Not Alone

It was a cold, blustery day. A typical fall morning that begins with a foreshadow of the snow to come and blossoms into a crisp, sun-warmed afternoon reminiscent of days gone by. A day that reminds me why this season holds my heart ransom to its ever-changing moods and blatant disregard for consistency. Safe and warm in the shelter of my home, I wrapped a sweater around me as my mind flittered in a most disorganized fashion over the coming days. Dreaming, planning, wondering what the week will bring and what surprises the days might hold. It is not to be however, for soon I hear... like a bear rustling in its cave after a long, lonely hibernation... the stirrings of my children. A fuss, a squeal, a song sung in the distance, a foot banged against the wall. And without a doubt, I know that the time for daydreaming has gone and the time for action has arrived. Sighing, I make my way to Caleb's bedroom. He beams up at me from his bed and sweetly sounds his "goot-moning mama!" As I make my way to Selah's room, he runs after me laughing in anticipation as he barges in with a cheery greeting and familiar attempts to climb into her crib. The squealing, the smiles, the pure joy of being alive fills my kids faces and I cannot help but be swept up by their sheer enthusiasm. And so my days oft begin.

My days are a colourful hodgepodge of fun and laughter, tears and sadness, and even monotony of a routine practised too diligently. Suffering through yet another tantrum, guessing over the interpretation of yet another cry... they are a daily ritual that I have become so accustomed to it hardly bears reason to comment. And yet they, these moments of perhaps drudgery to some, are what makes up the very substance to my days. And it is because of their vast significance to me that I find myself greeting my husband when he gets home and waylaying him with countless stories of the particular happenings in our household. A stranger on the road does not care that my daughter said a new word, or that my son told me he loved me. These small details can easily become 'information overload' for those who are our dear friends and family when told in a rambling fashion. And this brings me to recount the significance of marriage. At least part of the significance of marriage as it stands with me.

My husband is many things to me. But of all the mantles he may assume, my friend is the most prestigious position he holds. Our children are a product of both of us. He can get caught up in the story of Caleb's antics or Selah's tantrums alike and smile fondly at their stubbornness so familiar in our own lives. He can listen to what we ate that day or how many times they threw up that day, or how they fought that day and genuinely be disappointed that he was not there to share in the upheaval of it all! He is my partner and for this, I love him with all of my heart. Parenthood, friendship, these are not the things that hold us together. But they bind us together in a way that nothing else can. Being a mom is everything I ever imagined it would be and more. It fulfills me and completes me and makes me crazy some days! But without someone to share it with, without someone to care... let's just say it wouldn't be the same. Somehow it is worthwhile to go through the "screamfest" of a day, when I get to come home and lean on my best friend and we can laugh together and I know that I am not alone.

Simon: terrorized and adored.

A persistent meowing in the distance causes me to pause for a moment and consider: where is Simon? Simon is our kitten. He spends much of his time in the garage or outside where I can walk without him whining at my leg and where he is safe from the loving "attentions" of my children. When he spends time indoors, things invariably get messy.

He either "marks his territory" on our beds, or in some dark, hidden corner. Or perhaps the kids grab him by the hair or the tail rather than the body. Caleb is very taken with throwing him in the running bathwater. Which, to be honest, he (being the cat) actually doesn't mind so much... but makes a mess and a lot of work for me. And tonight, the meowing. Somewhere. It struck me as so odd because our little kitten can be very persistent and very noisy, and this sounded too far off to be normal. I knew he was in the house, so why wasn't he meowing at my feet as usual. Something in me, some instinct deep inside caused me to turn to my son and demand: "Where's Simon???" Sure enough, my son had decided to try out a new experiment: Putting the cat in my side-table drawer. The poor cat. I think if he had known what he was getting himself into, he would have run the other way when we walked into that house to pick him up. And yet, we wanted a pet so that our kids would learn to be gentle and loving and responsible (perhaps too much to ask at the tender ages of 1 and 2) and if nothing else, Simon does provide endless entertainment and is relatively good to the kids. He still comes and purrs at their leg and lets them pick him up. Either he is a glutton for punishment or he realizes that the few gentle "pats" from the kids may be the only affection he will receive that day. I don't have time to sit and pet him, so he has at least resigned himself to tolerate and even seek out the littlest ones in the house.

All I can say is that despite feeling sorry for him, I can't help but laugh at some of the crazy experiments my children preform. And even his placid reaction to what is heaped upon him is amusing. Hmmmm, maybe I will read my book with my poor, terrorized kitten on my lap. Perhaps it is the least I can do.

This too shall pass.

