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Friday 28 June 2013

Mother of the Year



I don’t mean to sound like a jerk, but I kind of am a single mother. I mean a Solo Mother. I have a person in the picture. He does show up every other weekend. He does pay the mortgage and bills. But there are only, on average, when you count the sick days, around 18 waking hours per week where I am not looking after my kid. Solo.

There are a lot of us out there, I know.

But I also know that when I am around my friends — a couple with two kids, for example — and I observe how they negotiate who does what, I am sad.

And when I pick up the Guppins from part-time daycare and there’s some dad guy, a young, strong, healthy male, picking up his kid, I kind of want to murder somebody. Some days. Some days I am just a jerk who feels sorry for herself, even though I know these days are fleeting. Are numbered. I know how joyful it is…being the only mom picking her kid up at daycare on a bike with a European kidseat that sits between you and the handlebars, a novelty in this small town. I enjoy riding her home in this car town, singing, observing the old houses, and painting our life together. But fuck it’s hard.

And because of this hardness, I am making mistakes.

In a rare moment of meditative bliss, while my kid was at daycare (an incredible place…one of the bonuses here), I came to hear Jian Ghomeshi interviewing Marina Abramovic. My ears perked. She is the hugely infamous performance artist who did The Artist Is Present at the MoMA.

In it, she sits across from whomever will sit across from her, silently, for hours days weeks months on end. Exhausting. What I wouldn’t do to be the one who gets to sit and relate with humanity for a hundred years. To be engaged, present, visceral.

And she is performing The Life and Death of Marina Abramovic at the Luminato Festival in Toronto right now. Which I won’t get to see. Because there is no room for that.

Should I be trying harder to make room?

She is speaking to Jian, now, on Q, about suffering and artistic purpose. He asks, “Do we really have to suffer to make art?”

She responds swiftly with, “Give me the names. Of those happy people who make great art. Well, I am waiting, Jian. The list, please.”

She goes on to say that every human being is born suffering because we all know that some day we are going to die. And it is only through the knowing of this that we learn to use our time wisely.

She tells how her mother never showed her any affection and she was raised like a soldier.

So, I think, you take a little wisdom…you leave a little whatever.

I did something dreadful the other day.

I left my kid buckled into her fancy European carrier seat that I am so proud of, and got on craigslist for $30, leaning on the kickstand, her helmet in the front carrier basket, while I literally said out loud, “Okay, no falling over,” and separated myself from the bike completely, it standing there, with a three-year-old, unprotected, buckled in. I opened my car door to get sunglasses instead of unbuckling her and putting her on the ground safely. I turned my back.

I risked it.

The bike crashed to the ground. Her head hit the pavement. She howled. She screamed. She was dying. I scrambled. I got her out. I think I screamed. Her eyes were…her head was lolling…oh god oh god…the hospital…no…I run with her in my arms to the neighbour, a retired nurse… Which door? bang bang bang… No car in the gravel drive…no…the hospital…now.

She is in such pain. She doesn’t vomit. She doesn’t pass out…not right away. She refuses the Tylenol the triage nurse instructs she takes. Not even for two stickers. The nurse says, “Her head is not mushy. That is a very good sign. She cried; she didn’t vomit — these are good signs.”

I say, “It’s my fault.” I don’t remember if I say that. I don’t. But I say it to Sir Dick when he arrives at the emergency waiting room.

She rests in my arms. I tell her stories: Goldie Locks and the Three Bears. Little Red Riding Hood. Cinderella. Her favourites.

Hours later the doctor tells me that Guppins hit her head on a very hard spot on her skull. She says they no longer x-ray for skull fractures. She says since she didn’t vomit, and she didn’t pass out, and she’s behaving like herself (at 11 p.m. with a Reese’s peanut butter cup in her belly), so there is no need for a catscan or an MRI.

She says to just wake her up once in the night. Every hour is old school.

She says, kindly, when I tell her what I’d done, “So you won’t win the mother of the year award.”

I decided to take a risk.

It is now almost 24 hours later. It feels much, much longer. She is safely sleeping in bed. She has a huge welt on the side of her head.

What I am suffering is nothing compared to what my daughter felt when she fell. When her head cracked on the sidewalk. The ache she feels. The betrayal. The helplessness. The throbbing pain. And there she will cling to me, in her pain and suffering, she will cling as though I am the one to be trusted to save her.

It is a dark place I am in.

I don’t know what to do. I don’t know how to tell the story. I don’t understand how I could have possibly done what I did.

Sir Dick is understanding. Perhaps. He might be lying. He says the most dangerous parts of cycling with a kid are the moments of getting on and off the bike. He says this with kindness.

I go around accusing him, silently and otherwise, of doing the wrong thing. Feeding her the wrong thing. Keeping her up.

But look at me.
Look at me now.

