Next week I go 'back to work' as I've been saying to my kids.
This statement is false. I've been working as a freelancer and adjunct professor for five years since my last full time job. And work, oh man have I ever worked. I went back to work a week after an emergency c-section, newborn in one hand and two needy siblings in the background begging for playmates, food and attention. I worked away more weeknights than when I was in university. I lost most Sunday-fundays to a desk in the corner, one floor from my kids and hubby's laughter.
The last five years were the hardest of my life.
Every hour that I worked,
Every moment of my professional life,
Chosen to avoid interference with my priority.
Motherhood.
For the last five years,
My every thought.
Every choice,
Every priority,
Was my children.
That's a little crazy to 'say' out loud.
I never imagined feeling so passionately about being a mom.
I didn't know children would take over my heart and soul and mind.
I had no idea my whole world would change the moment I became a mother.
That my family would supersede my career.
That I'd be willing to work less, and spend more time, with tiny humans.
Yet here we are.
And the last five years are coming to a close.
Like the end of a maternity leave, where mom talks about 'going back to work', I find myself having similar discussions with my kids about how life is about to change.
I will not pick them up from school at the end of the day.
I will not go on every class trip.
I will not be home with them, this summer.
This is the hard part.
I adore these pieces of my life.
But wait.
Let me explain....
In all honesty, I have come to notice, in the last year, that my children and I have developed some borderline unhealthy co-dependencies.
They cry when I leave for meditation, stating they miss me too much when I am gone.
They need me to 'help them' with small tasks, simply because they want me to be in the same room.
They nnnneeeeeeeedddddd me, all-the-time.
And truthfully, I need them too.
I feel lost when they are not around.
I love to be free of parenting duties, but spend all my time thinking about them when I'm not with them.
Kind of crazy, right?
We are super attached.
SUPER ATTACHED.
And now it's time for us to find some space.
Space for my children.
To explore their own abilities.
To gain new skills.
To mature and grow and learn, without me... sometimes...
Space for me.
To focus more time on my career.
On my health.
On my healing.
I do not anticipate it being easy.
But I know we are rooted in strong values.
Unconditional love.
Mutual respect.
Faith.
And family, always, at the heart of our being.
On Sunday we went and had some family photos taken. On the drive home my oldest asked if he could have copies of the mommy-kids and daddy-kids photos. When asked why, he expressed that he would like to display them in his room because they were special to him. His sister and little brother swiftly echoed his thought with a 'me, too' and in that moment I smiled knowing that everything was going to be just fine, with this little family of mine <3
This blog was created in 2011 to capture my very personal journey of leaving full time work to become a work-at-home mother of three beautiful children. Naturally, this space has morphed into a place of personal reflection, celebration and sometimes even sadness. I’ve written about childhood cancer, food allergy and anaphylaxis, grief, marriage, friendship, parenting and everything in between, all with a growing sense of mindfulness and gratitude. Please, grab a cup of tea and stay awhile.
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Showing posts with label children. Show all posts
Wednesday, May 31, 2017
Saturday, April 16, 2016
Not all wandering means we are lost
I got asked this question earlier in the week:
"Can you let me know some differences (good and bad) about having 2 vs 3 kids?"
Hmm.
I did blog a little about this in the past, however I find the question so much more powerful and reflective, now that Brooklyn and our family have endured such a fresh journey.
Why did we choose to have three children?
Hmm.
The truth is, we really only 'planned' our first two. To be embarrassingly honest Ethan is quite the love child. No really, he was a thought in our minds, but he was not at all planned for and discussed in advance the way our first two kids were.
To most people, we had 'the million dollar family' already. Two children, one of each sex.
To the logical brain, we 'had it all'.
But here's the thing.
'Having it all' to me meant I needed one more child on the dock, in that classic photo I blogged about back in 2013.
To one friend it meant one little man and absolutely no more.
To another, it meant adopting four gorgeous little ones.
To a third, it meant two, but with a large gap in between.
The thing that ties us all together is this:
We listened to our hearts more, and our heads less.
Yes, having two children means life is more expensive.
Tables are more difficult to come by at a restaurant,
Post-secondary tuition will be outrageous.
But life will always be expensive.
And you can live with less.
Trust me on this one.
Restaurants are overpriced.
Food is too salty when you don't make it yourself.
And the best meals are always inspired by little helpers with big hearts.
And lastly, our children will never come out of school debt-free.
Its an impossibility, as I see it.
So we'll save, and we'll help. But they will also be responsible for their education and their future.
We listened to our hearts.
Not our conditioned minds, ego voices trying to 'protect us' from its perception of danger.
Having two children is 'easier' in many ways.
Less laundry, lunches to make and hands to hold when crossing the street.
But for my heart to truly be full, to feel complete in this stage of my life, I needed my wee man.
Perhaps because his bum shaking made me laugh when his sister was sick.
Maybe it's because his "I love you mommy"s watered my withering heart.
It's certainly because his presence, as loud and crazy as it is, kept our entire family alert and moving when all we wanted to do was hide under our covers and cry.
He was meant to be.
Three was meant to be.
And so, for any family. Any couple. Any single adult pondering these important questions.
The question of if, or how many children to have can most certainly be answered logically by crunching incomes, counting bedrooms and looking to social norms.
But the real answer lies deep inside the heart.
In the quiet before bedtime.
The alone time on the drive to work.
While out for an early morning jog.
"If you want to know where your heart is, look where your mind goes when it wanders."
Happiness is felt in the heart.
Not all wandering means we are lost.
"Can you let me know some differences (good and bad) about having 2 vs 3 kids?"
Hmm.
I did blog a little about this in the past, however I find the question so much more powerful and reflective, now that Brooklyn and our family have endured such a fresh journey.
Why did we choose to have three children?
Hmm.
The truth is, we really only 'planned' our first two. To be embarrassingly honest Ethan is quite the love child. No really, he was a thought in our minds, but he was not at all planned for and discussed in advance the way our first two kids were.
To most people, we had 'the million dollar family' already. Two children, one of each sex.
To the logical brain, we 'had it all'.
But here's the thing.
'Having it all' to me meant I needed one more child on the dock, in that classic photo I blogged about back in 2013.
To one friend it meant one little man and absolutely no more.
To another, it meant adopting four gorgeous little ones.
To a third, it meant two, but with a large gap in between.
The thing that ties us all together is this:
We listened to our hearts more, and our heads less.
Yes, having two children means life is more expensive.
Tables are more difficult to come by at a restaurant,
Post-secondary tuition will be outrageous.
But life will always be expensive.
And you can live with less.
Trust me on this one.
Restaurants are overpriced.
Food is too salty when you don't make it yourself.
And the best meals are always inspired by little helpers with big hearts.
And lastly, our children will never come out of school debt-free.
Its an impossibility, as I see it.
So we'll save, and we'll help. But they will also be responsible for their education and their future.
We listened to our hearts.
Not our conditioned minds, ego voices trying to 'protect us' from its perception of danger.
Having two children is 'easier' in many ways.
Less laundry, lunches to make and hands to hold when crossing the street.
But for my heart to truly be full, to feel complete in this stage of my life, I needed my wee man.
Perhaps because his bum shaking made me laugh when his sister was sick.
Maybe it's because his "I love you mommy"s watered my withering heart.
It's certainly because his presence, as loud and crazy as it is, kept our entire family alert and moving when all we wanted to do was hide under our covers and cry.
He was meant to be.
Three was meant to be.
And so, for any family. Any couple. Any single adult pondering these important questions.
The question of if, or how many children to have can most certainly be answered logically by crunching incomes, counting bedrooms and looking to social norms.
But the real answer lies deep inside the heart.
In the quiet before bedtime.
The alone time on the drive to work.
While out for an early morning jog.
"If you want to know where your heart is, look where your mind goes when it wanders."
Happiness is felt in the heart.
Not all wandering means we are lost.
Thursday, April 7, 2016
The first scare
Yesterday I brought Brooklyn (and her brother) to visit their pediatrician.
Ethan's breathing has been problematic.
Brooklyn was having acute pain in her lower left abdomen, which made my mama instincts scream.
The doctor recommended we go to the hospital for xrays and an ultrasound.
We slowly walked out to the van, I buckled the kids in and shut the door.
My heart began to flutter.
I wanted to vomit.
Thank goodness for retired parents, as they (without hesitation) agreed to take E immediately so we could head to the hospital.
Now what?
What do I need to pack?
Who do I need to call?
How long will we be there?
We left the office and managed to get to my parents house within the half hour, with a stop at home and at the pharmacy in between the two. As I unbuckled E, the tears began streaming down his face.
He begged to go home.
He clutched my neck.
His entire body wrenched with heartache.
Guilt overcame me.
I could not comfort my son in his time of need.
I had to leave him behind, knowing he was struggling with great fear.
Will I tuck him in tonight?
Will I be home in my own bed tonight?
Brooklyn and I spent about six hours at our local hospital. I re-told Brooklyn's entire story from start to finish three separate times, each time feeling more and more anxiety. Brooklyn was so angry to be there, but thanks to some colouring supplies gifted to us during her illness she was distracted while I recounted hospital stays, pathology reports and the like.
I kept telling her it was going to be ok.
She was going to be ok.
Truth is, I had no freaking clue if I was right.
And that scared me to my core.
What if there was a pocket of infection left?
What if we needed to travel back to McMaster that night?
Then the list making...
