And Then There Were Five

I've never been one for mementos, scrapbooks, baby books, or anything remotely crafty really. But, when given the time, I do like to write. So sorry kids. I didn't really save a lock of hair from your first hair cut, I didn't fill our your baby books, and there's no cool cement handprint from your first days. I'm just not that mom. Although I think I did keep your umbilical cord stub somewhere in a drawer, because the gross stuff is the most interesting! But, I do like to record your birth stories while they are still fresh. At least so far I can say you were all treated more or less equally.

They say that the third baby is the wild card, and to throw all expectations out the window. My motto in life is to hope for the best and to expect the worst, but I harboured more than a little hope that this babe might come at a comfortable 37, or 38 weeks. A girl can dream.

We did not see a baby at 37, nor 38 weeks. Not even at 39 or 40. I thought that my patience had been tested fairly with Ben at 40 + 5 and that I wouldn't be called to go through that again. I think from here on out, I need to throw all expectations out the window.

My maternity doctor, who had delivered Benjamin so beautifully, was going on holiday the day after my due date. This wasn't really the end of the world, but I A) didn't really want to be pregnant any more and B) hoped in a perfect world he might deliver again, and so given that I reallllly didn't want to be induced, I ramped up my efforts at encouraging labor. This included walking 3 km daily, eating copious amounts of pineapple, eating spicy food, and just about every other trick in the book. I had also done a condensed hypnobirthing class, and on my due date, tried some acupuncture to see if that might speed things. While it did have some effect that had me hopeful we might be getting somewhere enough that we went into hospital...no baby.

My mother in law and brother in law drove up on a week my mother in law could take off from work. They arrived two days after my due date and left five days after my due date. No baby.

There had been plenty of intermittent contractions, a few that even had me thinking we might be getting somewhere. But ultimately, no baby. And while I tried to be zen I tended to volley between thinking I could do this one more day, and being convinced that this was the seventh circle of hell. It's not a headspace I recommend.

Finally, on Saturday evening, a full week after my due date, I started to believe maybe this child was not indeed, an elephant in need of a two year gestational period. Around ten o'clock at night contractions seemed to be getting pretty consistent, albeit somewhat erratic. They were still quite manageable though, so I sent Jim to bed. Around midnight I sent for my doula (again, everyone should have one). She was beautifully encouraging, and I don't think she stopped gently massaging me my whole labor. As things began to feel more intense, my mind went to a place I don't think it had ever gone before in previous labors. I have never experienced prolonged prodromal (or early practice labor) like this, and it made it hard to see an end in sight. That, and the fact that my other labors had been relatively long, made me doubt myself in ways I hadn't expected. I have never wanted to request pain medication before (other than gas) but labouring at home it was calling my name. With any medical intervention there is a risk, and being risk averse I tend to avoid them, but I was sorely tempted. My contractions at this point weren't longer usually than 30-45 seconds, and at times were quite spaced out, but I took that to mean a long road ahead and I already felt so weary.

By morning it seemed like a good time to head to the hospital. I was still managing well, but given the somewhat erratic nature of my labor I was sure they would triage me and tell me I had progressed minimally. When the nurse said "you're a seven" I could have kissed her. Knowing that some of the longest, and hardest work was behind me, my mind shifted and I knew that I could do this.

We were assigned to a room and settled in. I had some excellent hippy zen music queued (magic stuff) and we settled. I laboured for some time before requesting the gas. We had arrived at the hospital at 8:00 am and laboured quite peacefully. Given that I am always positive for a certain type of bacteria that poses some risk to baby I had to have two doses of antibiotics administered intravenously. We just barely managed to finish the second round, when they checked and I was fully dilated (and likely had been for a bit), and my water still had not broken. The doctor arrived and they broke my water. Given that his head was still fairly high, it was odd, because they urge to push wasn't there like it had been previously. Up to this point I had employed hypnobirthing relaxation and techniques, but wasn't comfortable employing birth breathing (essentially using breathing techniques to deliver baby rather than pushing), and so I pushed. For all of five minutes. Birth itself, despite my dejected mind trip in the beginning, had been remarkably effective and manageable. I don't think contractions had ever gotten closer than 5 minutes apart. Pushing may have lasted 5 minutes but...oh I don't like delivery. I am a worker. I was an athlete. I don't quit and I am no pansy. But I really didn't know if I was going to survive pushing.

