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.
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.
Friday, November 13, 2015
Thursday, October 8, 2015
The gift of mindfulness
On my way to bed tonight, I found myself tidying my home. Three kids, two dogs and two adults in one backsplit inevitably means something is out of place by the end of the night.
I tidied the closet and shut the door, acutely aware of the cute little jackets hanging inside.
I locked the door and slid the deadbolt in place, feeling grateful for my safe and secure home.
I walked up the stairs, into the bathroom to brush my teeth. My toothbrush was touching my husband's brush, and my immediate thought was how lucky I felt for the gift of his love each and every day.
Gratitude strikes me in unique moments;
When my oldest shows off his latest Lego creation, I watch his long eyelashes bounce around as he excitedly recalls the moment he found the missing piece he needed for completion.
As I settle into my daughter's bed for story time, I am drawn to her little fingers as they methodically move from word to word, page to page, determined to read to me, and not the other way around.
When my wee man, hot from crying, asks for a hug, I am overcome with joy that even a two year old realizes the value of human touch.
This is the gift of mindfulness.
It feels very much like gazing at a cherished photograph, perhaps a milestone moment, which instantly transports your body to a place of warm hearts and wide smiles. This gift, mindfulness, has released me from many of my daily fears, strengthened my soul in times of difficulty and, above all, has filled my spirit with deep affection for those most important to me.
Try tuning in to your surroundings, to the mundane and busy moments that fill our every day lives. Notice the smells, noises, little eyes and careful notes left by your family, peers and mentors. Mindfulness will refocus your eyes on the love, hope and acceptance readily available to all of us.
xo
I tidied the closet and shut the door, acutely aware of the cute little jackets hanging inside.
I locked the door and slid the deadbolt in place, feeling grateful for my safe and secure home.
I walked up the stairs, into the bathroom to brush my teeth. My toothbrush was touching my husband's brush, and my immediate thought was how lucky I felt for the gift of his love each and every day.
Gratitude strikes me in unique moments;
When my oldest shows off his latest Lego creation, I watch his long eyelashes bounce around as he excitedly recalls the moment he found the missing piece he needed for completion.
As I settle into my daughter's bed for story time, I am drawn to her little fingers as they methodically move from word to word, page to page, determined to read to me, and not the other way around.
When my wee man, hot from crying, asks for a hug, I am overcome with joy that even a two year old realizes the value of human touch.
This is the gift of mindfulness.
It feels very much like gazing at a cherished photograph, perhaps a milestone moment, which instantly transports your body to a place of warm hearts and wide smiles. This gift, mindfulness, has released me from many of my daily fears, strengthened my soul in times of difficulty and, above all, has filled my spirit with deep affection for those most important to me.
“In mindfulness one is not only restful and happy, but alert and awake.
Meditation is not evasion; it is a serene encounter with reality.” - Thích Nhất Hạnh
Meditation is not evasion; it is a serene encounter with reality.” - Thích Nhất Hạnh
Try tuning in to your surroundings, to the mundane and busy moments that fill our every day lives. Notice the smells, noises, little eyes and careful notes left by your family, peers and mentors. Mindfulness will refocus your eyes on the love, hope and acceptance readily available to all of us.
xo
Friday, September 18, 2015
We can do hard things
As most of you know, its been a wild and crazy year both personally and professionally. I've struggled to feel grounded, worried late into many evenings and have sat in the same room as my kids, yet completely disconnected from them, more times than I am willing to admit.
Here's what I've learned.
Sometimes, despite our best efforts, we simply cannot control our life.
Sometimes, regardless of our deep desire for change, it's simply not possible.
Sometimes, even with the greatest regard for prayer and reflection, we wake up feeling exactly the same way as the day prior.
Sometimes we just need to be reminded:
We can do hard things
To my mom, fighting a mean autoimmune blood disorder that isn't responding to treatment:
You can do hard things.
To my girlfriends, struggling with wee little bebes who doesn't sleep, mothers gone to heaven and blended families:
You can do hard things.
To my BFFs, struggling with bad news, transition and life's uncertain path:
You can do hard things.
We can do hard things.
We can.
And we will.
For we possess love, grace and beauty.
And we have been given the gift of each other.
Here's what I've learned.
Sometimes, despite our best efforts, we simply cannot control our life.
Sometimes, regardless of our deep desire for change, it's simply not possible.
