days. Sunsets so perfect they leave you breathless with gratitude and wild with wonder that such beauty could exist in this sin-sick world.
Family visits, hello, goodbye, see you again but never soon enough. Motels and floors and beds that aren't ours. A first boyfriend for one sister and a first breakup for another, and gratitude that I could be there for both. Love and heartache, isn't that just the stuff of life? Long talks and little sisters, why must they make the same mistakes I did? But maybe some things you have to walk through yourself before hindsight shines down its clarity.
Tents and sleeping bags, campfires and marshmallow roasts, stars and songs. Fingers sticky, hearts happy, souls satisfied. Worn out kids sleeping in the grass. Blackberry bushes fairly dripping with berries, thorns scratching at arms and legs as we fill buckets and bags and bellies with gifts straight from the Creator.
It's good to be home again. Summer was wonderful, but now I'm ready for autumn's quiet and rest.
Thursday, 6 June 2013
A naptime benediction
Nine months old and every nap the same.
I sit on the couch and snuggle her sweet self as she nurses. One of her chubby hands winds itself in my hair, always, always. She looks around when she's finished her pre-nap meal, eyes searching, more often than not, for the source of brotherly noise she can hear behind her.
I take that as my cue to stand up. She snuggles against me and pops that wrinkled thumb of hers into her mouth, the other hand maintaining its hold on my hair. We walk to the bedroom, slowly and purposefully, and I say the same words every time:
Mommy loves you.
Daddy loves you.
God loves you.
Sleep well, my love.
I'll see you when you wake.
I lay her down, covering her with her grandma-knit blanket. Goodnight, I whisper, as I lean down for one last kiss.
Sometimes her eyes follow me as I leave the room; other times, her eyes are closed as soon as the blanket is pulled over her. I shut the door quietly behind me.
I return to those boisterous boys for our own quiet time. We read a couple of chapters from our current read-aloud - just one more chapter, please? - and sometimes more. Then I leave them to their own quiet activities while I have a short nap of my own. No one whispers words of peace to me as I close my eyes, but I feel peace nonetheless, my last thoughts always a grateful thank you as I allow rest to come.
Sleep well.
I sit on the couch and snuggle her sweet self as she nurses. One of her chubby hands winds itself in my hair, always, always. She looks around when she's finished her pre-nap meal, eyes searching, more often than not, for the source of brotherly noise she can hear behind her.
I take that as my cue to stand up. She snuggles against me and pops that wrinkled thumb of hers into her mouth, the other hand maintaining its hold on my hair. We walk to the bedroom, slowly and purposefully, and I say the same words every time:
Daddy loves you.
God loves you.
Sleep well, my love.
I'll see you when you wake.
I lay her down, covering her with her grandma-knit blanket. Goodnight, I whisper, as I lean down for one last kiss.
Sometimes her eyes follow me as I leave the room; other times, her eyes are closed as soon as the blanket is pulled over her. I shut the door quietly behind me.
I return to those boisterous boys for our own quiet time. We read a couple of chapters from our current read-aloud - just one more chapter, please? - and sometimes more. Then I leave them to their own quiet activities while I have a short nap of my own. No one whispers words of peace to me as I close my eyes, but I feel peace nonetheless, my last thoughts always a grateful thank you as I allow rest to come.
Sleep well.
Monday, 27 May 2013
Catching Raindrops
I glanced at the sky as I shuffled three kids out the door, the fourth one snuggled against my chest. Nah, we won't need an umbrella.
We needed an umbrella.
Not that I could have juggled it, really, while holding onto a two year old, a three year old, two soccer balls, a water bottle, and an off-in-dreamland six year old. We made it to the field just as the other six year olds were starting their soccer drills. The boy joined in while the rest of us kicked around the second ball nearby. I was feeling a bit supermom-ish, so I kinda deserved what happened next.
Rain happened next. Buckets of it. Unrelenting buckets of it.