I need gas, groceries for the boys, an overnight bag....
The spinning, circle of anxiety began.
Post traumatic stress and painful memories flooded my heart and mind.
-------
The good news is this:
Brooklyn has a couple of abdominal wall hematomas.
She is also thoroughly constipated.
Both are manageable, non-life threatening situations.
The bad news is this:
I can't stop crying.
I am so so sad.
My heart hurts full throttle again.
I cannot figure out a way to function today, other than to sing the song Brookie and I learned in family yoga class. Sung more than 100 times by now, this song is an invisible tie that will forever tether mother and daughter together.
Inhale (breath in).
Exhale (breath out).
I say thank you every day.
Inhale (breath in).
Exhale (breath out).
Namaste.
Sometimes we just need to honour our tears. <3
Ethan's breathing has been problematic.
Brooklyn was having acute pain in her lower left abdomen, which made my mama instincts scream.
The doctor recommended we go to the hospital for xrays and an ultrasound.
We slowly walked out to the van, I buckled the kids in and shut the door.
My heart began to flutter.
I wanted to vomit.
Thank goodness for retired parents, as they (without hesitation) agreed to take E immediately so we could head to the hospital.
Now what?
What do I need to pack?
Who do I need to call?
How long will we be there?
We left the office and managed to get to my parents house within the half hour, with a stop at home and at the pharmacy in between the two. As I unbuckled E, the tears began streaming down his face.
He begged to go home.
He clutched my neck.
His entire body wrenched with heartache.
Guilt overcame me.
I could not comfort my son in his time of need.
I had to leave him behind, knowing he was struggling with great fear.
Will I tuck him in tonight?
Will I be home in my own bed tonight?
Brooklyn and I spent about six hours at our local hospital. I re-told Brooklyn's entire story from start to finish three separate times, each time feeling more and more anxiety. Brooklyn was so angry to be there, but thanks to some colouring supplies gifted to us during her illness she was distracted while I recounted hospital stays, pathology reports and the like.
I kept telling her it was going to be ok.
She was going to be ok.
Truth is, I had no freaking clue if I was right.
And that scared me to my core.
What if there was a pocket of infection left?
What if we needed to travel back to McMaster that night?
Then the list making...
I need gas, groceries for the boys, an overnight bag....
The spinning, circle of anxiety began.
Post traumatic stress and painful memories flooded my heart and mind.
-------
The good news is this:
Brooklyn has a couple of abdominal wall hematomas.
She is also thoroughly constipated.
Both are manageable, non-life threatening situations.
The bad news is this:
I can't stop crying.
I am so so sad.
My heart hurts full throttle again.
I cannot figure out a way to function today, other than to sing the song Brookie and I learned in family yoga class. Sung more than 100 times by now, this song is an invisible tie that will forever tether mother and daughter together.
Inhale (breath in).
Exhale (breath out).
I say thank you every day.
Inhale (breath in).
Exhale (breath out).
Namaste.
Sometimes we just need to honour our tears. <3
Wednesday, February 24, 2016
It's never really over
The thing about trauma is that it's never really over, per se.
Thoughts.
Feelings.
Painful memories.
They linger.
They take up space in our busy brains.
They can easily take over one's ability to feel happy, whole and in control.
The last couple of days I've been marvelling at how all roads in our family life led to the last 6 weeks. Gave us a 'tool kit' so to speak, for dealing with our family trauma.
I spent the last year engaging in meditation and mindfulness practices, resulting in the ability to see light during the darkest of our last six weeks. Friends, both old and new, who allowed me to entrench myself in their personal and family cancer experiences the last number of years, took it upon themselves to prop me up every single day of this journey. The practical way Jay and I rebooted our finances last fall, so that me being without work right now is a setback, not a sinking ship. The family yoga classes that Brooklyn and I started prior to her diagnosis attuned her to the power of her breath, and taught her a simple song that calmed her worst fears and silenced her tears during our 15 odd days of inpatient treatments.
All of these roads have led to today, and just weeks after I posted about my self-declared 2016 Year of Celebration, we found ourselves stuttering and gasping for breath, trying to verbalize the sentence, 'Brooklyn has cancer' to our closest relatives. I will never forget making those phone calls, in the third floor hallway of McMaster Children's Hospital, a pile of mush on the floor. Trying, so so hard, to breathe.
I could be angry.
After all, it feels entirely unfair that a five year old should fight cancer.
I could be depressed.
It was painful to see my daughter, my own flesh and blood, in intense pain.
I could feel anxious.
After all, there are more results pending, and there will be follow up tests for many, many more years.
I could loathe God.
Many people do, following a trauma.
The thing is, I don't.
I have moments of anger, sadness and anxiety.
But I mostly feel gratitude.
Intense gratitude.
For the 'doers' who carried my family and I through this journey.
For my husband, whose love for our family carried us when I fell apart.
For my dearest, most incredible friends who lived inside my head throughout the last six weeks, offering daily support, checks ins and countless opportunities to say they loved me.
For my body, which carried my soul.
You see, we will all experience trauma at some point.
We will lose people we love.
Parents. Siblings. Babies. Neighbours.
Some of us will fight cancer, disease and mental illness.
Be unemployed, battle addiction and see our children struggle to succeed.
We will hurt, deep down in our souls.
We will feel like we cannot go on.
Like the world is better off without our pain.
But wait.
We can choose another path.
Gratitude is a conscious choice to look at every single interaction in our day as a gift, a silver lining through the thick grey clouds of trauma.
Let's be honest here, trauma brings out the best in the people we love. Coincidentally, trauma also showcases the tragic flaws in others, some of which I can personally say have been disappointing to witness.
But I can still choose gratitude.
I can choose to feel 'lucky' that Brooklyn's type and stage of cancer was the best possible outcome in the medical books. Even if being truly 'lucky' is having a child that never experiences cancer at all.
I can choose to be grateful that I am home with my children, snuggling and caring for them, despite the fact that this means my income is nil for the foreseeable future.
I can choose happiness.
Peace in my soul.
Love in my heart.
Faith in God.
A very wise friend said to me, once you battle cancer it's never really over, it just becomes the new normal. You live for today, and you make a choice not to worry about tomorrow.
And so it may never really be over, per se.
But I firmly believe the aftermath of trauma is manageable with a heart full of gratitude.
#TeamBrookie #WarriorPrincess
Thoughts.
Feelings.
Painful memories.
They linger.
They take up space in our busy brains.
They can easily take over one's ability to feel happy, whole and in control.
The last couple of days I've been marvelling at how all roads in our family life led to the last 6 weeks. Gave us a 'tool kit' so to speak, for dealing with our family trauma.
I spent the last year engaging in meditation and mindfulness practices, resulting in the ability to see light during the darkest of our last six weeks. Friends, both old and new, who allowed me to entrench myself in their personal and family cancer experiences the last number of years, took it upon themselves to prop me up every single day of this journey. The practical way Jay and I rebooted our finances last fall, so that me being without work right now is a setback, not a sinking ship. The family yoga classes that Brooklyn and I started prior to her diagnosis attuned her to the power of her breath, and taught her a simple song that calmed her worst fears and silenced her tears during our 15 odd days of inpatient treatments.
All of these roads have led to today, and just weeks after I posted about my self-declared 2016 Year of Celebration, we found ourselves stuttering and gasping for breath, trying to verbalize the sentence, 'Brooklyn has cancer' to our closest relatives. I will never forget making those phone calls, in the third floor hallway of McMaster Children's Hospital, a pile of mush on the floor. Trying, so so hard, to breathe.
I could be angry.
After all, it feels entirely unfair that a five year old should fight cancer.
I could be depressed.
It was painful to see my daughter, my own flesh and blood, in intense pain.
I could feel anxious.
After all, there are more results pending, and there will be follow up tests for many, many more years.
I could loathe God.
Many people do, following a trauma.
The thing is, I don't.
I have moments of anger, sadness and anxiety.
But I mostly feel gratitude.
Intense gratitude.
For the 'doers' who carried my family and I through this journey.
For my husband, whose love for our family carried us when I fell apart.
For my dearest, most incredible friends who lived inside my head throughout the last six weeks, offering daily support, checks ins and countless opportunities to say they loved me.
For my body, which carried my soul.
You see, we will all experience trauma at some point.
We will lose people we love.
Parents. Siblings. Babies. Neighbours.
Some of us will fight cancer, disease and mental illness.
Be unemployed, battle addiction and see our children struggle to succeed.
We will hurt, deep down in our souls.
We will feel like we cannot go on.
Like the world is better off without our pain.
But wait.
We can choose another path.
Gratitude is a conscious choice to look at every single interaction in our day as a gift, a silver lining through the thick grey clouds of trauma.
Let's be honest here, trauma brings out the best in the people we love. Coincidentally, trauma also showcases the tragic flaws in others, some of which I can personally say have been disappointing to witness.
But I can still choose gratitude.
I can choose to feel 'lucky' that Brooklyn's type and stage of cancer was the best possible outcome in the medical books. Even if being truly 'lucky' is having a child that never experiences cancer at all.
I can choose to be grateful that I am home with my children, snuggling and caring for them, despite the fact that this means my income is nil for the foreseeable future.
I can choose happiness.
Peace in my soul.
Love in my heart.
Faith in God.
A very wise friend said to me, once you battle cancer it's never really over, it just becomes the new normal. You live for today, and you make a choice not to worry about tomorrow.
