O Blogosphere!

I wrote you a little Christmas song. You're welcome.

O Blogosphere!

(To the tune of O Christmas Tree! Or O Tannenbaum, for you traditionalists)

O Blogosphere! O Blogosphere!
Thy posts are multiplying.
O Blogosphere! O Blogosphere!
Thy posts are multiplying.
The posts you write, to me they speak.
But I haven’t cleaned my house in weeks!
O Blogosphere! O Blogosphere!
Thy posts are multiplying.

O Blogosphere! O Blogosphere!
Much pleasure thou can’st give me.
O Blogosphere! O Blogosphere!
Much pleasure thou can’st give me.
My Reader’s full, it’s getting bad,
Yet here’s another blog to add.
O Blogosphere! O Blogosphere!
Much pleasure thou can’st give me.

O Blogosphere! O Blogosphere!
Why are thou so enchanting?
O Blogosphere! O Blogosphere!
Why are thou so enchanting?
I need to get my shopping done,
I’ll leave after I read this one.
O Blogosphere! O Blogosphere!
Why are thou so enchanting?

O Blogosphere! O Blogosphere!
I’ll always be fond of you.
O Blogosphere! O Blogosphere!
I’ll always be fond of you.
Don’t take my absence as a jab,
I got checked in to blog rehab.
O Blogosphere! O Blogosphere!
I’ll always beeeee...fond of you.

Take These Broken Wings and Learn to Fly

We are playing playdough when she suddenly scampers down from her chair at the kitchen table.

Just a minute! she warns me in serious tones, her tiny index finger crooked to the left and hovering right in front of her face. I'm going to get da lay-dee-bug.

She crouches down on the floor and gingerly puts her finger out so her bug can crawl on. Then she walks slowly over to where I am sitting and extends her finger out towards me, its hitchhiker invisible to the naked eye.

You wanna hold my lay-dee-bug, mom? she asks, bright blue eyes hopeful and serious. I touch my finger to hers and bring her pet right up to my face.

She's so cute! I exclaim, pretending to count the bug's tiny spots before carefully transferring it back to her.

She gingerly sets the ladybug back on the floor and returns to make green spaghetti and meatballs with me. Within three minutes, the ladybug is forgotten. I never did see that bug with my eyes, but I could feel it brought to fleeting life by my baby's boundless imagination.

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I have been focusing too much on the ragged underbelly of two. On the tiny fists pounding the floor; the eyes locking with mine in defiance before sweeping all of the just-tidied books off the shelf; the implacable demands coming from the back seat of the car with such rapid fire that I'm almost certain I can feel blood dripping out of my ears, staining the shoulders of my sweater.

Two can be trying.

But Two is inherently sweet. Two throws her arms around your neck and kisses you in public for no reason. Two has found her imagination and can play circles around her older siblings. Two can take any group of inanimate objects and make them into a family. Two doesn't pull her hand away when you rub it obsessively with your thumb because the skin feels addictively soft, like talcum powder. Two laughs with her whole body. Two beckons you down to ground level to see things you wouldn't have noticed on your own.

Two is simply trying to figure out this life.

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I'm making dinner at the island in the kitchen when she spirits past me, her arms flapping up and down with abandon.

Come fly with me! she beckons. Come fly with this mama and her baby bird!

Even though we need to eat early because it's piano night, even though my hands are covered with flour, I take off from my perch and flap my arms, keeping pace behind her. I get a sideways glance from the skeptical 9-year-old at the computer, but I don't stop. What else can I do? A bird's gotta fly.

The Path You Don't Know

The nurse was done checking you over, busy rebundling you into one of those giant, hospital-issue pink and blue blankets. I sat on the edge of the bed, my post-partum body almost folding in on itself with sheer exhaustion. I had nursed you every hour, on the hour, all night long.

The thing is, I ventured cautiously. She will only sleep in the hospital bed with me. Every time I put her in the bassinet she wakes up and cries. I haven't slept for two nights and I'm worried that I will knock her out of this narrow bed in my sleep.


The nurse had finished wrapping you up. Only your grapefruit-sized head and wee hands were visible out the top. Newborns are generally either tired or fussy, she said to me as she raised you up to her eye level. You got a fussy one! she declared in a baby voice, gently turning you from side to side, giving you the appearance of a miniature cheerleader.