I mentally ranted at the husband. I had wanted to put the boy in circus school, which is indoors, where it never ever rains. He was the one who had to suggest soccer, after which any discussion of all other options was a lost cause. Yes, soccer, that's what the boy really and truly wanted to do. Fine, I said to the husband. But you're taking him. I'm not standing out in the rain every Saturday morning.
So of course I was standing out in the rain that Saturday morning, and with three other kids too.
(Okay, fine. So he was helping some dear friends move. In the rain. It's not like he was at home, warm and dry and sleeping in. But whatever. That's hardly the point.)
As the rain got steadily worse, I did my best to keep the baby semi-dry under my hood while watching the boy play soccer and keeping an eye on the other two. As it really started coming down, I turned to check on the boys again, expecting that at least one of them would be in tears by now.
They weren't.
There they were, faces turned to the sky, mouths wide open and tongues hanging out. They lapped up those raindrops with joyous abandon. They didn't care about being soaked straight through, about water squishing in their shoes, about being cold and wet and umbrella-less. To them, this rain was pure gift.
It's hard to feel miserable after witnessing such delight. Oh, that I would live my life that way, joyous and grateful, face upturned and arms wide open to whatever the day may bring.
"This is the day that the Lord has made;
we will rejoice and be glad in it."
Psalm 118:24
We needed an umbrella.
Not that I could have juggled it, really, while holding onto a two year old, a three year old, two soccer balls, a water bottle, and an off-in-dreamland six year old. We made it to the field just as the other six year olds were starting their soccer drills. The boy joined in while the rest of us kicked around the second ball nearby. I was feeling a bit supermom-ish, so I kinda deserved what happened next.
Rain happened next. Buckets of it. Unrelenting buckets of it.
I mentally ranted at the husband. I had wanted to put the boy in circus school, which is indoors, where it never ever rains. He was the one who had to suggest soccer, after which any discussion of all other options was a lost cause. Yes, soccer, that's what the boy really and truly wanted to do. Fine, I said to the husband. But you're taking him. I'm not standing out in the rain every Saturday morning.
So of course I was standing out in the rain that Saturday morning, and with three other kids too.
(Okay, fine. So he was helping some dear friends move. In the rain. It's not like he was at home, warm and dry and sleeping in. But whatever. That's hardly the point.)
As the rain got steadily worse, I did my best to keep the baby semi-dry under my hood while watching the boy play soccer and keeping an eye on the other two. As it really started coming down, I turned to check on the boys again, expecting that at least one of them would be in tears by now.
They weren't.
There they were, faces turned to the sky, mouths wide open and tongues hanging out. They lapped up those raindrops with joyous abandon. They didn't care about being soaked straight through, about water squishing in their shoes, about being cold and wet and umbrella-less. To them, this rain was pure gift.
It's hard to feel miserable after witnessing such delight. Oh, that I would live my life that way, joyous and grateful, face upturned and arms wide open to whatever the day may bring.
we will rejoice and be glad in it."
Psalm 118:24
Just writing along with the EO...
Friday, 10 May 2013
Sunny days
There's sand in the bathtub and the hamper and little boys' pockets. I pour it out of their boots, shake it out of their socks, and sweep it off the floor only to sweep it again. On particularly good days, I even help them rinse it out of their mouths. It sounds like pop rocks candy as it crunches between their teeth.
There are pill bugs in leaf-filled jar homes, fruit flies dancing around my compost bucket, and beetles crawling across my computer screen. I'm just waiting for the day I wake up to a line of mocking ants marching across my kitchen floor. I hate those ants. And then I'll line the doorways and baseboards with cinnamon and try to ignore the twinges of guilt as we mash the remaining ants beneath our fingers. So much for my pacifist leanings. I offer my sincere apologies to our Aunt Jo, who would be absolutely horrified to hear about the mass ant murders that take place here on occasion.
There is the heady smell of flowers in the morning, sunshine in the afternoon, and barbecued dinners in the evening. The cherry blossoms have already fallen into pink carpets and turned brown under passing feet and strollers and wagons. Everything is bright and colourful, backed by a hundred shades of green. Every breath feels like praise - thank you, thank you, thank you.
