Big Girl Bed

In under three hours, I'll be saying those little big words that break my heart and kissing F goodbye. Just the though of saying those words so soon after arriving home makes my heart ache and my nose tingle in the way only noses can tingle before you cry. I'll see him again in a few days - a week at most - but I'll miss him dearly until I see that big smile and bounds of energy running towards me for a hug.

I can still remember the first time I held F - he was twelve minutes old before he was laid in my arms. I held him for less than ten minutes before he was whisked away to the nursery for his first bath, J and both of our mothers in tow. It had been a long day, spent walking around the hospital and anxiously waiting to become parents and grandparents. My own wellbeing was in question, and so I spent over an hour hooked up to monitors waiting [im]patiently for my blood pressure to return to normal. I wasn't even allowed to stand up, much less walk to my room so I sat anxiously in the wheelchair as a nurse pushed me through the hallways to the Mother-Baby unit.

I can still see him wrapped in soft, white flannel looking absolutely perfect and knowing he was mine. I sat on my hospital bed, still hooked up to this monitor and that monitor, watching everyone else hold my baby. We took photos, I ate my first meal of the day, and we laughed and cried together while my heart burst with love and pride. Within a day or two of my return home, after J had gone back to work in the city, I gave up on F's bassinet: he hated it. We set up his crib, and he hated that too. Finally, after making several trips between my bed and his crib and bassinet, I stripped my bed of pillows and blankets and I laid him next to me. He was asleep within minutes, and our co-sleeping arrangement was born.

I was on the receiving end of a lot of flak over my decision to co-sleep. I had never realized the way my sleeping habits affected those of others (nor did I or do I care). F rarely has nightmares, and has never been afraid of the dark. When he turned two and we had our own home, I bought him a toddler bed and hoped he would sleep in his own room. Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn't. While I enjoyed having the bed to myself, I always missed him and from time to time I slept in the toddler bed with him. Sharing my bed with him this weekend, after a week of sleeping my my new queen-sized bed alone, was wonderful. My own "big girl" bed will be extra lonely tonight.

The moment of "good-bye" is anxiety-ridden and downright frightening. My heart will break into a million pieces when I put my car in drive and knowing that doesn't make it any easier. But, it's not just leaving that scares me. It's coming home, too. Two weeks ago, F saw his father for the first time in months and referred to him first as "man" and then as "guy". He eventually settled on calling him Smokey, the nickname all of J's friends and family members refer to him by. My son didn't even know his father. What if I come home one day and he doesn't know me? I don't think I could possibly cope.

What if the hurtful words slung at me earlier this year are right: what if I'm a bad mom for going back to school? As much as I've missed F, I've also enjoyed time on my own. I've enjoyed meeting new people and - dare I say it - going out and having fun. For the first time in 4 years, I have been able to explore myself and grow as a person. In spite of missing F every minute of every day, I'm enjoying myself: I love my class, my apartment and my new friends. Even though I miss him, I'm the happiest I have been in years, and as much as I decided to go back to school for me, I'm back in school for him.

When all is said and done, I hope F realizes that I had to go to make his life better and I hope that one day, he will be half as proud of me as I am of him.

Little Words

I love words.

Big words, little words, strong words and dirty words.

I just love them all. I love writing them and speaking them, learning them and teaching them - well, some of them. I consider words to be my playground, my medium with which to create. Like many people, I've been both empowered by and crushed beneath a word. As a parent, I've spent the last two and a half years choosing words carefully, waiting anxiously to hear a certain four words that every Mother can't wait to hear: I love you, Mommy.

I remember the first time I heard it. F was in the bathtub, and I had been sitting on the floor of the bathroom while he played. I had told him I loved him, and a moment or two later he looked at me and said it back. I was so excited I started to cry and laugh all at once. I even managed to get it on video with my iPhone. Since that day back in April, F has learned many words, some of which I wish he would unlearn. He has learned how to use his words to convey his feelings, his wants and create play stories for himself and his toys. Since that first "I love you, Mommy", there have been thousands of those perfect moments, from the impromtu hugs to the tearful learning of lessons.

There are two words that I dread hearing now, two words I never thought could possibly hold so much heartache: Good-bye. No amout of "I love you" or hugs can dull the pain my Mommy heart feels when F leaves and we have to say "good-bye". I always try to tell him I'll see him soon, or "Peace Out" to lighten my heavy heart, but it's impossible to lie to yourself in that moment. I stood outside in the cold today watching my parents driving away with F, and I felt tears drip off my cheeks and onto my jacket. I could still hear his cries for Mommy broken by his sobbing as the truck pulled out of the parking spot. In all my life, I've never felt so helpless.

