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It’s a beautiful day!

9 Jun

FINALLY. sheesh. I thought it would be winter forEVER.

Rosalyn Stares You Down

Last night was pretty nice as well. Had to work all day, which is a JOY with two kids around at this age. Actually, Vivian isn’t that bad. Rosalyn though…sigh. Next year will be easier at least. I just hate that I end up having to stick them in front of the TV when I’m on a call. Can’t be helped I suppose. Plus, today, they’ll get barely any. Today, they’re out getting LOTS of Vitamin D.



Earlier we went for a walk, with me getting suckered at various yard sales. Anything I would want I either never carry the cash for, or wouldn’t be able to lug home anyway. Oh well. The girls got some dinky cars out of it.

Last night we went to meet Mogo coming off the bus, and on the way home, the girls started rolling around in the grass.

They do like each other, I swear.

Now Rosalyn is getting mad because she dumped her cold water all over herself. I cannot wait to see what this kid is like in 10 years….




..this great black night, and this fireglow.

31 May

When my Vivian was a small infant, and I a new mother, my father gave me the sage advice that all grandparents seem to pass along.

“They grow up too fast. Enjoy the moment.”

Since I was juggling work, the adjustment to new motherhood by accident, and a baby who refused to nap without being bounced in a bouncy chair, I really wasn’t into appreciating the moment. I wanted the moment to pass so I could go pee or eat something.

Nearly 4 years later, I understand beyond any belief, I grasp this phrase as one of those truths you only hold dear after the fact.

I stare at both of my daughters some days, wondering where the babies I help aloof went. Where their tiny feet went, where their small grasping hands disappeared to. Their faces are now those they will carry through their lives, their legs losing the bowed stagger of toddlers, settling instead into childhood. I look on in wonder as Rosalyn navigates stairs on her belly, frighteningly fast. I shake my head when Vivian argues her point, loudly and clearly. Where did these children come from?

Yesterday it seems, a week ago, they were just squalling infants in my arms, chubby arms pulling themselves up, new feet slapping tile. I turned around to get something, and my babies were replaced with children, with MINE! And I don’t want to go home! My babies have been replaced by the daughters of my future.

I mourn that I ignored it. That I turned away from the wonder of their movement through stages so quickly I could blink and miss it. I find myself quietly asking why I couldn’t stop and see things through the glasses of memory, why I couldn’t just be, absorbing the place none of us would visit again.

It’s gone far to fast, and we’re only 4 years in for my oldest. But I see the future stretching out, quickly, elastic. I see my daughters as girls, as teens, as women. As the people they’ll be, they might be. I see them, and view the road which burns speeding from their past. I see myself dropped off as their life begins anew. I see myself wishing for grandchildren, for their happiness, for the living of their lives. I see the road, and it’s not too broad or even that far.

The future hovers over my head, much as I imagine it hovered, and still hovers over my father. I can hear in his voice the ache of past, the memories that congest his eyes, the child I once was, transposed over the woman formed by our joint past, by who he is.

I enjoy the moments as I catch them. Vivian throwing her arms around my head in the morning light. Rosalyn coy and sly, allowing just one kiss to her cheek. My daughters fighting for that toy, or book, or spot or whatever is owed to them in their little world.

Each day is past, full of smaller footprints than today might hold.

I drink of them, and hold it in for tomorrow.


29 May

The sun filters through my window, falling gently on the floor, alighting on hair the color of ash trees in fall. It’s peaceful here, until

the screaming and the yelling and the throwing and the crying the crocodile tears of a toddler streaming as I stare blankly into my green backyard, newly green after holding it’s breath all spring. The screaming, oh the screaming, imagined hurts, wounds, offences.

It’s hard work being 2 after all. Hard to notice the simple things like blessings and food and safety and security. Hard to notice that life had gifted you more than 80% of the world-a home, people who love you and keep you safe. It’s hard to remember this when someone else has the toy that you want.

Tears turn into sobs and more offended screeching. Everything is hers, everything you touch she must also touch, she must see SEE! I wanna SEE! I need! I need!

I need too. I need time to speed up just a little and go past this place, this time that infuriates me so, this time I cannot comprehend, of such selfishness. This place that makes me scream until I lose my voice, this place that cannot stop touching me, grabbing for me, when all I want to do is stare out into my greener backyard.

