Category: Motherly Love

Justin drives a two-wheeler without training wheels. He’s so proud. I don’t know what amazes me more, his exuberant bloom or his balance, but both are awesome. Korey, in big brother fashion, champions and heralds this new accomplishment. Word has spread throughout the village of this “lightening” on two wheels. I tell him there’s a big responsibility to this. Drivers don’t expect to see someone 4 years old driving a two-wheeler so you need to be extra careful.

It all happened during a camping trip he took with his Dad over the weekend. I missed the actual first, but when he came home, I still got to hold the back of the seat while he claimed his balance. Which is to say that it didn’t actually happen until I saw it with my own eyes. Our inaugural bike ride took us all the way to Nanny’s house, and that’s quite a ride for a 4 year old.

He can swing by himself too. I want to stop the progress, hold and cuddle him. Feed him from me and tickle his feet while he suckles. I miss my little baby boy. I ache to be his Mommy full-time again, to not miss a moment.

But here I am, second to my children, my work, my passion, my co-parent and often my sanity. It’s a sacrifice that feels right most of the time, giving with all your heart and receiving only speckles in return.  My children are my greatest delight and yet they chip away with the precision of a sculptor, leaving me alone, taking a back seat to my frustration.

Justin skipped to the car. So eager to go to the dentist, he talked his brother into letting him “go first”. When we arrived, his brave face turned bashful and he refused to get into the chair. Korey wouldn’t budge on switching places. Multitudes of persuasion-turned-threats, one fake call to Daddy and three raging storms from the office later, Mommy went first, followed by Justin. He crawled up on the chair and held my hand.  He did well until the flouride treatment made him gag and throw-up.

Korey’s appointment will need to be re-booked.

The birth of my first child was a well-planned event. Money saved for maternity leave, meaningful, unique names determined at week 8:  Kyrie for a girl, Korey for a boy.  Doula researched and engaged at 6 months. All the books reviewed. All pre-natal classes attended, with notetaking. Doctor’s appointments documented with each sensation recorded and reported. The only thing I didn’t do by the books was stop gaining weight at 25-30 lbs.

My birthplan was a work of art. Natural childbirth was high on the agenda and given the most real estate on the page. C-Section received only passing mention. “This won’t happen, but if it does…” I purposefully didn’t read the chapters on C-sections. I was fully trained in natural childbirth practices. I had a Doula. I was covered. This kid was coming out sans an episiotomy or complete pain blockers.

The May 28 due date came and went without so much as a twinge. A few days later it started, night labour. Which means you contract all night when you are supposed to be sleeping and as soon as your feet hit the floor, the contractions stop. How tiring. I was prenatally in my 4th trimester fog. Still, I resisted induction, knowing full well that meant a c-section was more likely. Weekly planning scores revealed a very content baby so I waddled along. At the June 8 planning score, our baby passed with flying colours but Mom failed. With a blood pressure of 169/102 I wasn’t going anywhere without a baby in my arms. 

My husband called the Doula and our all-nighter began. First they broke my water and with a gush I went from comfortable to icky. Our baby was still content, however. The contractions didn’t strengthen. The pitocin drip was connected and the painful part began. All night I moaned as my husband and Doula saw to my every need. For the first time in my life I was not afraid to say what I needed. At one point early on, a very nice doctor mentioned that I should get an epidural now so my blood pressure would stabilize. I wasn’t listening…wish I had. I battled the blood pressure machine for hours, secretly afraid I was going to stroke out before I held my baby.

I finally requested the epi. What a relief. I still felt the sensations, and kept them “just bearable”. On cue, my blood pressure returned to a stable, woman-in-labour level. At day break I was announced fully dilated and told to rest until my doctor arrived. Her examination, however, didn’t bear the same result. I wasn’t fully dilated, only 9.5 with a lip. She pumped up the inducing sauce and I pumped up the epi. I had 45 minutes to make it happen. I pleaded and coached my baby to make an appearance. Nothing.

When they told me my time was up, I went from tears to elation within 5 minutes. I realized within a half hour I would be holding my baby. My cervix was closed for business and we were going in through the roof. At 10:26 am on June 9, I heard the cry of my first born. The birth plan clearly stated my husband was to announce the sex of the baby. My Doula stood guard, ready to drown out any peepers.  “We have a son,” my husband whispered, leaning over and kissing me tenderly on the cheek. It was a brightly romantic moment that hasn’t dimmed.

