Waiting for Graham - 2 years on

* In four days Graham will be two years old. Last night I stumbled across this long-forgotten essay I wrote exactly two years ago today. I have never published or shared it. Save the links I have added, it is unedited. Reading it today I am struck by how much has changed and yet how little. It seems like yesterday: the breathless anticipation, the fear, the excitement. And the love. Even before I kissed his sweet face, the love.*

November 8, 2005: I can’t be sure when he will decide to show his face.

He might thwart a daily routine I have planned or even violently rouse me from a peaceful sleep. Before he settles in I expect to experience anxiety, fear and unimaginable pain.

And yet Graham’s arrival is the most happily anticipated event of my life thus far.

I am currently pregnant with my first child. My due date is the day after tomorrow.

My baby is a boy, of this I am sure. A product of my generation and perhaps too accustomed to instant gratification, the thought of letting the sex be a surprise seemed too impossibly self-disciplined to consider. My husband and I have snuck a peek at every opportunity, even forking out for a 4-D colour ultrasound during which we marveled over our son’s long, thin features so much like his father’s.

We have decided to call him Graham. It’s my family name and a nod to the large, sprawling Irish-Canadian clan which eagerly awaits his appearance. He will carry his father’s middle and last names.

But there are other things of which I am not so sure: so many things.

I am a mass of contradictory emotions and I never know which one will surface at any given moment. Tears rise unbidden. Yesterday while sipping my morning tea I wept with joy imagining my mother reading Graham a bedtime story. Just a few nights earlier I glanced at my husband and an overwhelming wave of sadness and fear washed over me. Our marriage is so happy, our lifestyle so carefree. What if things are never fun again? What if family life sucks the life out of us? What if I, dressed to the nines, never again enjoy his appreciative glance as we head out for a night on the town?

Every day I pray that Graham will be healthy. That he will arrive chubby and pink with a lusty cry. I cannot consider anything else. Sometimes I push myself to think about what could go wrong, as a kind of exercise in mental strength and preparedness, but the knot of fear in my chest stops me cold. One can never prepare to face their worst nightmare. It is fruitless to try.

I have been off work for only a week but already time has started to stretch out endlessly. I feel lazy and languid. I putter. I sleep. I daydream. I wait.

I wonder what kind of a child my son will be, what kind of a man will he become?

Will he be serious, introverted and scientific? Will he be outgoing and dramatic?

Will he inherit the same passion for music his father has?

I imagine my husband and me, 20 years on, occupying an out-of-the-way table in a dingy pub when Graham performs his first gig. I can already feel my face flush with pride and picture his good-natured acquiescence when we insist on discreetly picking up the tab for a round of drinks for his friends.

Will he be nutty for airplanes like his mother and so many members of my family?

I imagine his bush pilot grandfather standing to applause when Graham, piloting his first commercial airline flight, introduces him as an inspiration to the other passengers.

I feel a little foolish exposing such fantasies to the light of day. It seems I am already a walking cliché. Although I’m not even a mom yet, I am already filled with hopes and dreams for my son.

And for me, I guess.

Already I sense that this will be the hardest part of parenting – separating the hopes and dreams I have for him from the hopes and dreams he has for himself.

I’ve heard it said that deciding to have a child is agreeing to let your heart walk around outside your body for the rest of your life. That sounds about right to me. I already know that it involves ceding power over much of your happiness, much of your destiny.

I know there are ways Graham could hurt me that I can barely now imagine. He might be contemptuous of my interests and pursuits. He might reject the values his grandparents hold dear. He might spend a lifetime clashing with my stubborn husband, never once recognizing the extraordinary kindness and sensitivity his father also possesses.

My son may break my heart in many ways, but I’m grateful I can’t foresee exactly how. There are things no parent is able to control. Our children will be who they will be.

My only job is to try my best. To be steadfast and firm, but also loving and patient. I may indulge in hopes and dreams, but I must also remain confident that Graham will direct the course of his own life, just as he will decide the time and nature of his arrival.

And so I wait.