Mother of the Year.

“Mommy, we go on the bike again tomorrow. Only this time you don’t let me fall. You keep me safe.”

Yes, my darling. Oh yes I will.


Drama Mama

[image source: luminato festival 2013]

Tuesday 25 June 2013

The Latest Miracle from Martha Stewart



Apparently this recipe is taking the Internet by storm, so you’ve probably seen it. In fact, if I were on Pinterest I’m sure I’d see it everywhere. But I don’t need any more reasons to feel inadequate, so I’m not.

If you haven’t heard tell of this One-Pan Pasta miracle recipe, or you’ve heard of it but thought, “Right, Martha Stewart; not for me,” believe me — it’s worth the hype. It is as yummy and as easy as it looks. Which is exactly what I need after a day of spinning my wheels, getting nowhere, and then suddenly realizing that I haven’t a flipping idea what I’m going to make for supper. (That would be, like, every day.) So, shove everything in a pan, pour a glass of wine, and wait for magic to happen.

Link to recipe.

East End Mama

Friday 21 June 2013

Letter to Lo Lo

As I sit and wonder what to write to my little Lo, I am anxious about what I have to write about the past year and where I am now. This past year has been a roller coaster of ups and downs that have really changed who I am and, hopefully, who I will be in the future. It was a year of intersection and crisis, and I am still trying to figure out where I am in all of it. But I am thinking I am likely in a good place to write to you, Lo, in case one day you find yourself in this space.

As for you, Lo, you have changed and grown so much this past year. You are not only starting to become your own little person, you are developing into a thoughtful, observant, and fun little fellow. You are very curious about the world, asking many questions and noticing the little things around you. You enjoy playing sports, painting on anything, pretending to be a soldier, and playing with your three little friends…all boys, of course. You love to listen to us read you books, and you are slowly figuring out letters and words, and you have a hunger to learn to read. Amazingly you can spell your name and Papa’s name with pride and excitement. You show your independence by picking your own clothes, only eating foods you like, asking for certain music on the radio, and directing us in games you want to play. Finally, you are a spiritual creature, trying to figure out God and heaven, and you ask so many questions about where God and heaven are — and what they look like. You make your father and I very proud and make us laugh all of the time with the things you say and the things you notice. These three years have been so enjoyable — and I think you have enjoyed them too.

As for me personally, I do write with a bunch of other mamas, and we have made a commitment to write to our little babes about who we are at this time. The purpose is for you to have insight into who your mother is at this time, since I hope that one day you will be interested.

Gray Mama

Tuesday 18 June 2013

Finger to the Red Bar





6:45 p.m.
In the bath.
I don’t mean to belabour it, but what is it about bedtime that makes me crazy?
Tightrope Mama wrote a wonderful piece, “Why Are We Rushing” that has helped me oodles, slowed me down, and calmed my panic at getting my kid off to dreamy time, which is generally never before nine. Even if she’s up before seven. Even if she doesn’t nap. Even if she has a terrible cold (which I seem to be ducking). Even if we start the bath early, and all of these things are true tonight.

8:00 p.m.
On the bed.
Sir Dick Facetimes in. How can I refuse them?  Despite the gauntlet I know I am about to run: hair brushing, teeth brushing (gah, don’t even talk to me about it), stories, music, singing, despite the hour, it’s “Daddy!” who is away so often; all year practically. So in the middle of all this here he comes, Skyping in from the city, waving the cast on his broken wrist around, working up another comedy routine.

She’s shouting at him through the little glass screen, “Mom!” “MOM!”
He’s saying, “Wha!” and makes a face. Like, “Who me? I’m not your mudda.”
She’s laughing.
He says to her, “Billy, is that you?”
She says, “Naaahhhhhhh.”
“Billy! Come on, that’s you, isn’t it?”
“I’m not BILLY!”

Hysteria. Press repeat. Five thousand times. Dear Lord, I’m giggling along and falling asleep at the same time. It is possible. Then:

“Mommy, I peed the bed!”

That’s it.

“Good-bye, Sir Dick.”

Finger to the red bar.

“You peed the fucking bed? You peed the fucking bed?”

“I peed the fucking bed! I peed the FUCKING BED!!”

The moment has arrived. She finally said “Fuck.” With absolute clarity I understand that no matter how I want to believe she still doesn’t understand or decipher half the things I say, she does. It’s kind of funny. I make the bed. Normally I cannot make a bed around her; the idea of ducking under the sheets as they fall is just too tempting for her.

8:30 p.m.
Onwards with teeth brushing. Let me say this is my least favourite and most problematic moment of motherhood. I resort to threatening to sit on her. Put her in the prone position or whatever. This usually gets her to open her mouth. But tonight, before we get to this, charmingly, my three-year-old daughter throws a book at me.

I break.

I really really break.