Go fussy! you seemed to be saying. Hooray for fussy.

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I tried to lead you down a different path, the path that your brother forged, the path that was familiar and comfortable to me. It was smooth and straight, awash in a mellow light, paved with soothers, contentedness and babies that sleep through the night at 12 weeks of age. Ah, but you would have none of that; you wanted to choose your own path. You tugged fiercely on my hand, while I looked wistfully over my shoulder as the path I knew, the one I expected, disappeared.


The path that you chose was challenging to me. It was rough and hilly, with brambles that would catch my clothes and stick in my hair. You often wanted to be carried. You were hungry and thirsty and the snacks that I brought along for our journey seemed somehow inadequate.


But we persevered, we two. Sometimes I had to sit on a rock and rest, you impatiently tapping your foot beside me, eager to get going again. Sometimes you would rest with me, crawling into my lap until you felt ready to carry on. Eventually I adapted to the new path, finding that I needed to rest less often. I noticed that you progressed to holding my hand instead of insisting that I carry you. And we continue to redefine the path, together.


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Yesterday, my beautiful girl, you turned 7. We spent the afternoon together, just you and me. You squeezed my hands tightly as you got your ears pierced. You chattered away beside me as we got our toenails painted. We casually strolled our path, enjoying each other's company. Then your friends came over and you promptly let go of my hand, running ahead of me, your long, strong legs more than capable of taking you where you want to go; your skin kissed demerara-brown by the sun. As I watched you go, I thought to myself, Hooray for fussy! Hooray for you.

Low Hanging Fruit

The toddler is realizing that there are buttons to push 'round here. She is cunning, this feral child of my loins. She glances over her shoulder at me under half-closed lids, as she shuffles slowly towards some forbidden target. There is no need for words: her body language is one large middle finger pointed in my general direction.

I have mellowed considerably over the past nine years. Where this behaviour would have ignited a smoldering annoyance in me with the first two kids, I mostly find it hard not laugh now. I finally understand that this will pass. It just will; I know this with every molecule of my being. So I try to distract, to change her direction. I administer consequences, when required, all the while stifling a grin and sternly, silently forbidding the corners of my mouth to turn up lest it fuel her contrariness.

Oh, but there are easier targets in view. There are siblings. Not so much my boy, for his hot buttons wouldn't even scald you. He is a pomegranate, the globose fruit with tough skin whose seeds are so much work to extract for an end result that isn't really all that satisfying.

My middle child, however, could burn down buildings with her intensity. Histrionic, anguished, constantly upping the decibular* ante. She is covered in hot buttons which her little sister is only too happy to push. Over and over and over again. I try to explain that her reaction only serves to fuel Elyse's behaviour. I advise her to be still, ignore, wait it out. She just can't do it.

My H., she is a tree full of plump, ripe cherries that are easily plucked from their stems and popped into mouths to savour on the spot. And E. is that kid in the corner with the dark red juice running down her chin.

*I'm not convinced that decibular is an actual word, but I like that way it sounds, okay?

At the Park

I'm with the kids at the park where we have logged hundreds of hours over the past eight years. The perennials are thicker, more established then they were when I first started bringing Drew there as a toddler. Other than that, not much has changed, at least to the naked eye.

I am standing by E. as she navigates the stairs up to the slides, my hand hovering close, too close. She bats at it with her own, determined little fists. "No!" she declares, authoritatively patting her chest. She's in denial that she actually needs my help, already forgetting her recent spill into the pea gravel. Toddlers are like that. It doesn't matter that she doesn't appreciate the value of good intentions, because I know that she will likely need me at some point. So I stay.

The other two are another story entirely.

I have noticed a shift, this summer, in my older two. They are embracing spontaneous, imaginative play. I don't wish to leave the impression that they didn't always enjoy imaginative play, but I had to be involved, somehow. I had to suggest the premise, or play the role of the evil dragon. I had to enforce the rules of fairness and referee the fights. Now, they steep in their own imaginations, creating deliciously warm and inviting games. Games for two. They don't need me.