Sometimes, even with the greatest regard for prayer and reflection, we wake up feeling exactly the same way as the day prior.
Sometimes we just need to be reminded:
We can do hard things
To my mom, fighting a mean autoimmune blood disorder that isn't responding to treatment:
You can do hard things.
To my girlfriends, struggling with wee little bebes who doesn't sleep, mothers gone to heaven and blended families:
You can do hard things.
To my BFFs, struggling with bad news, transition and life's uncertain path:
You can do hard things.
We can do hard things.We can.
And we will.
For we possess love, grace and beauty.
And we have been given the gift of each other.
Saturday, August 29, 2015
The Broken Elastic
I don't really know how to explain it.
I don't really know how to describe it.
I don't really know why it happened.
I don't really know.
The only explanation I have is this:
I knew it was bad when, in late July, I balled my face off, in front of my kids, at 9 o'clock in the morning. Over a broken hair elastic.
Yup.
You read that right.
I managed to get the dogs walked, shower, help the kids dress and eat, kiss my husband goodbye, pack up some bags for our morning jaunt and get the kids in the van.
I sat down in the driver's seat and pulled an elastic out of my pocket. My hair was wet and unkept, so I was opting for the usual mom look - the ever popular, high messy bun.
I stretched the elastic around my hair once, twice and SNAP. It broke.
And I sobbed.
Deep, breathless sobs.
The kind you cannot hide. Cannot quiet. Cannot stop in their tracks.
The kids just stared at me, silent. They knew I wasn't ok, but they didn't dare interrupt.
It took me many minutes of deep breathing (thank you meditation) to recover. My mind kept repeating - its ok, you are going to be ok - and my heart slowly settled and my tears stopped.
This has been my entire summer.
A series of broken elastic moments.
I do not feel depressed.
I do not feel anxious.
I do, however, feel entirely outside of myself.
I feel exhausted, burnt out and weak in managing life's every day moments.
Please do not take my absence as a lack of caring.
Do not take my forgetfulness as spiteful.
We all struggle, now and again.
Right now, I just happen to be a broken elastic. <3
I don't really know how to describe it.
I don't really know why it happened.
I don't really know.
The only explanation I have is this:
I knew it was bad when, in late July, I balled my face off, in front of my kids, at 9 o'clock in the morning. Over a broken hair elastic.
Yup.
You read that right.
I managed to get the dogs walked, shower, help the kids dress and eat, kiss my husband goodbye, pack up some bags for our morning jaunt and get the kids in the van.
I sat down in the driver's seat and pulled an elastic out of my pocket. My hair was wet and unkept, so I was opting for the usual mom look - the ever popular, high messy bun.
I stretched the elastic around my hair once, twice and SNAP. It broke.
And I sobbed.
Deep, breathless sobs.
The kind you cannot hide. Cannot quiet. Cannot stop in their tracks.
The kids just stared at me, silent. They knew I wasn't ok, but they didn't dare interrupt.
It took me many minutes of deep breathing (thank you meditation) to recover. My mind kept repeating - its ok, you are going to be ok - and my heart slowly settled and my tears stopped.
This has been my entire summer.
A series of broken elastic moments.
I do not feel depressed.
I do not feel anxious.
I do, however, feel entirely outside of myself.
I feel exhausted, burnt out and weak in managing life's every day moments.
Please do not take my absence as a lack of caring.
Do not take my forgetfulness as spiteful.
We all struggle, now and again.
Right now, I just happen to be a broken elastic. <3
Wednesday, June 17, 2015
The Bandaid
Last night I fed the boys supper earlier than usual. Their sister was off enjoying some time with family, so I made an easy meal and set them up to eat on our small counter height table in the kitchen. Somewhere between placing their food on the table and starting the dishes, I realized I had cut my foot.
No big deal. Right?
By the time I looked down, the blood was running off the top of my foot onto the floor.
Opps.
I looked down, surprised, and said out loud that I didn't realize it was bleeding. Nolan, who's always been interested in cuts and blood immediately hopped out of his chair and knelt down over my foot.
"It's bad mom. You need a Band-Aid!"
Off he scurried to the upstairs bathroom to grab one on my behalf. I knew he'd have to climb on the counter to reach the medicine cabinet, but I let him do it anyways. I knew he was capable (and his siblings weren't there to learn his trick).
He came running down the stairs and the most curious event happened.
He ripped off the paper cover.
Peeled the sticky edges.