It's funny. I had been so anxious that this baby would be large. Ben had been 9.3 lbs and I really didn't want to go there again. As an athlete I often found that workouts and races were about lying convincingly to myself. Getting to the halfway point is always the hardest. This isn't so bad. You've done harder things. This is fun! It seems my mind employs the same tricks in labor. Laboring with this baby I knew, that this baby wouldn't be, couldn't be so big as ben. When they weighed him in at 9.11 lbs, I was grateful for the ability to lie to myself, and believe it.

That moment when they laid him on my chest, even though it was my third, is still so magically serene and surreal. Nine months. It's a friggin long time. And there he was, so pure and beautiful, and fresh. He was calm from the start and so far has remained. We decided to name him Leo after my grandfather, whose birthday was three days earlier, and Maxwell after Jim's grandmother's maiden name. And just like that, after months, countless walks, and some good meltdowns, he was here and in an instant it was all worth it. Every bit. Because we aren't complete without him. His sweet, calm, observant demeanour completes us.

I know that Ben will likely continue to struggle a bit with his role as baby usurped, I know that eventually Leo will have moments where he is as big a turd as his brothers, and I know that there will be moments that will test me in new ways I'd rather not think about. I will feel like I'm not cutting it, in some way or other, always. But man do I feel lucky. Three boys. Three wild things. Three musketeers. I wouldn't have it any other way.

Standing on the Precipice

Clearly I only update surrounding major life events. Better than nothing.

As I write it's 10:44 pm two days after my due date with baby number three. We have enjoyed an easy, uncomplicated pregnancy, but it's time. I'm ready to not be the size of a moderately sized urban townhouse anymore.

As I anxiously await for things to get going in earnest though, I can't help but want to savour, and even feel some guilt at the change that I am about to bring about. Life is good. Very good. Adam is an  excellent older brother, Benny relishes his role as the baby of the family, and we have a good routine. And in a matter of hours, or days, all of that will change. And as much as we are excited, I also can't help but mourn, in the smallest degree, that this chapter is ending. That change is coming. And that I don't know what that will look like or how it will impact the ones already here. Ben has always been my cuddly bear, and I think he senses something is shifting. Adam knows what's coming and is excited, having done it once before, and it's my hope that he might help his brother navigate what will be new territory.

And yet standing so close to this inevitable change, I am so anxious to hear that newborn cry, to snuggle that rose petal soft skin, and to smell that sweet milky breath. Standing in the in between has never been a preferred place of mine.

My headspace has been all over the place of late as I try to prepare for this impending birth, try to ensure my mind is prepared to put forth the work, to be patient, to trust that my body and my baby can work in harmony, to be patient, while still trying to be active and engaged, and fun to the two energetic boys I already have. It's such an odd place to be in, and it's my hope that my putting these feelings and thoughts into words, that the pieces might somehow fall into place and that the ball will start rolling in a forward direction. Because nobody really wants to be the size of moderate urban townhouse indefinitely.

Keep us in your thoughts and prayers. We may need the extra strength over the next few days or weeks.

Until then, here's a photo of the two hooligans ;)

Overheard

While the boys squabbled over something in the car on the way home

Mom: "Who's the boss"

Two year old: "Me!"

Mom: "I don't think so dude"

Two year old after a brief pause: "Boss baby"

...I've unintentionally created a monster

To Boys Who Grow

It's almost midnight. I have folded about 6 loads of laundry, started an article for a group I periodically write for, scrubbed my kitchen, and should be packing for a weekend trip we take tomorrow. Blogging is not what I should be doing right now.

But here's the thing. Today is June 8th. Tomorrow is June 9th, my oldest baby's fifth birthday. And my heart can barely stand it. Five years ago tonight he and I worked like dogs for him to be able to make his entrance into this world. And that baby has now grown into a beautiful, inquisitive, energetic, dinosaur obsessed, kind, brotherly boy who often seems to me to be wise beyond his years. And I completely adore him.

I know I can't stop the growing, though I have tried. When I ask him to stop now he just says "mom I can't. Heavenly Father made me so I could grow into a big daddy". And of course he's right. But what I wouldn't give just to slow his pace and savour it a little bit longer.