Korey’s apgars were 9.5 and 10, such a keener. Our main objective was realized, a healthy baby. I remember saying early on that I liked the contractions because each one meant I was closer to holding my baby. I wasn’t trying to be a martyr, I was just earnest and wanted to experience childbirth. I don’t feel particularly ripped-off. I had the labour, the hemmorroids, even still, the incontinence 6 years later, and stitches in a far more comfortable spot.

As I reflect on my two pregnancies and births. I see that each child’s personality mirrors their individual stories. Korey very precise, organized, relaxed and patient, but a bit prone to intensity. Justin on the other hand, is layed back, likes to act goofy and aloof, eats his treats so fast he forgets the taste and then asks Korey to share his. Not usually a problem as Korey can always be counted on to have some safely hoarded away for a dry day, and he’s so kind he doesn’t mind sharing.

A child’s innocent discovery of their sexuality often creates a parental fog. It’s a mind-teaser to help kids appreciate the natural blooming and balance the sensitivities that go along with those mysterious underparts.

Justin told me his cousin Megan doesn’t have a penis, she has a china. I immediately envisioned myself telling him someday, when he’s much older of course, don’t play with the china. Or, make sure it’s good china, but be sure not to break it. Yes, I like that word. Not anatomically correct but close enough in enunciation in an innocent, non-offensive way. Much better than the word we had growing up.

I believe children need to know the correct names for their body parts, but they don’t need to use them in everyday conversation. For example, their head is their noggin and their toes are their piggies. There’s no confusion about this. Why can’t we nickname the special musn’ttouchit parts too? We haven’t settled on a code word for penis. Peepee isn’t quite as eloquent as china, maybe we’ll make it the silver.

Our bedtime ritual includes loads of snuggle time, sharing the best parts of our day and squashing any disappointments with hugs and kisses.  This is consistently the best part of my day. Last night, so completely exhausted, I neglected to put on my jammy bottoms and sported my best mother underwear. Mothers don’t count as girls, right?

They went berserk. “Mommy doesn’t have any pants on, just her panties, she’s a naughty girl,” my 3 year old teased. Shocked, I laughed.

“Can we see your china?”

I put on my jammy bottoms.

A normal Saturday morning. Computer games, breakfast, dog barking, more computer games, after breakfast snacks, fighting, drinking from the water jug, remnants of snacks fallen out of flavour. 

The computer restarted while I attempted to check on the babies and Korey lost it. “I hate you, you’re dumb.” Obviously, limiting the computer time is on my agenda, but not today; it’s raining and I’m not up for the fight. Justin said, “I’m sorry, Korey.  It’s not my faulty, but I’m sorry you losty your gamey.”

Empathy is growingy in my almosty-four year oldy.

“What does noey pell?” Translated…how do you spell no? And N-O, you can’t have another fruit rollupy. Have an appley or an orangey.

I’ve done a terrible thing. I forgot to water the flower Korey planted and presented so proudly to me on Mother’s Day. He sobbed uncontrollably, convinced the two-night sleepover at his Dad’s had resulted in the loss of one of the two fledgling sprouts. “It was just a baby. It didn’t even have a chance to grow.” My heart broke for him, but his empathetic reaction warmed my mother soul. 

The truth is there was only one sprout to begin with. I convinced him there were two because Justin gave me two sunflower sprouts. The sight of which made Korey’s shoulders fall like a shocked cake.

It’s a slippery road to good intentions.

Sometimes I just stare at them like everyone else and manage a little smirk as they rush past. Is it so terrible of me to pretend they aren’t mine, smile and shake my head at the behaviour some mother has let spiral out of control.

Eventually I’m discovered at the checkout, repeating the rules and removing any further impulse purchases. But, somewhere between the OK button and collecting my forage, trauma is replaced with pride, and we run and skip our way out…free of the judging eyes, the sneers and worst of all, the tsk, tsks. The latter makes me want to programme my duo to heat-seek all those uptight teeth suckers and frazzle them till they forget the most important item on their well-organized list.