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Monday 30 April 2012

Normal


A single mother I know once confessed to me that after her kids were in bed, she would retreat to her bedroom and watch episode after episode of Grey’s Anatomy. I told her that when my newborn was sleeping, I would put on lipstick. Even in the middle of the night. Putting on lipstick made me feel like I was okay. Like all was well. Now, you tell me which is more normal.

My mother wears lipstick. Almost religiously. I’ve rarely seen her without it. We are visiting my mother, the Guppins and me. She lives three hours away (on a good-weather day) down a windy, treacherous country road, secluded on a small lake, surrounded by neighbours who also drink martinis and by moose who appear in front of your car while you are driving.

For some reason I feel visiting my mother will be restful.

My mother has a solid routine: up early, coffee, meal planning (a top priority for her),
emailing friends from what I call “command central” — the bottom storey of her split-level
retirement cottage, my daughter and I unable to intrude down the steep, slippery wooden
steps, a makeshift gate consisting of a board barring our access. She disappears to email,
stretch, shower, work on her finances. She reappears later to clean, question me about meal
preferences, tune into “The Fan” (sports radio) on her kitchen radio at top volume. Then she’s off on one errand or another in her leased Forester, down the gravel road (it’s 45 minutes to any of the nearest towns) to shop, meet friends, check to see if her broken watch is fixed, get her hair cut, do group aerobics with her girlfriends at the community hall in front of a video tape, put air in her tires. She returns hours later, exhausted, and disappears for a nap.

My mother is sporting a vivid, very familiar lipstick. When I was a kid I would pull her lipsticks
out of any one of our bathroom cupboards, trying each on, staining Kleenex, flushing away the evidence of my investigation, intrusion. They never suited me. Too pink.

“I’m so tired.” “What do you want for dinner?” “But if you stay another day what will we eat?” (a note of panic in her rising register)

Then there’s gardening, cutting the lawn, and finally a trip down forty-plus outdoor railway-tie
steps (sleek with off-gassing oil and creosote) to read on the dock.

“I slipped and fell right after warning your sister-in-law of the very same thing!”

We stay behind.

I can phone her from my cell phone. If I need to. If there’s an emergency, for example. She
always takes the portable phone down to the lake. She’s on the phone a lot.

But I don’t.

I restlessly attempt a nap with my daughter (who still won’t go more than three hours through
the night without a brief wake-up), I feed her, I try taking her outside. We manage a stroller walk
down the long gravel road, alone, quiet with nature. I teach her how to say “Nana.”

My iPhone reception is not too good at my mother’s. Gmail jams up; the Scrabble game I play with a friend in LA won’t load; Facebook is a write-off.

We bide our time.

At five o’clock my mother has a martini, maybe another. It’s dinner time; she’s really fading —
“I’m so tired,” she says weakly. “All I do is work.”

Her wineglass now wears her lipstick.

She cleans the kitchen blearily while I bathe the baby, put her to bed. I join my mother in the
living room, quarter to nine. She is good for about 15 minutes of television, then off to bed.

I pour myself a huge glass of vodka.

I scroll through the satellite listings.

Then I hear it. Coming though the wall.

“Hshhh oh ma shs ooooh you yr shhh…”

The hushed whispering.

I had forgotten. On the surface I had let myself forget.

I press the mute button.

“Draaah? Me shhh mus t daught oh re?”

I am not going to ignore it this time. I get up. With unnameable dread I creep down the hall,
slowly, one foot in front of the other, my heart in my chest. My brain experiencing a confusing
anxious terror I can’t really explain. I listen.

She’s definitely talking to someone, which is what makes it so disturbing. The floor creaks.
I stop. I lean. I make it close enough to see through a crack in her door, her reflection in the
mirror above a tidy bureau. I’ve never made it this far before. For months in the summer, when my daughter was first born and we were visiting for long stretches, I heard it through the wall between our bedrooms, thinking it was her TV or she was one the phone, not accepting the fact that it made no sense, it was midnight — who would she be talking to? — denying the abstract horror that pressed at me. It was only when she was visiting me in Toronto in my small one-bedroom apartment that I accepted what was happening. Because only a curtain separated us. And through it I heard, very clearly, a secret conversation between her and someone else. Too hushed for me to make out the actual words. Maybe I didn’t want to. For a moment I hoped she was praying.

Only my mother isn’t religious.

But on this night I actually saw her. I think she was holding a framed photograph. There was
pain in her voice. I couldn’t go any further. I couldn’t possibly — my world would shatter, I would explode into tiny irretrievable units, faced with the milky eyes of my Mad Mother.