The rest of my evening will be spent inside with the dog. I finally have couches and I can catch up on some reading and TV. We'll go for a walk at bedtime, and I'll climb into a big empty bed and think of him. He'll have forgotten about his sadness when we said goodbye and be excited to see his toys and be back in his home with Grammy and Grampy.  I'll ride out my week away puttering at odd jobs at the apartment, hanging out with my classmates and friends new and old, and I'll anxiously wait for Friday night when I get home and hear "Mommy, I'm happy to see you!".

Those little words will make every heartache and tear worth it.

Step on a Crack...

I try very hard not to let superstition creep into my life.

Lately, it's not working.

Leading up to my wedding, everything went wrong. It started with the date - we didn't get the date we wanted, but we got into the venue on the Labour Day weekend. Next was the dress - my Mom hated the first one I liked, and the dress that I absolutely would have killed for had to be bought "as is", and would have taken a lot of stress and work to make ready for a real wedding. Then, the invitations were wrong not once, but five times. They were even sent out with the incorrect RSVP date because there was just no time to have them fixed again. We wrote the correct date in pen.

There was the ex-roommate who turned into an ex-bridesmaid when she informed me she planned on driving five hours to the church the day of my wedding - meaning she wouldn't be present for photos, hair/makeup, the meet-and-greet or anything else to do with the wedding but the actual wedding itself. Then there was the fact that my in-laws dictated everything. The day of the wedding, I looked at my best friend and my Mom and asked, "Am I making a mistake? Were they signs?"

Maybe they were, maybe they weren't. The only thing I do know is our one year anniversary should have been two months ago, and I haven't seen my husband since July. Aside from a handful of texts this week, I hadn't even heard from him in four weeks - which is usually the case, just a text to say he's sent something for F. I've dwelled on not listening to my gut and reading the signs that were blatantly flashing before my eyes, and have wondered if I would be happier, if hearts would have been spared had I called off the wedding when it first crossed my mind - around the time shit started hitting the fan.

Yesterday, I felt that strange sense of "Is this an omen?" when I went to my apartment to find the door to my unit UNLOCKED. WITH MY STUFF INSIDE. I could feel my heart breaking - I have never felt so assaulted, so violated in all my life. All of my things were where I'd left them, but the building managers cared that little about my belongings that they didn't even lock the door that separated them from the world. I was furious. This was only exasperated by the fact that the apartment hadn't been cleaned, a jug of paint sat in the middle of my floor and there were still cigarettes and old coffee cups on my counter. What did I get myself into?, I asked myself walking down the stairs shaking with anger.

We had no choice but to my move my things into the apartment. I looked at my Dad and said, "I'm looking for a new place. I will not stay here." He agreed, wholeheartedly and within a few hours, I had found a few spots to look at on Sunday when I return to town. It was sickening feeling. All of my doubts about going back to school were blown up on the projection screen for me this last week. An apartment that wasn't ready, twice. Since telling a few people where the apartment was, I've heard everything from "I saw a car on fire in the parking lot there once" to "the cops are there every day".

Needless to say, I'm moving and trying to stay positive that this isn't a sign from some greater force that I'm not supposed to go to school right now but that's not going to happen. Shit happens, but always for a reason. Maybe the perfect apartment is just waiting for me to move in!

Trembling

Do you remember your very first day of school?

I'm sure I don't, but I'm equally certain that it was not a big deal to me. My teacher was my next door neighbour and I knew my five grade-primary classmates already. The bus would have picked me up at 8:30AM, and dropped me off at home by 2:30PM. Twenty-odd kids from ages five to twelve, split between two classrooms attended that little school and I knew them all.

It wasn't until grade five when I switched schools that things got scary. New people, cliques, popular kids. These were the things of fairy tale, not my reality. On the hour long bus ride to and from school I learned about the hierarchy of bus seats, how to write neatly going over bumps and the importance of flopping your backpack on the seat next to you if you wanted to be alone. I was twelve years old before I knew what a bully really was, but I survived it with plenty of tears and broken hearts, laughter and friendships along the way.

Yesterday, I had my first day of school (again). It's the third time I've had a first day at a new school since the terrifying experience as a twelve-year-old. The only thing that's changed is my pants size and my age, really. And my major, from journalism to disabilites and back to public relations. It might even be more terrifying than it was then. I planned my outfit for two days, touched up my makeup in the parking lot, popped a mint in my mouth in the hallway and plastered that fake-confident smile we all have when we feel like we're going to puke but need to look cool. My dad came in to check it out too, which was a delectable cross between mortifying and wonderful. At least if I had passed out, someone would have been there. Besides, no one saw us.

