Fear Factor

"Ok buddy, it's good night time."

"Can you stay for a bit? And can I stay in your cosy bed?"

The light is dim, the comics have been read. It was Free Comic Book Day recently and we've hit the motherload and veered away from our standard DC SuperFriends and Tiny Titans (the greatest comic book ever written for wee kids). I read an excerpt from a hilarious Simpson's comic, but made a deal that I wouldn't have to read the horrible Futurama one that follows and traded for some Robert Munsch instead.

We sleep head to head, his too-long bangs grazing his mink-thick eyelashes, my bobby pin typically askew. I don't mean to fall asleep next to him, but the scene is often so peaceful, so full of absolute love that I am lulled to gentle slumber, knowing full well in the back of my mind I have a story to file for tomorrow.

Not quite two hours later I wake slightly, examine the clock and wearily decide that I will wake up early to sneak the story in. I pull on the chain of the bedside lamp that's glaring in my eyes and soon I am back to sleep.

I do not consider the detrimental effect this extinction of light will cause moments later. I fail to remember that his sleep is precarious; that the sleep gods do not like to be disturbed and often take hold of his brain in protest.

I awake to terrified screaming. He's calling for me. I'm right here, I assure him, but we are not in the same dimension. He is trapped in a world I cannot see. His eyes are open, his face heart-breakingly fearful, body trembling. He tries to grasp something where the pillow lays. Briefly, he seems to see me, except I am the headboard. I stay constant, recalling my husband's advice, wracked with his own night terrors 30 years ago: "Just be tender and comfort him."

His eyes are wide open, tears of fright streaming down his face. He moves around the bed, trying to escape a phantom menace, tearing at his face. I rub his back. "I am here lovey, Mommy is right here, you are safe, you are safe, it's just a dream..." I try a variety of word combinations, wondering if there is some magic safe word that breaks the spell and returns my son to me.

Tonight Batman was there too, in this wakeful dream. Or he wanted Batman, I'm not sure. One thing is consistent with the terrors, he is always calling for me. It's the part that makes me feel the most helpless, as I am right there to provide comfort, yet he is so far away mentally and can't connect with my physical presence.

"It will be over soon, it will be over soon," I chant to myself. I mentally go through pages of websites and readings on the differences between night terrors and nightmares. If you don't know, you've never witnessed a night terror. A nightmare is an annoying disturbance in the night. A night terror happens within the first two or three hours of falling asleep and scars a parent for life.

He finds his thumb, soothes himself and I am elated. It's over, I think, but no sooner do I think this then it starts anew. House-shaking shrieks. I try to hold him and rock him like a baby. It seems to help. When he seems calm enough I take him to the bathroom. This I remember from my own childhood nightmares, which plague me to this day. The body's urge to pee must be obeyed, and in a deep sleep the nightmare is sometimes the body's way of trying to wake you up.

He sucks his thumb and puts his head on my shoulder, his limp body letting me know the worst is over. I gingerly place him in his bed beside mine, realizing that we can't get rid of the gates lest he hurt himself during an episode, wondering how we will deal with this once he and his sister are back in the same room.

I lumber downstairs to my laptop.

Suck it!

Before I had children, I used to eye people who gave their children pacifiers with a mix of suspicion and disapproval. "What's the matter," I would think, "Can't they take five minutes to soothe their children? Do they need to shut them up with a dummy?" (Remind me to write a post in future about all the ideas I had about parenting before I actually had children.)

Then I had a baby who breastfed a lot, with an aggressive sucking reflex (and a non-stop need to suck) and I was running to the drugstore before I could say "OWmynipplesHURT!" But try as I might, he just wouldn't take a soother. 

Eventually he learned to suck his thumb. Great, I thought, at least it's all natural, he has access to it when he needs it and I don't have to worry about safety recalls. But now he's four and while he only uses it at bedtime, the thumb is proving a hard habit to break.