I try to forget about it. I try to tell myself it’s normal, she misses my dad, she’s talking to him. I
think about my therapist. I remember confessing years back that I guiltily looked forward to my father dying because then my mother would finally be available to me. It took me a long time to admit this longing, this deep need, this absence.

This rage.

Two days later the Guppins and I leave, my mother out the door before us on several large and important errands, a bridge game two hours away. “I’m nervous about the drive. I find driving so tiring,” she says while hurrying out into the pouring rain, leaving behind her neatly packed lunch on the foyer bench.

I am left to pack the car alone. I put on The Jungle Book to entertain my daughter. She adores my mother, searches for her high and low, appears around corners surprising her with her word.

“Nana!”

My mother does take moments with her. She fed her on her lap one morning while I bathed.
(This moved me unspeakably.) She watches a Winnie the Pooh video with her, which my
daughter is now obsessed with.

I drop my daughter off with her dad, who is willing to take her for the night despite his busy life, his auditions, his meeting with real estate people — we are moving forward, on together, to a small Ontario town next month.

I drive home. I smoke a rare cigarette. I want to take a Xanax. I bargain with myself.

“It’s just sleep. You just need sleep and you’ll stop feeling crazy. You’ll feel better.”

I unpack the car. I put things away. I put a frozen dinner in the oven. I walk into the bathroom. I reach for whichever one is close. This time it’s a bright orangey red. I smear it across my lips. I look in the mirror.

I told him, her father, when we had a rare moment to lie together on his bed, our girl bouncing
around happily below us, I told him, “I feel so alone. Going to see my mother makes me feels so alone”.

“It’s her set pieces,” he says. “Like at Christmas. Crying over the turkey carving.”

I nod. I hold on. I think about the future, with him, with my daughter. A life together, a life a little less lonely, a little more normal.

If only I had known then what I know now.

-Drama Mama

Wednesday 25 April 2012

Things To Do in Vegas When You’re in Bed (at 6 pm)


Hotel room, 6 pm. Nighty-night, Vegas!

I'm always up for a challenge, so I took my daughter, Cookie, to Las Vegas for the
weekend. I’m starting to wonder whether I should consider travel destinations more
carefully. I never wanted a child to interfere with my travel bug, but our last big trip was
to New Orleans. During Mardi Gras. On both trips, Cookie was the only baby on the
plane. What, no one else takes a baby to Mardi Gras?

So yeah, Vegas with a baby. It was for a family wedding; my parents and my sister were
going to be there. Cookie’s dad couldn’t come ’cause he’d used up most of his vacation
days on a golf trip, and I’d rather not ask my parents for too many favours ’cause I know
they’re going to make me feel guilty about something or other, so we were effectively
on our own for much of the trip, including the dreaded flights. And everywhere I went —
on the plane, in coffee queues, on the Strip at 6 in the morning — people asked, “What
on earth can you do in Vegas with a baby?” Well, I was busy busy the whole time, so it
turns out quite a bit.

1. See Vegas from the wrong side of 4 am. Because your baby wakes you up at
4 am (bitch), not because you were out all night. Because you’ve trained her to
wake up at 7 am on the dot and, well, it’s 7 am at home.
2. Spend a lot of time looking for wheelchair ramps. In a city where every hotel
rents out scooters for those unable (or unwilling) to walk, there are a lot of steps,
and the ramps are often hidden behind banks of slot machines.
3. Make lots of friends. Drunks, down-on-their-luck gamblers, and the flight
attendants and servers who have to deal with them love babies.
4. Make a few enemies. The guy next to you on the plane who’s just trying to get
to the convention, the salespeople at Louis Vuitton, and the host at Mesa Grill do
not love babies.
5. Take your chances at the Bellagio fountain. The water-and-music show is
breathtaking, but Cookie did not appreciate it. In fact, it scared her a bit. But
she’s cute when she gets scared, so that was kind of fun. I’m going straight to
hell for that one.
6. Flirt shamelessly with the waiter who resembles Daniel Craig. Because
you’re having brunch alone with your baby and a bit tipsy from the one mimosa
you allowed yourself. (Sadly, I’ve lost track of the number of times I’ve drank
alone with Cookie — but only ever one drink at a time, I swear.) Because hot
guys love babies, so it’s easy! Because no one’s around to judge. I mean,
it’s Vegas — who there is in a position to judge? Glass houses and all. And,
because the waiter’s clearly gay, so no one’s going to seriously accuse you of
flirting.
7. Park the stroller next to a slot machine and try your luck. Kidding. It was
awfully tempting, though, especially at 4 in the morning when the machines were
just sitting there looking neglected. While you’re at it, why not order a drink?
Classy!

