Stealing devotion

Graham is quite the lover boy these days.

Almost overnight it seems my boy understands the power inherent in hugs and kisses and loving coos and as a result showers me with them at every possible opportunity.

But even though, God knows, I’ve spent nearly every day of his short life teasing and coaxing out of him various expressions of affection, I feel like a bit of a fraud, gobbling up this new found goodwill as if it were my due.

How is it possible that he doesn’t sense how flawed his mother is?

Because I do have flaws, tons of them, and in those moments when he lifts his innocent, rapturous face to mine I can’t help but cringe with shame and run through them in my mind.

I have been impatient with him on countless occasions.

I remember endless nights during his infanthood when I paced the floor, rhythmically jostling him and singing lullabies with a clenched jaw and seething resentment in my heart. And just tonight I caught myself huffing with annoyance when his screaming and sniffling nose summoned me into his bedroom a half dozen times in the hours after his bedtime.

I have been selfish.

I have often taken exception to the demands he makes on my time. I have longed for the days when my evenings were my own. I have caught myself looking at the clock and counting the hours, the minutes, until I can put him to sleep. I have woken at night to his crying and bitten my tongue while I tended to him lest I shout what was in my heart: “GODDAMNIT! CAN YOU NOT JUST GO TO SLEEP?!”

I have been ungrateful.

I have sometimes begrudged, rather than celebrated, his robust health and his boundless energy, willing him to just sit quietly, slow down a little, wishing he wouldn't force me to move so quickly or to work so hard at exploring the world alongside him.

This is not to say that I think I am a bad mother: I know that I am not. I love Graham with all my heart and I care for him to the absolute best of my ability. I am not fishing for reassurance: I am merely trying to articulate how small I feel, how humbled I am, how very inadequate my absolute best seems in the face of his recent adulation.

This new phase, this sweet, sweet loving phase, has me wanting to redouble my efforts, to work harder, to be better and to earn the love and the trust I see reflected in his eyes.

But no matter how hard I may try, I can’t imagine feeling entitled to bask in my pride when he throws his chubby little arms around me and plasters my legs with sloppy kisses all the while exclaiming, "Oh mama, you beautiful. Oh mama, I love you!”

Because there is a tiny corner of my brain that registers how truly unworthy I am of such adoration and a tiny part of my heart that breaks just thinking about the day when Graham has the maturity to discern that for himself.

It was a misty drive home

He was one of those big, boisterous, charming kids that you just know is going to be the big man on campus one day.

And he spotted Graham right away yesterday morning as we grabbed the necessities at the grocery store.

"Hello there!" he shouted with a beaming smile as he bounded over. "Hi, my name's Michael. What's your name?"

And Graham kind of half smiled and murmured before burying his face in my leg.

And I almost said, He's a little shy, but I bit my tongue, remembering all the wonderful advice about NOT LABELING that I received in response to this post.

So I just smiled and said, "His name is Graham. Nice to meet you Michael," as we turned into the next aisle.

"You know Graham," I said casually, a few moments later. "If you do want to talk to that boy, you can just say, "Hello there, my name is Graham.'"

He look at me gravely. I pulled a silly face. "Hello there, my name is Graham."

He shrugged. "No mama."

A few minutes later we met at the checkout, Graham and I and Micheal and his mother and a sister who appeared to be just a few years older.

"Hello there Graham," Michael bellowed. "Hi Graham, hi Graham!"

His sister chimed in. "Hi Graham, hi Graham!"

Graham smiled widely, but ducked to hide behind me as the children continued their greetings in sing-song unison.

"Hi Graham, hi Graham!"

"Keep it down guys," their mother finally chided. "The little boy is shy."

"Ya, Graham's shy. Leave the shy boy alone Michael," said the little girl.

And I smiled weakly but inside my heart sank because, as pleased as I might be with my resolution not to label Graham as shy, I hadn't really thought about how he might be affected by others who did.

Whatever. I shrugged it off and away we went.

But as we pulled out of the parking lot I heard something: something that brought tears to my eyes because it made me realize that this battle, if you can even call it a battle, wasn't and never will be, mine to win or lose.

I heard a soft voice in the back seat, earnest and steady, repeating a phrase over and over again with practiced determination.

