Tag Archives: Motherhood

But, why?

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I am a why person. I guess I never out-grew that as a child.  Maybe it was because my parents never discouraged why, why, why? In fact, they encouraged it.  When we were old enough to read, my parents told us to “look it up,” which led to a love of reading (and stacks of encyclopedias in our bedrooms that served as bedtime stories).

I think that as adults, our focus shifts from why to how.

We feel the need to fix things and improve situations but don’t fully examine why the situation exists in the first place.  I like to strip problems down to their cores – that is how I operate in my personal and professional lives.  If you ask why enough times, eventually you get to the root of the problem.  Often though, the root is so hard to fix and we’d rather bury it in band-aids.

I have noticed this more since I’ve become a mother.  There are so many people telling us how, but so few telling us why.  We get so preoccupied with how to parent, we forget why we parent.

Why do we parent?

When I step back and think about why I parent, I do a better job.  I listen better.  I hear better.  I show more respect.  I am more patient.

My son depends on us for so many things, but he is not ours.  He is not a possession or a toy or an experiment.  He is a human being.  Just like me.  He deserves the same amount of respect that I would offer any adult.  If he is tired, he sleeps.  If he is hungry, he eats.  If he is crying, he is comforted.

I parent because I am responsible for him, his life, his happiness, his sense of security, his sense of worth, his safety, his well-being.
I parent because I want my son to treat others with kindness and respect.
I parent because maybe, just maybe, through him I can add something of value to this world I know.  I can know that I have made every effort through him to make this world a better place – just by him being a part of it.

There are so many people who are quick to tell me how to parent – what I should be doing and the right way to do it.  I am not really interested.  I don’t dwell on sleep schedules and eating routines – he knows his needs and he will make them known.   He is the expert on him.  I will trust his instincts as well as my own.

No, I want to focus my energy on teaching him, doing things with him, and just being with him.

Once I figure out the why, the how will follow.

Why do you parent?

A Lesson in Forgiving

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Dear Q,

This is a lesson you taught me.  I am going to remember it for you in case this world makes you forget.

Forgiving is not about forgetting, it’s about letting go.  It is about overcoming your ego and allowing yourself the pleasure of releasing the grudge or negative feeling.   Forgiveness means unconditionally surrendering yourself to the benefits of peace, joy, and love, rather than burdening yourself with the bindings of animosity.

Although this world will give you many reasons to bear grudges and harbour animosity, I hope you can remember what you already know – and allow yourself peace.

Love always,
Mom

A Lesson in the Power of Words

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Dear Q,

Words are symbols; they have no meaning beyond that which is ascribed to them by those who speak them, hear them, write them, or read them.  As symbols, they can be powerful beyond measure.  They can cut wounds deeper than a stone can, then they can pour salt into it and watch it burn.

Be conscious of the words you use.  Be kind and responsible with them.  Be aware of the implications of words, for implication outweighs intention.

Take this lesson from your Nanni:

The N-word evokes an image that I have been trying to banish from my brain my whole life.
I see a man in chains on the auction block, his body scarred and his head hanging down in defeat.
I see a screaming woman, torn from her children, sold to a master who will rape her.
It makes me feel pity for people who don’t need my pity.
They deserve my respect.

Linda Dale 2009

Love Always,
Mom (and Nanni)

Um, I’m pretty sure I just peed on that!

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I finally unpacked the last box (um, yeah – we moved a year and a half ago).   It was that one lonely box that was full of stuff I don’t want to get rid of, but stuff I don’t know where to keep.  So, I took that obligatory trip down memory lane, trying to remember where I got what jewelry and why I’d put that specific book in with my special things… and then I came across my pregnancy test (um, yeah – my son is 19 months old)!  Gross.  The memories of that little stick flooded me and I caught myself chuckling.

Rewind.  I knew I was pregnant.  I knew right away, but I waited until I was late to confirm it.  Pregnancy tests are expensive and I wasn’t about to take one everyday or two.

The day I decided to take a test, I told my “husband” (we’re not married) I was going pick one up and wait til he got home.  So, I went to the store and picked one out – it was the one with the line for ‘pregnant.’  Once I got home with the test, I knew I wouldn’t be waiting to take it.  So, I read the instructions, cracked open the package and peed on the stick.

I waited for the line.  It appeared.  I was doubtful.  Now what?  I had no one to confirm the existence of the line! (and the box said the results were only reliable for 10 mins – that is such a lie, by the way – the line was so there over 2 years later).

