Confession: I'm a complainer

I have a confession to make:

I complain about my child.

There. I said it. It's out. I'll just wait here while you reread that, shake your head and call me a bad parent.

Done? OK, good.

When I decided to go back to school, I had to make a lot of tough decisions. I had to leave the comfort zone that I was pretty happy in, give up the home that I loved so much and hardest of all I had to swallow my pride and ask for some help by leaving F with my parents. If you can imagine tearing your heart out and leaving it behind over and over again over the course of six months, you know what I'm talking about.

When I finally - and I mean finally - got to bring him to Halifax to start daycare and live with me, it was a challenge. I had a routine, a schedule, a little life that involved a lot of missing him but not a lot of including him. I had to rethink my approach to my days, my weeks - to every minute of down time. I had to toddler-proof my life, and I was so happy to do it but so exasperated when it didn't go smoothly.

A certain celebrity was quoted as saying that he didn't understand why parents referred to things they've done as "sacrifices" because in his mind there's nothing more important than your child, and that's true... but you do still sacrifice other things to be a better parent. It doesn't mean that those other things were more important or less important than the role as parent, just that they had to be put on the backburner or forgotten altogether.

I had to sacrifice the better part of F's 3-year-old life in order to do what it would take to be a better parent, but then in the same breath I lamented how tired I was, how poorly he was behaving and how tiresome he could be sometimes... but I wouldn't change a second of it.
I wouldn't trade a single meltdown, time-out, temper tantrum, spilled drink or fingerprint on my newly cleaned windows because I know how many people would do anything to have that.

So tonight, as I wandered down the hall in the dark I found myself thanking the universe that I hadn't tripped over anything but longing to step on the dinky cars I normally curse, or to feel a few cracker crumbs under my bare feet because it would mean that F was sleeping soundly a room away.

And I hope that next week after washing the living room window 32 times, pleading with him to put his pants back on, tripping over stuffed animals and finding boogers in my hair that I remember just how empty this apartment feels without him.

Bestest

Hiccups.

They happen at the least convenient times, don't they?

Not just the "hic-cup!" ones either, the ones that you can't stifle no matter how hard you try when you're sitting in an exam or church. I mean the kind that throw your entire system out of whack, like when your apartment isn't ready and you can't move in. That kind. You spill coffee on yourself the one time you wore a white top (am I right?), or got mud on your nice, clean pants. The phone cuts out just at the moment you finally got through the 20-minute wait with Bell custome service. It rains and your hair looks like more poodle than volumous the day of your interview or hot date. They happen to us all, some more easily straightened out than others.

My Mom is the ultimate in straightening-out of things. From stained shirts to ripped pants, the woman can fix pretty well anything except a broken heart, but she's pretty good at helping you put the pieces back together. I'm not even half the Mom she is, and I mean that in the least self-depracating way possible. I've got 21 years to go before I can truly compare myself, but if nothing else, I hope F thinks I'm as great as I think my Mom is. She is funny, kind, intelligent, able, and down-to-earth. She has bent over backwards for my brother and I a gazillion times, loved us when we were hard to like and stood up for us when she probably should have knocked us on our asses. She's that kind of Mom. The kind of Mom that every child should have.

We've had some rough times, she and I. I've loved her and been royally pissed at her a million times over growing up, and we still argue. We're really different. She is reserved and neat, and she's almost never on time - early isn't in her vocabulary, but I adore her. I have pushed her patience, let her down, made her angry and probably made her question her own sanity about four hundred times in the past year alone. Throughout every up and down, she's been right next to me. Even though I can't imagine how I've done it, I've somehow managed to make her proud twice that many times in the past year. She listens to me rant and cry and laugh and pretends my (not so funny) jokes are funny. She is my fashion consultant, voice of reason and biggest cheerleader and I sure hope that she knows she's my best friend. If she doesn't, she'll know soon when I approach her with the usual, "Hey, want to hear the blog post I just wrote?".

She's not alone in her awesomeness, though. My Dad is pretty awesome too. The pair of them have bailed me out more times than any of us can remember, and I pretty much owe them an Island or something to that extent. They have moved me to and from the city, into new apartments and back into my bedroom at their house. They've let me sit and feel sorry for myself, dragged me out when I least felt like it and held my hand through the storm. They've changed F's diapers and cleaned up Daisy's messes. I'd be totally lost without them, and the most amazing part?

They didn't have to do a single bit of it. They didn't have to be my parents. They wanted to.

Thanksgivings

This afternoon, F and I got dressed up in semi-coordinating outfits and took my camera to the shore by the old fish houses for some photos. My Hyundai Elantra served as the tripod/photographer and we had a flippin' blast!



 

No Baby Steps here - just one big LEAP!

Thanksgiving is such a beautiful time of year - summer is still lingering but the air is cooling, the leaves are turning and there is a hint of change around us. It seems like the perfect time to start anew, which is just what F and I are doing. Only a year ago, we used the back of a VW Jetta to take family photos with J along the Cabot Trail. It's bittersweet to take photos of the two of us, but the fact is that I'm a lot happier.

 

I know, right? Cutest kid EVER.

As I was watching F counting berries and rosehips, I realized that I count a lot of things. I count his fingers and toes, I count money, I count calories... but I rarely count my blessings and that's sad.

I have so much to be thankful, appreciative and ecstatic about! I have a beautiful, healthy, smart and loving son, a supportive family, amazing friends and my entire future ahead of me. I have my health, and I have finally taken ownership of my happiness. There is so much to be thankful for. I probably have more blessings than calories to count anyway.

Hanging out with lobster traps, trees, overgrown grass and Cape Breton air!