"Hello there, my name is Graham. Hello there, my name is Graham."

Love story

You might think that on the eve of Valentine’s Day I would be dreamily waxing about love and romance and how I knew that my husband was my soul mate the moment I laid eyes on him.

But you’d be wrong.

The fact is, I gave careful consideration to whether I could and should love the man who would become my husband.

And I’m not even sure I believe there is such a thing as a soul mate.

Sure I’m a bit of a diva sometimes, but I’m not hard to get along with. I’m relatively easy on the eyes and I fly airplanes. (Guys love that). The thing is, if I hadn’t met Rob, I’m pretty sure I would have happily met someone else, married and had a child. (Not one half as cute as Graham, but still).

But of course I didn’t marry someone else, I married Rob and not a day goes by that I don’t congratulate myself on the wisdom of that decision.

Because it was a decision, not just to marry him, but to love him. Sure there was lust and there were sparks, but the love was a conscious decision on my part born of the realization that it was time to settle down and make a commitment to this smart and sweet man who is as handy with a power drill as he is with a spice rack.

On New Year’s Eve 1997, I made a resolution. I resolved that in 1998 I would meet my future husband. I started dating Rob in July of 1998 and we have together rung in every New Year since.

The love I have for my husband is not something that was predestined or sent from above. It is a state of mind. It is a vow that I renew to him, to myself and to our son every day - on good days and, even more importantly, on bad days.

It’s a love that will not fail because I won’t let it.

Sometimes I envy happily-married women who got an early start on marriage and children. I was almost 33 when I married and five years later I still don’t feel my family is complete so, God willing, I’ll be changing diapers into my forties.

But the thing is, I wasn’t ready to commit my life at 20 or 25 or even 30 and neither was Rob. I’m not one of those people who think maturity only arrives after one has attended the requisite number of wild parties but, believe you me, I attended my share just in case.

In fact, I attended enough parties that I was actually growing weary of them when, celebrating the wrap of this film, I struck a conversation with a man who struck me immediately as a gentleman.

I did not hear the angels sing. I did not feel struck by a bolt from above. I did think, almost immediately, I am ready for love and this might be a man I could grow to love.

And so I did.

I love the way he insisted on coming in and having a glass of wine with my father the first time he picked me up from my parent’s house. I love how attentive he was to my elderly grandmother who lived there.

I love that we can talk for hours about the ills of the world and that I never secretly think I’m smarter than him. I love the way he took my first effort at screenwriting and turned it into something of which we could be proud.

I love that he carried my engagement ring in his pocket for days as we hiked through the Andes and then pulled it out to propose as the sun hit Machu Picchu.

I love that he slams on the brakes to avoid hitting butterflies. I love that he insisted on rushing my first baby to the vet one day, thereby saving his life. I love that people think he’s passive and shy because he’s quiet, when in fact he’s the most strong-willed and stubborn person I know (after me).

I love that he doesn’t care what other people think of him.

And so, while I’m not even sure I believe there is such a thing as a soul mate, I definitely, definitely believe in love.

Happy Valentine’s Day Rob. I love you.

What could be simpler?

The screams that are currently assaulting my ears make me yearn for simpler times.

Times before I had Graham when I was absolutely certain about the type of person I was, the type of household I would run and, most significantly, the type of mother I would be.

I had it all planned out. I would be patient. I would be unruffled. On nights like tonight, I would not waver in my conviction that my son’s tearful, unrelenting chanting – Mama! Mama! – was symptomatic of fatigue as opposed to distress.

I would be logical. I wouldn’t even consider lifting him out of his crib, bringing him into the living room and allowing him to snuggle with me for an additional half hour on the couch. I would know – obviously - such actions would make it all the harder for him to settle down later.

I would never be one of those parents who let their children run their lives. I would be loving – of course I would be loving – but I would be firm. I would not be ruffled by tantrums. I would not be manipulated by – of all things – a two-year-old.

I was educated. I read all the books. I was secure in my belief that what children need above all else is consistency.

What could be simpler?

But then, back then, I never could have imagined how very, very complex the mixture of love, fear, protection and pain that a little boy’s cries can elicit.

Passages

We could barely afford this house but we bought it anyway, not least because we imagined all the wonderful parties we could host here.