I want to like my 4 year old, really…

26 May

ok, so she’s not exactly 4 yet, but since she would have been driving me nuts in my belly at this point in the pregnancy, she’s 4 to me.

Something had snapped in this child lately and I swear I’m about to sell her.

The world owes her something, and dammit, she’s gonna whine to get it.

She’ll cry, she’ll scream, she’ll screech and whine and shed a few opportunistic tears.

I’ll feel the need to slap her into next week. I won’t, despite the temptation. But the worst one is the waking up at night. Sweet crap, one of them has woken me up almost every single night this week. Last night Ros woke up screaming, inexplicably missing her diaper. Freaking out when I out a diaper back on her. Then Vivian woke up screaming because she couldn’t find her truck.

I was just like, you woke me up for a fucking truck?

Now she’s in Ros’s face, she who just woke up and is stumbling around like a drunk. I have to tell her 50 times not to do things, and she still needs to be pushed or pulled away from things. She just will NOT listen, and she’s driving me insane.

Yesterday was fun as well. She said she wanted to have a nap in our bed, so we said ok. Silence. Then thumping. We go upstairs to find some unsent Xmas presents opened with teeth, the chocolates strewn through the room. Thankfully she didn’t open the liquor filled ones. I don’t think she likes Jack Daniels.

She’s just…ARGH she’s so FOUR!

Suddenly, I can’t wait until she starts school…

Good Morning Starshine…

9 May

I spent this morning in my backyard, ranking and hoeing and preparing to plant some herbs (frost-back OFF!). The girls ran around me, looking for bugs, turning things over, playing on their slide. This was interrupted a few times with:

“Vivian! I told you NO KILLING. Respect the spider’s space!”

After awhile, we went in for some mandarin oranges and came back out with a heaping bowl of tasty orange goodness, and books. After reading Alexander and the Horrible, No Good, Very Bad Day, I tried to read my gardening book. But once a page with bugs was found, I had to give up, since neither sticky handed child would let me go past it.

But that’s ok. The sun warmed my back, Vivian’s hair tickled my nose, her grin lit up my eyes. Rosalyn denied me kisses, and ran around us. Time stopped.

I inhaled that moment for the future-set aside in case of pain, or terror or death. Catalogued for some other moment, a me years from now who will yearn for the relatively simple worries of toddler development and preschool worries. Placed in a box for me to find, in surprise, many summers from now, when the sun hits my eyes just right, when the blue of the sky is just so.

Things the Girls Do

4 May

Things are getting entirely too serious and maudlin around here. So let’s talk about my cute kids for a change. 🙂

Rosalyn is…well, she’s definitely two! Frankly, she’s a pain in the ass, and into everything. The other day she was flinging the fridge open, taking ONE strawberry, closing the door, and running off to eat her spoils. This escalated into grabbing one for each hand, which then created the age old problem of two hands, one mouth. (Vivian rarely went near the fridge-what gives with this kid?)

I know! Let's raid the fridge!

She’s cute, and does she know it! She’s totally going to be one of those girls who gets away with everything since all she needs to do is flutter her eyelashes. It’s hard to stay mad at her, which is funny, considering that she’s bloody infuriating. She has three blankets who have kinda taken their place in her heart, moving Teddy down the list. They are

  1. Elmo Bankie.
  2. Princess Bankie (which is actually Vivian’s)
  3. Bankie.

She actually sits like this too... 

They are all soft and fluffy and warm. We’ve started calling her Linus.


She kinda talking in sentences-namely “Go with you!” when I get ready for work, “want more yogie!” when she wants more yogurt (which is all the time it seems) and “See Mommy! Mommy Up!” constantly. Sitting down with her doesn’t work. She very specifically wants me to pick her up. She’s messy and curious and has that devilish glint in her eye and is absolutely adorable. I love that kid more than I ever thought I would.

Vivian is suddenly a big girl, so grown up it makes me want to cry. She’s been dry through the night for a week, so we consider this a done thing, barring a few accidents here and there. She recognized her Uncle on the phone the other day, which surprised him, but not us. She’s incredibly mature and precocious for her age. Unlike her sister, we’ve never treated her like a baby. Which frustrated her sometimes. We expect a lot from her.

Yesterday she yelled at Ros “You’re not the boss of me! Daddy is the boss of me!”. She told her Poppi that her Daddy was “a whiner” and that he should grow up. I don’t find the mouthing off all that attractive, but I know that most of it is an effort to find her independence from us. She’s still disciplined, but I don’t take it personal.

