...the other mother.

My business partner, dear friend and fellow mommy-blogger, Skyla has a regular feature on her blog, Cool Beans, called "Not Me Monday". I love it! It is honest, funny, charming and clever. I was at her house last Monday and we talked about it over scones with jam a healthy snack. I told her I was gonna give it a whirl on my blog if I ever had a reason to. But I didn't think it would happen because I am a perfect mother... the person that screws up, neglects her children, eats too much chocolate, worries too much about her appearance and doesn't have a piping hot meal on the table and a clean house when her husband comes home......well that is "the other mother".

So here is my first tale of the "other mother"...

On Wednesdays I have a great routine. Walk Meg to school, Lola falls asleep, I do some work around the house, meet Maria for coffee at The Carrot and then walk across the street to my great yoga class at Bedouin Beats. Last Wednesday however things went a bit pear-shaped. Miss Lola did not fall asleep on the walk home. I was definetly not pissed that I wouldn't get the breakfast dishes away and my emails answered. Nope, I was thrilled that I would have some extra quality time to hang out with my delightful 5 month old. I would never just pop Lola into her Rock and Bounce still in her pyjamas so that I could carry on, business as usual.
Those emails could wait and I certainly wouldn't waste spend time on facebook or catching up on my favourite blogs. No way, not at all! In my perfection I would never have heard a huge rumble in her diaper and smile sweetly at her only to carry on with my indulgent business. Her comfort and happiness is my number one priority. I wouldn't hope that the episode of Sex and The City educational programming on TV would keep her amused while I finished just one last thing. And of course there is no way that I would hear even more poop sounds and keep blindly typing away. Never ever would I wait another fifteen minutes before looking up at her again only to find her skating around in a poop puddle. Her little legs slip-sliding away under her, grinning from ear to ear. If this did happen, which I assure you it did NOT, the last thing I would be thinking of is grabbing my camera to document the event. That would be hilarious dreadful, unforgiveable behaviour for a mother of my caliber. Let me be clear about this... I would never have phoned my mother to tell the tale and laugh about it while she continued to swirl her toes in the yellow mess. Nope, not a chance. And under no circumstances would I look at that smile on her face and decide that if she was still happy then I could surely get a bit more work done while she wallowed played for a while longer.

There is no way I could fathom stripping down to my knickers right in my living room to retrieve her from her filth so that I would not ruin my new shirt and jeans. Unacceptable! Wouldn't do it. After an escapade like that a child would most definetly need a 30 minute soak in a warm bath. Of that I can be sure. I know I could never let this poopapalooza happen because you would not find me on my hands and knees scrubbing the yellow poop grout out of the cracks in my hardwood floor. Not on your life.

Nope, that would be the "other mother" and I have the pictures to prove it.

...someone that is shivering.

Tuesday, November 17, 2009

Today I got a phone call from the school... I hate it when I see that name on my call display. My heart always skips a beat and I try to answer with a calm sound in my voice. The secretary at our school is an angel. She has experience with my kind. "Hello, it's Bonnie calling...It's not an emergency." Bless her heart. Those are always the first words out of her mouth. I have never asked her but she must be a mother. I breathe again. She was calling to tell me that my big girl had a bathroom accident. She needed me to come with a change of clothes. My mind raced. Why? Why now? My girl with a bladder of steel. She potty trained at 2 and a half, in one weekend and we never looked back. So far I have only changed the sheets in the night because of vomit, never pee. We have had a handful of very minor accidents at home but that is it. I babbled something about how surprised I was and tried to form a coherent thought. She made it clear that my girl was standing in the office waiting for me. Right... "get moving" my brain said to my body. I looked down at the sleeping baby in my arms. Nappus Interuptus once again. I ran up to grab a new set of clothes. Funny what went through my head. "Must find something as similar as possible to what she was wearing", "What will I say to her?", "How did the other kids or her teacher react?" It is only now that I replay this process that I can see my big/little girl standing in that office, one shoe sloshing with pee, being offered a jelly bean, the seconds ticking by while I am looking for just the right clothes. I ran out the door with babe on my hip and a bag full of clothes. Sped to the school and ran in the door to find her standing there shivering with the cold and the wet of it all. Lately she has seemed so big to me. She is the big sister, the grade oner, the six year old... But today when I saw her standing there as I stood in that doorway, catching my breath... she seemed so small. So fragile. So... vulnerable. It is my job to protect her and I want to do that so completely.


