Sadie has a small fracture just north of her elbow. Officially it’s a fracture of the supracondylar humerus, and it’s so subtle that the attending couldn’t see it. He had to call in the radiologist, and then consult with a pediatric orthopedic specialist at Children’s Hospital. But still.
It was our first visit to the emergency, and she’s almost four. For that I’m thankful.
Sadie’s pre-school called this morning to tell us that she had fallen on the playground, and that she had a large egg on her arm, and that she was resisting any ice. Lately, Sadie’s fallen lots, and she’s become more and more freaked out about how much it’s going to hurt when we bandage her up. When I got to the school, she was asleep on her teacher’s lap. They were using a packet of freezies to keep the swelling down, so she looked like she was wearing a cuff of very hip colours — orange and turquoise and brown and red.
Right now, or for the better part of a month, the car’s been off the road. The muffler’s rotten, and the exhaust pours through the rust holes in the rear wheel wells. An angelic friend, who has a child that Sadie plays with, dropped us at the closer hospital. I figured that we’d have a shorter wait time than if we’d gone to Children’s.
Things were moving at plodding speed, and Sadie did fantastically well. She was nervous about being in the hospital, and worried about all the equipment around, but charmed the doctors with her description (with actions) of how she fell from the monkey bars.
Sadie began crying as soon as the x-ray technicians showed her the lead apron they wanted her to wear. And not just crying, but “NO! Nononononononono NOOOOOO!” with red splotches on her face and big, fat tears, and “I want to go straight home.” There was no reasoning with her. I couldn’t get her to tell me why she didn’t like the apron. She just become more and more upset. Finally the technician said that they could shoot the x-ray without it, “although we really shouldn’t.” So I asked if it was to protect her (3-year old) ovaries, and when she nodded, even though I knew that’s what it was all about, I could feel my heart breaking up into pieces. What if years from now my little girl, who already wants so much to be a mother, can’t? What if it was because of this?
I know that it’s my job as a mother to be fearless. I know that I’m supposed to be all sunny faced and pull a song out of my ass at times like this. But all I wanted to do was cry. And then I had to let go of her hand and travel light years across the room and camp behind a glass partition while Sadie was there all alone. I had to. I had Frances.
And then we had to do it again for a second film. They wanted her to hold her arm in a more painful position, and they wanted her to do it again, even though all she wanted in the world was to hold my hand. So two things happened. Frances woke up (after sleeping through all of the cajoling and screaming that had preceded this) and reached out to hold onto Sadie’s hand. And then the assistant technician strapped on an apron and held my daughter when I couldn’t, and shooed me out of the range of the x-ray.
Fortunately, Sadie loves praise, and so when they told her how well she had done, she managed a smile. She also gave the emergency room staff little giggles when she told the doctor that she “really didn’t want to see her bones today.”
They gave her some pain meds, and after walking almost all the way home, which took nearly an hour, she crashed for a two-hour-long nap. Once she was safely in bed, sling and all I could finally, finally let the tears come. I could barely describe this scene to Steve. And that woman who put herself in the x-ray room when I couldn’t, I didn’t even give her a hug.
Sometimes I wonder what my 20-year-old self would think if she could see me now. She would have a difficult time believing that I could some day want to teach for a living, and she would be very confused by the amount of time I spend (contentedly) at home. She’d certainly be surprised about the children, and perhaps a little dismayed at how my musical knowledge is sliding.
I think she’d be pleased that I’ve finally stopped talking about writing, and am now, well, writing. One curious thing about getting older and having Sadie and Frances around is that I’ve tried to set aside any ideas I have about not being able to do something. We ask strangers where they’re going. We dance like fools in playgrounds whether or not there are witnesses, and we draw. A lot.
When I was in highschool, they had an art course for every grade level as well as something called Communication Arts — aka photography — for grades 11 and 12. I think they were all taught by Mr. Evans. My brother would know. He took Art 8 before my father intervened and stressed the grave importance of Academics. There was something geeky about the kids who hung out with Mr. Evans. Today I’d call them hipsters.