I have the advice of the angels at part-time daycare in my head: re-direct. Take her to another place. Read her a book to calm her down. And then talk to her about how we don’t use our hands for hitting.

Which I have done SEVERAL TIMES TODAY.

I chastise: “You hit me! It hurt! It’s wrong!”
I threaten: “I am turning off the light and closing that door and putting the guard on it and you can go to sleep by yourself tonight!”

Every night I lie on the bed and fall asleep with my child, even at this late age. I decided I would do this forever when we were pretending at bedtime that she was the mommy and I was the baby and she put me to bed and said good-night and I said, “Don’t leave!” and she said, “Don’t worry, I’ll be right back,” just before she closed the door. The moment she closed the door I felt…bereft…alone…frightened… I wanted her back so badly… There was something in it and I just…I decided I would always fall asleep with her. Period. From this moment on.

Well, not tonight.

And then I do something terrible. A fact that I am afraid to reveal: before I walk out on her, I go over to the bed, tell her to let me brush her teeth. She refuses, screws up her face, laughs, and I do it. I “prone” her. Meaning I sort of sit on her, clamp her arms to her sides with my knees. I come through with the threat. I disempower her physically, she opens her mouth, cries terribly, shockingly, silently, and I gently quickly barely brush her teeth… It takes literally seconds but it devastates her, me, and breaks every rule in the book. Then I get out of there.

I put the door handle guard on. I leave. I trudge downstairs and throw all the pee-soaked bedding in the washing machine while she cries upstairs. It is a weak and sad cry, not the hysterical screams of a baby being sleep-trained. (Which I’ve done, several times.)

I return up the stairs. I scream at myself in my head to stop it. To calm down. I take a breath. I open the door. I look at her. She hasn’t left her bed.

She’s looking at me. In the decipherable dark.

“Mommy?”.

I go to her. I sit at the bottom of her bed. I say something she can’t understand. I say something I can’t understand. I try again. I say something she can maybe comprehend about her being little and it’s hard because she wants things but she’s too little and big big people are telling her what to do (are forcing themselves on her). I lie down next to her.

I say, “Most mommies don’t lie with their babies until they fall asleep. Did you know that?”

“No.”

“Do you know why I fall asleep with you every night?”

“Why?”

“Because I want you to feel safe. I want you to feel loved. Do you know what I mean?”

She shakes her head “no” in that heartbreaking way they do when they are trying so hard to understand. She says:

“I don’t like it when you sit on me.”

Her face pulls down. Shattered glass. I say:

“I don’t like it when you throw a book at me.”

Beat.

I take her finger and wipe away a tear on my cheek.

“Maybe we could both be kinder? Be gentler? Maybe we could take care of each other better?”

“Okay.”

“I won’t sit on you anymore. I promise.”

“Okay.”

“How about tomorrow we go to the store and you can pick out a new toothbrush?”

“You mean like a pink one?”

“Any kind you want.”

“Okay. Mommy?”

“Yes?”

“I itchy.”

I reach for the calamine. I put it on her mosquito bite. I rub her back. I lie with her and she falls asleep.

9:20 p.m.
And my nose starts running. So much for ducking the cold.

-Drama Mama

[image: bed by by Dagmar Vyhnalkova]

Friday 14 June 2013

Why Are We Writing?

Untitled

Well, why am I writing?

People ask this a lot when I mention that I have a blog.

There is no “good’ answer, other than that sometimes it’s nice to reflect on what a particular moment means, write it down, and then share it with likeminded friends.

As Gray Mama wrote, we are attending BlogHer 13 in Chicago in July. And while I am interested in learning and attending seminars (and seeing Sheryl Sandberg — obviously), I am also just looking forward to this blog doing what it does best for me — providing me with some solace. Some time. Some peace. Some friendship. Some laughs and, yes, probably some tears. I write this blog because I will never make my kids a decent scrapbook and I have already missed the boat on taking a photo of them every month and then setting it to a Coldplay song on YouTube. I am not overly sentimental and I love giving things to Goodwill so I am sure all baby blankets will be gone one day, and in this era of iPhone photos that never get printed and mommies who work, work, work, I write these little snippets of my family life for them. For Loulou and W. I want them to have some small glimpse into the person I am/was. I want them to have a sense of just how much I love their chubby arms and silky hair. And also what I am really thinking when I scold them or teach them hard lessons.

It is hard in the moment to really think about why we say what we do to our kids, or why we feel so frustrated when they just refuse to do what ever it is we are so intent on doing. But upon reflection I find we can usually piece it together.

I write this blog for me, too. It is one of the few times a week (month) where I sit at the computer with no agenda. I usually sip coffee or play music and try to take a few deep breaths. Something I don’t normally do.