Occasionally she loses her mind, and the whining gets out of hand, and she gets mad cause I get VERY annoyed and lost all sympathy for her when the whining starts. Then she kinda looks like


 and is told to go to her room to do that, since no one wants to hear it. She’s dealing with a brain, and emotions, which move to fast for her, so I take this with a grain of salt as well. She’s also a drama queen when she gets a scrape or a cut. You’d think someone cut off her arm!She’s my girl though. She’s cool and smart and fun to hang out with. She’s open to new things, but knows what she doesn’t like. I remind her constantly that she can do what she wants-if she doesn’t want to share, or hug, or whatever, she doesn’t have to within reason. She still has to share with her sister, no matter how irritating she is.

She has this weird obsession with bugs of all things. The weirder the better. Her aunt is terrified of bugs, specifically spiders, so if she visits this summer, she won’t appreciate Vivian’s ever growing collection.

More than anything, they are good kids. Awesome kids really. We’re lucky.

I was walking through a graveyard on my way home the other day, and I realized-I’m so lucky! Staring at all the old graves of children, of mothers, both dying so young, I thought about how much worse our lives could be. How small our problems really are.

How much I love my daughters.

cannot handle being a mother redux

30 Apr

I’ve been noticing how much reaction this post gets. I have hits for it daily.

I never imagined that so many of us, US, mothers and women, were this fed up and backed into a corner.

I don’t think, no scratch that, you do not see anything when you google “I cannot handle being a father”. Likely because most men don’t bear the weight of children and home and work and themselves. (Some do. But it’s few and far between. At least, they don’t obsess over it) Why do we bear the burden? Why do we allow ourselves to wrap so tightly into “Mommy” that we cannot escape it?

I stay late at work partly because me walking in the door at night causes everyone to ramp it up a notch. But mostly, it’s because I love having the hour to myself. A whole hour where no one questions me, follows me into the bathroom, steals food from the fridge or interupts my reading. A hour I greedily devour. I need this hour like I need air.

But why I am the one that is “supposed” to remember when one kid needs to see the doctor, and when the floor needs to be washed? Why I am supposed to try and plan our menus? Why is the woman supposed to be responsible for everything? Why are we trained this way?

Quite frankly, I am NOT able to do all of it. I forget my own appointments. I buy all the wrong stuff with the groceries. The house would be fuzzy with mold if it was just me. I am not the “girl” as society would have me be. I am more the ignorant guy, thinking in abstracts but woefully inadequate when it comes to day to day living. I’m not “Mom” material.

But everyday I see women coming here, and reading that post. Some comment that they feel the same. How many others see the post and don’t comment? How many of us really want to throw it all off, and run away to somewhere fabulous? (Personally, I’m thinking Chile.) How many of us are sick of the fact that life is no where near what we were promised or told it would be?

I like my life-I really do. I have moments where it all sucks large monkeys, and I want to jump in a vat of Dairy Queen soft serve and float, but there are also moments f joy that grab me by the heart and shake me around for being so ungrateful. I just wish that we were all more honest with eachother-that we could say “YES. This blows sometimes” without it being scary. I wish we weren’t afraid to say “Honey, it gets better, even if today involved a lot of vomit.”

Can we do that? Can we have just one day where we’re honest and gritty and meaningful about the good stuff AND the bad stuff. Of course they’re cute-but what about the whining and sniveling and crying and snot that’s involved? What about the decisions we make daily about what’s best for them, and how we’re likely just running up the future therapy bill.

What about the truth? Does it even matter?

Boss of Me Dance

25 Apr

Getting dressed in our house has become shall we say…an adventure?

This morning, Rosalyn insisted on her spideman shirt, a skort and “tights!tights!”. No pants mind you. We can’t wear pants. Pants are obviously a tool of the devil.

She’s getting better than she was, but the 2 year old “You’re not the boss of me!” dance is getting a bit old. I already find myself missing the days where I could dress Rosalyn in what I wanted her to wear, something cute. The other day I got her this pretty little dress, and she will NOT wear it. It’s like she can sense my desire on some level.

Already I’m learning to cede control to my children. It’s nearly the hardest thing I’ve ever done. I worry that I won’t be able to let them go play by themselves, but I realize it’s a gradual thing that I’ll work up to. And in Rosalyn’s case, she won’t let me keep control. The child is stubborn as an ox, with my temper. Explosions happen. Frequently.