My 20-year-old self wanted nothing more than to be at art school. (Unsurprisingly, I fell for a dude who draws for a living). Not sure what I would have done there, because I never allowed myself to believe I could draw anything. But Sadie loves my drawings. When I draw something she’s requested, she gives me that little laugh that lets me know I’ve hit it exactly, I’ve managed to give shape to an idea in her head. It’s pretty thrilling. The other day I drew my version of the Backyardigans. She couldn’t have been happier, and waved the paper around at Steve, and carried it around with her for a while until we had to leave.
Lots of people talk about the “terrible twos” in hushed tones that are meant to convey the gravitas of the year — as though those 365 days represent the ne plus ultra of trying times with small children.
I cannot figure out what they’re talking about. Is this some kind of trick labelling by people who have never actually been parents. I remember Sadie got pretty good at expressing what she wanted and also what she didn’t want, but all that was nothing compared with age three, which has been one long challenging NOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!, often screamed at high volume in, well, very public places at inopportune moments.
Yesterday, I took Sadie and Frances to the Bay to get Sadie a bathing suit, because all of the suits she wore last summer show most of her ribs and just about all of her bum cheeks. So, I guess that Sadie got it into her head that we were going to get the suits in order to go swimming. After we squeezed ourselves into a changing room and went back and forth about why it was a bad idea to swing the full length mirror into the wall (and no, I don’t know why they don’t bolt those things on both sides either) with all the strength that a three-year-old can muster, Sadie tried on about six suits, each of which superceded the previous one as the most beautiful bathing suit in the world. We settled on two — a blue one-piece with ruffles on the chest and a yellow two-piece with pink hearts. She was wearing the bikini when I said we’d better go and pay for the suits. I asked her to get changed. “No,” she said. “I want to go swimming! Where’s the pool?” I had to explain that we just getting the suits for potential future use and that we were off to run other errands. She insisted that she should wear the suit out of the store. “It’s my best suit ever, and I loooooove it.” Around the time when Sadie started howling about all she ever wanted (in life) was to go swimming, Frances got upset and started wailing as well. There I was sitting on the floor of a fitting room in the Bay downtown, thinking that I didn’t have many options, and waiting for one of those women who work in the children’s department to come bustling in, all hushing and shushing and trying to win over the baby, and possibly even the pre-schooler, with some squealing and clucking.
But it was the Bay, and so there was no one there to hear the fuss. At some point I promised that we had already made a future swimming date with her friend Sasha. Okay I lied. But Sadie got dressed, and we made it out of the store in street clothes.
Today, I carried a screaming, naked Sadie five blocks through my East Van neighbourhood. No one blinked an eye. No doubt, many of the people in my neighbourhood are parents who have survived these three-year-old storms themselves.
I honestly don’t know what to do when little conflicts turn into a big showdown. I read somewhere once that you’re not supposed to feel embarassed, that a child’s behaviour is no real reflection of your parenting style or skills. It’s hard to keep that top of mind when you’re trying to duck the punches of your misunderstood, angry daughter. I struggle with it all. I feel frustrated that there’s no way to reason with her. I feel absolutely caught up in the intense irrational anger that only a child can bring. I often feel embarassed in the company of other parents whose children appear to listen, to respond, to bend to their wishes. I try to remember that this phase will end. Later on we’ll laugh about it. Won’t we?
I wrote a couple of weeks ago about how much I wanted to figure out the life-work balance thing, how much I wanted to stay home and be a mother to Frances and Sadie, how I never wanted this cycle of waking, eating, making snacks, packing the bag, walking to the park, playing with the kids, reading books, eating, bathing, snacking, sleeping, and interruptions to end.
I have a little less than three months of maternity leave remaining. And all I feel is dread. It’s like being at the outer edges of a whirlpool. You can swim against it, but it’s got you, and you know you’re only going to make yourself more tired by fighting it. So you go along, and before you know it, you’re drowning. I don’t like my (paying) job. I think I’ve made that clear. I’ve hated it for a long time.