Today, at the park, the pea gravel is lava and they must pull out the magical sword before it melts away. As this game plays out, they clamour over the slides and to the very tops of the structure. They take on personas, hoot and holler, barely notice me watching them.

As suddenly as it began, the game morphs into hide and seek. Hailey is counting, while she expertly traverses the monkey bars, D. is hiding. H. shouts, "Ready? Ready?" and then, from a stand of trees, I hear D's response. I look up, up, up to see his head peeking out from the branches of a towering pine. Admonishments and words of caution dance on my tongue, begging to be set free, "Be careful! Come down! I'm afraid you might fall!" But I clamp my lips to keep them firmly in place. "He's capable," I remind myself, silently. "Don't sully this moment of freedom with fear."

He comes down from the tree and heads for the swings. "Push me, Mommy!" he calls, and I do, giving him an underdog, not because he needs me to, for his eight-year-old legs can pump higher than I can push, but for old times' sake. That's all he needs. He pumps and pumps, then stretches his legs out, leans back and watches his toes touch the clouds.

I'm not wearing a watch, but I'm fairly certain it's past lunch time. "On your bikes, please," I call out, and they listen the first time. No need to repeat myself.

"Will you time us to see how fast we can go around the corner and meet you back here?" they question, eagerly. I agree and they are out of my sight for half a minute, although the street is so quiet I can hear them chatting exuberantly to one other. Still, my heart beat speeds up during the time I can't see them. Will it always feel this way, this vague panic when they disappear from my sight, even though I intellectually know where they are? Even though I know they are safe? I suspect it might.

Suddenly, they reappear, racing up the street. They screech to a stop in front of my stroller to check on their official times. Then they are off again, pedalling up the hill at a pace that my feet can't match. I do send my heart along, though, to keep them company. That's one thing I can still do for them.

"The Opposite of Tidy": a play in one part

Mama bear was in a bad mood.

"We all need to pitch in and clean up the cave tonight," she growled. "Once we have tidied up, then we can do something fun together."

"Yes Mama," the cubs said in unison, their eyes wide and serious.

After Mama had left the room, sister and brother bear started whispering.

"What do you think Mama means by 'tidy up'?" asked Sister bear.

"Beats me," shrugged Brother bear. "But I know what will make Mama happy."

"What?" asked Sister.

"Music!" replied Brother.

"Oh, yes," agreed Sister. "Nobody loves music more than Mama."

And with that, the cubs quickly got to work.

Do Things Differently? No Thanks.

You know what I find to be the single biggest adjustment to the toddler stage? It's not the up close relationship you get to enjoy with someone else's poop. It's not the way that their sticky little hands make it impossible for you to ever pull off looking well put-together if you wear black or white. It's the way you need to hit the ground running every single day.

Before E. came along we had already bade farewell to that "immediate gratification" stage with the big kids. They would roll out of bed on a weekend and groggily come downstairs to watch tv for a bit. Sometimes they would get themselves a bowl of cereal. Sometimes they would even attempt to make us breakfast! It was awesome. Well, truthfully, the breakfast was a little hard to choke down because it was usually cold toast with 3 inches of Cheez Whiz teetering precariously on top. Or Shreddies that had been sitting in milk for so long that they lost any resemblance they once had to actual squares of cereal. But still; they were small children so of course we appreciated and applauded their efforts.

This morning I was contemplating how drastically things have changed. I wasn't contemplating it as I sat at the table enjoying an entire cup of hot coffee and leafing distractedly through the paper while my freshly-showered hair dried in the warm spring air of morning. I was thinking about it as I traipsed around my backyard, still wearing the tank top I wore to bed, and clutching a lukewarm coffee while the littlest peron in the family steered me around by my finger screaming out "mutsch!" any time I went too slow. It's her catch-all phrase for "do-what-I-want-right-now-please-and-thank-you."

I was also thinking about an article I skimmed through in a magazine the other day when I was waiting at the doctor's office. It referenced that infamous Ann Landers poll from the 1970's when she asked her readers, "If you had to do it over again, would you have children?" Seventy percent of the over 10,000 responses that came back said "no."