The corollary of #1 is that bedtime comes awfully early. That’s when you swallow your
pride and let the grandparents babysit for a couple of hours while you hit the slots and
the lobby bar guilt-free. Yay grandparents!

- East End Mama


Monday 23 April 2012

My Spark


I recently read an amazing story about the sacrifice mothers make for their children.
It is a (possibly true) story of a mother who was found dead in the rubble after the
earthquake in Japan. After she was pronounced dead, rescuers searched her body and
found a baby. The baby was protected by her body and was still alive after many days
in the rubble. Just to pull at the heart strings a bit more, they found a cell phone with a
message typed on it: “If you survive, remember I love you very much.” Yeah, I know.
Crazy, right? Especially if it’s true.

Recently my mother told me that she’s noticed I have lost my “spark.” She said that as
a child and young adult, I was always a dreamer. I was curious about everything and
I had my own path, and she felt I had lost that wonderment. In her infinite WISDOM,
she suggested that I try to figure out a way to get the spark back before I lose myself.
Although my mother was being very critical — and clearly was not thinking about the
possible role she may have played in dulling my spark — it made me think about the
sacrifices I’ve made as a result of becoming a mother, and what effect they’ve had on
my being and identity.

My spark: is it gone or does it just have a different twinkle?

I do remember the days when I was able to spend time thinking about the world in
a wide-eyed, naïve way. And had time to sit and chat about the world over a couple
of pints or a nice dinner. Today my schedule is a lot more structured and focused. I
have minimal waking time for the important things: my son Lo, my partner, my work,
my school, my family, and my friends. And yes, in that order. Yeah, I am definitely
exhausted and the energy required for my spark to shine has dimmed, but I do not think
it is gone. I think it just flickers differently.

Today my spark shines when Lo says “Mamma,” when Lo stares at me for a couple of
seconds and then kisses me, when Lo grabs for my hand, when Lo hums the tune I am
humming, when Lo laughs, when Lo hugs me so tight both arms are wrapped around
my neck, when Lo notices something new, when Lo is delighted by me and my husband
hugging or kissing (which is not very often), when Lo offers a toy to a child who is upset,
and when Lo attempts to say “I love you.”

So MOTHER, my spark is not gone. It now has a different shade, and is lit up by the
new things that are important to me now. Maybe one day I will be that dreamer, that
carefree person I used to be. But I am thinking that maybe that is unlikely. And maybe
that is okay, right?

- Gray Mama

[photo credit: Gabriel Pollard via Wikipedia]

Friday 20 April 2012

Theme Songs

I attended a seminar at work on Powerful Presentation Skills — not as yawn-inducing
as it may sound. Along with many tips and tricks (my fave one: no human can seriously
take in more than three pieces of info at a time…did you hear all the men sighing in
relief?), the MBA man said, “Oh, and have a theme song. Any time you need to pump
yourself up, play that song, out loud or just in your head.”

And then in the car today, as I RACED from home to No Frills to the fresh turkey aisle
to check out to home again, all in the 30 minutes I had before my husband boarded
another tour van, I heard this song on the radio: “Harder Faster Better Stronger” by Daft
Punk. And it clicked!

Voila — a theme song is born. I have always adored this song and this group, but never
have I realized how inspiring and appropriate the lyrics have been for me. (There is also
a Kanye West remix that I don’t mind, ’cause I’m hip with what the kids like.)

These are pretty much all the VERY deep lyrics:

Work it harder, make it better
Do it faster, makes us stronger

Even before-child, I would listen to this song when I needed to pump myself up.
Somehow, something that makes me feel like running around like a chicken with my
head cut off can be empowering. Also, when this song came out I was in university and
was probably black-out drunk the first time I heard it. Happy memories.

I dare you to listen without tapping your toes. W is pumping his little fist as I type!



- Tightrope Mama

[Daft Punk lyrics are the property of their owners. "Harder, Better, Faster, Stronger" lyrics are provided for educational and personal use only.]

Wednesday 18 April 2012

Manipulation

I think I’m being manipulated. My husband says for sure I am. My friends, most of whom
don’t have children, just laugh. They say I’m over-tired and being ridiculous. Am I?
One friend who has a son a few months older than mine swears their cognitive thinking
doesn’t make the cause-and-effect links required to manipulate me in such a way. Is he
right?