Nine other women sat in the Student Lounge awaiting the commencement of Orientation. Some looked to be about my age, two were a fair bit older, and some looked to be a fair but younger than I. Nobody said anything. I smiled and said hello, but no one responded. So there we sat in silence, ten grown women awkwardly looking around at one another, casually picking up our class schedule from time to time and looking at it with little interest. Finally, we were rescued by the Co-President of the college. She was perky and funny and talked to us like we were little kids. It was great. We were given a tour of the campus (which, by the way, is GORGEOUS) and handed a "free" backpack. When I jokingly pointed out that it was the most expensive backpack I'd ever owned, one girl frowned at me either because she thought I was an idiot or she didn't get the joke.

I loved the faculty and while I'd really like to make friends, it's not about making friends as much as about making myself. I'm happily pursuing a long-term relationship with me, my education, talents, dreams and every other aspect of what's yet to come. So far, I've been hitting it off pretty well. I might be bashful and trembling now, but pretty soon I'll be galloping through the paces.

7:55





This moment played through my mind a million times last night. I can still see the lights of the delivery room, feel my mom's anticipation and J's tension. I can feel the fear I had when the whisked my son away from me without even letting me see him, and the relief that washed over me when I heard his first cry. Overdue, I had spent ten months feeling him grow, three days waiting to deliver, and one full day walking around the hospital trying to get things moving and ease the pain of the contractions. When my water (hilariously) broke in the hallway, I laughed so hard it's a wonder I didn't deliver then and there. At 7:30, my Mom went to find a nurse. At 7:40 I announced that I was delivering that baby. At 7:55, I was a Mommy.

 

 

 

It was the happiest and the scariest day of my life all at the same time. Everything changed in a minute. My life had new meaning, a new purpose. I had purpose. I felt the type of love that only a mother can feel, and it filled my heart so much I could feel it bursting. It now breaks about five times a day as I watch that little baby running around like a bull in a China shop. From small and helpless to the three-year-old teenager, I've cried when he cried, felt his pain when he fell, laughed at his smile and laid silently with him for hours. He is my greatest accomplishment, the wind beneath my wings and the roots that keep me grounded all at once. He makes me want to be a better person. It's almost 7:55PM on Thursday night - F was born on a Thursday night. Every time I catch the clock at 7:55PM, my hear skips a beat. It's my absolute favourite time.

 

My last full week with him has come to an end. Tomorrow morning will be a busy one, getting ready and hitting the road. In a week's time, I'll be alone in the new apartment. How do you prepare your heart for that hurt? How do you talk yourself through it? I am terrified and I'm not sure if I can, although I also thought I couldn't possibly raise a child at all, much less be doing it alone.

 

But, maybe I'll surprise myself. I do that a lot.

2.6 Seconds

I am envious of my not-quite-three-year-old's short attention span.

Yep, I said it. I am envious of the very same attention span that drives me completely bonkers 2.5 million times a day - and I mean certifiably crazy-pants kind of bonkers. From putting on socks to picking up toys, the kid switches tracks faster than you can say "attention". It's exasperating and hilarious at the same time.

Earlier today, I decided to approach the subject of my impending move.

"F, can you come and sit on Mommy's lap?"

"OK, but we need to rescue my toys. And then we need to play with Thomas and Edward and Gordon and have you seen Daisy Doo?"

This my friends, is what I'm working with.

I tried not once, not twice, but about thirty-seven times today to explain that we're going to be making some very big changes.

"Mommy is going to go back to school to make things better for us. Do you understand?"

"Yes, Mommy. I want to make things better for you. Where did Daisy Doo go?"

In a split second, this kid can go from all serious to mischevious and back again. That was about the time I realized it. The thing I've been both praying for and secretly fearing:

He's going to be just fine.

This is what my heart looks like - Blue eyes, blonde hair and a mischevious grin.

Yeah, he's going to miss me and saying good-bye will be hard on us both, but he's got a million and one things happening in his little life all day every day. He's got his toys and his imagination pulling his attention all over every minute of his little life. It's not going to be so easy for Mommy. I'm going to be living five hours away from my heart.  For the first time since he was born, I'm going to be alone. Sleeping alone, eating alone, watching TV alone.

I'm going to miss him, and unless I can adopt his 2.6 second attention span, I'm going to be one sad little Mommy.