There are picnics at parks and visits to the farm and the zoo. Bare feet delight in the cool grass and the warm pavement. There are squeals as tiny toes test cold ocean waters at the beach. The sun comes out and a whole new world of possibilities seems to open up for us.
The door opens after lunch and doesn't close again until bedtime. We've fallen into a nice routine. The babies - mine and the daycare child - lay down for their first nap mid-morning while the rest of us have a bit of quiet. The babies wake up just in time to join us for lunch, then there's a quick tidy and we all head out into the yard. It's early afternoon by then, so the baby sits in the only bit of shade there is, right in front of the Japanese maple tree and rhododendron shrubs. The boys roll down the sloped yard in oversized toy dump trucks for as long as my nerves can stand it, and then out come bubbles, sidewalk chalk, hula hoops, whatever catches their fancy that particular day. We all enjoy the sun until it's time for the sweet girl's afternoon nap. The rest of the afternoon is filled with books, crafts, and the continual coming and going of boys (and their accompanying dirt) through that ever-open door.
There are early suppers and evening walks, nightly baths to wash off the day's activities, and more laundry than seems possible. Such is almost-summer, and an easy trade-off it is for all this warm sunshine.
There are pill bugs in leaf-filled jar homes, fruit flies dancing around my compost bucket, and beetles crawling across my computer screen. I'm just waiting for the day I wake up to a line of mocking ants marching across my kitchen floor. I hate those ants. And then I'll line the doorways and baseboards with cinnamon and try to ignore the twinges of guilt as we mash the remaining ants beneath our fingers. So much for my pacifist leanings. I offer my sincere apologies to our Aunt Jo, who would be absolutely horrified to hear about the mass ant murders that take place here on occasion.
There is the heady smell of flowers in the morning, sunshine in the afternoon, and barbecued dinners in the evening. The cherry blossoms have already fallen into pink carpets and turned brown under passing feet and strollers and wagons. Everything is bright and colourful, backed by a hundred shades of green. Every breath feels like praise - thank you, thank you, thank you.
There are picnics at parks and visits to the farm and the zoo. Bare feet delight in the cool grass and the warm pavement. There are squeals as tiny toes test cold ocean waters at the beach. The sun comes out and a whole new world of possibilities seems to open up for us.
The door opens after lunch and doesn't close again until bedtime. We've fallen into a nice routine. The babies - mine and the daycare child - lay down for their first nap mid-morning while the rest of us have a bit of quiet. The babies wake up just in time to join us for lunch, then there's a quick tidy and we all head out into the yard. It's early afternoon by then, so the baby sits in the only bit of shade there is, right in front of the Japanese maple tree and rhododendron shrubs. The boys roll down the sloped yard in oversized toy dump trucks for as long as my nerves can stand it, and then out come bubbles, sidewalk chalk, hula hoops, whatever catches their fancy that particular day. We all enjoy the sun until it's time for the sweet girl's afternoon nap. The rest of the afternoon is filled with books, crafts, and the continual coming and going of boys (and their accompanying dirt) through that ever-open door.
There are early suppers and evening walks, nightly baths to wash off the day's activities, and more laundry than seems possible. Such is almost-summer, and an easy trade-off it is for all this warm sunshine.
Tuesday, 5 February 2013
Ordinary moments
It is quiet in the room; that alone is unusual. The boys are playing prince and princess in their bedroom, adorned with all the sparkly finery a five- and three-year-old could want. It's just sweet girl and I enjoying a brief respite from the noise and movement of daily life.
On a whim, I glance up. There we are reflected in the (embarrassingly dirty) screen of the sleeping laptop, mama and baby girl, just sitting there together under the blanket. I have a book in one hand; the other hand rests against her head. The boy's fingerpainting grins at me from the background. I am mesmerized by the simple and ordinary beauty of it all.