And so it may never really be over, per se.
But I firmly believe the aftermath of trauma is manageable with a heart full of gratitude.
#TeamBrookie #WarriorPrincess
Sunday, February 21, 2016
Warrior Princess
What does it mean, to
be a Warrior Princess?
A warrior has a strong heart and fighting spirit.
A warrior defeats pain and is left with bravery lines.
A warrior believes she can do anything, even if it’s really
hard.
---
A princess is beautiful, inside and out.
A princess cares about and loves others.
Saturday, February 20, 2016
Perspective
We've been home for 48 hours now.
Not quite back to 'normal', but definitely the closest we've been in five weeks.
Five weeks.
January 18th to February 18th.
That astonishes me.
Five weeks felt like five months.
Every single day the first thing I thought about was cancer when I woke.
Cancer when I closed my eyes at bedtime.
Dreams unlike any I'd ever experienced before now, dreams I pray I never experience again.
When my friends and family posted photos on social media of their fun events and happenings, I wanted to scream, "My daughter has cancer! How can you be so inconsiderate!"
When I checked out at the grocery store and the cashier asked me how I was, I wanted to spill my sadness all over the register, talk about my daughter's pending cancer tests and treatment.
Every moment, of every day.
My daughter has cancer.
It was written in my mind, on my heart and sat on my lips.
I knew I was struggling.
I knew no one else did anything wrong or spiteful or malicious.
But my heart was hurting so badly that everything I saw, read or experienced just hurt me more.
Bruised deeper.
I couldn't control my feelings, they raged beyond my heart.
Yet, I made it.
My boys made it.
Brooklyn my Warrior Princess made it.
And in the darkest moments, I gained perspective.
When my anger boiled over Brooklyn's incision infection, the night nurse told me a story about a family admitted for nearly three months due to raging infection in their newborn.
Perspective.
When I wanted to scream on day seven, that we were still admitted, Brooklyn's surgeon shared that she had been walking the wards trying to find a room for a little wee boy who's surgery was about to be cancelled for the second time due to lack of beds.
Perspective.
When, on day ten, Jay and I sat in the play room watching Brooklyn.
When I wanted to get into the ring with all of the negative thoughts still lingering in my brain.
When I wanted to lose it on the doctors for suggesting we 'wait and see' one more day.
When I could feel the literal boiling of my blood.
A husband and wife team carried their daughter into the playroom.
Sick from treatment, without any hair, feeding tube in her little nose.
She could do nothing but sit.
Stare.
Opposite my daughter, moving about in the little play kitchen, attempting to bend over and find new plastic food to feed her baby doll.
So much perspective.
Now, we are home.
My body is no longer running on adrenaline.
It is intensely achy, throbbing at times and struggling to stay awake.
My brain is foggy.
My legs are weak.
My eyes hurt.
I quit my teaching term.
I pulled our wee man from day care.
Life, as I know it, is only a fraction of 'normal'.
But I managed. I breathed through it. My body held my spirit together.
For the first time in years, I am proud of my body.
My physical self carried my spiritual self in a way I didn't realize was possible.
Perspective.
Not quite back to 'normal', but definitely the closest we've been in five weeks.
Five weeks.
January 18th to February 18th.
That astonishes me.
Five weeks felt like five months.
Every single day the first thing I thought about was cancer when I woke.
Cancer when I closed my eyes at bedtime.
Dreams unlike any I'd ever experienced before now, dreams I pray I never experience again.
When my friends and family posted photos on social media of their fun events and happenings, I wanted to scream, "My daughter has cancer! How can you be so inconsiderate!"
When I checked out at the grocery store and the cashier asked me how I was, I wanted to spill my sadness all over the register, talk about my daughter's pending cancer tests and treatment.
Every moment, of every day.
My daughter has cancer.
It was written in my mind, on my heart and sat on my lips.
I knew I was struggling.
I knew no one else did anything wrong or spiteful or malicious.
But my heart was hurting so badly that everything I saw, read or experienced just hurt me more.
Bruised deeper.
I couldn't control my feelings, they raged beyond my heart.
Yet, I made it.
My boys made it.
Brooklyn my Warrior Princess made it.
And in the darkest moments, I gained perspective.
When my anger boiled over Brooklyn's incision infection, the night nurse told me a story about a family admitted for nearly three months due to raging infection in their newborn.
Perspective.
When I wanted to scream on day seven, that we were still admitted, Brooklyn's surgeon shared that she had been walking the wards trying to find a room for a little wee boy who's surgery was about to be cancelled for the second time due to lack of beds.
Perspective.
When, on day ten, Jay and I sat in the play room watching Brooklyn.
When I wanted to get into the ring with all of the negative thoughts still lingering in my brain.
When I wanted to lose it on the doctors for suggesting we 'wait and see' one more day.
When I could feel the literal boiling of my blood.
A husband and wife team carried their daughter into the playroom.
Sick from treatment, without any hair, feeding tube in her little nose.
She could do nothing but sit.
Stare.
Opposite my daughter, moving about in the little play kitchen, attempting to bend over and find new plastic food to feed her baby doll.
So much perspective.
Now, we are home.
My body is no longer running on adrenaline.
It is intensely achy, throbbing at times and struggling to stay awake.
My brain is foggy.
My legs are weak.
My eyes hurt.
I quit my teaching term.
I pulled our wee man from day care.
Life, as I know it, is only a fraction of 'normal'.
But I managed. I breathed through it. My body held my spirit together.
For the first time in years, I am proud of my body.
My physical self carried my spiritual self in a way I didn't realize was possible.
Perspective.
Saturday, February 6, 2016
Grow with us
I am still trying to come up with words, to express how I am feeling right now.
Angry.
Sad.
Broken.
A good start, yes, but the pain I feel is so much deeper than that. So much more raw. It's as if someone took my heart out of my body and still expects me to be 'myself' without it. My brain is foggy, my body aches and tears fall in streams from my face without a moment's notice.
I look at my little girl and wonder how this will change her.
Will she go into medicine someday, hoping to change the world?
Will she refuse to bare her midsection as a tween because she's ashamed of her scars?
Will she feel a strong dislike for doctors, the very people dedicated to making her well?
I look at my sons, and I can see how this has changed them.
Ethan screams when being left alone, begs for us to sleep with him, wakes 10+ times a night and says things like, "Mom be careful, Brookie is sick." Nolan is, once again, highly sensitive. He is crying more often, crawling into my lap at least once a day and looking at me with eyes that shout dissatisfaction and worry about the current state of our life.
And then I look at Jay and I.
It's awful.
We are shells.
Breathing, yes, but otherwise void of our usual zest for life.
We are pale, exhausted and hurting.
Laughter is infrequent. Silly jokes are missing.
Our love for each other remains unspoken.
We are partners in this journey.
When I am ok, he is not.
When I fall apart, he is strong.
Every ounce of our energy is being poured into our kids, leaving an empty bucket for each other. But that's ok, because we know we are in this together.
I came across a video today, and I feel like everyone needs to watch it.
It's time to stop the 'not doing' and get to doing.
Living.
Being.
Appreciating all that we have.
Losing the regrets.
The silver lining, in all of this, is becoming evident.
Hearing friends say, I've taken too much for granted.
Seeing neighbours spending quality time together as a family.
Feeling family members give so much of themselves, in the name of family.
It's incredible.
Too many of us worry incessantly about the next step in our careers at the expense of missed hockey games, first home runs and cups of coffee with dear friends. Too many of us have become overly concerned with the next big style trend, the brand of car in our driveway and the roots of our dyed hair.
But wait.
What if we looked again.
What if we let the silver lining shine a little brighter.
Notice the way a hug feels around our neck.
Take in the smell of our spouse when crawling into bed at night.
See the love our pets offer us without hesitation.
You see, as much as I cannot breathe right now, as much as my heart is broken into a million pieces, I know that there are lessons to be learned. I know that my life will be enriched by choosing mindfulness in my daily activities. In appreciating the kindness and love of others.
I want you to be part of the silver lining.
I never want you to go through this with your child.
But I want you to learn from us.
Grow with us.
Find peace along side us.
I want to prove that all of this happened for a reason.
And I want to hear about what you've learned.
xo
#TeamBrookie #WarriorPrincess
Angry.
Sad.
Broken.
A good start, yes, but the pain I feel is so much deeper than that. So much more raw. It's as if someone took my heart out of my body and still expects me to be 'myself' without it. My brain is foggy, my body aches and tears fall in streams from my face without a moment's notice.
I look at my little girl and wonder how this will change her.
Will she go into medicine someday, hoping to change the world?
Will she refuse to bare her midsection as a tween because she's ashamed of her scars?
Will she feel a strong dislike for doctors, the very people dedicated to making her well?
I look at my sons, and I can see how this has changed them.
Ethan screams when being left alone, begs for us to sleep with him, wakes 10+ times a night and says things like, "Mom be careful, Brookie is sick." Nolan is, once again, highly sensitive. He is crying more often, crawling into my lap at least once a day and looking at me with eyes that shout dissatisfaction and worry about the current state of our life.
And then I look at Jay and I.
It's awful.
We are shells.
Breathing, yes, but otherwise void of our usual zest for life.
We are pale, exhausted and hurting.
Laughter is infrequent. Silly jokes are missing.
Our love for each other remains unspoken.
We are partners in this journey.
When I am ok, he is not.
When I fall apart, he is strong.