She’s the child I worry about. She’s the child I know will “forget” what time it was. She’s the child who will push and push and push until I lose it.

She’s like me. I know the signs. And I remember what a pain in the ass I was as a teen. But I didn’t know it then-how worried and problematic my staying out all night could be. I never really understood why my father would occasionally stay up waiting for me. But I do now.

I was always a kid who needed to cut herself with the knife before I’d believe it was sharp. Always. I’d learn my lesson, but I never took anyone’s word for it. So I let Rosalyn figure things out this way. Vivian will stay away from stuff if you tell her. Ros will head right for it. She’s my daughter, in form and function. IN a way, it’s kinda cool.

In another way, it’s absolutely terrifying, because I know what I’m in for, and it isn’t pretty. I’m hoping that having a normal childhood will help.

But I doubt it. For now, I’ll content myself with arguing over t-shirts.

Crash Course in Two Year Old

16 Apr

I need help.

Both of my children are driving us insane. Two children who are normally mild mannered, polite and well behaved have morphed into some thing else.

Vivian has suddenly turned into a whiny, snivelling irritant.

Rosalyn has turned into the usual 2 year old monster.

Our attempts are correcting this have failed, since we are entering totally unknown territory. I have my suspicions that Vivian’s problem are rooted in the fact that Ros gets more attention (mostly negative), but that doesn’t fix the problem. Vivian is fine until she doesn’t get her way, or someone leaves. Rosalyn is fine so long as you CONSTANTLY distract her. Sit down to, oh, I don’t know, PEE, and she’s tries to burn the house down. Again, I think it may be an attention issue, since she is also attached to me in ways that can’t be normal.

So before I google my brains out, I figured I’d put the call out, and ask for some advice. What worked for you? What didn’t? What would you have done, should you have done?

And I’ve already thought about both selling and adopting them out.

It’s the rage that hurts the most.

16 Apr

I’m so pissy lately.

I think it’s the switch to Wellbutrin, but I don’t know. Everything is pissing me off-I have this barely controlled rage which makes me want to smack my children, which makes me want to run out the door away from them. I snap at the people around me, I feel that familar feeling building up in my chest, burning and bubbling like newt in a cauldron.

I can barely control it, just barely. My control hovers around my head, almost elusive. Somehow I hold on to it.

Yesterday, at the mall, I had my first experience with the entire food court staring at me as Rosalyn screamed blue murder since we wouldn’t let her go do what she wanted to do. I watched as all the heads turned, almost in unison, to stare at me with that “ooh look! Bad Mommy!” look. I wanted to crawl into my skin and beat Rosalyn within an inch of her life all at once.

It’s fleeting, but it’s scary in it’s forcefulness. Vivian starts whining, and all I want to do is smack her in the mouth. I can’t bear it, I cannot handle it.

I think I’ll ask my doctor to up the dose in a few weeks.

One more time

9 Apr

If a child touches me one more time

If a child asks for something totally unreasonable

If a child yells for no reason

If a child starts whining in that especially irritating way

If a child can’t shut the hell up when her father is sleeping

If a child can’t stop thumping….

It’s been a “Mommy makes us act special” weekend, which, when combined with the Wellbutrin headaches, has made me want to run out the door. At least one kid is constantly touching me, yelling for my attention. I can’t do the dishes since Rosalyn insists on pushing a chair up to the sink, and BOY! aren’t knives fun to play with! Vivian is constantly “look at me mommy! I’m shoving my chocolate bunny down my throat! Mommy look! I’m eating! (Like I’ve never seen her eat before)


Other people enjoy holidays, right? Because anymore, a holiday is more work-the girls are all over me like cheesecake. I can’t get a moment to myself, can’t watch the news in peace.  Can’t eat breakfast.

Look at me Mommy! I’m a three toed sloth!

Is it wrong that I just don’t care?

Screw this crap-I’m going to work.

Payback, thy name is Rosalyn

7 Apr

Did something just break? Is someone sitting on the stove? What’s that smell? Why won’t the screaming end?

Welcome to my day with a 2 year old.

I’ll admit it. I was quite smug after Vivian. While she’s quite talkative, and intelligent (Look Mommy, I’m a bird! she yells while flapping her arms, holding two little feathers),  she’s also very cooperative, and was highly verbal from a very young age. We never had any real screaming matches because she was able to tell me what she wanted.