What was a girl to do?  I took a pic of the test to see if it showed up better.  It totally did, but I was still not convinced.  Panicking as the 10 minutes wore on, I looked out the window and saw a mother walking down the street with 3 kids – one in a stroller.  She’d know!

I barreled down the stairs of the walk-up we were living in, flew out the door, and awkwardly halted in front of the woman.  She looked at me curiously as I stood wondering what to say.

So, I said “Um, I have an awkward question to ask you”  She just looked at me.  I presented the test that I had been holding behind my back and said “I need someone else to confirm this for me.”  Laughing, she took the test (which I was pretty sure I had just PEED on! Ew), looked at me and said “Girl, you better start gettin’ ready!”  Ack!  I was so excited.

Later, I picked up my “husband” at work.  He looked at me and said.  “So, you’re pregnant.  I can tell.  I knew you wouldn’t wait.  Right?  I’m right, right?”  And he was.

I kept the test as a memento because I couldn’t believe that I was actually pregnant.  I looked at it a few times before I was pregnant enough to get ultrasound pics.

It now resides in a landfill somewhere, I’m sure.  Michigan, probably.  I don’t need it, anymore.

Having a ponytail doesn’t make him a girl…

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My son hit a milestone today; his hair is finally long enough to pull back into a ponytail!!  His dad and I have been waiting for this day since his hair’s been long enough to tangle!  Cutting it has not been an option for a few reasons, so we’ve been managing with hair picks and detangler and tears and struggles.  But now… oh, NOW we can tie it up and keep the tangles away (at least until he’s old enough to sit still for braids).

Anyway, I was super-excited to comb his Don King hairstyle into a bitty sumo bun.  He didn’t seem to care about it at all – shockingly, he barely noticed.  All was well. 

And then we went out.

In public.

The woman checking us out at one store asked me how old she was and told me that she‘s a very well-behaved child.

This struck me for a few reasons.

  1. He’s never been called a girl. Ever
  2. He was wearing blue jogging pants, an orange t-shirt, and white sneakers (with red and blue stripes); for better or worse, not something I’d ever see on my nieces or his girl friends.

I found it interesting that had his hair been down and curly, she would never have called him a girl. This got me thinking… his “gendered hairstyle” trumped his “gendered clothing!”  The ponytail influenced her assumptions more than his clothes did.

I didn’t correct her.  I’d like to say it was because I didn’t want to embarrass her, but it was actually because I didn’t want her to wonder why I put the poor boy in a ponytail.  No mother wants her credentials questioned.  It was none of her business, anyway. I don’t really care if she thinks he’s a girl.

Today reminded me of just how arbitrary our society’s binary gender designations are… the slightest alteration and people question, misinterpret, or become confused.  The boxes are so small that one little hair elastic changed Q’s gender. Weird.

My new job title: SAHM

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So, my last employment contract ended almost a month ago.  Ever since, I’ve been a Stay At Home Mom.   However, for a stay-at-home-mom, I somehow manage to hardly ever stay home!

Although I hope to be promoted to a WAHM (work at home mom), I am relishing this guilt-free time at home with my son.  This is the best job I’ve ever had!  It’s challenging, but I prefer to be the one navigating the challenges.

My days are completely different than when I was working.  No day is the same and each is an adventure in its own way.  We decide, together, what we will be doing.  I sometimes pretend that I am in control, but it’s a collaborative effort; my plans can easily be derailed by a bad mood, fever, or extra long nap. ;)

I take my job very seriously.  It’s a hefty job description (for which few would qualify if we needed to apply).  I have been entrusted to:

  • create and maintain a clean, healthy, safe, and comfortable environment and shelter
  • provide healthy nourishment, health care, and medical attention
  • teach an impressionable mind (which often seems to resemble a sponge) to: speak, walk, go potty, eat, play, bathe, discern right from wrong, respect, love, colour, draw… the list is endless and will keep growing – read, write, DRIVE. ack!
  • nurture, love, and encourage the growth of a kind, respectful, and considerate inhabitant of this world in which we live

It’s a tall order, let me tell you.  But, I embrace it – although I do struggle with the clean environment part. I’m not exactly a domestic goddess :) .

The rewards are beyond measure and I am so grateful for the opportunity to be a mother and spend my days with this human being who just may be teaching me more than I am him.

A Mother’s Guilt

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Soon after my son was born, I wrote this post.  At the time, I was paranoid about breaking him and screwing him up.  I have since realized that I most certainly will screw him up, as all parents do.  I’ve come to terms with that and decided that all I can do is my best to raise a healthy, well-rounded, open-minded child.   His father and I will make mistakes and I will do my best not to wrap myself in guilt over it.  That doesn’t help anyone.

