Rob's dad is out of the hospital, but he's not out of the woods.
None of us are.
He is grieving, we are all grieving, struggling not just to put in the days and the weeks, but to possibly wrestle from them just a little bit of happiness and contentment.
It is tough going, but we are trying.
And in the spirit of focusing on the positive, I'd like to present, from last weekend at my parents' house, my own little moment of zen.
Rob's dad is in the hospital.
We aren't certain exactly what is wrong, but he isn't doing so well. Rob's brother and sister-in-law are with him. He is undergoing a series of tests and we are vacillating between whether to stay in Quebec and try to maintain some sense of normalcy for Graham or to make the almost eight-hour drive home the day after our arrival.
Needless to say Rob and I are finding it difficult to eat or sleep, let alone relax.
Universe, God, Karma, whoever or whatever you are?
Uncle.
Just uncle.
With regards to potty training, I'm back to the original plan.
Which is to say I'm back to having no plan whatsoever.
Six months ago I was happy to have no plan, comfortable with my decision to just let Graham start using the potty whenever he damn well felt like it and perhaps even a little proud of my ability to remain unconcerned about something that seemed to get other parents in a lather.
Today having no plan, no inclination and no energy to potty train feels like an epic failure.
About a month and a half ago, when Rob and I were seriously considering stealing south with Graham for a solid week of rest and relaxation at some dreamy resort that economic turmoil had suddenly placed in our price range, I realized that many of the kids clubs at said dreamy resorts didn't take kids who were still in diapers.
Suddenly potty training seemed like a good idea and I resolved that my more than two weeks off work over Christmas would be spent convincing Graham that, despite his assertions to the contrary, monsters do not live in the potty.
The first few days were fairly promising: he was proudly wearing his big boy underwear for a few hours a day and I felt confident that we would soon be kissing diapers goodbye.
Then Rob's mom got sick and it all seemed too much. The pleading, the cajoling, the resultant tears and tantrums: it all seemed too, too much. The day I burst into tears when he refused to sit on the potty was the day I knew I was done.
And so I gave up, I just gave up.
I'm back at work now and we're still waiting for tests and results of tests on my mother-in-law and quite frankly, I barely have the energy to make it through the day, never mind potty train.
Graham's still in diapers, exactly like he was a month and a half ago, but it doesn't feel the same as it did a month and a half ago. I don't feel comfortable or satisfied with my laissez-faire attitude about it: I won't be turning this situation into a charming and humorous post about how he might wear diapers to his prom.
My failure to follow through just feels like a failure, as does the increased television and junk food that Graham is now enjoying and I simply don't seem to have the strength to resist.
And all of this...this shitty parenting - because really, what else can you call it? - just feels like proof that I'm not coping well with this curve ball that life has thrown us.
Apparently all I needed was an excuse to embrace my lazy side. Apparently I'm not as capable a parent, or a person, as I once imagined.
I don't know how you do it.
You working moms, I mean.
Especially you working moms who are far more beleaguered than I am. Especially you working moms with more than one child, little family support and a killer commute which takes you to a job you don't enjoy for a wage which doesn't do you justice.
Because I have one only one child, a commute (including day care drop off) that takes no more than 45 minutes, a mother-in-law who saves my bacon on a regular basis and a well-paid job I enjoy.
And I am just barely doing it. Just. Barely.
But I also have a husband working 15 hour days and I'm smack dab in the middle of the Toronto Film Festival which means I will once again return home after 9 p.m. tonight.
And I'm seven weeks into a new job where I'm struggling to prove I have the energy and the smarts to succeed in a business full of smart and energetic people.
And as satisfied as I am that I am doing a good job at the office, I find myself wracked with guilt over whether I'm doing a good job at the most important job there is: you know the job I mean.
Tell me, you working moms, is it always like this?
Would you have sighed in exasperation this morning when your mother-in-law approached your car? Would you have been calculating how many precious seconds her conversation would cost you in your race to pick her car up and drop yours (with its car seat) off? Would you have smiled tightly and prayed that exchanging basic pleasantries wouldn't make you late for work again?
Would your heart have sunk with shame, as mine did, when she leaned through the car window, kissed you on the cheek and said, "I know you're in a rush but I just wanted to wish you a happy birthday dear"?
I had forgotten.
It's my birthday today. I'm 39 years old and undeniably a grown-up.
And also a working mom.
And I don't know how you do it.
Rob and I went out Saturday night.
We needed it.
There has been no work for film and television workers in our city since the writers’ strike last winter and there is little on the horizon. It has been a bitter last several months for a million and one reasons and occasional nights out help keep our spirits up.
Rob's mom called just as we sat down to dinner.
Graham had thrown up and his nose was running – did I know where his cold medicine was?
There was no need to come home, she assured us. He was going back to sleep. He would be fine.
We didn’t need much convincing, to be honest and so we stayed and enjoyed a lovely, if rushed, meal. We called again as we settled up, hoping to get the all-clear to catch the first set of a band at a local bar.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said. “He hasn't gone to sleep. He’s really miserable and calling for his mother.”
We rushed right home of course. And I burst through the door and swept up my tired, whimpering boy into my arms and into our spare room where we settled. He clung to me even as I shimmied out of my funky dress and kicked off my heels.
It was 10:15 p.m. I wasn’t the least bit tired. I was in full makeup and my earrings dug in as I struggled to get comfortable with him sprawled across my chest. It was going to be a long night.
We lay together like that for long while. Gradually Graham’s whimpering subsided and his breathing grew more and more rhythmic.
But similar relaxation eluded me. There in the dark it wasn’t long before the worries I had been hoping to avoid that evening began to crowd my mind and fill my chest with a familiar heaviness: the unpaid bills, the stress, the future viability of our livelihood.
And then Graham suddenly awoke with a start.
“Monsters mama!” he cried, his voice thick with sleep and fear. “They scary! They scary monsters mama!”
I pulled him close to me and rubbed his back.
“No, no sweetie, there are no monsters here,” I said, pressing my lips to his head and tasting his salty dampness. “Mama is here and she’s stronger than any monster in the world.”
I felt him relax slightly. “Monsters?” he whimpered.
“No Graham. There are no monsters here, your mama is here.”
He sighed, flopped over with a contented gurgle and promptly fell back asleep.
But I lay there awake late into the night, listening to the rise and fall of his breath and the ticking of the clock. And as the darkness deepened I couldn't help but contemplate life and fear and whether I was indeed strong enough to keep the monsters at bay.
I dreamt last night that I was dating a much younger man.
A boy, really.
But there was nothing the least bit salacious about it, though the boy in my dream was only about 18 years old.
I was the same age in my dream. I was tall and lean and beautiful and infused with a feeling of strength and power so vivid that even now it hovers tantalizingly close, just outside daylight’s grasp.
And it was summertime and we were at the lake and we were surrounded by sun-kissed friends and the August air was thick with possibility and yearning. And if I close my eyes and take a deep breath, I can smell the air still and it moves me to tears because it smells so impossibly sweet.
I have stress in my life right now. I have adult problems, heavy and complicated: problems that will be resolved, but only by putting my 38-year-old head down and slogging grimly through them.
And so it was with a heavy heart that I awoke from my summer dream this cold, dark February morning. It was with an exquisite ache that I felt summertime slip from my memory and disappear into the gloom.
But summer will be back, of this I am certain.
Because even as I shivered and my bones protested the early hour, a tiny ray of sunshine beckoned me forward.