Rosalyn is her polar opposite.  If she doesn’t get what she wants, she throws herself down on the floor, and screams bloody murder. And I mean scream. (Think Banshee or Black Canary) She will scream for as long as it takes, and will do so at full power. She won’t stop until she’s good and ready. She also gets triggered for no apparent reason, and has begun to refuse to nap, except for this afternoon when she surrendered to exhaustion on the couch with me.


It drives me nuts. To be honest, as much as I can stay calm and quiet, it takes every bone in my body to not scream my own head off and then run up to hide in my bedroom. She is totally unreasonable-Vivian you could negotiate with-Rosalyn, well, she won’t stop until she wants to, even if you give her what she was trying to ask for. It’s like she enjoys it.

Any suggestions for rising out the 2 year old storm? I know it will end, and get better as her communication skills do and as she grows up a bit more. But my ears are bleeding….

It also doesn’t help that she is cute as all hell, and knows it. My father tells me she’s just like me at that age. But WORSE.

Rosalyn and Mommy do lunch

31 Mar





Not that she really ate any of it. She tried to get ME to eat her hamburger. And somehow, the pharmacy LOST my prescription.

At least Ros was cute.

“i cannot handle being a mother anymore”

26 Mar

Somedays, I can’t either.

Somedays, the crushing weight of my being a mother sits on me like sleep paralysis, waiting for me to move, almost daring me to. It wags it’s finger in my face, telling me I’m a bad mother, an ungrateful mother, because I cannot keep up with my own children sometimes, because I pretend when my husband and I are out alone that we ARE alone, that no one waits for us at home, ready to cover us in wet kisses and sticky fingers.

It’s the responsibility that gets to me-the knowledge that forever, I am connected to these creatures-I can never leave them, not truly. They will always be a part of me. Their toes will forever be the toes that kicked me in the ribs.

But somedays it’s the drudgery, it’s getting up and feeding them, convincing clothes onto them, sitting with them, then working all day, arriving home in time to listen to them scream about not wanting to go to bed. Those days get to me. Those days test me, because they test my love for them, they test the bounds of my patience and temper. On those days, the bad mommy sometimes gets to come out and play for a bit.

I have been tempted in the past, to throw up my hands, and walk away from it. From all of it. Times when it’s gotten so hard, too hard, worse than I ever imagined, I wanted to walk down the road, climb up onto the highway, and begone. Never to be seen again. I thought it, many times.

But in my eyes, in my heart, I couldn’t do it, I never would. I could never walk out that door and not come back. Because being a mother isnot just a test-it’s a battle. Sometimes it’s lovely and gentle, other days, it’s bloody and loud and frightful. Somedays I don’t like it at all.

But somedays are so fragile and simple, I want to place them under glass so they never disappear. I draw on those days, to get me through the wrong ones.


23 Mar

We are now on DAY TWO of Vivian sleeping through the night in panties with ZERO accidents or trips to the potty!

WOO HOO! She’s officially a big girl now! (And I’m sure this means I’m SCREWED when it’s time to train Ros. Vivian has been relatively easy to train.)

Ah, to be young

18 Mar

I’ve spent a lot of time lately, thinking about time. About how I don’t want to age, how much I love being able to appreciate my life right now, how much I love my life.

That’s right. I love my life. I sat on the floor today, playing with my children. Sure, this seems ordinary to most mothers, but for me? It’s a step, an incremental improvement in my life and mood. I’ve never been able to sit and play with my kids before. I’ve never settled down enough to lie there and enjoy how Rosalyn destroys all my block castles and Vivian makes all the dinosaurs attack eachother. I have trouble sitting still at the best of times, and being able to sit with my daughters-it’s a pure type of happy, one I’ve never had before. It’s like a cold shower on a hot day.

It’s wonderful-why did no one tell me about this before?

Earlier, as Vivian was sleeping after I got back from a mall trip with my father (who always buys lots of cooking stuff, and then cooks with it, which RULES) I brought Ros upstairs with me to put some clothes away. Then we sat, me reading the last essay from this book (OMFG SO GOOD! GO BUY IT! The last essay is perfection!), her reading her new Backyardigans book, snuggled under “bankie!”. How sweet, sitting quietly reading with my girl, enjoying the silence, and the purity of a Sunday afternoon today, celtic music playing on the CBC, her brown eyes staring into mine, pointing, “Mommy!”