We walked to the bathroom. I hadn't anticipated that she would be shuffling so awkwardly with that shoe full of pee. I was surprised at just how wet she was. I crouched down to look her in the eyes. I needed to see into her and find out how she really felt. I tried to be lighthearted about it but not just blow it off. I could see my reflection becoming more clear in her eyes as the tears began to pool. Her lip beginning that twisted downward curl of utter disappointment in herself. This is what I signed up for. The messy, scary, challenging trenches of parenting a school age child. I face it all as squarely as I can but I had no idea that my heart would lead and then ache so much in the process. I held her and she whimpered that she was scared. Scared seems right to me. I'm scared.... shitless sometimes. I realized that I couldn't help her out of her wet clothes and clean her up with a babe in my arms so I ran back to the office and handed the slobbering 5 month old off to that secretary. She willingly swept her up in her arms (I do think that woman needs a bouquet of flowers). When I got back to the bathroom I was able to get to the business of it. She told me more of what happened and that she was cold. She told me about the offer of a jelly bean and her polite refusal. She told me which friends helped her. She told me there had been a puddle and they had to call the custodian. Each detail making her seem more vulnerable. We quickly got her changed and while doing so she asked me if she could go home. There was only an hour left of school, I wanted nothing more than to take her home but I wanted her to decide what she needed, so I hadn't offered. I was glad she asked. When we headed for her classroom the other kids were just getting ready to go out for recess. So I asked if she wanted to join them before we headed home. I wanted her to go home feeling better about her day. It looked like business as usual on the playground.

And that was just one of the things I did today...

...someone that is refreshed.

Ran into a friend as I was flying through the local Italian Market (Spinelli's) before I had to get Meg from school. The night before I only had 5 hours of very interupted sleep. That morning my non-napping babe kept me from washing my hair or even my face. Don't even think I brushed my teeth, either. She told me how amazing I looked.

huh?

Asked me where I had been and we both smiled knowingly when I told her...

...I love yoga!

...an Argentine Tango.

I love that dance. Have you seen it? Argentine Tango

This dance requires complete connection with your partner. Feet so close and so intertwined at times that one wrong move would lead to a pile of body and limbs on the floor. It is breathtaking to watch.

Wikipedia says this, "Argentine tango is a new orientation of couple dancing. As most dances have a rational-pattern which can be predicted by the follower, the ballast of previous perceptions about strict rules has to be thrown overboard and replaced by a real communication contact, creating a direct non-verbal dialogue. A tango is a living act in the moment as it happens." I like this description. It is so much more than steps to follow. So much more than footprint diagrams showing you where to step next. It is not about "dancing". It is about being that act of dancing.

I have a new dance partner. She and I have only been dancing together for just over a year. At first we were all left feet and I, quite frankly, did not feel the least bit graceful. I was still enjoying very much the fluid and effortless footwork with my dance partner of 5 years. I wasn't sure if I was ready for another one. It had taken all of those 5 years to perfect some of the steps with her. We were starting to take on more challenging footwork some days or enjoying the ease of something familiar on others. Did I really want to start from square one again? But after a rough start and a lot of resistance on my part we just clicked one day. It took about 7 months before I found that I felt really beautiful as we swayed together in our nested embrace. We had shifted from "gestating" to "being the act of gestation". Together we were a whirling dervish of growth and creation. Culminating in the wildest, most frenetic dance of our lives on the day we met. Now with 5 months of face to face dancing under our belts I am happy to report that we are just as clumsy as ever some days and as skillful and agile as professionals on others. It helps when we both pick the same dance of course. Sometimes I am in the mood for a waltz or a foxtrot but Lola is all revved up for a quickstep or jitterbug. The roles reverse just as frequently too. But it truly does feel like one, long, seamless (or attempt at seamless) dance. Each move by one of us having a direct impact on the other. We ebb and flow, sway and shuffle... It isn't always pretty but it works. Now that we are a family of four it gets complicated. I guess on a good day we get quite the hoedown going. Our unconventional square dance is a sight to behold. But most days I think it looks like more of a mosh pit.

I find that at any given time I have a good groove going with one of my dance partners and the others are a bit awkward. One day maybe I will become skillful enough to dance with all three of my partners with grace and endurance, simultaneously. For now I will dance with wild abandon. I will feel the beat deep in my bones and create a rhythm that rocks our love-filled home.

...a family, all just trying to get it right.

This afternoon I had one of those defining moments as a parent. The kind of moment that brings into sharp focus the magnitude of our impact on our children and the enormity of our job as parents. The kind of moment that has given me a constant and physical reminder all evening with the stinging and fatigue of eyes that have wept. An all too familiar feeling sometimes.