I have actually been thinking about that stat all weekend. Not because I fall into the 70% who said they wouldn't do it again, because I would. In a heartbeat. I have just been giving some thought to what my life would be like if I didn't have any kids. I guess it would be neater, that's a given. My gardens would likely already be cleared of the autumn debris. My windows would probably be clean and grime-free. I'm sure B. and I would have travelled to many exotic destinations by now. Perhaps I would be training for a marathon. There is really no way of knowing.

What I do know is that I would be working in a senior marketing position at someone else's company. This means that I wouldn't be writing for a living, which I love. I can attribute acting on my desire to write directly to my kids because I probably wouldn't have made the leap to freelancing if I wasn't looking for more work/family balance.

If I never had kids, I would probably be wasting far too much time sleeping and watching tv. Before the kids I always felt that I didn't have time to do all of the little projects around the house. I couldn't be bothered to make a decent dinner half of the time. I was too tired, which is laughable now, really. But having kids has given me perspective. It has given me something to compare and contrast my other life against. Now I know that when the kids are older, more autonomous, and eventually out of the house altogether, it might feel like I have too much time on my hands. At least for a little while, until I get used to it.

I don't want to fast-forward my life to that point though. I've noticed that when women in their 40's see you out in public trying to juggle the needs of three kids they often say, "I'm glad that stage is over!" But women in their 50's and 60's look at you wistfully and say, "Enjoy them, dear, those years pass too quickly."

So, for now, I'm trading off peaceful Sunday mornings to hang outside with my kids, enjoying the unseasonably warm weather and getting absolutely nothing else done. I really don't mind most days because, for me, the only thing worse than holding your toddler's hand while wearing your pyjamas outside on a Sunday morning, is having no little hand to hold at all.

The Dance of the Last Baby

There is a passage in Barbara Kingsolver's novel The Poisonwood Bible where the mother, Orleanna Price, is talking about her fourth and final child; how mothers will hold the last baby well past the point of sleep, or something along those lines. It has been a few years since I read the book so I don't remember the exact words, but I was reminded again of the passage the other night when I was putting E. to bed.

When I used to put my first baby to bed there was a rigidness to it, a sort of grandmotherly advice-like script that I felt I should follow to ensure smoothness and promote independence.

With my second, I coddled her quite a bit, rocking her into slumber for the longest time. Honestly though, that had more to do with her temperament than any motherly instinct on my part. Once she was asleep I had her in the her crib pretty damn fast, so eager was I to shape-shift back into an independent entity before I would have to start the mother-a-thon again the next morning. I think that's probably a common sentiment with the "two under three" set.

Those "two under three" are now seven and five, which is a whole different bed time dynamic. And E. is my last baby: there will be no more. So I really wouldn't mind so much if she was high need at bed time. The ironic thing about E. is that she really has no sleepytime vices now that she is weaned. She doesn't take a bottle which effectively cuts out the mandated before-bed cuddle. She likes to snuggle, but she's okay with talking herself to sleep alone in her crib too. She's breezy. But I like to cuddle her, so I do. And she fits so perfectly on my torso, her head of downy hair resting comfortably under my chin, her bottom supported by my right arm, her legs resting on my hips. Her head either smells freshly shampooed or, if we didn't have time that night, it may smell of spaghetti or yogurt or whatever else she decided to rub into her hair that day. I don't mind though because if I stroke her hair with my chin it still feels deliciously like talcum powder.

Her right hand grabs the fabric on my left arm as I sway back and forth. I know she is starting to drift off when the grip begins to relax and her head tilts back slightly. This is the point where I would have set H. down, but with E. I take a moment to study her little face. Chocolate lashes rest against creamy round cheeks. Pink, pouty lips are as plump and juicy as two miniature segments of grapefruit. I kiss them what feels like a thousand times while she slumbers in my arms. I'm still swaying back and forth, even though I know she's fast asleep now. I'm like a dancing partner who is reluctant to let go. Can't we float around the floor for just one more song? You're just delightful.

What do you think it is about the last baby? Is there some kind of nostalgia/mothering switch that gets triggered when mothers know they're done producing offspring? It's got to be something like that. Whatever it is, it's not exclusive to women. For when B. puts our last baby to bed, he's in there an awfully long time.