I think not. J-man has, for the past three Sundays in a row, puked at bed time. He’s in
daycare and I’m always explaining that it’s because of one illness or another. But is it?
It could be. He could be teething. It could be because of his last cold or the pneumonia
he had two weeks ago. It could be because he likely has asthma (he has puffers, and
always has had them, but only needs them when he’s sick but it’s too early to tell).
Maybe crying causes some breathing or choking issue. I’ve said this over and over for
the past three weeks. And now? I’m not so sure. How bad would I feel if any of this were
actually true and I treated it as a tantrum?

Tonight (a normal Tuesday night), J-man was impossible to put to sleep. We had a
bath, a bottle, a couple of songs, a rock in the chair, a snuggle, a kiss, and then another
snuggle and another kiss. Most nights he’s close to sleep by this time, but not tonight.
Next, off to bed and a nice long back rub. On other nights this is the end of J-man, but
not tonight. He’s up! Won’t lie down. It’s 10 p.m. and we’ve been working on the bed
time routine for over an hour. It is clearly past bed time for both J-man and Mom.

So now what do I do? I tell J-man it’s night-night time and he needs to lie down. I give
him one more kiss and another snuggle, but I don’t take him out of his bed. My husband
always says my problem is that I take him out of his crib. (Usually in the middle of
the night. J-man is almost two and still gets up usually twice each night. I am totally
exhausted.) I tell myself he’ll just cry for a couple of moments and then drift off to sleep.
This happens not infrequently when he’s restless. I leave him hysterically crying for me.
I put a load of laundry in. My husband, who almost never puts J-man to sleep, helpfully
tells me J-man’s just being manipulative, and last night, when I had a late-night work
call and he put J-man to sleep, there was no such nonsense.

I feel guilty and go back in for another back rub. It’s been maybe five minutes. Just like
on Sunday, I can smell what he has in store for me from outside his bedroom door.
Yup, he’s vomited all over himself, his crib, the floor, the abc mat beside his bed and,
yup, the toy box. I want to cry. I am exhausted. I have a brief due in the morning that
I planned to write before bed and at least two loads of laundry ahead of me. I call for
help and my husband is too pissed to be at all helpful. He insists he's washing bottles
and too busy to help (not the approach I took when it was he who entered the barf-filled
room on Sunday night).

I start the cleaning process. Have to clean the floor before I can even get to my baby
covered in vomit. He’s now stopped crying and is singing. He’s pointing at the CD player
and asking for another song. I put him and the abc mat in the bath. The extra set of crib
sheets is in the dryer but not yet dry from the last pukefest. (My husband forgot to put
them in the dryer Sunday night after the washer finished, so two days later I had to re-
rinse them and now they are on their way.) Clean-up takes over an hour, and the sheets
are dry. By this time hubby is helping and making the bed. He tells me he’s had enough
of this nonsense and he’ll be putting J-man to sleep from now on.

I clean the abc mat and start another load of laundry. It would be nice to share the bed
time routine. It’s a discussion we’ve had many times. It’s a commitment we’ve made
many times. I expect this one will again pass in a couple of days, and things will go back
to normal. In the meantime, I do believe my kid doesn’t want to go to sleep. And I think
he’s figured out that if he pukes, he’ll get out of it — at least for a little while! I think he’s
manipulating me.

-Sleepwalking Mama

Monday 16 April 2012

Their So-Called Adult Lives

Apparently I’m not the only one who struggles with reconciling my old self, who slept in ‘til noon on weekends and had no idea there are people in this world who toilet-train their newborns, with this new Mom person (well, duh). Here are some lovely people who write about it honestly and coherently. (Just like us, we hope!)

Reasons Mommy Drinks

A drink to accompany every WTF moment of motherhood. Cope with the introduction of solids by putting the blender on double duty and mixing a pina colada, for instance. Hilarious and gorgeous and true. Except for all the drinking, of course — this is all “purely for laughs,” people. Right, and I haven’t instituted cocktail hour in my home on those days when Cookie’s daddy isn’t home by 5:45 to take over.

Bored Mommy

As a mostly-stay-at-home mom, I frequently am bored, which is baffling to me, since I don’t
seem to have any free time. And then I find myself reading that damn pigeon book for the fifth
time straight, and I remember why. So I totally responded to the title of this blog. And posts
like “How to Break the Ice with Other Mothers,” because she admits that she doesn’t like talking to other moms at the playground. Me too! And she has an imaginary boyfriend named Colin Firth. Me too!