It was at a party, after all, where we met and the music blared and all the promise and mystery of life seemed hidden in the songs, brash and uncompromising, to which we sang along.

Brash and uncompromising; that was us. Drawn together by a love of fun, a reverence for music and just a touch of wildness.

This room would be perfect, we decided. Room for guitars and drums and keyboards to play. And microphones and even a recording system, Rob joked, to capture jams for posterity: what if Collective Soul dropped by one day?

Or White Stripes, I concurred. And we laughed because we both knew it would be our family and friends who would gather here to laugh and make music and that would be enough.



And it was enough. And magic happened here: when a keyboardist for a country music group and an amateur rapper – friends of friends –– collaborated and when Rob’s long defunct punk band reunited to rehearse the songs they would perform at our wedding.

And then Graham was born and our life expanded. And we sang to him and danced with him and perched him on our knee at the keyboards and behind the drums.


But it happened that his toys got bigger and bigger and our toys sat unused for days and weeks and months even. And it hardly seemed fair that our past should be allowed to crowd out his present.

And so for the past week, mostly as Graham and I slept, Rob has worked down here, not disposing of the past, but prioritizing it, rearranging it, moving it to the sidelines and making way for our son’s future.

It is written that a boy becomes a man when he puts away childish things and yet it seems to me in this modern world, where age is just a number and adulthood a playground and men stay boys for far too long, quite the opposite is true.

It seems to me that a boy truly becomes a man, and a girl a woman, when they finally focus their full attention on childish things and in doing so, give the next generation its own space to play and laugh and explore their passion.

Scientifically speaking, he's a miracle

Both my husband and I are somewhat technical types.

We are big on gadgets. He’s a sound recordist and mixer. I fly airplanes. We are both fascinated by how things work.

And we both agree that, from a technical standpoint, watching our son develop is one of the most remarkable things we have ever witnessed.

We all love our children truly, madly and deeply. Each milestone they reach – the first smile, step, word – makes our heart swell with wonder and gratitude. But imagine, just for a moment, that you could put aside your emotional investment in your child and, for purely scientific purposes, observe it learn and develop.

Would you not be blown away by the sheer width, depth and breadth of knowledge and skills that this creature, this fledgling human adult, must acquire on the path to maturity?

The thing about parenting – the thing that makes it such an all-consuming, indescribably wonderful endeavor - is that it provides you with knowledge you never even knew you lacked.

I didn’t know so many things before Graham was born.

I didn’t think about the complex physicality of the human body and how our arms and legs, fingers and toes must be trained to work in synchronicity to master balance and movement.

I never really considered that our every mode of communication - from looks and smiles and winks to cries and grunts and words are part of an elaborate system of socialization that must learned, step by painstaking step.

I knew – I had been told – that having a child would inspire musings on life and love and miracles. But I had always seen human beings as the sum of their parts.

I never knew that the parts themselves could hold me in their thrall. That the dear, wee arms and legs and eyes and ears and lips, as they grew and strengthened and found their purpose, would each reveal itself as a separate and technically perfect miracle.

There are so many reasons to have children. Many of them are articulated by writers and poets every day and many of them go without saying.

But for someone like me, someone who hungers for technical knowledge, who finds beauty and comfort in order and science and nature and how things work, watching my son grow and observing the glorious complexity and functionality of the body he inhabits, has been an unexpected revelation.

Beauty secrets

It's great fun to go and travel and ski and eat and drink and enjoy the nightlife.

But it's even more fun when your heart, not just your belly, is full.

And that, I think, is what made my mini-vacation so wonderful. I have never before sat dressed to the nines, in an elegant bar in a faraway resort town, and smiled and tossed my hair and drank in the ambiance all the while thinking, I've got a secret.

You can't tell by looking at me, but it isn't the wine or the lights or the day on the slopes or even the admiring glance of my husband that is making me glow.

It's the love of my faraway little boy that flushes my cheeks and sparkles my eyes. And no matter how wonderful this all is (and it really, really is) I am smiling because I am thinking of how it will be when I open the door to my home and he rushes into my arms.

And you know what? Coming home was just as wonderful as I imagined going away would be.

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.

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.

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