When my second arrived I was determined not to have to deal with the future need for braces. So I began to introduce the pacifier slowly and on occasion. But before long it became a night-time necessity (probably created by my extreme need for a good night's rest after going back to work). We would put her in her crib with five pacifiers, in case they fell out in the night. Then we somehow lost a bunch of them and it didn't make sense to buy too many more. She'd grow out of this soon, right?
Wrong. Nights were a mess without the soother. Then I discovered awesome soother leashes by companies like Bugalug and Clippopotamus. We carefully clipped them down low by her belly button on her one-piece sleepers (you're not supposed to use them at night due to the choking risk, but we exercised great caution -- and hey, we were desperate) and we had glorious sleep. Life was so much better with sleep!

Then months later, she decided she hated the soother clips. If we tried to attach one to her, she would rip it off in a rage. So now we're back to giving her one pacifier and hoping for the best. Unfortunately, this means she cries out several times in the night when it falls out of her mouth or out of reach. And not just a complainy "Wahhh," but a scream that could peel paint.

I'm fed up. I'm tired of having to wash them because they fell on the floor again. I'm tired of shuddering in horror as she drops her "choo-choo"  and pops it back in her mouth (covered in sand, dust, cat hair, etc) before I can reach her. I'm tired of angrily asking who saw the choo-choo last. I am done.

So what do I do? How do I get her to quit? My eldest used to have a milk from a baby bottle addiction that I made him quit cold turkey and it was fine. Do I just give the pacifiers a funeral and hope for the best? Do I make a show of their eviction from our house, or just whack 'em quietly like a mafia snitch?

I've created a monster!

I've created a monster! A furry red monster-loving monster.

My son's first word was "Elmo." He was our first and as new parents we were totally opposed to such our young son watching TV. He'd never even seen an episode ofSesame Street, so I have no idea how he learned about Elmo at 11 months-old. We bought him some Elmo gear (a doll, a cell phone that sings), but it wasn't long before he outgrew the Elmo phase.

And then there's Lucy. Her incredible obsession with love of the furry red monster shows no signs of stopping. Of course, the rules are more lax with the second child. She's seen countless programs in her 21 months. But nothing captures her attention like Elmo. She walks around the house all day saying "Emmo." She hands me the remote, sits in her furry red chair and says "Emmo," demanding a video. She has learned how to break through the childproofing on the TV cabinet, so that she can retrieve her favourite DVDs and hand them to me.

No amount of Elmo is enough. All Elmo viewings lead to a desire for more Elmo. "Mo?" Sometimes she likes to take things that little bit extra and watch Elmo while hugging her Elmo Live doll. Her face lights up like the tree at Rockefeller Center at the mere anticipation of Elmo appearing on the screen. Should a character other than Elmo (Mr. Noodle perhaps, or Grover, or Abby Caddaby...) get the close up shot, she freaks out. "No! NO!" She waves her hands back and forth and closes her eyes until Elmo's voice is on again and all is right with the world.

So we have decided to blow her mind. This weekend we're taking her to see Sesame Street Live. This falls into the category of things you swore you'd never do before you were a parent, but now that you are one you are so freakin' excited about it in spite of yourself. Because it's all about seeing things through their eyes. All I can think about are Lucy's eyes as big as saucers -- that giant grin... (I know. I'm totally an enabler.)

Down with Sickness

First it was that runny nose that made us think her molars must be coming in.

Then it turned to pink eye.

Then she had some funky green that appeared to be coming out her hoo-ha.

I thought it was nothing. I figured that she had so much mucous it had to come out somewhere.

I polled my mom friends with daughters. No one had heard of such a thing. Still, I let it go.

On Mother's Day she was so sick and clingy that I could go nowhere. She had a fever, I was mildly concerned.

My mother, on the other hand, was mega concerned. "She definitely has to be seen by a doctor!"

After two days of being cooped up in my house with a daughter that would not leave my arms and a son that needed to act out because Mommy was giving all the attention to Lucy, I was done. My brain was fried.

"I'll just make a quick call to Telehealth," I said, partially to appease my worried-looking parents; thinking that the nurse would say it's no big deal.