Eating over the Sink

Samantha and Allana seem to be pretty comfortable in their role as moms, so maybe this is
out of place. But they’ve had to balance high-profile careers with parenthood and make it look awesome, so I’m guessing there’s some angst there somewhere. Dig in the archives and I’m sure you’ll find it. (See, for instance, the bit where Sam maybe regrets volunteering her first-born for a Daily Show bit in which her husband takes their baby to a peep show. And then definitely regrets showing said child the clip in toddlerhood.) You’ll have a lot of fun in the meantime.

Daddy Types

Why can’t we just be as relaxed and accepting of all this parenting stuff as dads are? Well,
where do I begin… Still, dads seem to have very little problem reconciling pre-baby life with
post-baby life (or am I the only non-single mom watching television ALONE on a Friday night?), so perhaps we should take some cues from them and read more dad blogs. This is one I read, although at times I find it a bit incoherent. Must just be my silly mommy brain.

- East End Mama

Friday 13 April 2012

The Solo Show



It’s 9:30pm. The baby’s not in bed, the apartment’s a mess, and I’m naked from the waist down. And I really need a break from this solo-mothering thing.

The Guppins was going to be at Sir Dick’s tonight (that’s her dad); I was going
to drive her over between parking ticket court and taking out the garbage for my
building.

Earlier, on the streetcar, I get a text from my tenant in two:

My rads are stone cold

I text my business partner, Chazz.

Two is complaining she’s cold

He texts back:

Send out a group email to everybody we’ll bleed the rads Wednesday

I am digging through my purse looking for pain meds because, being geriatric
(read: over 35 with a baby), I have exacerbated my arthritis carrying my kid to
traffic court (the Guppins hates her stroller all-of-a-sudden), and I can feel my
back just begin to pull

and now she’s reaching for the pill bottle

like she’s reaching for the toothpaste

like she’s reaching for the toilet cleaner

like she’s reaching for everything that used to be just out of her reach…

but it’s okay, she’s going to her dad’s tonight, and I am going to get a break, even
if it means I drive her there illegally.

Because my licence is suspended.

Chazz texts.

Tell them not to bleed their own rads there is a system it’s not the new
pump everything is working FINE in One

and Two is now emailing why me, why not her, why my heat, what have I ever
done, why why WHY

and Six is now I’m so sorry I just want to be transparent here but I bled my
rads last week I’m so SORRY

and Five is all

can you fix my toilet? Again?

We arrive at traffic court. We abandon traffic court. Cops with guns and stuffed
people and one clerk working for a mob of five thousand. Who would forget to
renew their sticker, forget to pay the ticket when pulled over while on the way
to work for the first time in a year, forget to pay attention to the warnings in the
mail? ME.

Tomorrow. I can go back tomorrow morning because Sir Dick is taking her
tonight. I can meet them right before the results of his prostate biopsy

(put it in a box)

at Princess Margaret. It’s near traffic court.

But Sir Dick never calls. The next day he says to me,

“Why didn’t you just bring her over? I was expecting you.”

He’s not big on telecommunications. His cell phone — which Bell forced him into
for the bundling discount — is covered in dust, uncharged, sitting under scattered
bags of drying dope and photographs and other guy-actor things.

So why didn’t I?

Oh, how I could have binged on popcorn and caught up on streamed episodes of
Australia’s Next Top Model (that’s right, Australia) and slept for more than three
hours without interruption.

But instead of a night off,

I get drunk in the boiler room while the baby sleeps upstairs.

Red wine and ten thousand cigarettes. The girl in One (an actress) and her
theatre-director friend are heading out the door. I run into them while taking out
the garbage (with my pants on).

(One) It’s so nice to seeeeeeee you! I hated (insert regional summer theatre
where I used to work), it was so looonely.

(Me) Yes, it’s really no fun if you’re not fucking anybody.

(One) I'm so glad to be back— We’re just going to the Midfield, I wish you
could coooome.

(Me) Yes, the baby.

(The Director) I didn’t know you had a baby?

(Me) She’s almost one and a half.

(The Director) But you were so good in that workshop. I loved that dancing
stripper Crow Lady you pulled out.

(One) It's so good to seeeee you, it’s been so loooong.

We decide to drink in the boiler room, which is almost under the baby’s crib, so if
she cries I will hear her. We set up a mock table and One sits on a suitcase.

(One) My solo show’s going to New Yoooork, isn’t that great? You
should have a solo show I can’t believe you don’t have a soooloooooo
shooooowww.