Sleep: a prospect that is becoming lost to me. I really shouldn't be complaining, because my kids do sleep better than most... but the combination of occasional teething sessions and my own personal "pregnant aversion" to rest is starting to catch up with me. The sad part is that it doesn't matter if I am falling asleep in my chair, the second I lay on my pillow I am uncomfortable and spend my time tossing and turning rather than sleeping as I so desire. So this morning, after a week of being unable to do so, I donned my neglected runners and stepped outside at the unearthly hour of 6am for my traditional morning walk. Has anyone noticed it is FREEZING out there????? The neighbourhood was covered in frost, the wind was biting and cold, and despite a hat and a hood over it, I shivered the whole time. I'll even admit to jogging, well attempting to. I realized pretty quickly that that would not be an option in my "advanced state of chub". However, instead of renewing my energy as usual, I came back so tired I could hardly walk. Even as I sit and type, my eyes feel like lead and I have an overwhelming desire to put myself out of my misery and succumb. But do I dare gamble with my night tonight? At this rate I should sleep like a baby, but if I have a nap I will most likely find myself in the same situation as nights gone by and the downward spiral will yet again continue.

So I battle with myself, trying to survive not until bedtime, but simply to naptime when my gears can stop if they so desire, and I can rest. And at the same time as I wish and hope and dream of my warm, cozy bed... I drink a gallon of coffee waiting for its reviving effects to take hold of me. Hmmmm, so far nothing on that front. The worst part is that if I don't do something, I will find myself sitting in a pew at church with a bobbing head of exhaustion. Something must be done.

As for our little family, Jonathan is finally home and the difference is astounding. Yesterday we went to the wildlife park again and instead of meltdowns, my kids were running in a state of pure joy from animal to animal. Unrestricted by strollers and a frazzled mama, Jonathan took one child while I focused my attentions on another and we simply let them be. By the end of the day the long-anticipated meltdowns began, but even those were manageable with daddy's "look" they calmed down much quicker than with mine. And I found myself in awe that I could leave my home and not come back in a state of defeat. For a moment, I struggled with self-pity. Wishing for what could not be: that my husband could be home more and we could just do this everyday. But I was quickly placated with the fond remembrance that with baby number three comes change. Another diaper to deal with, another mouth to feed, another scream to tolerate... and yet it also brings my dear partner in this crazed life home to us for three months of paternity leave. And I am content. Content to wait the 8 weeks before the chaos grows greater, and yet content to see that day come and be together as a family. 

My emotions vacillate with each passing minute, so perhaps tomorrow I will be anxious or even impatient. But for now, I drink my coffee, put my feet up, and rest in the knowledge that this is a season. And "it too shall pass".

Collaborative Chaos

Exhaustion, is this an emotion? I suppose not. More like a state of being. Well, be it what it may, I am exhausted. Jonathan has been gone since Sunday and being alone with the kids is starting to show a little wear and tear on my nerves. Yesterday I was under the misguided impression that going out to town would be a fun day with the kids. Instead it consisted of wal-mart meltdowns, shopping cart screaming, and restaurant madness. And after chasing the kids, trying to control the tantrums, and putting up with the normal "glares" of society, I was ready to come home and admit defeat. Only to wake up this morning and drag the kids to yet another "family adventure" to the local corn farm for a hayride. I'll admit the first half was fun, but after the previous day of missing naps, Selah chose to be un-cooperative and the rest was a simple case of survival. Her screams could have awakened the dead. And I was once again at the disadvantage. A million eyes watching me, no-where to go and deal with her, we just had to move on. Needless to say, the second that hayride reached the parking lot, we were out of there.

The funny thing is that I know that parents look at us with a mixture of sympathy, shock, and disgust that we have our kids so close together (I think they think we deserve it or something :) and I wish they could see my children at home. In their own habitat, they really are quite good. They play nicely, and sleep well, and smile and talk and putter and (wonder of wonders) even obey me. It is only when I attempt to leave its sanctuary that they "punish" me (or at least that's what it feels like). On the days that I drag them out because I am feeling anxious for a good visit, I don't blame them. I am being somewhat selfish, and I suppose I deserve it. But on the days when I do something for them, and plan and prepare and try so hard to give them a fun day... when those days turn on me, I come home and just want to cry. I know I shouldn't take it personally, but it is though I have carefully wrapped a present and they take one look at it and throw it back in my face with as much gusto as they can muster. I feel defeated, like a failure, and so disappointed as though it is my fault that they didn't have fun.

Maybe I should never leave my house! I joke that I shouldn't. If you look at our family 'track-record' it clearly proves that we were never meant to. But it only lasts a few days before I once again feel anxious to do something. So I leave in a state of denial, thinking maybe this time will be different. And you know, one time in ten it is different. We have a good day and it gives me a false hope for the future.

I suppose the reality is that I know it is easier to stay home, yet it will never hold me back. I can't sit in my house forever, I crave change... and get me stir-crazy enough and it really is worth it to put up with the tantrums, if only for a quick coffee and 5 minute conversation with someone over 2 feet tall! I guess on days like these, I need my dad to tell me to "buck up" and "stop feeling sorry for myself" because this is life. And it is crazy, and stressful, and it isn't easy... but how could you appreciate it otherwise????