The nurse was stuck on green stuff out the hoo-ha. "That doesn't sound right. She needs to see a doctor in the next four hours." We raced to the Children's Clinic. The doors were locked. I'd missed last call by 10 minutes. The attendant told me to go to emerg.

Fuck. Fuckity Fuck Fuck.

Great, I thought, now we're all going to get swine flu for this thing that's probably nothing. Then the panic devil that sits on my irrational side said, "Wait. Maybe she has an e-coli infection from jumping in Lake Ontario last weekend. Maybe you're a bad mother..."

In the hospital triage she touched everything. Every potentially swine flu covered object was interesting to her. So she touched them. And then she stuck her hands in her mouth for good measure. They gave her Tylenol for her fever. This made her hyper and before long she was running through triage, lying on the floor and then hi-fiving every potential swine flu victim in there.

Greeeeeat.

J called to see if he should go grocery shopping while I waited. I told him my anxiety couldn't handle that. I needed his company to keep me sane. He arrived to find her sliding down a mini slide in the kids' waiting room and then dancing a jig when she saw him. I looked like a moron.

The doctor finally looked at her three hours later. Viral infection. Just what I thought. Happy Mother's Day to me. I got to be right. Bloody hell.

We are on day 70-some-odd of the snots and the crustiness and I am so. over. it. She's approaching the terrible twos with lightening speed and this crap isn't helping. We've been indulging her sweet sick self with ample TV time, all kinds of night time visits, juice -- all the bad stuff. Over the next few weeks there will be a reckoning my friends. Here's hoping I'm not the one waving the white flag at the end.

My lovely lady lump

I was interviewed by Amy Verner for this weekend's Globe Style article on modern maternity fashions. Of my (I'd like to think hilarious) 10-minute interview, I ended up with the print equivalent of a sound-bite, but that's to be expected.

What I didn't expect was the readers' viewpoints in the comments on the piece. Many people felt that pregnant bellies are not something to flaunt. Some even view the modern, fitted maternity styles as obscene. I disagree. As I often quipped during my two pregnancies, "I've spent the last 15 years sucking my belly in. This is the one time in my life where I don't have to and I'm totally taking advantage of that fact."

Read on: Sweetmama.ca: Belly-issima!

Potty success

Last week we went for a little family brunch action at my favourite diner. It was a lovely morning with my family (who were surprisingly well-behaved), and having a hot breakfast for a change was bliss. (Not to mention having your coffee refilled without having to move!)

Towards the end of the meal, Lucy said, “Poo-poo!”

“Do you want to go to the bathroom?” She nodded yes.

Now my favourite diner does not have the nicest, cleanest bathrooms as you might imagine. I didn’t think we were this far advanced in the potty training game, so I haven’t purchased a portable potty seat or anything like that. (And really – who wants to carry that in her purse?) But I swallowed my germaphobia and sat her down.

I won’t get into graphic detail here, but let’s just say that every… sound… was followed by her saying, “Goo-gir” (translation: good girl) as she leaped off the toilet to see what she’d done. This was followed by “Mo?” (translation: more), which meant I had to put her back on the grungy seat to finish the job (which took several of these episodes).
I was so proud of her, but more importantly, she was so proud of herself. Since then, I’m happy to report that all poops have been made in the potty. This surprises me because “Number Twos” were the last thing my son let go of (no pun intended) as far as potty training was concerned. So poop training seems to be a success. (Pee is another story altogether.)

Lucy’s interest in trying every toilet that’s not ours is clearly driving her desire to be dry. At Grandma’s? Sure! In the grocery store? Let’s give it a try! (At home… not so much.) Is your kid like that with public toilets?

The Sacrifice

I've often judge my mother and harshly. As I was growing into womanhood and deciding who I wanted to be, I looked at her housewifey, homemaker past and considered it not very exciting. I didn't want to be like her: A Yes-man, a people pleaser, someone who kept up with the Jones-ians.

The truth is, I had no clue.