I get the wine, and the director guy has the cigarettes, and Girl in One texts
Chazz, who she reveres (Chazz is ridiculously handsome and all-knowing,
especially about acting) and Chazz brings some bourbon, and we get smashed
and talk about art and German theatre, and name the new boiler smoke-
easy “Under the Asbestos” and have a laugh, and discuss the new boiler pump
for the rads, and the baby never cries and the next day when I am hung-over but
happy, I realize that I am Lonely.

Lonely.

Where do you go? Where do you go to find who you were before?

Two months from now Chazz and I will remove all the asbestos from the hot
water pipes.

Still…it will never be the same. I will never be the same.

I’ll tell you where I fucking go. Under the asbestos. And this…is my solo show.

-Drama Mama

Wednesday 11 April 2012

“Breast Is Best”



Nursing: I don’t know if there is a more loaded word in the first few months of
a baby’s life. I really had no idea how much time I would spend talking about,
thinking about, and worrying about the liquid being held in my two little (then big,
then little, now saggy) boobs.

Just the word “nursing” exhausts me, but I owe it to myself to document this ride
while some of it is still fresh in my mind (well, as fresh as anything really is in my
mind anymore).

My prenatal beliefs: nursing is the ONLY option; it is the healthiest (true), the
cheapest (way true!), and the easiest (dead wrong) way to go about feeding
your biological baby. While pregnant I attended breastfeeding workshops where
I held a doll up to my breast (how ridiculous!) and read books about mammary
glands and colostrum and engorgement. (Note: having an engorged breast and/
or blocked duct with a young baby truly is nature laughing in your face. Seriously,
how much more uncomfortable can you be? Remind the men in your life of this
double whammy the next time they have the sniffles.)

All the way along your pregnancy everyone (doctors, doulas, friends, co-workers,
random people at the beach…) asks you, “Will you nurse?“ and you don’t even
THINK about saying anything but “Oh, yes. Of course.” Then W came out, and
almost the first thing the hospital did was suggest formula. W was a little sick
at birth, and as a result we were apart for a few hours and missed that initial,
blissful skin-to-skin moment that every pregnant woman is told will be her reward
for hours (days?) of pushing and writhing. He was also completely jaundiced
and too tired to eat; I had hemorrhaged and was too tired to force the issue…so
formula it was. Then I pumped, I pumped, and pumped and pumped some more.
The hospital lent me the most beautiful electric double milking machine. It was
like the Royal Winter Fair right there in July! So W took the milk, but still no latch.

My little family was in the hospital for four days, and as tight as we were, we still
never latched. I felt terrible, like my baby would starve unless I pumped out two
(yes, TWO) ounces of milk and then finger fed it to him by a thin tube taped to
my finger. (Yes, we did that for a while.) The lactation consultant was out sick for
most of my hospital stay, and while the nurses tried, it was an uphill, awkward
battle. My dear husband offered tips and tried to repeat what we had learned
from the “Breast Is Best” poster (circa 1994) in the ICU, but it wasn’t working.

After countless visits to lactation consultants and clinics, we must have turned
a corner. I remember a lot of crying and spraying milk and heated exchanges
with my spouse, but I don’t think I remember the actual moment when the
latch worked. It likely happened gradually, like most things in life. One day we
couldn’t…then one day we could. I don’t mean to oversimplify, and if you are
reading this because you landed here by Googling “breastfeeding advice,” then
I am sorry. This is probably not what you want to be reading. However, I can say
that at 16 months we are STILL dragging out the final few drops of milk from my
tired, tired chest…so something worked. Maybe too well!

But if you are reading this and feel like you just can’t hold a Velociraptor up to
your swollen naked body one more time, just try one more time (and then four
more times after that) because you will get it…probably. (Helpful, eh?)

There are lots of benefits to nursing, this you know. There are also hardships
and pain and judgment. (“You are STILL nursing? How old is he now?” Shut up,
random mall lady. He is a baby. Albeit, a baby who can climb on a food court
table and jump to the floor holding a slice of pizza, but still a BABY!)

Is nursing worth it? Yes. If my next baby puts up this much of a fight, will I do it
again? I don’t fucking know, but due to enormous mom-guilt, yes. Yes, okay, yes.
Jesus.

-Tightrope Mama

Monday 9 April 2012

Reaping the Benefits



We participated in fertility treatment in our quest to become pregnant, so I found
out that I was actually pregnant very early on…ten days after conception, to be
exact. It was exciting. We had been trying for two years, and we finally had a little
newt in my belly!


So then there is that decision we all have to make: do you wait the three months
that everyone says you should wait — just in case — or do you tell everyone?
As I naturally wanted to — I was super excited. Well, something else made that
decision for me: a baby bump.