At some point in his first year of life, I decided that we (his father and I) know what is best for him and our family.  That said, we do our best to make child-rearing decisions ourselves and try not to get too caught up in external influences – family members, other parents, or “experts.”  The only expert on my kid is my kid – we are the next best thing.

So many mothers seem to stress out about doing it right and doing what they are supposed to do.  In so doing, many of them don’t listen to their instincts and really get wrapped up in how to parent instead of why we parent.  Then, they seem to end up wishing that they had just listened to their baby.

My son has a pretty consistent self-imposed schedule – naps, bedtime, eating.  Once I learned to listen to him, I realized that his instincts and his body let him know what he needs.  I can set a clock by his sleep patterns.  That said, I let him sleep when he’s tired and eat when he’s hungry (even if it falls out of his regular schedule).  My take is that he is a human (as am I) and who am I to dictate when he should be tired and hungry.  I need to give him the credit he deserves and realize that he knows better than anyone what his needs are.

Now, I am not saying that he runs around all willy-nilly doing whatever he wants and running the household.  All I am saying is that when it comes to meeting his needs, it’s a collaborative effort among him, me, and his father.

I guess the point is that it is all about balance.  Rigidity in any way does not work for him – rigid schedule, or active avoidance of one.

I am blessed with an awesome, easy-going, chilled-out kid.  He is non-stop and always on the move, but he is adaptable and laid back.  Maybe I am just lucky and the next one will prove me wrong.  Either way,  I don’t believe I can go horribly wrong by trusting my instincts and listening to my baby and really getting to know him and letting him express his own needs – when he needs them.

I am not out to judge how anyone else parents – not any more that I seek to have others judge how I parent.  However, what works for us, works for us.

Are you gonna go my way?

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Alright, so today, I had to take Q to get new passport photos taken.  I had a window of 2 hours within which to get the pics taken and get them to the passport office.  Sounds like a lot of time?  Did I mention Q is a year old?  Yup.

Rewind: When I got his original pics taken, they forgot to charge me, but of course I was honest and told them.  Fatal flaw?  Perhaps.  Nonetheless, it cost me about the same amount for the pics as the passport.

Lucky for me, the photos were guaranteed, so I didn’t have to pay twice, being that the originals were rejected.  But, get this: I went to pick up the new photos and they credited my card for the amount I had paid last time.  That’s it.  I got them for free!  Not only that, but I ended up with 2 poses and the original (because they realized that it was too cute for me not to have).

Unfortunately, because of a variety of technical difficulties, it took 1.5 hours to process the new photos.    1.5 hours of my precious 2!  I got them at 11:27 a.m. and the passport office closed at noon.  I had exactly 33 minutes to get from the photo place to the passport office (in a neighbouring city).  Not likely.

As it turns out, I was at the passport office at 11:41 and out of there by 11:52 (photos accepted).  I question how that is  humanly possible.  I didn’t even need the toys that I remembered to pack this time!

Time must be an illusion.

Recipe for Disaster

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This afternoon I had to go to the Passport office to get my one year old (Q) a passport.  Now, he doesn’t actually need one, but I’m doing it anyway – mostly because I had thought he needed one and had already gotten the photos done.

So, he and I set off in the late afternoon.  Late afternoon on a Friday.  To the passport office.  An hour before it closed.  Good timing, mommy!  Talk about a recipe for disaster.

Once there, we waited for close to an hour (which is an eternity in the life of a toddler).   He got restless really fast.  Lucky for me, I had a stray bottle cap (he hasn’t even used a bottle in about 6 months) and the lid to a Tupperware.  Insisting the cap was a “ball,” he threw it clear across the room. Way to think ahead, mommy! 
Add ingredient to recipe for disaster.  Shake.

Finally, our number was called and I was saved by a nice man named John (so I thought).  At the moment I reached the counter, Q decided that he’s had enough of the stroller and started screeching (that his new thing; we’re so proud).  Panicking, I took him out and held him. 
Add ingredient to recipe for disaster. Shake.

After about 5 minutes of distraction, John informed me that Q’s picture has been rejected because it appears that he is “glowing.” How angelic.  I have to get new ones and go back.  Then, John added “you can just bring the pictures when you come back.  You don’t need to bring him.”  Ouch.  Burn.

Repeat tomorrow.