Every ounce of our energy is being poured into our kids, leaving an empty bucket for each other. But that's ok, because we know we are in this together.
I came across a video today, and I feel like everyone needs to watch it.
It's time to stop the 'not doing' and get to doing.
Living.
Being.
Appreciating all that we have.
Losing the regrets.
The silver lining, in all of this, is becoming evident.
Hearing friends say, I've taken too much for granted.
Seeing neighbours spending quality time together as a family.
Feeling family members give so much of themselves, in the name of family.
It's incredible.
Too many of us worry incessantly about the next step in our careers at the expense of missed hockey games, first home runs and cups of coffee with dear friends. Too many of us have become overly concerned with the next big style trend, the brand of car in our driveway and the roots of our dyed hair.
But wait.
What if we looked again.
What if we let the silver lining shine a little brighter.
Notice the way a hug feels around our neck.
Take in the smell of our spouse when crawling into bed at night.
See the love our pets offer us without hesitation.
You see, as much as I cannot breathe right now, as much as my heart is broken into a million pieces, I know that there are lessons to be learned. I know that my life will be enriched by choosing mindfulness in my daily activities. In appreciating the kindness and love of others.
I want you to be part of the silver lining.
I never want you to go through this with your child.
But I want you to learn from us.
Grow with us.
Find peace along side us.
I want to prove that all of this happened for a reason.
And I want to hear about what you've learned.
xo
#TeamBrookie #WarriorPrincess
Saturday, January 30, 2016
The lump, tests, angels and God: talking to our little ones
A great many of our friends and family have expressed worry over what to say to their little ones, as well as to Brooklyn and her siblings. I thought I would share what we've said to date, in case it helps anyone:
Brooklyn has a lump in her belly. The lump shouldn't be there, and even though we cannot see it, it is inside of her. The doctors are doing lots of tests and taking lots of pictures to try and figure out what kind of lump it is - the name of it - so that they can come up with a plan to remove it.
It may involve more medicine, it may involve more surgery, or a combination of those things. We don't know yet. We may even have to sleep at the hospital for awhile, as we did last week.
It's ok to be scared. It's ok to be angry. It's ok to want to scream and yell and cry and be quiet and not talk at all. All of those feeling are ok, but we've told all three of the kids they are absolutely NOT alone, that we all feel the same way and are all looking forward to Brookie being well again.
On Thursday, Nolan asked us how it got there.
Good question.
That one caught Jay and I both off guard, and so we answered like this:
Inside of our body, there are cells. Sometimes those cells can become confused and grow into things they are not supposed to grow into. Brooklyn's lump is a group of cells that grew in her belly, but they should not be there. We need to remove the lump in order to make Brooklyn better.
It's not Brooklyn's fault, or anyone's fault, that these cells grew in her belly. All we can do now is wait for the doctors to come up with a plan to make her all better.
As you can see, we haven't mentioned the big 'C' word yet, partially because it is not an official diagnosis, and partially because hypothetical statements will only cause anxiety and worry in our kids. We know this all too well, we've been living with it for two weeks now.
We will wait until all the facts are known before telling them any more.
A few well-meaning people have recently said to Brooklyn, "We are happy that you are all better." This is an incorrect statement, and we politely ask that you refrain from saying this to her.
She is taking a break from the hospital for a few days, until the doctors come up with a plan to help her. She is resting, healing and playing with her friends at school because those things feel good and are good for her to do. It is safe for her to play, and we are happy to see her go to school.
Finally, I've talked to her a lot about God and angels:
Angels can help you, when you are feeling sad or lonely or worried. Its important to ask your angels to help you. You can talk quietly to yourself, write them a letter or just say the words in your head. Mommy has been calling on all our family angels to surround us with love, white light and protection as we live each day.
God is also watching over you. We don't know why you have to go through this, but we know that God has made you a strong and beautiful girl capable of getting through whatever we have to do in order to be well again. We trust in God, even though this is the hardest thing we've ever had to do.
I hope this helps a few of you. Please encourage your kids to play with Brooklyn, love her up and tell her how much they missed seeing her. She's a beautiful five year old whose soul is fueled by spending time with her friends and family.
#TeamBrookie #WarriorPrincess
Brooklyn has a lump in her belly. The lump shouldn't be there, and even though we cannot see it, it is inside of her. The doctors are doing lots of tests and taking lots of pictures to try and figure out what kind of lump it is - the name of it - so that they can come up with a plan to remove it.
It may involve more medicine, it may involve more surgery, or a combination of those things. We don't know yet. We may even have to sleep at the hospital for awhile, as we did last week.
It's ok to be scared. It's ok to be angry. It's ok to want to scream and yell and cry and be quiet and not talk at all. All of those feeling are ok, but we've told all three of the kids they are absolutely NOT alone, that we all feel the same way and are all looking forward to Brookie being well again.
On Thursday, Nolan asked us how it got there.
Good question.
That one caught Jay and I both off guard, and so we answered like this:
Inside of our body, there are cells. Sometimes those cells can become confused and grow into things they are not supposed to grow into. Brooklyn's lump is a group of cells that grew in her belly, but they should not be there. We need to remove the lump in order to make Brooklyn better.
It's not Brooklyn's fault, or anyone's fault, that these cells grew in her belly. All we can do now is wait for the doctors to come up with a plan to make her all better.
As you can see, we haven't mentioned the big 'C' word yet, partially because it is not an official diagnosis, and partially because hypothetical statements will only cause anxiety and worry in our kids. We know this all too well, we've been living with it for two weeks now.
We will wait until all the facts are known before telling them any more.
A few well-meaning people have recently said to Brooklyn, "We are happy that you are all better." This is an incorrect statement, and we politely ask that you refrain from saying this to her.
She is taking a break from the hospital for a few days, until the doctors come up with a plan to help her. She is resting, healing and playing with her friends at school because those things feel good and are good for her to do. It is safe for her to play, and we are happy to see her go to school.
Finally, I've talked to her a lot about God and angels:
Angels can help you, when you are feeling sad or lonely or worried. Its important to ask your angels to help you. You can talk quietly to yourself, write them a letter or just say the words in your head. Mommy has been calling on all our family angels to surround us with love, white light and protection as we live each day.
God is also watching over you. We don't know why you have to go through this, but we know that God has made you a strong and beautiful girl capable of getting through whatever we have to do in order to be well again. We trust in God, even though this is the hardest thing we've ever had to do.
I hope this helps a few of you. Please encourage your kids to play with Brooklyn, love her up and tell her how much they missed seeing her. She's a beautiful five year old whose soul is fueled by spending time with her friends and family.
#TeamBrookie #WarriorPrincess
Friday, January 29, 2016
Coping
Brooklyn has finally completed the last of the required tests.
Her only scheduled appointment next week is a surgical follow up from her biopsy.
Now we wait.
Wait for a diagnosis. A treatment plan. A timeline.
It's the scariest feeling ever, to know something so important rides entirely on others. Highly intelligent and well trained others, but still the lack of control takes my breath away more than once a day.
I feel sad.
Empty.
Anxious.
Shaky.
Weak.
I've really pulled into myself, the way a turtle crowds it's shell during times of danger.
I worry about my boys and the trauma this has caused each of them.
E has endured nightmares. He needs to know where I am going and when I'll be back. He asks lots of questions about where his siblings are, and he was so angry last week when we made it clear he wasn't allow to hug his sister because of her boo-boos. He cried the most gigantic, most heartbreaking tears last weekend as he spontaiously told me how hard it was to go from the babysitter's house to his grandparents' house and back. His entire routine was disrupted, despite our best efforts.
N is sullen, at times unable to decipher what he's feeling. He made a feeling picture with the Child Life Specialists yesterday, of our faces before B got sick and since B has been in the hospital.
This image brought me to tears. He is right and its hard to know he's hurting as much as we are, despite our attempts to be as warm and normal as possible. He is a feeler, a deeply emotional child, and he knows that this is serious.
When my mind wanders, I sometimes think about the worst case scenario.
Chemo. Hair loss. Extended hospital stays.
A daughter with self esteem issues... her first set of incisions really upset her.
And then sometimes I focus on the beautiful party we will have when this is all over with.
The music. The jumpy castle. The cold drinks and big hugs.
Tears of joy.
A chance to thank everyone for their support.
The entire next week is out of our hands, all there is left to do is pray that hope becomes reality.
I find myself too tired to pray these last few days, and so I am grateful for all of your spiritual dedication to my family.
xo
#TeamBrookie #WarriorPrincess
Her only scheduled appointment next week is a surgical follow up from her biopsy.
Now we wait.
Wait for a diagnosis. A treatment plan. A timeline.
It's the scariest feeling ever, to know something so important rides entirely on others. Highly intelligent and well trained others, but still the lack of control takes my breath away more than once a day.
I feel sad.
Empty.
Anxious.
Shaky.
Weak.
I've really pulled into myself, the way a turtle crowds it's shell during times of danger.
I worry about my boys and the trauma this has caused each of them.
E has endured nightmares. He needs to know where I am going and when I'll be back. He asks lots of questions about where his siblings are, and he was so angry last week when we made it clear he wasn't allow to hug his sister because of her boo-boos. He cried the most gigantic, most heartbreaking tears last weekend as he spontaiously told me how hard it was to go from the babysitter's house to his grandparents' house and back. His entire routine was disrupted, despite our best efforts.