Yes, I had a baby bump from about four weeks onward. It was a bump that could
not be hidden by baggy sweaters or a puffy scarf. It was noticeable. People
would move their eyes to my belly when I spoke to them and ask when I was
going to have a child. There were also a few cheeky ones who would ask if I was
pregnant…even before I was actually pregnant. So I had to tell everyone that I
was pregnant before the traditional three months because I could not physically
hide it any longer.


My mother-in-law said to me at nine months, “You’re huge!” And I was.
Absolutely huge. My belly was so large that I was asked routinely if I was having
twins. The craziest part of all this was I was okay with my size. It felt so amazing
to have this huge belly full of my little love. It was the most accomplished belly I
had earned in my 35 years. The previous “bumps” had been the consequence of
too much vino, too much late-night fast food, or a lifetime of too much fresh bread
and 2% milk. So to have a belly with some real purpose was one of the most
satisfying feelings ever!


April 2010, I had my little scrumptious — a little peanut of average size who did
not fit the size of my belly. But whatever… I breastfed for the first 15 months,
and initially my belly sucked back to my pre-baby bump. Once I stopped
breastfeeding, something horrible happened: my belly dropped and created this
very uncomfortable overhang, and a muffin top developed that resembled my
tummy when I was approximately three months pregnant. Yeah, pretty horrible.


Now I am back in that space where people stare at my belly when they speak to
me, constantly ask me when I’m having my next child, and almost daily ask me
if I’m pregnant. The nerve! I know — unbelievable, but actually true. In all of this,
though, there has been one unexpected benefit.


I take the subway every day, into the city from the west end and back again. And
every morning someone asks me if I would like to sit in their seat. Now initially
I tried to convince myself that it’s because I’m a woman or they were just being
polite…then I woke up and realized that actually, people think I am pregnant,
even on my “skinny” days. So in frustration, and seeking justice, I’ve made a
decision: that I will start to reap the benefits of this assumption…and actually sit
down.


-Gray Mama

Saturday 7 April 2012

Before and Afterbirth



Stomach

Before: I always felt fat, but could disguise my pudgy belly. I’m lanky. Losing that
magical five pounds? Not a problem.

After: Rolling flab. The Guppins is still breastfeeding, or as her father so glamourously
expresses it, “still on the tit.” So why isn’t she sucking the fat out of me? My breasts are
like a sideshow and my once skinny — yes, skinny — legs now have a PUDGE to them.

And does anyone else feel like they have a gaping hole of nothing somewhere between
their pelvis and spine?

Vagina

Before: Okay, I wouldn’t say I was Helen of Troy down there, but I could live with things.
And have sex with things.

After: It’s like, “Hmm, what’s that?” And look out allergy season, because every time I
sneeze I pee my pants.

Face

I actually look pretty good in the post-birth photos. But now I have miniature bananas
parked below my eyeballs.

Bed

Once the exclusive domain of private luxury; now littered with stuffed animals, rumpled
sheets, damp spots from kamikaze diaper changes, dirt. Now, my bed represents
conflict: Stay in your crib. SHHH. Okay, get in the bed, but you can’t have booby.
Scream, cry (what do my tenants think of this midnight yowling?), eventually I give
in…suck suck, no sleep for Mommy.

My bed. Once my comfort. Now my dread.


Before the Thing that Happened

Anxiety: Check. Scrambled career: Check. Wellbutrin, Xanax, alcohol: Check. Turned
forty: Check. Therapy: Check. Ambivalence: Double check. Maybe not. No…okay,
check that.

After the Thing that Happened

She is — oh my God, she is life, light, wit, she is Tiger Untamed; she is warmth,
happiness, hero; she is challenge, life, everything; she is best of me, worst of me,
and all her own. She kisses, she holds, she loves, she teaches me I teach myself,
she makes anxiety unimportant, fills me with air, she gives me longing, belonging, a
family, this new portrait: I am Mother Beautiful, wordless with wonder, my daughter my
daughter, oh my daughter.