Then placed the Band-Aid over my cut.
Talk about a role reversal.
I was in total awe. My six year old acted calmly, swiftly and with great compassion.
I leaned over to kiss his forehead, and thanked him for his kindness.
His reply?
"I love you mommy."
And then my heart melted.
No big deal. Right?
By the time I looked down, the blood was running off the top of my foot onto the floor.
Opps.
I looked down, surprised, and said out loud that I didn't realize it was bleeding. Nolan, who's always been interested in cuts and blood immediately hopped out of his chair and knelt down over my foot.
"It's bad mom. You need a Band-Aid!"
Off he scurried to the upstairs bathroom to grab one on my behalf. I knew he'd have to climb on the counter to reach the medicine cabinet, but I let him do it anyways. I knew he was capable (and his siblings weren't there to learn his trick).
He came running down the stairs and the most curious event happened.
He ripped off the paper cover.
Peeled the sticky edges.
Then placed the Band-Aid over my cut.
Talk about a role reversal.
I was in total awe. My six year old acted calmly, swiftly and with great compassion.
I leaned over to kiss his forehead, and thanked him for his kindness.
His reply?
"I love you mommy."
And then my heart melted.
Friday, May 22, 2015
Missing you, little angel
I'm not really sure how this is going to sound, but I am going to attempt it anyways. My heart has been increasingly heavy this week and it's going to explode if I don't allow the penetrating feelings to come out my fingertips.
It's been two years since I lost my niece. And two years (less a day) that my son was born.
One of the worst weeks of my adult life. One of the best moments of my adult life.
I don't talk much, about those few days, but I relive them in my head quite frequently. There are some pretty intense memories floating around....
The moment my sister-in-law walked up my driveway in tears. The subsequent moment she told me that her baby girl had died in her womb. My heart breaking into pieces. My eyes holding back tears so as not to scare my children. The look of utter horror on my devastated sister-in-law's face.
The night she went into labour. Staring at my phone to check for messages of her progress. Dozing between conversations. Feeling insanely hopeless. Angry. Overwhelmingly sad.
The moment I first laid eyes on her. Little Kinsley. A simple photograph shared by cell phone, an intimate look at the beautiful little angel who was born still. Feeling the need to scream. Or throw my phone. Or run away. Heavy, deep grief.
The phone call from a distraught relative. The words - you tell that baby of yours not to come, this is not his time. He better stay in there for now - which seared my heart so deeply I nearly fell to the floor.
Labour pains. Frantic tears. Terrifying conversations about the possibility of having a child so close to such loss. Prayers begging for mercy, for a reprieve from labour for just a few more days.
The ultrasound. Confirmation of a breech, 8 day overdue child. Panic in my midwife's voice.
Laying on a hospital bed, wondering if my sister-in-law had been in the same room. Preparing for an ECV, nerves frayed and mentally exhausted. Looking up at my husband, tears flowing down his face as the midwife offered him a package of infant loss materials for his sister while I laid in reverse position in an effort to flip our child.
The pain. The excruciating pain of knowing our child was alive in my belly.
The guilt. The take-your-breath away guilt of knowing we'd meet our son that day.
Then, the rush. Of clothes being removed, needles being inserted, questions being asked. The shaking of my entire body as they rushed me into the OR for an emergency C-section. The tears. The inability to stop them from falling down my face.
Then, there was Ethan.
Loud, alive and healthy.
More tears.
Heart pounding guilt.
Shame.
Two years ago, and less than 30 hours apart, two children were born into our family. They were suppose to be best friends. Go to school together. Play together. Grow up side by side. But the story we had written did not meet the reality of our life.
Two years later, the guilt has become tolerable though still overwhelming at times. I cannot help but wonder to myself, would she be as tall as he? Would she love his favourite show? Play ball with him?
Why is he here? Why is she not?
When he hugs my sister-in-law, is his hug filled with divine purpose, a greater gift from his angel cousin? Does he love his aunt so intensely because he is loving her not just as himself, but as his cousin, too?
He is, in many ways, greater than the sum of one child. I cannot help but wonder if in some small way a little piece of his spirit is connected to the spirit of my little angel niece. That a smile from Ethan is, in a way, a little glimpse of heavenly love as well.
Happy birthday baby girl, we miss you and think of you every day.
xo
It's been two years since I lost my niece. And two years (less a day) that my son was born.