So, no, this blog doesn’t earn us money and I am not even sure that anyone is reading it half the time, but I am going to keep writing it. It makes me happy to write and it makes me REALLY happy to read what the other mamas are saying. I am always in awe of how our seemingly different lives are usually running so parallel. (Except in the baby #2 department — I am alone there.)

-Tightrope Mama

[image: untitled by sadie harris]

Tuesday 11 June 2013

Last Respects



Is it really a good idea? I’ve asked myself this question more than once. I am getting in the car. I am leaving the Guppins and Sir Dick to their own devices for thirty-six hours.

I am going to visit my mother on her Frozen Lake. For the last time. She has sold her home and is moving to Loyalist Territory. She will be leaving behind my father’s ashes. They are spread behind the garage amidst the dead dogs of our family. A friend suggested to me I was going to pay my last respects. Which begs the question of my father. Of respect, perhaps. And what does it mean?

It is warm out.

This is the first time I’ve gone to see my mother or visited with my mother on my own since the Guppins was born. We have not been alone, completely alone, for three years. My eyes widen as I looked down the expanse of highway before me. The jaws of the 401 are open…waiting for me to enter the Den of Mother.

Surprisingly I am feeling really excited and happy. Because I am going on a journey by myself! It’s been a bit of a haul. I’ve been looking after the Guppins, solo, for about seven months. Sir Dick has been being in another city doing a show. He has broken his wrist (again) and that has allowed me to leave. He is understanding.

Driving away, the first question that enters my mind is, “What do you want to do with your life?”

Is this what three means? Do we get our lives back? I have been struggling with writing the letter I’ve committed to write to my daughter, detailing a yearly portrait of myself. There just hasn’t been very much going on. But now, driving away, I feel my old skin settling in. Can life be the same? 

No. I knew it last night when I lifted her from her bed and cradled her sleeping body in my arms and carried her, willingly, into my bed with such hope and longing. I will never be the same. As happy as I am to be driving away on my own, I am already terrified and anticipating that moment when she doesn’t want me to hold her anymore. And so I will repeat to her over and over: I will always hold you, I am always here to hold you, even when you don’t want me to hold you, even when you want me to be the furthest thing from you in life, I will still be holding you.

I arrive at the frozen lake. The first thing my mom says when I get out of the car is, “Did you get your hair streaked...white?”

The last thing she said before retiring to bed was, “Ella, would you like some more wine?” (My name’s not Ella.)

But in between one and the other there were, to use her words, “piles of alcohol,” and tenderness. She thanked me for coming and told me it meant a lot.

Of course there was the obligatory moment of her tears and claims that things have been so bad between us; but it’s really all right now, isn’t it? Isn’t it?

She gives me art. Some gloomy oils that I am deeply fond of: Ontario barns and a sugar bush, purchased early in the marriage. She gives me her mother’s Singer sewing machine and teaches me how to use it. We laugh a lot. We are…who we are together in the absence of family drama.

I do not say good-bye to the lake.

I do, however, go behind the garage to the little knell where the dead family dogs’ and father’s ashes lie. I remember the ceremony we held in 2008. No funeral. No memorial. Mother stands with a bag and throws down ashes. My brothers quiet. Me running to the house to grab whatever whiskey is around to drop on the grave… “Is it okay if I make this gesture?” “Sure...just do it quickly.” No song, no poetry, no ritual per se. Just a gaggle of three descendants of Presbyterian Ontario immigrants vague on spiritual intelligence. I marvel. I try to not rock the boat. My voice caught in a deadly grip in my throat. Do not speak. Do not cry. Do not look. Get in the car. Drive away…

Drive away.

Good-bye Father, for the last time. Good-bye Mother, to your new life. But I now have something to go to. I am full with joy to see my beautiful daughter again. I say: I will hold you, I will always hold you. Even when you want me to be the furthest thing away…I am speaking to myself this time. And I write her a letter.

-Drama Mama

Friday 7 June 2013

The Awakening by Kate Chopin



Reading, I came across these words and had to share:

“An indescribable oppression, which seemed to generate in some unfamiliar part of her consciousness, filled her whole being with a vague anguish. It was like a shadow, like a mist passing across her soul’s summer day. It was strange and unfamiliar; it was a mood. She did not sit there inwardly upbraiding her husband, lamenting at Fate, which had directed her footsteps to the path which they had taken. She was just having a good cry all to herself.”

This book, about a young mother, was written in 1899, but this paragraph was as familiar to me as if it were written yesterday. I’m not there now, but I’ve been there and likely will again. As I’m sure you have been or will be. This is a reminder that all mothers have been there, which makes me feel much less alone.

Of course, this particular woman goes on to do things that are probably inadvisable if you don’t feel terribly oppressed. Anyways, it’s a remarkable, groundbreaking book about a dissatisfied mother in an era that didn’t acknowledge such a thing.

East End Mama