It was 17 degrees here in balmy Edmonton today. Unheard of for the 5th of November. Early dismissal at school so a perfect day to stay for a long, lingering play at the park. We stayed too long. Joyful play turned to frustration and unkind words. Words, that as soon as they are spoken almost choke a six year old with regret. But their fragile little egos hold fast to their convictions and sorry is a word too hard to utter in this frustrated state. I was serenaded with muffled sobs the whole walk home. Wishing I had a transporter beam so that we could just be home, cuddled up on the couch and talking about how darn hard relationships are sometimes. How grown ups feel the same frustrations with our friends sometimes but we just don't have the guts to tell each other how we are feeling most of the time. The walk, the sobbing and my frustration with not being able to help her with just the right words had worn me pretty thin by the time we got home. When we got in the door it was like my patience abruptly expired. Everything she said sounded like a whine after all that crying and I just didn't want to hear it anymore. She was tired and hungry. She asked for a granola bar. I just couldn't make another decision and sent her to ask her dad. We have been working pretty hard to help her notice her whining voice and when she asked him for a granola bar he asked her to try again in a different voice. Poor dad. He didn't know the ordeal we had both just endured and Meg couldn't handle this blow to her ego. She came back to the front hall where I was hanging up coats and melted onto the floor. I left her there while I continued to tidy her school things away. When I came back around the corner there she was... knees to chin, tears streaming down her cheek, practicing out loud "Can I please have a granola bar" in the nicest voice she could muster between sobs. And then muttering to herself that it wasn't good enough.... What had I done? Why does she have to feel that way... that aching, tormented, struggle to try and just get it right? I gathered her up in my arms and cried my heart out with her. I don't even know what I said to her. We went to the kitchen and got a granola bar and then I cradled her in my arms again and told her how much I loved her. Dave looked down at the two of us crying in a heap on the floor and said "I don't know how I am doing as a dad but I can tell you one thing Meg, you have the best mom in the world." ................... Stunned silence .............

And there we were the three of us...clearly all just trying to get it right. And as quickly as if nothing had happened at all our lives just went back into step. Meg ate her granola bar and got out her colouring book, I sorted through Meg's school bag and Dave got out the ingredients for supper. And I wonder, will that be one of the moments that Meg remembers, reflects on and agonizes about for years? Or maybe her moments and mine will be completely different. Or maybe there will just be some sort of psyche imprinting from this experience. It will add another layer to her armour. She won't remember the incident at all but her psyche has been undermined... or strengthened(?) by the experience.

I don't feel like the "best mom in the world" and by his comment I know Dave doubts himself as a dad. Both of us have had life long struggles with "trying to get it right" despite the fact that we know there is no "right". And I have watched Meg colour inside the lines since she was 3. Painfully realizing that my paralyzing quest for perfect would be an enduring legacy.

...sliding doors.

It's funny how the mind works isn't it. I'm sure we all have our quirky little way of partitioning and filing our thoughts and beliefs. More specifically about time and space. For example I have a very graphic picture of how I lay out the year in my head. I can't describe it really but I can see it perfectly in my own mind. There aren't really starts and finishes so much as there are turning points and there are months that are grouped together for some reason and parts that go up and other parts that go down and some that are static. Does this all sound a little weird? I presume that everyone has these little quirky ways. For that matter there are ways we must be doing this with our lives as well. Grouping certain years together or imagining certain steps that might serve as a marker for a shift in our psyche or a rite of passage. I may be way off here but I bet if I asked you to draw the timeline of your life the way you see it in your head it would not be dots on a line. OK so where am I going with this? Well in my life "timeline" I have a few points where I have little nubs.... Like the starts of paths I chose not to take...or the impossible dreams that I kinda knew would never happen but I wasn't willing to close the door on so I just drag them along with me... They kinda feel like my "sliding door". Like there is another dimension where I am living out those dreams or walking those paths. But over the course of the last couple of years I have come to view all of that a little differently. Call it maturity, enlightenment, maybe even cynicism.... But I have decided that I don't have to leave those nubs in my timeline unanswered. Because the truth is that this is the "dimension" I am living in and I only get one kick at the can so I might as well kick the living daylights out of it.

Last week I turned one of those unanswered, silly, little dreams into a reality of minuscule proportions! I went to an edge. It was uncomfortable and exciting. But the opportunity was there and I took it. I have a dear, dear friend (more of a sister really) that makes me feel cooler than I am. She is like Audrey Hepburn, Nigella Lawson and Georgia O'Keefe all rolled into one skinny-jean-wearing, red-lipsticked, groovy, artist mama. And I adore her! She makes me think I can do anything. Her husband is a musician. He is in the middle of recording a new album and I have been teasing him for months that he can call me when he is laying down the background vocals. Last week he told me to be at the studio at 10 am on Thursday morning. I thought I was calling his bluff when I agreed. But the truth is that he called mine.

He has heard me sing a hand full of times. Happy Birthday at our kid's parties, a bunch of children's songs while bouncing around a kindermusik class and maybe I have squeaked out a melody or lyric when trying to pick his brain about an artist or song title. None of these would qualify as an audition and yet he was quite serious about giving me this chance. Was he crazy? Tone deaf? Really, really polite?

I don't really know how to describe the experience. I couldn't shake the image of all the bad American Idol auditions I have seen. All those people that really, truly think they have the voice of an angel. They genuinely do not know they suck, do they? All I could think of was how much work he was going to have to put in to make me sound half decent. But he kept encouraging me and telling me that it sounded good... It still makes me feel a little queasy thinking about it all. But I did it! And I would do it again if given the chance... Because maybe in one of those "sliding doors" dimensions I am a smooth and sultry lounge singer or a bad ass rock and roll diva or my personal favourite, a long haired, barefoot, acoustically inclined folk singer with flowers in my hair.....

Thanks Chris.