But with the financial disaster we’ve been living in, it’s going to be awfully hard to find a part-time gig or contract work that will let us leave the panic behind. I’m not yet resigned to going back, but I’m trying to come to terms with a couple of things. One: I don’t want to think back on this leave and only remember the recession insomnia or being bitter that I my choices feel so narrow. Two: that even if I had the choice I wonder sometimes whether I could hack it in the world of FTMs (full-time moms).
The past couple of weeks have been very challenging with Sadie. More and more my other name is “poo-poo pants” or some variant. We spend a lot of time arguing, each of us dug in to our first-stated position, both of us too stubborn to see another route. Tonight, we spent 30 minutes on whether or not washing her hands was going to cause life-ending, excuciating pain to her finger, which she had earlier slammed in the sliding glass door. All she needed was a little dinner after a day of play in the garden and dress-up at the neighbours’.
I know she’s asserting herself. That’s good. I don’t want a milquetoast child, but I fear I may be fighting a lifelong battle for the title of boss. Sometimes it feels as though Sadie would do better if I were out of the equation a little bit more. That she would spend a little less time fighting that battle, and more time learning about the world. And sometimes it feels as though I am just not tough enough for this job.
A week ago, I asked Sadie’s caregiver for ideas, and she told me I could try keeping her closer, spending more time with her. This woman is amazing. I totally trust her. She also tried to assure me that I’m a good mom, but for some reason I couldn’t hear it, and very nearly burst into tears on the spot. I love my kids, but there are days that are harder than others.
Lately, I’ve been thinking a lot about winning the lottery. I used to dream now and again about winning — mostly when my job wasn’t thrilling me (and when have I had a job that does thrill me??), but these days it’s a full-fledged obsession. It started a couple of months ago, and I would say to myself, “I don’t need to win it all. I just need to win enough to pay off the debt.” That way, we might be able to keep more than our noses above the water.
Well, now that we’re bobbing along with the water up around our eyebrows, I’ve been thinking about big wins. Last week at writing group, Denise mentioned a guy who was “known to police” who had at one point won $3.5 million. I thought, why him. Some two bit gangster with nothing to spend it on but drugs and lame champagne and spinners for his big dick wagon. Whereas we could do so much more with a win like that. I wouldn’t have to go back to work. In fact, I could think about going back to school — to start a new career at 45 perhaps. We could afford to buy a house in Vancouver. We could afford to send our three-year-old to her pre-school! Without a bursary! Steve would sleep!
Money’s a tough thing for me to wrap my head around. I’m trying hard to learn how to be a cheapskate, but we’re always behind. It’s been one of the most stressful years of my life. (Not that I’d trade it for anything, but…)
But.
I sometimes get jealous of my friends with houses, the people who have enough money to take a vacation, or buy themselves a few new things.Or go out to restaurants.
And then.I remember that some of those people have their own worries that keep them up at night. Two of those friends have had cancer keeping them up nights. I don’t have those worries. I have two amazing healthy girls, and I don’t even have a cavity. I hope.Dear Steve hasn’t been to the doctor since I’ve known him. It rubs me the wrong way, a lot. But he’s ticking along fine too.
I didn’t buy a lotto ticket this week. I don’t think that my obsession has run its course, but I’m trying to keep stuff in perspective.
I’ve been feeling terrible lately. Started last week after a trek to the library in brilliant sunshine. Achey, nauseous, chills, and then sinus cavities stuffed with snot. And repeat. I thought I was getting better, but now I’m feeling pretty rough again. It could be the obsessivereading I’ve been doing about swine flu.
I don’t get the flu vaccine. Never have. I’m not giving it to the girls either. In Canada, flu shots are laced with the preservative Thimerosal, and I don’t frankly care what kind of half life that stuff has or how quickly it leaves the body, it’s mercury. There’s a reason we don’t have mercury thermometers any longer. No need to have that crap anywhere near us. And mercury in kids? Their body mass is so much smaller that they would have that much more absorbed into their bloodstream.
That’s not to say that I don’t occasionally feel that really brittle late night fear about how deadly flu can be. The parents of that 23 month old boy in Texas may well be wishing that they had the opportunity to vaccinate their young son. And I’m no germophobe either. I wash my hands before making food and when I get off transit, but I’m always picking up pieces of watermelon from the floor and re-giving them to Frances. My mother tries to look away, or wipe that disapproval from her face.