N is sullen, at times unable to decipher what he's feeling. He made a feeling picture with the Child Life Specialists yesterday, of our faces before B got sick and since B has been in the hospital.
 |
| Left - before B became sick . Right - after B became sick |
When my mind wanders, I sometimes think about the worst case scenario.
Chemo. Hair loss. Extended hospital stays.
A daughter with self esteem issues... her first set of incisions really upset her.
And then sometimes I focus on the beautiful party we will have when this is all over with.
The music. The jumpy castle. The cold drinks and big hugs.
Tears of joy.
A chance to thank everyone for their support.
The entire next week is out of our hands, all there is left to do is pray that hope becomes reality.
I find myself too tired to pray these last few days, and so I am grateful for all of your spiritual dedication to my family.
xo
#TeamBrookie #WarriorPrincess
Wednesday, January 27, 2016
Any other day
It began like any other day.
My focus was on getting my kids dressed, packing lunches and loading them into the van in time to make the first bell. Nolan, age 7, and Brooklyn, age 5, love to play for a few minutes with their friends before classes officially begin.
Drop off. Check.
Coffee run. Check.
Morning visit with my wee man Ethan, age 2, to our local early years centre. Check.
Around 11 o'clock that morning E and I headed home. Thursday is our special day together, one I so cherish. I put his favourite show on TV and headed upstairs to make him some eggs for lunch.
Cue the phone.
I always check my call display before answering, and when I did, my heart dropped.
It was my kids' pediatrician's office calling.
In the three seconds or so that it took to pick up the receiver, my mind raced.
B had just gone the previous day for an ultrasound on her abdomen, specifically looking at her bladder. After recurrent UTIs, random unexplained constipation and complaints of it hurting to sit on the toilet, I asked her doctor to consider more testing.
I couldn't take her to that appointment as I was just beginning to teach my first week of the winter term, thank goodness my amazing parents jumped at the chance to spend time with B. The technician had told my mother it would be about 5 business days before results would be available to our doctor.
But the pediatrician's office was on the phone now, on this very normal, average day.
Asking me to come in regarding the results of the ultrasound.
I hung up the phone and my chest hurt.
Not 15 minutes later, the office was calling again.
This time, our pediatrician was on the other end.
"I've reviewed the results and referred you up to McMaster Children's Hospital. There is a mass in her abdomen which requires further investigation. I have spoken directly to the surgeon, he is aware of your case."
That day, two weeks ago, was just like any other day.
The same arguments.
The same requests for cooperation.
The same snacks in my kids' lunch bags.
Never, in my wildest dreams, would I have guessed our very busy pediatrician would call me at home. That McMaster would call the next day and tell us to come in three days later, promptly at 9am.
To be admitted.
To begin a very, very difficult two weeks.
CT scans.
IV drips.
Blood work.
Urine samples.
Biopsies.
Hearing and eye tests.
Echos.
Bone marrow biopsy.
Bone scan.
MIBG scan.
Days so long, tears flowing uncontrollably and questions nearly impossible to answer:
"Why do they keep touching me? They make me feel worser Mom! Make it stop!"
"How many more tests mommy, I hate tests!"
"Why can't I eat, mommy? They never let me eat here!"
"Mommy I am not sick. I am fine. Take me home?"
Seeing my little angel, my precious baby girl, in pain. Suffering at the hands of the people who were put in place to help her. Feeling entirely helpless, hopeless and trembling at the thought of one more wheelchair ride, one more gurney trip around the hospital.
Watching her little eyes close, body full of drugs, knocking her into a deep sleep over and over again for the sake of something that did not exist a few weeks ago.
Trusting strangers to care for my baby as they would their own, and begging them to do everything in their power to make her well again.
...
The day began like any other day.
Two weeks ago tomorrow.
Yet the following 14 days have been the furthest from that day.
And while these have been the single most difficult two weeks of my life as a mom, wife and woman, I can see with very clear eyes how lucky we are.
Yup.
Its only taken two weeks to complete all the tests necessary for a proper diagnosis.
The hospital is only one hour from our home.
We are surrounded by family, friends and even perfect strangers who continue to fuel us with kind words, meals, gifts and hugs.
Love is plentiful.
Hope is visible.
Faith, while being tested, is a strong and capable companion.
Please pray, for Brooklyn and all children who's lives have been anything but any other day.
#TeamBrookie #WarriorPrincess
My focus was on getting my kids dressed, packing lunches and loading them into the van in time to make the first bell. Nolan, age 7, and Brooklyn, age 5, love to play for a few minutes with their friends before classes officially begin.
Drop off. Check.
Coffee run. Check.
Morning visit with my wee man Ethan, age 2, to our local early years centre. Check.
Around 11 o'clock that morning E and I headed home. Thursday is our special day together, one I so cherish. I put his favourite show on TV and headed upstairs to make him some eggs for lunch.
Cue the phone.
I always check my call display before answering, and when I did, my heart dropped.
It was my kids' pediatrician's office calling.
In the three seconds or so that it took to pick up the receiver, my mind raced.
B had just gone the previous day for an ultrasound on her abdomen, specifically looking at her bladder. After recurrent UTIs, random unexplained constipation and complaints of it hurting to sit on the toilet, I asked her doctor to consider more testing.
I couldn't take her to that appointment as I was just beginning to teach my first week of the winter term, thank goodness my amazing parents jumped at the chance to spend time with B. The technician had told my mother it would be about 5 business days before results would be available to our doctor.
But the pediatrician's office was on the phone now, on this very normal, average day.
Asking me to come in regarding the results of the ultrasound.
I hung up the phone and my chest hurt.
Not 15 minutes later, the office was calling again.
This time, our pediatrician was on the other end.
"I've reviewed the results and referred you up to McMaster Children's Hospital. There is a mass in her abdomen which requires further investigation. I have spoken directly to the surgeon, he is aware of your case."
That day, two weeks ago, was just like any other day.
The same arguments.
The same requests for cooperation.
The same snacks in my kids' lunch bags.
Never, in my wildest dreams, would I have guessed our very busy pediatrician would call me at home. That McMaster would call the next day and tell us to come in three days later, promptly at 9am.
To be admitted.
To begin a very, very difficult two weeks.
CT scans.
IV drips.
Blood work.
Urine samples.
Biopsies.
Hearing and eye tests.
Echos.
Bone marrow biopsy.
Bone scan.
MIBG scan.
Days so long, tears flowing uncontrollably and questions nearly impossible to answer:
"Why do they keep touching me? They make me feel worser Mom! Make it stop!"
"How many more tests mommy, I hate tests!"
"Why can't I eat, mommy? They never let me eat here!"
"Mommy I am not sick. I am fine. Take me home?"
Seeing my little angel, my precious baby girl, in pain. Suffering at the hands of the people who were put in place to help her. Feeling entirely helpless, hopeless and trembling at the thought of one more wheelchair ride, one more gurney trip around the hospital.
Watching her little eyes close, body full of drugs, knocking her into a deep sleep over and over again for the sake of something that did not exist a few weeks ago.
Trusting strangers to care for my baby as they would their own, and begging them to do everything in their power to make her well again.
...
The day began like any other day.
Two weeks ago tomorrow.
Yet the following 14 days have been the furthest from that day.
And while these have been the single most difficult two weeks of my life as a mom, wife and woman, I can see with very clear eyes how lucky we are.
Yup.
Its only taken two weeks to complete all the tests necessary for a proper diagnosis.
The hospital is only one hour from our home.
We are surrounded by family, friends and even perfect strangers who continue to fuel us with kind words, meals, gifts and hugs.
Love is plentiful.
Hope is visible.
Faith, while being tested, is a strong and capable companion.
Please pray, for Brooklyn and all children who's lives have been anything but any other day.
#TeamBrookie #WarriorPrincess
Monday, December 28, 2015
A lesson in kindness
This December, our family tried something new.
We designed, then followed an Acts of Kindness calendar from December 1st to 24th, acting out one simple thing daily that was kind, caring and thoughtful. The acts were not centered around social justice issues, but chosen to reflect opportunities for our young children to easily make their friends, family and neighbours happier in the month of December.
While we couldn't include everyone in our Acts of Kindness, we did our best to include as many people as we could. Some days were easier to complete than others and some days required all children to participate while on other days only one child had something to check off their list. Buying snacks at school for a friend, delivering artwork to a neighbour and donating food to the school food drive were examples of their daily tasks.
It was my hope that my oldest children - Nolan (7) and Brooklyn (5) would find inspiration in the sensation of making others happy. My youngest, Ethan (2), was along really just along for the ride, but surprised me in his ability to take part and enjoy this new daily ritual.
I thought it would be fun to ask the kids a few questions, to see what they learned. Here are their answers, verbatim:
Question One: Why did we complete Acts of Kindness in December?
N - I don't know.
B - Cause that was a countdown to Christmas.
Question Two: What was your favourite Act of Kindness we completed? Why?
N - Telling jokes to Nana and Nanna. Why? I don't know.
B - Um, giving the movie to Kyleigh because that was a random act of kindness.
Question Three: How did you feel when completing an Act of Kindness?
N - Good.
B - Happy.
Question Four: Can you come up with one new Act of Kindness for next year?
N - We have to do it again next year? Isn't one year enough?
B - Make someone's bed.
Question Five: What did you learn about our family?
N - No, same as always.
B - That we have to work together.
