Queen Mama

I've been treated like gold in these last few weeks as we await the arrival of Baby M2 any day now. I get away with guilt-free naps, cozying into the couch with my book or taking a warm bath with the soundtrack to my relaxation playing in the background - The clink of dishes being unloaded from the dishwasher, the sound of toys being picked up off the floor and tossed in the toy baskets or the patter of big footprints chasing little ones in circles around the house.

I'm being catered to so much so that even our three-year-old has picked up on the fact that he and his daddy are holding down the fort. The other day I told him that we better clean up our mess in the basement before daddy gets home from work because daddy just cleaned it. He was so irate by his hard work going unnoticed that he actually stuttered a little bit trying to get his feelings out in the open. 

"ME and daddy cleaned the basement!" Then he raised his arm and pointed accusingly at me (while I was on the couch watching TV) and added, "YOU watch TV all day!"

Whoa. Little punk. It was one of those, "out of the mouths of babes" that left me speechless. I wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry so I just tucked the blanket a little higher up under my chin and turned my attention back to my show. 

Call it a swift kick in the ass... or nesting, but the next day I was on my hands and knees scrubbing the kitchen floor, making my way to the baseboards and up the walls throughout the house. 

That was enough of a pat on the back to satisfy me. I've been back in my jammies since verbally instructing Ryker, from the glider, on how to get his own snacks, fix his own toys and wipe his own bum.

Hey! Who knows how long this will last?

March 18, 2015

As a side note, while the guilt I've been saved from creeps in for just a minute, let me say that never in my life have I been able to just do nothing. I like to tell myself that this new pre-baby role is the Universe's way of telling me that shit is about to get crazy around here, and so I'm listening.

Push

It wasn't long ago that I was sitting in the waiting room of the dr.'s office across from a fellow mama pregnant with their fourth child. She was nearing the end of her pregnancy and I wasn't too far into mine and I said to her that she must be getting anxious for the baby to arrive. I remembered the anticipation I felt at the end of my pregnancy with Ryker. 

It took me off guard when she said she wasn't in a rush. For her, she said it was easier to have number four contained with three little ones already on the loose. With four weeks until the expected arrival of our second baby I get it, for more reasons than that one.

Ryker and I were recently at a friend's house for a play date when I realized that the four of us visiting were each moms to boys. Our oldest all the same age and the second round ranging from about nine months old to in utero. As play dates go, we were snacking and enjoying some adult time with the sounds of kids-not-sharing squabbles and big truck wheels rolling across the kitchen floor in the back ground. 

It was when the conversation took a turn in the direction of waters breaking, rushes to the hospital and an inhumane number of hours of contractions that the reality of the nearing arrival of our baby hit me like a swift punch in the face.

I had mentally fast-tracked from carrying this bundle in my belly to visions of us home and settled in, completely blocking out the in between. The all-things-physical that come with the birth of a beautiful miracle. 

It couldn't have become any more clear that I would have to push this baby out of me then when earlier this week as I was strolling down the hall past the delivery rooms in the hospital on my way to an appointment that I passed an open door with a man's voice coming from behind the closed curtain saying, "Push. Push. You have to push."

Seriously. What the F#*%! The walls started closing in on me as I quickened my pace. Somewhere along the way I had fallen for the magic bean story I told our inquisitive preschooler when he asked how the baby got in my belly and then how he will get out. 

At 36 weeks pregnant I wonder how all of a sudden we came this far so quickly. I can't wait to see his face, feel his little fingers wrapped around mine and to love and feel more loved in a way so huge I know I can't fathom now, but at the same time I'm in no rush to throw the beautiful chaos of a new baby into our world. But not being in a rush doesn't slow the speed of time.

These last weeks of post-labour and delivery anxieties are going to feel like forever, but before I know it I'll be wondering if "it's time". And in the next moment we'll be en route to the hospital and again I'll hear a voice telling me to "Push". And just like that I'll be holding him for the first time.

I'll blink and we'll be home and up through the night rocking his swaddled warmth and perfection. And, as I beautifully witnessed surrounded by those moms with their two boys, I will remember how it was all worth it. 

Feb. 26, 2015

I love you with the world

We were caught in the middle of an unfortunate anger-fueled blow out recently that became a reflection of Ryker's behaviour for about a week or so to follow. The rage he acted out was what I can only assume an expression of what he'd seen and led me to fear that he had been scarred for life. 

Fortunately, a concocted blend of communication, love, sense of security and the resiliency in kids lifted the effect of what had rattled us all and been replaced with the reflection of our everyday lives - Love and empathy.

His last toddler lash out in that week to follow involved throwing his bedroom lamp for being sent there for some quiet time, leaving bits of broken bulb across the floor. I, surprisingly calm and with a broom in my hand sweeping up the shards, told him that I was upset that he had broken his lamp and that it was so dangerous to throw things when you're angry and I didn't want him to get hurt. Since then, for the past couple of weeks, out of nowhere he'll come to me and sweetly say, "Sorry mommy. Sorry for breaking my lamp." Apologizing, I think, for the first time ever and without being asked to. I'm not sure if he gets it now or if in his manipulative toddler brilliancy he knows it melts me, but I just keep telling him that I know he's sorry and that we don't throw things when we get angry because someone could get hurt and that I love him.

He's been hugging me and mushing his cheek to mine whispering sweet love into my ear, like "You're the sweetest" or "You're the best" and this morning, "I love you with the world." I don't know what it means, but it might be the sweetest thing anyone has ever said to me.

The moral of the story, I suppose, is that we can't shield our children from all of the negative real-life instances, but we can let them know that through them they can find security in our unconditional love.

Feb. 14, 2015