Yesterday was a hot, glorious day. And so along with some friends of our we went to a local splash park. Given the heat of the day, lack of a public outdoor pool, and the fact that it's one of only two in town, the place was pretty packed. I was keeping as close an eye on him as I could, but at some point when I wasn't looking he had managed to run into someone pretty hard. He ran crying into my arms, with a slightly bloody nose, and I held him close until the pain subsided. It was nothing remarkable. It's an act I've performed at least a thousand times and a hallmark of motherhood. But holding him there in my arms with his younger brother balanced on one knee it hit me: I may not get to do it a thousand times more for him. In September he's off to full day kindergarten. His landscape, our landscape, is about to change in some significant ways and the boy who knows his mom can make anything better...might not believe that for more than a few more years. And so I held him as if I could slow time. As if I could freeze it. As if I really could fix whatever came his way.

Oh Adam. I hope someday you always know how incredible you are. I hope you always ask so many questions. I hope that as you grow, you will learn to fix the problems that come your way, but I also hope you never get too old or wise to ask me for help.

Happy Birthday Bud. You completely rock our world.

Overheard in the Pool

A few weeks ago a girlfriend and I took our boys to the pool. We both have two that are about the same age, and generally they play pretty well together. The big ones had life jackets on and were motoring around and so we were mostly focused on the littlest two. After a few minutes however, it became apparent that some significant tension had arisen between the two older boys.

Curious, as mom's we investigated. This is my first real foray into the overactive imaginations of preschoolers.

Me: "Adam, what's wrong man?"

Adam: "He stole it! He stole my imaginary treasure!"

Me: "huh? Where did he put it?"

Adam: "I don't know, but he took it and it's gone and I'm REALLY MAD AT HIM!"

Me, with a brilliant idea: "Oh no. But good news Adam, I got it for you right here". I hold up empty hands.

Adam: Eyes as big as saucers, utter surprise on his face "YOU STOLE IT BACK?"

Me: Uh huh. Just for you buddy.

Moments later, the other boy is shouting: "Adam thinks he has the treasure back, BUT HE DOESN'T!!!!".

Well that was fun.

Overheard

Over spring break we went back to the island to visit. We thought we'd check out the Royal BC Museum and be tourists, and they happened to have a special exhibit on Terry Fox. For any Americans reading this blog, Terry Fox is revered in Canada as a hero. He was diagnosed with cancer  in his leg in the late 70's and had to have it amputated. In 1980 he decided to attempt to run across Canada to raise money for cancer research. He made it from Newfoundland to Thunder Bay Ontario, where he had to stop as the cancer had returned. He died in 1981.

I explained all of this to Adam, who is too young to have learned about him in school. Adam went through the exhibit enthralled by the different things to see, but most especially by Terry's prosthetic leg.

Adam is always inquisitive, always thinking, and sometimes a little bit phallic. At the end he looked at me and asked "mom, what if Terry had had Cancer in his penis?". I told him that that doesn't happen very often and luckily he didn't. His response "yeah. Otherwise he would have had to have a METAL PENIS".

Thanks heavens it never came to that.

Musings on Grief

It's been an interesting little while.

Grief isn't something I've been called to much in the last little while. But my grandfather, one of my life's hero's and most favourite people, passed away rather suddenly a few weeks ago.

Death isn't often a happy story, and this is no exception. But the story is as good as one can hope for I think. He was a regular smoker who had been smoking since his early teens.  After a stroke when I was about seven years old he was told that if he didn't quit, he wasn't likely to last more than five more years. About twenty-three years later, at the ripe young age of 80, cancer finally took him. He had been diagnosed with stage 4 about a month prior and given 6-12 months to live. He made it a little over a month. Processing these feelings has been a bit of a ride. A significant portion of my prayers since as early as I can remember has been dedicated to pleading God to help him quit smoking. For whatever reason, that never happened, but I will be eternally grateful that his life, and quality of it, lasted as long as it did.