-Drama Mama

Wednesday 4 April 2012

My So-Called Adult Life



Cookie and I met a friend at L’il Bean ‘n’ Green for a coffee. She’s a single mum; her son is 20. Cookie had started daycare the week before, two days a week, so my friend’s first question was, “Do you have your adult life back?” Hah, as if! But the question got me thinking: how do I get my adult life back? What even is my adult life?
Last night I watched a Louis C.K. special and laughed so hard I wept. That guy crosses so many lines when he talks about his kids (he called one of them the c-word! which I totally understand sometimes), but he’s dead reverent when he talks about his wife. (Actually, I think she’s his ex-wife now. Figures.) Women are sexier than girls because their bodies reflect all the incredible experiences they’ve been through, he says, and his best line really hit home: “You’re not a woman until people come out of your vagina and step on your dreams.”
Okay, so maybe my dreams weren’t all that big, or lucid, or even feasible, but I had dreams, I swear. I was going to spend the winter writing in Tuscany, and become the best damn editor ever, and get my butt back, but that all changed when Cookie took up residence in my body. Now I’m spending the winter whining in Toronto, I’m frantically trying to remember basic grammar, and my butt is older than ever. I spend my days playing with blocks, going down slides, and reading Boynton books until my eyes bleed. (I got that last bit from Weeds. I hate that I get casual parenting jokes now. I used to think they were so lame.) Right, some people would kill to spend their days going down slides, but I’m pretty sure they’d quickly tire of not being able to choose when they get to go down the slide or which slide they go on. I want my adult life back!
I’m convinced the only way is to make Cookie my accessory. I know, I know; everyone hates those mums who tote their kids around like the latest handbag, but everyone hates all the other mums too, so you can’t win. And since most of the time it’s all about her, I figure that if Cookie has to spend the occasional day in the stroller while I walk my butt off, or amuse herself with the remote control for a few hours while I send emails begging clients for work, it’s a small price to pay for a healthy, fulfilled mum. One who’s a real adult, who dances like a fool to that goddamn “Moves like Jagger” song and drinks loads of pinot noir (but always responsibly), not someone who continually hums Raffi tunes under her breath and is frequently found picking organic Os out of her cleavage. I hate that woman! (I’ve been that woman.) But I also hate bad mothers, so I guess I’ll just have to keep looking for that elusive middle ground between “mum” and “adult.” Apparently it’s known as “woman.” I think becoming a real woman is a good dream to have. 


-East End Mama


Monday 2 April 2012

Starts





As I sit down to write my first blog entry, wondering what the topic should be,  the voice in my head keeps shouting, “Start! Just start!”

This voice is there a lot. Which makes me realize a huge part of my motherhood
experience is about starting things. Just getting up and facing the day can sometimes be the hardest thing I do. (I don’t mean to sound overly dramatic; no need to call in the Xanax.) 


Sometimes I lie there dreaming of the days before my human alarm clock, when I didn’t urgently have to feed the dog, make the bottle, go pee, brush my mouthguard — all before I had even been up ten minutes.

START — just get going! A feeling I have a lot. Sometimes at work I sit and stare at
a blank email for ages, silently urging myself to start typing. Sometimes at home I let
myself watch Top Chef just until the next commercial before I start the dishes…

Right now my least favourite thing to start is meals. I hate mealtime with all my heart.
I love eating, I enjoy looking at recipes, and I like thinking about what to cook, but
I DREAD actually making meals. The older my son W gets, the more I feel like I’m
constantly starting to prepare a meal — or finding ways to avoid it. Just this morning,
knowing he was starving, I threw him an animal cookie to tide him over until daycare,
where a nice hot meal was waiting for him. Score! One start narrowly avoided.

Cooking isn’t the only thing I hate starting. There’s a huge assortment of things most
women have to start that I personally dread, such as
  • cleaning the bathroom
  • doing the dishes
  • making a grocery list (you get the picture — housework)
  • dating (luckily over)
  • a new job
  • thinking about my wardrobe (or lack thereof)
  • my period
  • planning baby number two

and I could go on…

The definition of “start” is “to begin or set out, as on a journey or activity.” Well, that
sounds exciting! I suppose I should start viewing grocery shopping as an exciting
journey into nourishment. Here I come, No Frills! (Side note for future blog entry: the
metaphor of No Frills in relation to my life.)

Why is simply starting to type out my thoughts so challenging? Is it because I have
too much to say, or because I fear I really have nothing to say about mommyhood that
hasn’t already been said a million ways a million times by a million women? People
always tell me, “You should write these stories down” or, shockingly, “Your stories
should be a stand-up act.” (The latter is NEVER happening, FYI.) So here I am, finally
putting fingers to keys. I hope this is the start (there’s that word again) of something
long-lasting. I hope this blog becomes something lasting for me and the other amazing
women, moms, wives, and friends I have met through the experience of having W.

Ah, W — my greatest (and hardest) start. The catalyst for most of my daily starts but the
one I hope I am never, ever finished with. Unlike dinner.  Fuck you, dinner.

-Tightrope Mama