The flu: best not to think of it as some kind of innocuous-never-gonna-happen-to-me thang. Better to lay awake at night worrying about how to avoid our neighbours who are now holidaying in Mexico once they return.
Do they even make child size masks? I should remember this from SARS. But I wasn’t a parent then. So I just measured the probability of risk to me (next to none), and went about my day. Now that I’m a parent. I’m losing sleep.
Also, I don’t think I have the flu. I just have a late sleeper and an early riser. And a serious jones for The Wire.
Canadian women have 50 weeks of maternity leave. This is a gift. I have been unbelievably fortunate to enjoy this time with both of my daughters. (Even better, I get the second year with Sadie for free.) Frances is almost nine months old. That means that my leave is almost up.
And I’m feeling just the same way I did when I reached this point with Sadie. I’m feeling huffy and resentful and trapped and unbelievably sad. How will I leave her? She’s so young. She needs me so much. I’ve grown accustomed to looking at her face every day for all day, and I can’t bear the idea that I won’t be able to do that any longer.
The other mummies at Sadie’s school get to stay home with their kids. Why not me? Why don’t we have more money? (This is an entirely different post.) Why do I have to go back to a job I don’t like? It’s unfair and I think my soul will shrivel up and die if I have to go back there. No. Really.
I don’t want to give up this lovely rhythm of life. Get up. Go to school. Or park. Or library. Or (insert pre-schooler activity here). Come home for lunch. Read books. Colour. Play princesses. Make dinner. Argue about the bath, bedtimes, snacks. Sleep. Repeat. It’s not that easy. In fact, I remember when I did give in to reality and go back to work after Sadie’s first birthday I realized how easy it is to earn a living.
But dammit! I don’t want that ease. I want to figure out a way to continue this beautiful life. Maybe it’s naive, but I have to believe there’s some way to forge that elusive life work balance, even though I know that’s another lie women tell themselves. There are a bunch of lies about motherhood. But this is an important one. Once you’ve given birth, there is no more balance. I know that I’m going to be out of kilter, and beyond saving for the rest of my life. I’ll continue to lie awake and fear all the horrible accidents that could befall this gorgeous baby or her sister. In my worst fears, they’re falling from ferry decks, or rushing into the streets, stepping into someone’s green glass shards. I’ll watch the headlights trace across the ceiling and think about what those hands will make someday — cakes, or dresses or pots or mineral dust or housing or schematics. I don’t know. And I’m losing even more sleep waiting to find out.
But I know I want to be close. I want this. I want it to go on and on and on.
And this time, I’m not going to roll over and let that life-work balance lie happen to me.
A friend posted this video on her Facebook this morning. It’s old, right, like from 2006, but I’ve never seen it, and I can’t stop thinking about it.This is how it starts. “The little girl giant woke up one morning, got a shower from the Sultan’s elephant and wandered off to play in the park.” Her eyes are so animated, and completely compelling. I think it’s because they sometimes blink partway, like real eyes.
First of all it made me want to write a story about the little girl giant, and then almost immediately I found myself wishing that I was enrolled in a masters program I’ve been looking at. It’s an unusual mashup of children’s literature, library studies and creative writing.
This is partly because I’ve been talking with my dad, the rocket scientist, about the utility of a humanities grad degree, and how most of the people who end up doing grad studies in the humanities are never going to get that dream job in academe, and are instead part of the puppy mill culture of academia, where universities survive on the cheap, eager labour of grad students. None of this conversation has made me at all reluctant to give up the idea that someday, I’ll add an MA behind my name.
First step: write that story. Give me a few days, and I’ll post it here.
The other day we played fairy. This is where Sadie says, “I’m the fairy and you’re the evil step-mother.” (Why am I always the bad actors? Sometimes I’m the monster or the beast.) So she gave me three wishes. I wished for more sleep, a little time to read my book, and three more wishes. She says, “I’m not the kind of fairy that does that.”
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