I wait for Graham to reveal his dreams to me. I wait for the secrets of humankind to unfold through the joy and pain of parenting. I wait to learn things I don’t even realize I don’t yet know.

I wait to meet my son.

Tilting at windmills

"What we see there are not giants but windmills," said Mommy. "And what seem to be their arms are the vanes that turned by the wind make the millstone go."




"It is easy to see," replied Graham Quixote, "that you are not used to this business of adventures. Those are giants, and if you are afraid, away with you, while I engage them in fierce and unequal combat."

Deep thoughts

I was truly honoured to receive this little piece of hardware last week from MommyK over at The Great Walls of Baltimore.


She tagged me after being inspired by this post which got her thinking that Halloween is sometimes more about parents showing off their kids than anything else.

It's nice to be recognised for your humble contributions to the blogosphere, especially when there truly is so much inspiring stuff out there.

This award is also a meme and it works like this:

1. If, and only if, you get tagged, write a post with links to five blogs that make you think.
2. Link to this post so that people can easily find the exact origin of the meme.
3. Proudly display the “Thinking Blogger Award” with a link to the post that you wrote

So, in the interest of spreading love and deep thoughts, here are the people and the blogs that made me think this week:

Dayna over at A Bug's Life - I am constantly inspired by the strength, grace and wit she brings to the challenges of mothering three chronically-ill children. Today's post moved me to tears.

Slouchy Mom over at Slouching Past 40 - She writes exquisitely, is completely established and has oodles of fans, yet remains self-depreciating and wonderfully welcoming to newbies like me. This recent post on mean girls really touched me.

Laura at Lunatic Fringe - This women has 3 kids under the age of four and she is taking up the challenge of posting every day for the month of November? And cooking up cool things like this? She makes me think I should just shut up about how busy I am.

Catherine at Her Bad Mother - Man can this girl write. This post about Brittany Spears is probably one of the most poignant things I have ever read. And if you check out her best-of archives you'll find even more great stuff. Her skill inspires me and make me want to continue to push myself to be a better writer.

The always engaging Bub and Pie always has something that makes me glad I dropped by. I especially love this post about embracing the failure when it comes to parenting. I think I'll take her advice!

I had the time of my life

At last Saturday's showing of the new stage musical Dirty Dancing that is.

And I realize the above title and opening line are ridiculously cheesy, but I also think, just like the play itself and the movie on which it is based, they're still cute.

Super cute actually. And super fun.

It's Dirty Dancing people! Remember Dirty Dancing? The adorable, girl-next-door, pre-nose-job Jennifer Grey meets the slinky, brooding, pre-where-is-he now? Patrick Swayze?

God knows, I still feel like a young ingenue, but the reality is I was almost 18 when the movie premiered 20 years ago in the summer of 1987. And though I fancied myself a rock 'n roll chick back then, it was still Dirty Dancing that provided the soundtrack for one of the best summers of my life.

Check out the rest at Mommyblogstoronto...

Happy Birthday Rosie!

Two things I promise my beautiful niece:



Aunt Kelly can always be counted on for cool (preferably pink) clothes...

...and cousin Graham will always be available to test any and all toys!

Of ponies and nightmares

Is it possible to qualify fear?

Does it make sense that while, of course I fear that someone could harm my child, my most gut-wrenching fear is that somehow Graham will come to harm as a result of my failure as a mother?

To be a parent is to be afraid that a boogeyman lurks around every corner. That’s a given. But it is stories like this that reach inside my heart and squeeze.

Last week a 17-month-old baby died after being left in his mother’s car when she forgot to drop him off at daycare. She only realized she had left him in the car when she returned to it after finishing her seven-hour shift as a waitress.

Stories like this break me apart because they force me to search a deep, dark corner of my soul and confront my worst fear and my reoccurring nightmare: that I am that woman.

Let me explain.

When I was about ten years old I became completely enamored with horses. I wanted a horse in the worst way and the acquisition of one soon became my obsession.