Funny how you can raise your kids the same way, but they grow into entirely different human beings :) The truth is Nolan struggled through most of the tasks. He acted as if it was an inconvenience at times, which admittedly hurt my heart now and again. To his defence, though, Nolan is an incredibly private boy who never wishes to be in the spotlight. Asking him to 'perform' tasks did give him some anxiety, depending on how public it was.
Brooklyn, on the other hand, loved every moment of it. She couldn't wait to hear about our task each day, and was always asking ahead a few days to prepare herself for what was to come. She smiled when talking about it, loved to share stories about the outcomes each day and often found additional ways to 'help others' and 'show kindness'.
It was a fun way to focus on family and giving in December. It was also a waaaay better tool for counting down to Christmas than any overpriced advent calendar on the market. I highly recommend families try it next December and consider taking a 'theme' appropriate and relevant to your family.
Perhaps the results will be mixed, but the experience of working together as a family is entirely worth the effort <3.
We designed, then followed an Acts of Kindness calendar from December 1st to 24th, acting out one simple thing daily that was kind, caring and thoughtful. The acts were not centered around social justice issues, but chosen to reflect opportunities for our young children to easily make their friends, family and neighbours happier in the month of December.
While we couldn't include everyone in our Acts of Kindness, we did our best to include as many people as we could. Some days were easier to complete than others and some days required all children to participate while on other days only one child had something to check off their list. Buying snacks at school for a friend, delivering artwork to a neighbour and donating food to the school food drive were examples of their daily tasks.
 |
| The calendar was hung on our fridge, to remind us of our daily tasks |
I thought it would be fun to ask the kids a few questions, to see what they learned. Here are their answers, verbatim:
Question One: Why did we complete Acts of Kindness in December?
N - I don't know.
B - Cause that was a countdown to Christmas.
Question Two: What was your favourite Act of Kindness we completed? Why?
N - Telling jokes to Nana and Nanna. Why? I don't know.
B - Um, giving the movie to Kyleigh because that was a random act of kindness.
Question Three: How did you feel when completing an Act of Kindness?
N - Good.
B - Happy.
Question Four: Can you come up with one new Act of Kindness for next year?
N - We have to do it again next year? Isn't one year enough?
B - Make someone's bed.
Question Five: What did you learn about our family?
N - No, same as always.
B - That we have to work together.
Funny how you can raise your kids the same way, but they grow into entirely different human beings :) The truth is Nolan struggled through most of the tasks. He acted as if it was an inconvenience at times, which admittedly hurt my heart now and again. To his defence, though, Nolan is an incredibly private boy who never wishes to be in the spotlight. Asking him to 'perform' tasks did give him some anxiety, depending on how public it was.
Brooklyn, on the other hand, loved every moment of it. She couldn't wait to hear about our task each day, and was always asking ahead a few days to prepare herself for what was to come. She smiled when talking about it, loved to share stories about the outcomes each day and often found additional ways to 'help others' and 'show kindness'.
It was a fun way to focus on family and giving in December. It was also a waaaay better tool for counting down to Christmas than any overpriced advent calendar on the market. I highly recommend families try it next December and consider taking a 'theme' appropriate and relevant to your family.
Perhaps the results will be mixed, but the experience of working together as a family is entirely worth the effort <3.
Friday, November 13, 2015
Three children, three reasons
Today is a PA day for my oldest two kiddos, aged seven and five. Both excitedly counted down for their 'home day' and both begged for a jammie party morning of kids cartoons and lego. But they are not the only two kiddos in this house. My wee man, aged two, makes three.
Three kids.
One family.
One mom.
One dad.
As I enjoy listening to my three kids playing this afternoon, I thought I would share three great reasons to have three kids. After all, I am asked the question at least once a week :)
Here goes:
1. The three to one ratio: at any given moment, there are three little opinions about what to make for supper, which songs to sing and what to watch on movie night. Three opinions, but only one choice to make. This creates a constant need for my kids to negotiate, listen, empathize and sometimes flat out compromise with their siblings. While I will admit this can be a challenge, the truth is these are incredible transferable skills for a lifetime of relationships, both personal and professional.
2. Helping hands, kind hearts: our day to day life is chalk full of opportunities to extend help to one another. Older siblings helping younger ones with shoes, zippers and snack time. Younger siblings helping older ones to clean up, set the table and grab blankets for snuggling. Its wonderful to see my youngest 'beam' with smiles when his sister and brother proudly hold his hands on the way into the grocery store. It's even more exciting to observe my oldest two in a teaching moment - be it how to shoot hoops, wash toes in the tub or pet dogs safely while out for a walk. Had we stopped at two, my middle child would never have been given this delightful experience.
3. The pact mentality: research suggests dogs in groups of three or more become packs. They form a hierarchy, move with purpose and become fiercely protective. I find this very similar with my three kids. They have their own special pack bond between them which makes it impossible for any one of them to be away from the others for too long. They NEED each other to feel safe, happy and content. In having three children, I have ensured a built-in safety net for each of them. A safe place.
The truth is, having three kids is difficult. Forget that, it's darn near insane most days. My husband and I are on zone defense ALL THE TIME, we are outnumbered and so we must strategize about things families of two or less likely don't blink an eye at - bedtimes, bath times, extra curricular demands and of course ensuring we each get quality one-on-one time with each child regularly.
In having three kids, I've also been given an amazing lesson in letting go. LIG, as my husband often reminds me. When you have three children at home, its impossible to make everyone happy at the same time. To help dress, provide homework support and potty train all at once. I've tried, trust me, I've tried. But in letting go of doing everything for every one of them something miraculous happened.
My kids found themselves more powerful.
More capable.
More able.
They discovered that they can help themselves. They can help their siblings. And sometimes, on the best days, they can be a big help to mommy and daddy as well.
Three kids.
One family.
One GIANT love.
Three kids.
One family.
One mom.
One dad.
As I enjoy listening to my three kids playing this afternoon, I thought I would share three great reasons to have three kids. After all, I am asked the question at least once a week :)
Here goes:
1. The three to one ratio: at any given moment, there are three little opinions about what to make for supper, which songs to sing and what to watch on movie night. Three opinions, but only one choice to make. This creates a constant need for my kids to negotiate, listen, empathize and sometimes flat out compromise with their siblings. While I will admit this can be a challenge, the truth is these are incredible transferable skills for a lifetime of relationships, both personal and professional.
2. Helping hands, kind hearts: our day to day life is chalk full of opportunities to extend help to one another. Older siblings helping younger ones with shoes, zippers and snack time. Younger siblings helping older ones to clean up, set the table and grab blankets for snuggling. Its wonderful to see my youngest 'beam' with smiles when his sister and brother proudly hold his hands on the way into the grocery store. It's even more exciting to observe my oldest two in a teaching moment - be it how to shoot hoops, wash toes in the tub or pet dogs safely while out for a walk. Had we stopped at two, my middle child would never have been given this delightful experience.
3. The pact mentality: research suggests dogs in groups of three or more become packs. They form a hierarchy, move with purpose and become fiercely protective. I find this very similar with my three kids. They have their own special pack bond between them which makes it impossible for any one of them to be away from the others for too long. They NEED each other to feel safe, happy and content. In having three children, I have ensured a built-in safety net for each of them. A safe place.
The truth is, having three kids is difficult. Forget that, it's darn near insane most days. My husband and I are on zone defense ALL THE TIME, we are outnumbered and so we must strategize about things families of two or less likely don't blink an eye at - bedtimes, bath times, extra curricular demands and of course ensuring we each get quality one-on-one time with each child regularly.
In having three kids, I've also been given an amazing lesson in letting go. LIG, as my husband often reminds me. When you have three children at home, its impossible to make everyone happy at the same time. To help dress, provide homework support and potty train all at once. I've tried, trust me, I've tried. But in letting go of doing everything for every one of them something miraculous happened.
My kids found themselves more powerful.
More capable.
More able.
They discovered that they can help themselves. They can help their siblings. And sometimes, on the best days, they can be a big help to mommy and daddy as well.
Three kids.
One family.
One GIANT love.
Monday, September 1, 2014
I'm not ready
The truth is, I'm not ready.
I don't think I'll ever be ready.
I just tucked in my two oldest, beautiful children. Asked them to please get a great sleep because tomorrow was their first day, first experience as full day students.
We'd already shopped for back to school clothing. Pulled out backpacks. Talked about snacks and lunch and which zipper container to open on their new, very fancy lunch bags.
Reminded them to use their manners. Get to the bathroom before too long. Wash their hands. Listen at circle time. Ask questions. Behave.
I told them how proud I was of each of them. How much I love them. How I will miss them dearly.
Then I said goodnight. Closed the door. And cried.
Cried for my pending loss. Cried for the quietness about the take over my house. Cried because I know life moves too quickly, children grow too fast, and kisses don't fit inside backpacks.
I cried because I love them. Love who they have become, love seeing them grow every single day, love every single ounce of their little bodies and souls. Love who they have moulded me to become as a mom and woman.
This journey, this incredible opportunity to have been home, their stay-at-home, work-at-home mother, has been more demanding and as a result more rewarding then I ever dreamed was possible.
And so, I'm not ready.
To walk them to school. Kiss them goodbye. Turn and walk away.
I'm not ready.
My Nolan. My Brooklyn. Forever my preschoolers, forever my little sidekicks on an adventure with me. Forever my soul mates, partners in crime and snuggle monkeys.
Forever my babies.