I can grasp these moments as I never could before, when I was young. I always tried to stop and just “be”, and yet some part of me always held on, was distracted, weaving in and out of thoughts that were elsewhere. I never just smiled to smile.

The other day, the sidewalk was greasy from freezing rain, and I ran and slid across it, about 10 feet. I stopped at the edge of it, and turned, giggling. Enclosed in the moment, I was happy, and giddy, and fun. My mouth couldn’t help but turn up at the edges, pleased with itself.

My youth never afforded this-it gave me insecurity, sadness, strangeness. I’ll be 30 this year. 30, the age I never expected to reach, the age at which I only saw blackness, nothing beyond it. I worry that now, after attaining a modicum of peace with my life, something will happen, that the blackness with engulf. I wait for the other shoe to drop, much as it has in the past.

But unlike then, I have hope. I have two daughters who offer their sticky hands and faces to me, on the floor, laughing. I have Vivian who tells me I’m her best friend, I have Rosalyn who bolts from her bedroom for 30 more minutes with me at night. My youth never afforded me such simple pleasures-I always sought more complicated ones. It took me this long to absorb the fact that sometimes, the simple things are the sweetest, like lemonade on a sweaty July afternoon.

I’m not young anymore, I’m not old. I’m here. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.

Go ahead. Pee your pants. I dare you.

15 Mar

Vivian is 3.5 now. Vivian has been daytime trained  for about 6 months now I guess.

Mommy is afraid to try night time training. Should she be?

I worry about the mess, about waking (and containing) Rosalyn. But I was also worried about daytime training, which ended up being a breeze once she was ready. I’ve asked her not to pee in her pull up. She pees, and then says “But it was only a little bit Mommy”. She CAN make it through naps, hell, once she made it through the night when we forgot her pull up. Didn’t the next night though.

So I ask you, my fearless online peeps-am I being silly to try and rush this, or am I being silly to think she isn’t ready? Should I just buy a liner, and throw her into bed in underwear? What should I do, how should I prepare for this?

And who knew I’d spend this much time thinking about pee!


Dear Rosalyn

8 Mar

2 years ago today, I was sitting, uncomfortable, bitchy and waiting for you to finally make your way out of my body, and into the world.

I estimated the 11th. The doctor, the 2nd. Neither of us were right.

I had trouble coming to terms with you, I had trouble coming to terms with me. Did I want another child? Would it be a daughter? Would I love it? Would I be a good mother to two children, when I was barely adjusted to one? Could I handle a toddler and a newborn?

Would I lose my mind?

I almost did. You almost did me in my girl, and you know what? Now you melt my heart in different ways, happier ways.

This morning, after your sister managed to open the baby gate, the two of you ran to my bedroom, filled the room with your joyous crowing. Despite my sleepiness, I smiled. You father gathered you to him, and as you were leaving Rosalyn, you came to kiss me and said “Bye Mommy”. I’ve waited so long for these words from you, for simple leave taking, and gentle kisses. My heart slips a bit in my chest each time, even when the kisses are denied.

So I cannot believe it’s been two years, I cannot fathom where 2 years have gone, and yet, they stretch behind me as representatives of what I’ve been through, where I’ve been, who I am. You have created your mother Rosalyn, carved me out of sadness and fear, and molded me into a woman who can stand up and honestly say “I am a mother.”

Mother’s are not born-they are created, they are mixed out of fear and longing, out of pain and heartbending love, they are shaped by nights spent rocking by the light of the television, by calls frantic to the doctor, by choices made. Mothers become in the afterglow of their children, and I sit glowing so strongly because of you.

I love you Rosalyn. I love you as the sun sets everyday, I love you as you scream your little frustrated head off at me, I love you when you cuddle in my arms, head under my chin, thumb in mouth. I love your pouts and your black devil eyes. I love the way your knees knock like mine. I love your bravery and resilience in the face of who I am sometimes.

You cling to me, in my mind it’s as a baby monkey clings to it’s mother, and somedays, I mind. Yet other times, I see into the future, and see the girl who won’t let me near, who won’t share her world with me, and I’m sad. I let you cling, since it will end all to soon.

Your time of magic is now. Your next few years will be years of wonder and change and growth and I await them. I await nights under stars, days running through grass in the hot sun, travels down the muddy path behind our home.

I await you further Rosalyn.

Happy Birthday.