Life can be so interesting. In so many ways it feels like he couldn't possibly be gone, and yet the fact remains that he is. His life was, I'm sure to an outside observer, unremarkable in many ways. Born in the backwoods of Muskoka (long before Toronto's rich and made it posh and desirable), a factory worker, smoker, and father of four, he tended to stick to what he liked and knew (scratching bingo cards and drinking coffee. I suspect he kept more than a few convenience stores in business), didn't tend to travel far from home (unless it was to visit family), and was known to have a wry and wicked sense of humour.

And yet for those of us who knew and loved him, he was a great man. He spent his life quietly serving, without ever asking for any kind of recognition or compensation. Despite the fact that he had never been an active member of the LDS church, he funded more than a few missions, contributed to many more, and gave wherever he could. He and my grandmother had been separated for a few years before she died suddenly from a car accident in 1999. The story goes that while taking care of her affairs after her death, someone checked her answering machine. On it, was a message from him telling her he'd managed to pay her credit card before she could get to it, and that her medication had been paid for. Even though she had left him, he still insisted on caring for her. He lived frugally, but enjoyed taking us out for dinners and breakfasts, a rarity in our home as a child. Once in first grade, my little sister was talking to some of her friends and they were discussing all the best things about their grandparents, and the gifts that they would get when grandma and grandpa visited. Gumpo was never the most conventional of grandparents but my sister was sure she topped them all when she said "when my grandpa comes, he takes us out for breakfast and dinner!". I don't think it came off as impressive as she knew it was.

Despite the fact that he was a decided homebody as his grandchildren we knew that we could count on an annual visit from him. There were no exceptions to this. He came to find us wherever we lived, including when we lived in Italy. For most, a trip to Italy is a highlight of a lifetime. For him, he took the trip out of a grudging necessity to see his grandchildren, and delighted in calling it "wopy town". On his visits he demonstrated zero appreciation for the food, culture, or language. He never gave up hope he might find some place that would serve him pork chops and potatoes. Cultured, he may not have been. But we didn't care one bit.

My sister snapped this shot of him last summer at our family reunion. He had had always been gruff with a soft interior, but the softer side had become more apparent in his later years. She gave my the framed photo for Christmas, long before we knew he was sick, and I sobbed like a baby when I opened it. It captures who he was to me.  Two weeks before he died I called him to check in. He sounded so much better than the last time I had heard from him. I told him he sounded great, and he replied "I feel great! You want to go dancing? I think the last time I danced was at your wedding". It was all I could do to hold it together. And so I anxiously wait for when I can take him up on his offer, but until then, I comfort myself with this photo of him dancing with my baby.

I can still see his favourite ball cap that said "don't steal, the government hates competition". I can still see his mischievous smile. I can still hear his laugh, and I can still, feel what it felt like to hug him. I'm glad I can, but it hurts to think that someday these memories won't be so fresh. So immediate. So real.

Grief is such an odd thing. There's no right or wrong way of going about it. How can such sadness be accompanied by something that was so wonderful? Because it was. Having him was such a gift. And it's the loss if it that feels so...empty. But what a beautiful life. What a beautiful man. What a beautiful gift.

Overheard

Adam is learning to wipe his bum after he goes #2. It's a regular battle of him saying "no YOU do it" and me replying "you have to at least try!".

The other day he had gone and the battle had commenced. I said "Adam, I'm serious, you have to at least try before I help you". His response: "you're not serious! You're just lazy!"

Also

While discussing what we wanted to plant in our garden this year we ran the usual gamut of peas, carrots, tomatoes, zucchini. So I was more than a little surprised when Adam piped in "and burgers!". I queried him as to what made him think burgers grew in gardens. His quick response "the seeds on the buns mom! We can grow them!". Oh son. Would that that were possible. Also, you're flat out brilliant.

Heavenly Sleep

Adam likes to have someone lay down with him to sleep. We are putz's as parents (and he otherwise isn't huge on physical contact unless it's wrestling) so it's become part of the bedtime routine.

While drifting off tonight "mom, let's cuddle", as he gingerly throws his arm over my neck and I nuzzle into his little chest.

There are more moments during a day than I can count that I am *this* close to losing my cool, but Dear God in Heaven, please freeze these moments for me. I never want to forget them.

Overheard

While discussing with Adam the impending start of pre-school for him (yes it's late. Long story), of which he's a little nervous

Adam: But I like to stay with you mom. Because...you're beautiful!

This kid has my whole heart.