And so, I will cry. Over and over again.
Because I have been blessed with the most special gift of all. Being their mother.
xoxo
I don't think I'll ever be ready.
I just tucked in my two oldest, beautiful children. Asked them to please get a great sleep because tomorrow was their first day, first experience as full day students.
We'd already shopped for back to school clothing. Pulled out backpacks. Talked about snacks and lunch and which zipper container to open on their new, very fancy lunch bags.
Reminded them to use their manners. Get to the bathroom before too long. Wash their hands. Listen at circle time. Ask questions. Behave.
I told them how proud I was of each of them. How much I love them. How I will miss them dearly.
Then I said goodnight. Closed the door. And cried.
Cried for my pending loss. Cried for the quietness about the take over my house. Cried because I know life moves too quickly, children grow too fast, and kisses don't fit inside backpacks.
I cried because I love them. Love who they have become, love seeing them grow every single day, love every single ounce of their little bodies and souls. Love who they have moulded me to become as a mom and woman.
This journey, this incredible opportunity to have been home, their stay-at-home, work-at-home mother, has been more demanding and as a result more rewarding then I ever dreamed was possible.
And so, I'm not ready.
To walk them to school. Kiss them goodbye. Turn and walk away.
I'm not ready.
My Nolan. My Brooklyn. Forever my preschoolers, forever my little sidekicks on an adventure with me. Forever my soul mates, partners in crime and snuggle monkeys.
Forever my babies.
And so, I will cry. Over and over again.
Because I have been blessed with the most special gift of all. Being their mother.
xoxo
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
A letter to my sister
I drove over to my sister-in-law's place Sunday night. Long story short, I missed my Goddaughter's baptism celebration because my wee man was sick. My brother-in-law offered me a beer, not my style anymore (I must be getting old) so I settled for a coke. When I popped open the tab, she asked, 'who are you sharing a coke with?'
I peeked at the side of the can and it said, sister.
Yup, I sure was. And the rest of her gorgeous family. It got me to thinking, we've shared an awful lot these last 13 years...
Her first keg party and my home-hosted event.
Graduations.
Movies.
Slopitch games.
Family vacations.
Blue Jays games.
America's Next Top Model.
Shopping.
Ok, lots of shopping.
Tapas.
Our weddings.
Bridal and baby showers.
Our neighbourhood.
Our neighbourhood school.
Play dates.
So You Think You Can Dance.
Meals.
Baking.
Birthday parties.
Dance parties.
Late night walks.
More importantly, we've shared our journey as mothers.
Two pregnancies in tandem.
Seven beautiful children in total.
Gripes over swollen feet, giant boobs and clothes that didn't fit.
Slurpee, ice cream and candy cravings.
Tears.
Panic over unknown illnesses, bumps on the head and fevers.
Joy in first steps, words and smiles.
Pure exhaustion.
The baby blues.
Money, and the lack of it available to make ends meet.
Discipline.
Disappointment.
Grief.
BBM conversations at nearly every hour of the day and night, about the highs and lows of our day. About our lacking desire to be a mom. About our amazing kids. About the incredible heartache of losing a daughter and niece. About being fully convinced that our children were going to push us to the brink of insanity.
We've laughed as much as we've cried.
We've shared brilliant days and many difficult, if not painful ones.
We've borrowed strength, shared hugs and reminded each other we are never alone.
Last May, two births. One enormous loss. Grief. Rage. Guilt.
This May, one birth. One first birthday on earth, one in heaven. More grief. More guilt.
What a journey.
My sister,
This last year has bonded us in a way most will never fully understand. I will never, ever forget that day. Seeing you walk up my driveway, tears streaming down your face. The following days of waiting, praying, induction, early morning conversation and the moment little Kinsley's photo popped up on my phone. I wanted to run down to that hospital and hold her, hug you and carry your broken heart.
Your boys are my sons. Your daughters, mine too. Your angel in heaven makes her presence known in my home, and she watches over all of our children each and every day. We are one big family.
I love you, my sister. And I want you to know that I couldn't do this thing... this mama thing... without you.
xoxo
I peeked at the side of the can and it said, sister.
Yup, I sure was. And the rest of her gorgeous family. It got me to thinking, we've shared an awful lot these last 13 years...
Her first keg party and my home-hosted event.
Graduations.
Movies.
Slopitch games.
Family vacations.
Blue Jays games.
America's Next Top Model.
Shopping.
Ok, lots of shopping.
Tapas.
Our weddings.
Bridal and baby showers.
Our neighbourhood.
Our neighbourhood school.
Play dates.
So You Think You Can Dance.
Meals.
Baking.
Birthday parties.
Dance parties.
Late night walks.
More importantly, we've shared our journey as mothers.
Two pregnancies in tandem.
Seven beautiful children in total.
Gripes over swollen feet, giant boobs and clothes that didn't fit.
Slurpee, ice cream and candy cravings.
Tears.
Panic over unknown illnesses, bumps on the head and fevers.
Joy in first steps, words and smiles.
Pure exhaustion.
The baby blues.
Money, and the lack of it available to make ends meet.
Discipline.
Disappointment.
Grief.
BBM conversations at nearly every hour of the day and night, about the highs and lows of our day. About our lacking desire to be a mom. About our amazing kids. About the incredible heartache of losing a daughter and niece. About being fully convinced that our children were going to push us to the brink of insanity.
We've laughed as much as we've cried.
We've shared brilliant days and many difficult, if not painful ones.
We've borrowed strength, shared hugs and reminded each other we are never alone.
Last May, two births. One enormous loss. Grief. Rage. Guilt.
This May, one birth. One first birthday on earth, one in heaven. More grief. More guilt.
What a journey.
My sister,
This last year has bonded us in a way most will never fully understand. I will never, ever forget that day. Seeing you walk up my driveway, tears streaming down your face. The following days of waiting, praying, induction, early morning conversation and the moment little Kinsley's photo popped up on my phone. I wanted to run down to that hospital and hold her, hug you and carry your broken heart.
Your boys are my sons. Your daughters, mine too. Your angel in heaven makes her presence known in my home, and she watches over all of our children each and every day. We are one big family.
I love you, my sister. And I want you to know that I couldn't do this thing... this mama thing... without you.
xoxo
Sunday, July 21, 2013
Angel in the Wings
I've held a firm belief in angels for a very long time. When I was a child, I collected angels and displayed them on a large wood shelf in my bedroom. I spent many afternoons staring at my little statues, admiring their shapes and imagining potential personalities.
When it came time to name our children, I felt it important to give each child an 'angel name'. The already difficult task of choosing (and agreeing) upon names now became an opportunity to honour family members gone before us and share their legacy for the next generation.
Nolan's middle name is Scott, after my cousin and childhood hero who took his own life at the young age of 20. He babysat us as kids, taught us how to pronounce U2 and engaged us like no other young family member ever could. He was awesome, and his death devastated my brother and I. My wish is that Scott's love of family influences Nolan to become a well-rounded man and attentive father someday.
Brooklyn's middle name is Amelia, after my grandmother. She was an incredible woman who survived the Holocaust, immigrated to Canada and eventually raised four kids alone after her husband passed away. She endured great suffering, loss and heartache, yet continued to push onward. My wish is that my Babcia's strength of character assists Brooklyn in becoming a strong, independent girl during those difficult pre-teen and teenage years.
Ethan's middle name is John, after Jay's recently departed grandfather. He was a man passionate about the outdoors who taught my husband, then a young boy, to love long days fishing on a quiet boat. In his final years, he took great pride in hearing all about Jay's sales career, living vicariously through the weekly telephone calls. My wish for Ethan is that Papa John's love of nature shine deep into the core of his heart to instill in Ethan an appreciation for the beauty all around him.
I pray every night that these angels watch over my children and support them throughout their growing years and beyond. I know that each of my children are being watched over by their 'angel in the wings', and finally found a children's book to put a visual to my conviction. We read it often, as I believe it's important for my children to know they are never alone.
I never imagined I'd have to explain to my children that their cousins also have an angel, but that this angel is extra special. This angel, their little cousin, rose to heaven before they could know or hug her. This little angel, Kinsley, is an angel in the highest regard. Her little soul stands firmly next to her older brothers, watching their every move and ensuring their safety. I like to think she also comforts her parents, lifts them up during the most difficult days.
It's been eight weeks already, since little Kinsley began her duties as angel-in-chief for my sister-in-law, brother-in-law and nephews. And while I've always had a strong faith, this time I'm struggling to understand why. This time I'm asking my angel in the wings to guide me.
Thinking of you, little Kinsley. Auntie Pam loves you very much. xo
When it came time to name our children, I felt it important to give each child an 'angel name'. The already difficult task of choosing (and agreeing) upon names now became an opportunity to honour family members gone before us and share their legacy for the next generation.
Nolan's middle name is Scott, after my cousin and childhood hero who took his own life at the young age of 20. He babysat us as kids, taught us how to pronounce U2 and engaged us like no other young family member ever could. He was awesome, and his death devastated my brother and I. My wish is that Scott's love of family influences Nolan to become a well-rounded man and attentive father someday.
Brooklyn's middle name is Amelia, after my grandmother. She was an incredible woman who survived the Holocaust, immigrated to Canada and eventually raised four kids alone after her husband passed away. She endured great suffering, loss and heartache, yet continued to push onward. My wish is that my Babcia's strength of character assists Brooklyn in becoming a strong, independent girl during those difficult pre-teen and teenage years.