Saturday Morning, The Armpit

3 Mar

Rosalyn is stealing all the blueberries from my granola and yogurt. Which is fine, since it’s my least favorite part. She won’t part from her winter coat-yet again, she’s slept in it, and there’s now an assortment of maple syrup, yogurt and I don’t know what covering it. I’ve already washed this coat twice this week. I hate nothing more than a dirty coat on a kid. Call it a peeve, or some sort of snobbish class thing, I don’t know, but I hate the look of it.

Rosalyn finds the wizard hat, and picks through her pant drawer wearing it. Odds are, she won’t wear pants today.

Vivian takes her pull up off, examines it, exclaims “I farted in my pull up!” and needs  reminding that pull ups aren’t science projects. She runs on her tip toes into the kitchen, tosses it in the wet garbage, thumps her way back to put on her jeans. She won’t change her shirt. Last week she hated this particular shirt. Today, she won’t be parted from it. Her hands are dirty, so like a big kid, she pulls a chair up to the sink to wash them.

Rosalyn pulls a chair up as well. I’m sure a mess will start any moment. So long as it doesn’t involve toothpaste, I’m fine with it.

Someone’s plowing their driveway in the spring like sunshine. It’s almost here, and you can taste it-the warm air coming, shorts, beer on the deck. One last winter blast, one last reminder of how crappy and cold and wet winter can be. It’s all uphill from here.

The paper boy will need to trudge through the snow. I won’t be out before him to shovel. I watch the sun through the windows as Vivian plays a symphony on spoons.

to see if I still feel

28 Feb

Last night was a bad night.

Lately, Rosalyn has been hitting all the 2 year old developmental stages. Everything is “MINE!”, she’s stubborn, she wants it her way. She’s having trouble with the bedtime routine. She’s having trouble be seperated from me.

This morning, she wrenched my heart out as I went on one bus, while she waited for another with her father. MOMMY! she screamed, her little face beet red, her eyes screwed up in an attempt to force tears.

I didn’t look back.

Last night though-I get home from work around 7:30. That’s roughly their bedtime. I’ve only started working 5 day weeks again recently, and I used to be home for 2 afternoons a week, working 10 hour shifts the other 3 days. Now when I get home, I’m tired and hungry, and looking forward to relaxing. Generally, by 8 pm, this happens.

Not the last few nights. Rosalyn wants to snuggle. She wants to cuddle. She wants to lean on Mommy and eat goldfish and mutter her little language in Mommy’s ear. She wants Mommy and Vivian and Rosalyn to lounge on Vivian’s bed.

Mommy, on the other hand, wants to eat dinner, and do some crocheting, maybe watch some House.

After around 40 minutes of trying to relax her and convince her into her own bed, I gave up, slammed the door, and fled. Rosalyn screamed and screamed and screamed, yelling MOMMY!!!!” as she rattled the doorknob. My father agreed that she needed to learn, and had to cry this out.

My heart squeezed itself, leapt up into my brain, and convinced me to run upstairs, lay down, and cry myself out in the dark.

Suddenly I was right back to the first few weeks postpartum, listening to her cry because she needed to cry herself to sleep. I was right back to hearing a little baby want her mother, and her mother being unable to react, to provide even a semblance of love and affection. I was suddenly that bad mom all over again, that horrible person who dreamed of heaving her out the window, who would quietly hope that she’d smother on her blankets, or just not wake up, die slowly, without blame, so she could return to her life. Those screams returned me right back to that world, one of fantasy, one where slicing open my own wrists is preferred to living through it.

My husband went to Ros, took her downstairs where she fell almost asleep on him. He put her to bed.

I am not able to do this. She is on me like a leech, like a tumour, trying to suck out life. She will not quietly go for me, and I wonder, is this because I let her cry back then? Is this the revenge for needing to find my sanity? Will she constantly be looking for my approval in life, now and always?

Will she ever just go to bed?

This is all compounded by many things. Vivian was the mildest mannered toddler ever, and she seemed to skip over all the “terrible” two year old stuff. (She’s making up for that now) I’m having a lot of guilt over not enjoying, and feeling like I basically missed the first year and a half of Rosalyn’s life-I walk past the baby sections, and realize I’ll never go there again, and I’m sad and upset with myself. And perhaps this weather reminds me of those times 2 years ago when everything just hurt so badly.

I know that Rosalyn is doing what normal children do, but why does it have to hurt so much?