How is it that life can feel both so perfect and so very hard at the same time?
Some days I am overwhelmed with gratitude for my life. These three precious children, a safe home to live in, food in the fridge and a husband who loves me. Those are the days I squeeze my kids tightly, inhale their beautiful scent, laugh and play and learn alongside them.
Some days I am overwhelmed by the noise and needs of life. These three young children, a home that needs to be cleaned and tidied, meals to prepare and the challenges of marriage. Those are the days I slip out of the house after the kids are sleeping, leaving their dad to care for them while I drive in the dark and the silence until my heart has slowed and my head has cleared.
There are days, weeks even, when I want to crawl into bed and hide underneath the covers, stay there warm and safe so I don't have to deal with anything. But I can't. I have to get up and get dressed and feed the children and face all these big things and little things and physical things and emotional things and stupid things and all the rest.
And oh, what I'd miss if I didn't get up. Ordinary moments with a cuddly baby and a good book. Hugs from a three year old as he tells me he loves me and I'm precious. These boys of mine side-by-side in a blanket fort, big one reading to little one, laughter and make-believe and friendship. I'd miss watching my babybug roll and squirm all over the floor, grinning and babbling at everyone who catches her eye.
All these gifts, and yet the bad parts take such predominance in my mind some days. Funny how that happens.
Life is good. Even with the tired days, the bad news, the whatever, it's still so good to be here. Just so very worth it.
On a whim, I glance up. There we are reflected in the (embarrassingly dirty) screen of the sleeping laptop, mama and baby girl, just sitting there together under the blanket. I have a book in one hand; the other hand rests against her head. The boy's fingerpainting grins at me from the background. I am mesmerized by the simple and ordinary beauty of it all.
How is it that life can feel both so perfect and so very hard at the same time?
Some days I am overwhelmed with gratitude for my life. These three precious children, a safe home to live in, food in the fridge and a husband who loves me. Those are the days I squeeze my kids tightly, inhale their beautiful scent, laugh and play and learn alongside them.
Some days I am overwhelmed by the noise and needs of life. These three young children, a home that needs to be cleaned and tidied, meals to prepare and the challenges of marriage. Those are the days I slip out of the house after the kids are sleeping, leaving their dad to care for them while I drive in the dark and the silence until my heart has slowed and my head has cleared.
There are days, weeks even, when I want to crawl into bed and hide underneath the covers, stay there warm and safe so I don't have to deal with anything. But I can't. I have to get up and get dressed and feed the children and face all these big things and little things and physical things and emotional things and stupid things and all the rest.
And oh, what I'd miss if I didn't get up. Ordinary moments with a cuddly baby and a good book. Hugs from a three year old as he tells me he loves me and I'm precious. These boys of mine side-by-side in a blanket fort, big one reading to little one, laughter and make-believe and friendship. I'd miss watching my babybug roll and squirm all over the floor, grinning and babbling at everyone who catches her eye.
All these gifts, and yet the bad parts take such predominance in my mind some days. Funny how that happens.
Life is good. Even with the tired days, the bad news, the whatever, it's still so good to be here. Just so very worth it.
Just writing along with The EO...
Tuesday, 22 January 2013
Laid low
The boy woke up with a fever this morning. He laid down on the floor in front of the fireplace and stayed there for the rest of the day, baseball cap on and tissue box nearby. He ate a pear and half a sandwich and sometimes fell asleep for a brief time. I spent much of the day chasing off his little brother, who just wanted to play and wrestle with his much-adored big brother. It was an odd change from my usual duty of getting the older one to back off the younger a bit. That poor boy, he was laid right low.
The younger one wanted a sandwich after dinner, just like his big brother. He nibbled at it a bit before abandoning it at the table in favour of Duplo. It was gone when he went back for it later. Did you eat his sandwich?, I called to the husband. He came into the room, sheepish, to admit that he had. The poor child received the news poorly. Fell straight forward onto the floor and sobbed his broken heart out, drowning out offers of a replacement. Devastation comes swiftly when one is only three years old; he was laid low by the injustice of it all.