My father was skeptical that I was mature enough to handle one, but I promised to get up before dawn to feed and water it. I begged, I pleaded. I vowed to devote myself, night and day, to the care of that animal.

My father finally relented and called a farmer who kept Shetland ponies up the road. We acquired Star, a frisky stallion who had never really been ridden and was used to roaming several acres unfettered, with a number of adoring mares.

Not surprisingly, it was a bit of a disaster. Star didn’t like being ridden and he didn’t really like me either. His care was a constant struggle. I got up every morning and tended to him before school. I raced home to graze him every evening. I spent countless hours trying to break him into a saddle and was nipped, kicked and thrown for my efforts.

After about a year my father suggested that perhaps Star would be happier back in his old home. I feigned sadness, but mostly I was relieved. Star was too much for me. While he had never, ever been mistreated, I was simply too young and immature to shoulder the responsibility of his care. So back he went and that should have been the end of the story.

But it wasn’t.

The nightmares about Star started when I entered the teenage years with all their attendant pressures. They have continued on a semi-frequent basis until less than a year ago. They are always the same; I am enjoying myself with friends, laughing and carefree when suddenly it hits me, Star! I completely forgot about him. It has been days, weeks since I have tended to him! He must be starving, perhaps even dead!

I awake, gasping for breath, overwhelmed with guilt, fear, and a crushing sense of shame and inadequacy. Even after reality sinks in, I am shaken to my core.

These kinds of dreams, I am told, are common for people like me: people who have inordinately high expectations of themselves. They are textbook, really. It doesn’t take a psychoanalyst to determine that Star is symbolic of my fear that I will let down someone who depends on me.

What does this have to do with Graham?

In a practical sense: nothing. My child could not be more loved or better cared for. But in a metaphoric sense: everything. Motherhood is fraught with feelings of inadequacy and anxiety. Of fear that somehow we are not meeting the needs of our children.

In the dark recesses of my soul I fear that Graham is my Star. He is the responsibility I will never be able to live up to: he is the gift I do not deserve.

And while my heart breaks, shatters really, to think about that dear little boy who died when his mom just forget about him, I can’t help but also feel shattered for his mom - the woman who is quite literally living out my worst nightmare.

Somebody stop me!

It's official, I'm insane.

Don Mills Diva is playing nice with other bloggers and participating in National Blog Posting Month 2007. In order to earn my net cred I have to post every single day in the month of November.

Thirty days, 30 posts. God help me. And God help you poor readers who are going to suffer through this odyssey with me.

I'm going to need all the encouragment I can get so check back every day, keep cheering, keep commenting and if I post something you like, e-mail it to a friend.

And yeah, I'm counting this as a post. But I promise they won't all be this lame!

Okay, so I'm a lazy mom...

...and I didnt take Graham out for Halloween this year. (he's not even two! there would have been no one home to hand out candy!)

But that doesn't mean he didn't participate. He had stuff to do... like making sure the scarecrow was comfortable...


...testing the lights on the pumpkins...

...checking that the candle for the jack-lantern was still burning...

...and protecting mommy from the vampires.

Scenes from a life

Before I became a parent, back when I wanted desperately to be a parent, I would play movies in my head. I would run scenes of how it would be, of the things I would do with my child, of the joy we would share.

One of the most enduring scenes in my head involved raking leaves. It would be a brilliant, fall day, warm and sunny. I would be happily raking and indulgently chiding my mischievous ragamuffin as he frolicked alongside me.

When today dawned bright and sunny I started to think I just might find myself reliving that fantasy I had long held dear.

But it was not to be.

Yes, it was sunny and warm and thousands of leaves had fallen in our large, ravine yard.

But Graham was having none of it.

He didn't want to frolic. He wanted Mommy to carry him around and around the yard while he pointed at trees. When I finally tired of that and encouraged him to play the part I had envisioned for him, the tantrum began.

He cried. I raked and sang a little song.

He flailed. I playfully tossed a few leaves his way.

He screamed at my audacity. NO MAMA!

I tried to introduce him to his own rake so we could work together.