Ethan's middle name is John, after Jay's recently departed grandfather. He was a man passionate about the outdoors who taught my husband, then a young boy, to love long days fishing on a quiet boat. In his final years, he took great pride in hearing all about Jay's sales career, living vicariously through the weekly telephone calls. My wish for Ethan is that Papa John's love of nature shine deep into the core of his heart to instill in Ethan an appreciation for the beauty all around him.
I pray every night that these angels watch over my children and support them throughout their growing years and beyond. I know that each of my children are being watched over by their 'angel in the wings', and finally found a children's book to put a visual to my conviction. We read it often, as I believe it's important for my children to know they are never alone.
I never imagined I'd have to explain to my children that their cousins also have an angel, but that this angel is extra special. This angel, their little cousin, rose to heaven before they could know or hug her. This little angel, Kinsley, is an angel in the highest regard. Her little soul stands firmly next to her older brothers, watching their every move and ensuring their safety. I like to think she also comforts her parents, lifts them up during the most difficult days.
It's been eight weeks already, since little Kinsley began her duties as angel-in-chief for my sister-in-law, brother-in-law and nephews. And while I've always had a strong faith, this time I'm struggling to understand why. This time I'm asking my angel in the wings to guide me.
Thinking of you, little Kinsley. Auntie Pam loves you very much. xo
Monday, December 3, 2012
Poverty, uniforms and Christmas clothes
Last week our local Catholic School Board passed a motion to bring a standardized dress code (read: uniforms) to all elementary schools, beginning next September. The Policy wording states that their goal is to create a 'unified sense of belonging for all students' and 'equalize all students regardless of a family's socio-economic background.'
I understand the appeal, I went to a high school with uniforms and loved them. I didn't have to consider what I what to wear on any given morning, nor did I worry about whether it had the right label on it or not. Unfortunately, this only counted for tops and bottoms - shoes were still an important designation of 'coolness' as was jewellry, coats, backpacks and the like. Uniforms didn't exactly create a unified school - there were still jocks, geeks and mean girls. student council types, prefects, drama kids and the football team. Regardless of what went on your body, you were judged based on the classes you frequented, the friends you hung out with and whether or not you skipped on 'skip day.' Oh, the pressure.
Fast forward and here I am, a 30-year old parent with two lovely kiddos (and a third on the way). I very much value the Catholic school system as I love that each day my son (in afternoons JK) learns not only his ABCS, but about the role of faith in his every day life. He has made the transition to student with relative ease; making friends, learning without disrupting others and even (gasp) completing homework on occasion.
Ironically, my son is attending the same school as I did many years ago. This school is set in a small corner of a very tight-knit community, touting many blue collar workers and a large variety of families. We consider ourselves 'average', whatever that means. We are not wealthy, but we are able to put food on the table and send our children to swimming lesssons. We are not hung up on brands, however I do prefer to purchase quality children's clothing and shoes. I'll even admit I shop mostly in the USA, as the cost of orthopaedic shoes is less than half the cost as in our neck of the woods. I can easily outfit my children for $10-15 per day, and quality clothes that wash and wear well are only replaced when they no longer fit or are appropriate for the ever-changing seasons.
So why the beef with uniforms? Good question.
Part of me is concerned about the ongoing cost of regulated clothing. I appreciate that the School Board revised the policy to state that certain colours and styles are required, not one brand of embroidered top and bottom. Yet, can I seriously outfit my children at my self-imposed price point, all season long? Inevitably they grow, more often at the most inconvenient times. How often and how many of each item will be required?
I'm also worried about my son's reaction to the news that his favourite fire truck shirts and shoes are no longer welcome at school. Most parents rely on the ability to convince a child it's time to get dressed because there's a flashy (insert fun character here) shirt at hand if they listen the first time and get dressed. How do I explain that his teachers are allowed to wear whatever colour of tops and bottoms they'd like to, while he must sport navy or white tops and navy bottoms regardless of what strikes his fancy that morning. I can't even imagine what his little sister is going to do without the ability to wear pink daily.
Mostly I worry that uniforms are just an excuse, another opportunity to 'mask' the poverty that exists in our school system, in every system. I honestly don't remember the clothes my classmates wore in elementary school, however I do remember the student with elastic bands holding his shoes together, as well as the classmate who smelled so bad no-one would sit near him. This is the side of poverty that uniforms simply cannot unify.
I distinctly remember a child, in my grade three class, who ran around for weeks before Christmas shouting "Christmas clothes! Christmas clothes!" whenever we spoke about the holidays and our pending school Christmas concert. We jeered him I'm sad to say, as he seemed to sing-song it wherever he went. For YEARS this was a commonly used joke in my class, as eventually that student moved away. I'm sure I even taught my brother the sing-song at some point.
What I realize now, as an adult, is that this child only received new clothes at Christmas. But once a year. He was so excited for his 'Christmas Clothes!' because he lived in such poverty that new clothes were out of the question. My heart sinks now when I think of this child, what a life he must have led.
Would uniforms have made his life better or worse? I don't know the answer to that but I do know that if my teachers and perhaps even my parents had really listened and realized the underlying issue in this little school yard joke - we, at age 8, did not understand what poverty was - then perhaps this child would have celebrated without judgement or jeering from his peers.
Poverty exists in our own school, our community and beyond. We need to teach our children what it looks and feels like in order to support their acceptance of others less fortunate than ourselves.
Uniforms or not, my children will understand that while they cannot always change the cycle of poverty, they will be required to support their peers, regardless of whether or not they have new clothes at Christmas time.
I understand the appeal, I went to a high school with uniforms and loved them. I didn't have to consider what I what to wear on any given morning, nor did I worry about whether it had the right label on it or not. Unfortunately, this only counted for tops and bottoms - shoes were still an important designation of 'coolness' as was jewellry, coats, backpacks and the like. Uniforms didn't exactly create a unified school - there were still jocks, geeks and mean girls. student council types, prefects, drama kids and the football team. Regardless of what went on your body, you were judged based on the classes you frequented, the friends you hung out with and whether or not you skipped on 'skip day.' Oh, the pressure.
Fast forward and here I am, a 30-year old parent with two lovely kiddos (and a third on the way). I very much value the Catholic school system as I love that each day my son (in afternoons JK) learns not only his ABCS, but about the role of faith in his every day life. He has made the transition to student with relative ease; making friends, learning without disrupting others and even (gasp) completing homework on occasion.
Ironically, my son is attending the same school as I did many years ago. This school is set in a small corner of a very tight-knit community, touting many blue collar workers and a large variety of families. We consider ourselves 'average', whatever that means. We are not wealthy, but we are able to put food on the table and send our children to swimming lesssons. We are not hung up on brands, however I do prefer to purchase quality children's clothing and shoes. I'll even admit I shop mostly in the USA, as the cost of orthopaedic shoes is less than half the cost as in our neck of the woods. I can easily outfit my children for $10-15 per day, and quality clothes that wash and wear well are only replaced when they no longer fit or are appropriate for the ever-changing seasons.
So why the beef with uniforms? Good question.
Part of me is concerned about the ongoing cost of regulated clothing. I appreciate that the School Board revised the policy to state that certain colours and styles are required, not one brand of embroidered top and bottom. Yet, can I seriously outfit my children at my self-imposed price point, all season long? Inevitably they grow, more often at the most inconvenient times. How often and how many of each item will be required?
I'm also worried about my son's reaction to the news that his favourite fire truck shirts and shoes are no longer welcome at school. Most parents rely on the ability to convince a child it's time to get dressed because there's a flashy (insert fun character here) shirt at hand if they listen the first time and get dressed. How do I explain that his teachers are allowed to wear whatever colour of tops and bottoms they'd like to, while he must sport navy or white tops and navy bottoms regardless of what strikes his fancy that morning. I can't even imagine what his little sister is going to do without the ability to wear pink daily.
Mostly I worry that uniforms are just an excuse, another opportunity to 'mask' the poverty that exists in our school system, in every system. I honestly don't remember the clothes my classmates wore in elementary school, however I do remember the student with elastic bands holding his shoes together, as well as the classmate who smelled so bad no-one would sit near him. This is the side of poverty that uniforms simply cannot unify.
I distinctly remember a child, in my grade three class, who ran around for weeks before Christmas shouting "Christmas clothes! Christmas clothes!" whenever we spoke about the holidays and our pending school Christmas concert. We jeered him I'm sad to say, as he seemed to sing-song it wherever he went. For YEARS this was a commonly used joke in my class, as eventually that student moved away. I'm sure I even taught my brother the sing-song at some point.
What I realize now, as an adult, is that this child only received new clothes at Christmas. But once a year. He was so excited for his 'Christmas Clothes!' because he lived in such poverty that new clothes were out of the question. My heart sinks now when I think of this child, what a life he must have led.
Would uniforms have made his life better or worse? I don't know the answer to that but I do know that if my teachers and perhaps even my parents had really listened and realized the underlying issue in this little school yard joke - we, at age 8, did not understand what poverty was - then perhaps this child would have celebrated without judgement or jeering from his peers.
Poverty exists in our own school, our community and beyond. We need to teach our children what it looks and feels like in order to support their acceptance of others less fortunate than ourselves.
Uniforms or not, my children will understand that while they cannot always change the cycle of poverty, they will be required to support their peers, regardless of whether or not they have new clothes at Christmas time.
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