I was always the good child, the Yes-man, the people pleaser. I think as I approached adulthood, I resented my mother for instilling this passive, Geisha behaviour in me. Be smart, but never let them think you're smarter than them. Nod and say yes, even if you know better. (Which, as you might have guessed, I've never really been able to do.) Why didn't I take more chances? Why didn't I move out, or move to England with J when he left a decade ago? Why did I never want to rock the boat? Why did they hold me back?

The people-pleasing child has become a total asshole in these past few years. As my mother helps to raise my children, I often seem ungrateful, letting my tiredness and stress get in the way, saying horrible things and hurting feelings. Old wounds resurface and I am critical (especially around issues with food), micromanaging, constantly suggesting things that I've read in books or on websites, instead of trusting my mother's instincts, years of experience and the fact that she loves my kids as much as I do.

Lately I've been thinking about things differently. I've been trying to figure out why my mother (the most important relationship of my life) and I rub each other the wrong way. Okay, okay -- why my mother rubs ME the wrong way. I've been trying to figure out how I can just let all the nitpickiness go and learn how to enjoy my mother as a person again.

And then, the other day, it struck me.

I started to think about my mother, the youngest of four, the accidental child. I began to imagine her growing up in Turkey, being the first woman in her family to get a job outside of what was acceptable (you could teach before you had children, but then all bets were off). Being the only one to push the boundaries of the sexual revolution, with her mini-skirts and her weekly trips to get her hair did and her job as a bank teller.

I remember my mom telling me that she had wanted to be an engineer. That she enjoyed math. But there was no real way for her to afford the schooling, nor was it acceptable back then. So she took a job at the bank, working with numbers, counting more money than she'd ever had.

My mother moved to Canada in her late 20s. Already considered a spinster back home (she was picky -- there's more to it, but that goes in a book in the future), she joined her eldest sister and her family in Montreal, then moved with them to Toronto when the nation's economy changed.

I can only imagine the immense heartache she felt at having to move away from her parents and other siblings. From her friends and the world that she knew. But I now know why she did it.

I have never had to hold myself back because of societal implications. I live in a country where it's acceptable for a girl to go to school and achieve the highest level of education possible. I live in a country where I am free to speak my mind (and clearly I really use this priviledge to its fullest) in any forum, without fear for my life. I can wear what I want, eat what I want, think what I want. I can marry someone just because I love him. Or I could have not married him and just lived with him in sin (though there's a people-pleasing Armo in me that vetoed that rock-the-boat option). I can be a mom and a workaholic editor, and although people might judge me for my choices, they will still smile and lend a hand when needed.

Somewhere, in the back of my young mom's mind, she must have known she'd have two mouthy, ballsy daughters who would not be afraid of squeezing Life's lemons to make lemonade, each in their own way. She had to have known that if she birthed even one daughter with half of her own headstrongness, she would have to get out of Turkey.

Thanks mom, for coming to Canada for me. Thanks for loving me even when I'm an asshole; thanks for patiently smiling, knowing I will eventually come to my senses and realize my wrongs. Thanks for always being there in a heartbeat to help me out -- even when you're not feeling well -- and for loving my kids as much as you do.

Happy Mother's Day Mom. I love you. (Now don't get all smug and "I told you so" about this confession!)

Before I was a mom

Sometimes I'm wistful when I think about all the things that have changed since I gave birth to my incredible human beings. I get caught up in what is no longer: The freedom, the spontaneity, having a full-night's sleep or an uninterrupted meal. I don't sugar-coat it: Motherhood is not always a sweet gig.

But then I feel bad, because many of my childless Sweetspot and Sweethome colleagues might be rethinking their reproductive decisions based on my complaints. How do I convey that it really is amazing; that the rewards completely outweigh the downsides?

Read more: Sweetmama.ca: Before I was a mom

Toronto Mamas

Hey all, I just wanted to get the word out about my fabulous friend Sam Lamb's art show this Friday night. You can get a feel for the wonderful work of my talented pal at her blog. I'll be going with my hot date, Nate. Details below. Hope to see you all there.