One of the worst weeks of my adult life. One of the best moments of my adult life.
I don't talk much, about those few days, but I relive them in my head quite frequently. There are some pretty intense memories floating around....
The moment my sister-in-law walked up my driveway in tears. The subsequent moment she told me that her baby girl had died in her womb. My heart breaking into pieces. My eyes holding back tears so as not to scare my children. The look of utter horror on my devastated sister-in-law's face.
The night she went into labour. Staring at my phone to check for messages of her progress. Dozing between conversations. Feeling insanely hopeless. Angry. Overwhelmingly sad.
The moment I first laid eyes on her. Little Kinsley. A simple photograph shared by cell phone, an intimate look at the beautiful little angel who was born still. Feeling the need to scream. Or throw my phone. Or run away. Heavy, deep grief.
The phone call from a distraught relative. The words - you tell that baby of yours not to come, this is not his time. He better stay in there for now - which seared my heart so deeply I nearly fell to the floor.
Labour pains. Frantic tears. Terrifying conversations about the possibility of having a child so close to such loss. Prayers begging for mercy, for a reprieve from labour for just a few more days.
The ultrasound. Confirmation of a breech, 8 day overdue child. Panic in my midwife's voice.
Laying on a hospital bed, wondering if my sister-in-law had been in the same room. Preparing for an ECV, nerves frayed and mentally exhausted. Looking up at my husband, tears flowing down his face as the midwife offered him a package of infant loss materials for his sister while I laid in reverse position in an effort to flip our child.
The pain. The excruciating pain of knowing our child was alive in my belly.
The guilt. The take-your-breath away guilt of knowing we'd meet our son that day.
Then, the rush. Of clothes being removed, needles being inserted, questions being asked. The shaking of my entire body as they rushed me into the OR for an emergency C-section. The tears. The inability to stop them from falling down my face.
Then, there was Ethan.
Loud, alive and healthy.
More tears.
Heart pounding guilt.
Shame.
Two years ago, and less than 30 hours apart, two children were born into our family. They were suppose to be best friends. Go to school together. Play together. Grow up side by side. But the story we had written did not meet the reality of our life.
Two years later, the guilt has become tolerable though still overwhelming at times. I cannot help but wonder to myself, would she be as tall as he? Would she love his favourite show? Play ball with him?
Why is he here? Why is she not?
When he hugs my sister-in-law, is his hug filled with divine purpose, a greater gift from his angel cousin? Does he love his aunt so intensely because he is loving her not just as himself, but as his cousin, too?
He is, in many ways, greater than the sum of one child. I cannot help but wonder if in some small way a little piece of his spirit is connected to the spirit of my little angel niece. That a smile from Ethan is, in a way, a little glimpse of heavenly love as well.
Happy birthday baby girl, we miss you and think of you every day.
xo
Sunday, May 10, 2015
On Mother's Day
Even after the most heart-wrenching, exhausting and emotional days, the ones where I find myself saying:
'If I could just run away'
'Maybe the kids are better off without me'
'If another little human touches me in any way'
'Maybe I should I change my name'
'I didn't sign up for this'
I know I am meant to be a mom.
My heart loves more.
My spirit endures.
My eyes see the beauty.
There is no greater gift than being a mother.
Today, I selfishly celebrate this gift. This amazing opportunity to mold and motivate little minds with big hearts, little hands with incredible dreams and little feet with many miles to travel. For they are my biggest accomplishment.
They call me mom.
xo
Happy Mother's Day to my incredible Mom and Aunt, my loving in-laws, grandmothers and all my incredible friends playing the role of Mama, Stepmama, Godmama, Furbaby Mama and daughter missing their mama. Sending all my love.
'If I could just run away'
'Maybe the kids are better off without me'
'If another little human touches me in any way'
'Maybe I should I change my name'
'I didn't sign up for this'
I know I am meant to be a mom.
My heart loves more.
My spirit endures.
My eyes see the beauty.
There is no greater gift than being a mother.
Today, I selfishly celebrate this gift. This amazing opportunity to mold and motivate little minds with big hearts, little hands with incredible dreams and little feet with many miles to travel. For they are my biggest accomplishment.
They call me mom.
xo
Happy Mother's Day to my incredible Mom and Aunt, my loving in-laws, grandmothers and all my incredible friends playing the role of Mama, Stepmama, Godmama, Furbaby Mama and daughter missing their mama. Sending all my love.
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