Unexpected news yesterday left me sleepless last night, reeling from the blow and wondering what it would all mean in the end. I got out of bed early this morning to prepare for company that never arrived. Emotional and physical exhaustion wrestled for top spot and by the time the husband got home, I was spent. I napped on the couch, laid low by discouragement and never enough sleep.
But tomorrow is a new day, always, always. We'll recover from illness and disappointment and discouragement. We'll count blessings along the way because it's the only thing that keeps us standing tall, giving thanks to God (for He is good, His mercy endures forever).
The younger one wanted a sandwich after dinner, just like his big brother. He nibbled at it a bit before abandoning it at the table in favour of Duplo. It was gone when he went back for it later. Did you eat his sandwich?, I called to the husband. He came into the room, sheepish, to admit that he had. The poor child received the news poorly. Fell straight forward onto the floor and sobbed his broken heart out, drowning out offers of a replacement. Devastation comes swiftly when one is only three years old; he was laid low by the injustice of it all.
Unexpected news yesterday left me sleepless last night, reeling from the blow and wondering what it would all mean in the end. I got out of bed early this morning to prepare for company that never arrived. Emotional and physical exhaustion wrestled for top spot and by the time the husband got home, I was spent. I napped on the couch, laid low by discouragement and never enough sleep.
But tomorrow is a new day, always, always. We'll recover from illness and disappointment and discouragement. We'll count blessings along the way because it's the only thing that keeps us standing tall, giving thanks to God (for He is good, His mercy endures forever).
Sunday, 20 January 2013
Singing it again
It was such a little thing but I can't get it out of my mind.
"I liked that song. I liked it a lot. Can we sing it again?" He's five and he loves music and something about this song caught his attention. The pastor/worship leader/guitar player/man of so many hats chuckled at the request.
But I'm a mother and I shushed him because that's what we do when our children speak out of turn, we blush and shush and worry about what everyone around us must think. Our children always seem so much more unruly to us than they do to everyone else, don't they?
The worship continued, next song, words projected onto the walls. I swayed with my baby in my arms. I've been swaying for the past five years, catch myself moving back and forth, back and forth, in line at the grocery store and the bank, just swaying even when I don't have a little one with me. So I swayed and sang and we carried on.
But at the end, someone spoke up, "let's sing that first one again, remember? He wanted to sing it again." Slides flashed by, back to the beginning of the set, and that man of many hats began strumming his guitar again.
They sang that song again just for my boy, my sweet music lover, and it was such a little thing but I can't get it out of my mind. I remember and my eyes well up every time, every single time, it's been two weeks now. Such a small kindness and yet so big when you're five, to be noticed and heard and valued.
And I guess that's how I know we're exactly where we're supposed to be each Sunday.
"I liked that song. I liked it a lot. Can we sing it again?" He's five and he loves music and something about this song caught his attention. The pastor/worship leader/guitar player/man of so many hats chuckled at the request.
But I'm a mother and I shushed him because that's what we do when our children speak out of turn, we blush and shush and worry about what everyone around us must think. Our children always seem so much more unruly to us than they do to everyone else, don't they?
The worship continued, next song, words projected onto the walls. I swayed with my baby in my arms. I've been swaying for the past five years, catch myself moving back and forth, back and forth, in line at the grocery store and the bank, just swaying even when I don't have a little one with me. So I swayed and sang and we carried on.
But at the end, someone spoke up, "let's sing that first one again, remember? He wanted to sing it again." Slides flashed by, back to the beginning of the set, and that man of many hats began strumming his guitar again.
They sang that song again just for my boy, my sweet music lover, and it was such a little thing but I can't get it out of my mind. I remember and my eyes well up every time, every single time, it's been two weeks now. Such a small kindness and yet so big when you're five, to be noticed and heard and valued.
And I guess that's how I know we're exactly where we're supposed to be each Sunday.
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