He was clearly insulted.



And so I gave up. I gave up on raking and I gave up on my fantasy of how it would be.

Because if there is one thing I have learned since having Graham, it's that parenting is never quite the way you imagine it will be.

There are wonderful moments. Many wonderful moments.

And there are tough moments. Moments that are tougher than anything you imagine.

All these moments, good and bad, present themselves when you least expect them. The joy sneaks up on you and floods your heart like a tidal wave from the clear blue sea. And the frustration steals the show when you feel sure the scene is set for a happy ending.

And in the end, you learn that ultimately you are destined to play only a supporting role in your child's life. You learn that not matter how the movie in your head plays out, you can never be the director of someone else's show.

Love and delusion; keeping them alive

My husband, bless his dear wee soul, is convinced that his beloved wife is a dear, wee soul.

Emphasis on the wee.

Let me explain by saying that my husband often buys clothes for me. He has great taste and has picked out some really cool clothes. Clothes that I love. Stylish clothes.

Small clothes.

One of the reasons I love my husband is that he can walk into a clothing store, see a cutting-edge outfit designed for an emaciated Eastern European model and displayed on a size zero mannequin and think, without a sober second thought, My wife would really rock that outfit.

Sigh.

Check out the rest at Mommyblogstoronto...

Seven random facts about me

They like me. They really like me.

Don Mills Diva was just last week initiated into a game of blogosphere tag when Laura over at Walking Lunatic Fringe said “You’re it” and challenged me to participate in my first meme by revealing seven random facts about myself.

Here goes:

1. I am essentially blind in my left eye. With my right eye closed I can see colours and vague shapes but that’s about it. When my right eye is open my brain disregards anything my left eye sees, because it is so weak. I have to be tested regularly by an ophthalmologist to maintain my pilot’s license but apparently my vision is actually very good because my right eye has compensated all my life and developed extraordinary super-powers.



2. I was proposed to while watching the sun rise over Machu Picchu in Peru. Rob and I camped and hiked the Inca Trail for four days through the Andes Mountains to reach the ancient city and shortly after arrival he sprung the ring he had been carrying in a secret compartment in his underwear (for real!)



3. I became the youngest-ever weekly columnist for the Haliburton County Echo about a week before my 13th birthday. They were advertising for someone to cover the community of Norland where I lived and I sent in some sample columns without telling them my age. I was hired and continued to write The Norland Natter until I left my hometown for university when I was 18.



4. I am a creature of routine. Big time. Every day must start with tea with milk and sugar. An hour later I have one coffee with four pieces of whole wheat melba toast with cream cheese. One hour and a half later I have one piece of fruit. And so it goes throughout the day. Do not, I repeat, do not mess with my routine.



5. I fully expect to live to at least 100 and that I will travel the world in my 80s and 90s. It is inconceivable to me that I won’t actually. My great-grandmother lived to 98. My grandma died at 93. She toured Europe, Asia, Australia and northern Africa in her 80s. I took her to Las Vegas for her 90th birthday where she stayed up 23 hours straight gambling. She rocked and I’m gonna too.



6. I have a mad crush on Jack White of the White Stripes. Don’t get me wrong, I adore my husband but if Jack were to come for me I’d have some very hard decisions to make. He’s massively talented, sexy and just really, really cool. I actually got a cup of beer thrown at me when I tried to sneak closer to the stage at one of his concerts a few years ago. I was seven and a half months pregnant. Boy did that guy feel like an ass when I turned around.



7. I was the organizer of the first-ever Terry Fox run in the State of Arizona. It was 1995 and I was living in Phoenix with an ex-boyfriend who was playing trumpet in a ska band. I was working as a nanny and freelancing for the Arizona Republic interviewing visiting Canadian bands and covering the snow bird beat. I advertised for volunteers to help and a lovely woman named Wanda showed up. Turns out she was married to Todd MacFarlane who’s massively famous for this. He came to the run and caused a sensation. Anyway, we ended up raising several hundred dollars for the Arizona Cancer Centre in Tucson.