Date:	08 May 2009
Time:	19:00 - 22:00
Location:	LE Gallery
Street:	1183 Dundas Street West
Town/City:	Toronto, ON

Opening Reception: May 8th, 7-10pm
Gallery Hours: Wed-Sun, 12-6pm

Stamps. Linen. Embroidery. Dolls. And a handful of dirty thoughts.

Modern life is not easy for today’s working mother. The daily struggle to balance full-time employment while raising children inevitably takes its toll on a woman’s personal identity. Using domestic materials and handcrafts, Lamb explores this struggle by setting up marked contrasts between material and message. Inappropriate sexual desires are delicately spelled out on dolls, while traditional samplers reveal weighty confessions in place of the expected motivational Psalms.

Reclaiming these materials and crafts as a canvas for expression while carefully respecting their history and practice is at the core of the current movement towards a New Domesticity. Swallowed Words places Lamb’s work within this larger dialogue, and reveals a new opportunity for domestic materials to communicate modern issues of identity.

Training 'em early

Two weekends ago, I took advantage of the rainy weather and decided to take a break from our overscheduled lives. After trying desperately to schedule a trip to the beach around lunch time and nap time the day before, (which, in true Toronto style, was like summer) I just didn't have it in me to attempt another big outing.

Between daycare, grandparents and weekend insanity, it feels like my kids are never home. So they were pretty excited about it. Except the more we stayed indoors, the more apparent it became that my house was in need of a good cleaning. With my cleaning lady out of the picture due to finances (sniff) I felt I had to tackle it before I put it off for a whole month.
Read more: Sweetmama.ca: Multitasking

(A new Martinis for Milk post coming soon. Hang in there. Looks like we're dealing with a fresh case of pink eye 'round these parts. Mercy. Uncle. I give up.)

Multitasking

Originally published on Sweetspot.ca


Two weekends ago, I took advantage of the rainy weather and decided to take a break from our overscheduled lives. After trying desperately to schedule a trip to the beach around lunch time and nap time the day before, (which, in true Toronto style, was like summer) I just didn't have it in me to attempt another big outing.

Between daycare, grandparents and weekend insanity, it feels like my kids are never home. So they were pretty excited about it. Except the more we stayed indoors, the more apparent it became that my house was in need of a good cleaning. With my cleaning lady out of the picture due to finances (sniff) I felt I had to tackle it before I put it off for a whole month.

So I set the kids up with an activity in their room and went next door to pull up my amazing Williams Sonoma gloves (they don't sell them online or I'd show you their awesomeness) and tackle the toilet. The one good thing about having a very small house is that the children are always nearby. I was able to interact with them while giving the tub the thorough once-over that I was now noticing the cleaning ladies had decided not to clean overlooked.  

After I cleaned up all the fun splatterings from "boy who is learning to pee standing up," I decided to tackle the main floor. The children got a kick out of helping me pour baking soda all over the rug (which had a smell thanks to "girl who somehow pees through her diaper, even when I just changed it").The best part about using eco-friendly cleaning solutions is that you can get the kids in on the cleaning without worrying. I don't know why, but my kids LOVE wiping counter tops. I let the older one pour the detergent into the washing machine and instructed him which buttons to push.

I also took our trusty, old Swiffer (NOT eco, I know, I have guilt about the toss factor -- but it works so well on cat hair!) and unscrew the bars until I can adjust it to the right height for them. My vacuum has a hand vac built-in and it's just small enough to get them in on that action too. (Bye-bye baking soda and bad carpet smell, thanks to toddler-who-wields-vaccum.)

Phyllis Diller once said that “Cleaning your house while your kids are still growing is like shoveling the sidewalk before it stops snowing.” Sure, the results didn't last long, but it made me feel like I was wrong about needing the cleaning lady. I could be WITH my kids AND clean the house at the same time. And we could all kind of enjoy it. (It's not child labour if they like it right?)