So there you have it – seven random facts about me.

Hey Erica over at Ericacake – you’re it!

Sadness, part two

I did something last night and I can’t stop thinking about it.

I hit Graham.

Slapped actually. I would like to say swatted, but in my heart of hearts I know it was more than a swat. It was a slap. A firm one.

Let me set the stage.

Graham napped little yesterday. He had his first meltdown in the car on the way home from his babysitter’s. He was still raging nearly an hour later. I offered him a drink. Some bread and peanut butter. I got his blanket. Put on his favorite music. Attempted to cuddle him and play blocks with him.

He screamed in my ear. Flailed. Threw his toys at me. Slapped me.

I spoke to him in soothing tones. I put him on the naughty step for a time out. Twice.

Eventually the whining became at least intermittent. He started to play. I sat on the floor and arranged my legs as a tunnel (his favorite) and he crawled under them. I felt a shooting pain in my thigh. He bit me. Hard.

Harder than he had ever bitten me before.

I was, I think, remarkably calm. I swiftly got down to his level, held his chin and looked directly into his eyes. “NO BITING.” I carried him firmly, but not roughly, and placed him on the step in the other room.

I walked away and zipped off my corduroy jeans. A throbbing inch-long welt was already turning nasty shades of black and purple. I wiped away a single drop of blood and applied some polysporin.

I took a few minutes. I needed them.

I collected him. He was apprehensive, but otherwise nonplussed. I showed him the welt. “You hurt mommy. No biting. Biting hurts people.”

He smiled angelically at me, unsure. Regretful? Yes, I told myself. Regretful.

I picked him up. Kissed him. Hugged him. “No biting, Graham. No more biting. It hurts mommy.”

I picked up a book and settled with him on my lap. He started to whine. “Come on, Graham. Look, it’s Elmo.”

Smack.

I felt his nail rip through the skin on my cheek. I felt a dark, hot flash of anger.

And I slapped him.

I slapped him pretty hard. On his leg. He was wearing track pants, but there was no doubt he felt a sting. He blinked in surprise. Burst into tears.

I gathered him in my arms, heart racing. I rubbed his back. “No hitting. You can’t hit.” I blinked back tears. What a hypocritical thing to say. “That’s hitting Graham. Hitting hurts. You see, it hurts. That’s why we don’t do it.” Stupid, stupid rationalization.

I have always thought that parents, loving parents who are thoughtful enough to ponder these things in the first place, worry too much about defining their position with regards to spanking. I have always felt entirely comfortable with my own philosophy.

I don’t believe striking children is an acceptable way to discipline them. I don’t think it’s very effective or creative and I absolutely believe parents should avoid it. But I also always figured that Graham would likely receive a few swats throughout his childhood, due to frustration and/ or anger. I was human. He would likely push my buttons. I would likely lose my temper. And I felt okay with that.

I have heard people say that if one is going to spank a child, it should never, ever be in anger and that seems absurd to me. A calm and calculated administration of physical punishment strikes me as far more disturbing than a quick, thoughtless smack delivered out of exasperation and frustration.

I think it can be good for a child to see a normally calm and collected parent lose their temper. Not to freak out and melt down, mind you, but to throw aside their practical, parental reserve and expose some raw emotion.

I remember being about 10 years old and being in a pissy mood with my mom, who is as quiet and non-confrontational as they come. She asked me (probably for the umpteenth time) to put away some books I left around and I responded in typical fashion; bitchy, insolent, thankless. I remember her hurling those books against the wall and shrieking at me in manner I didn’t know she was capable of.

I was struck dumb. The force of her anger punctured my thick, bubble of preteen self-absorption. For the first time ever I saw, really saw, the exhaustion and frustration in her eyes. It moved me and I have never forgotten it.

But then Graham is too young for my temper to provide any kind of a teaching moment, isn’t he? He is too young to be struck by the revelation of his mother as a human being.

He is too young to be struck.

And that’s why I can’t stop thinking about what I did last night.