Mommy’s Groove

I love birthdays. Any excuse to celebrate an individual and recognize her uniqueness is as good a reason for cake as any other. But I have a secret about this birthday cake, I feel it’s as much for me as it is her. It was me after all, who sat 5 years ago perched on the threshold to motherhood, unable to see the next steps, choosing faith and love as my only companions.

Shooing fear and doubt away with every labour horror story I willed to bounce off me was easier said than done. Those acquaintances are the type that like to visit at dusk when I’m most tired and susceptible to suggestion. You have no idea how much pain you’re going to be in they’d taunt. What if the striking ambulance workers can’t get to you fast enough? You’ll never forgive yourself! they’d whisper ominously into my heart.

I still struggle to explain where the confidence to birth at home with a licensed midwife came from. There is no explanation except somewhere within. It’s not something I can share or teach. I looked hard at what I could control and how I felt in the quiet of myself to make that choice. I asked until I heard the answer: Where should we be? Where will we be safe? In a hospital was never part of the picture I got, neither were the anticeptic smell, bright halls or gowned strangers. I went with what I got. The quiet of our bedroom, the firm softness of our bed and the smell of my husband’s pillow. Love made the choice, faith showed me the place.

As I stir the batter for her 5th birthday cake I read the recipe, following the steps I’m reading for the first time. I’m poor at reading a recipe through before making it—I have all the ingredients on hand, I just fail to read the instructions in my haste until I’m in the moment. This lack of preparation usually leaves me feeling a bit trepidatious, with butterflies in my stomach—particularly when I come to a part I didn’t anticipate. At that moment I scramble to make what skills or utensils I have accomplish the task. And I throw in a big heap of intention and silent prayer. Becauase I love to feed people—well.

My mothering is basically the same. I haven’t read the receipes for raising a child. I mostly ignore parenting advice except from trusted sources and I scramble to handle the surprises I get along the way. But because I expect to be surprised, I have learned to trust that I will adapt. Jack Canfield in The Secret compares the road to life as being like driving in the dark: you can only see ahead as far as the head-lamps will show you. But that ambiguity about the whole journey doesn’t stop you from driving. Similarly, he notes, we climb stairs in the dark believing that there will be another, and then another step for our sure footedness. As I licked ice cream and wandered around my neighbourhood pacing my way through the early stages of labour I held onto that trusting faith. I have no idea what’s next, but I’m going with it.

Shocked was how I felt when I held Kate in my arms for the first time. Observers might say that’s because she was howling to wake the dead (and perhaps she was?). But I was stunned silent by her formidable presence, her strong and yes, vocal spirit and the fact that there she was in my arms for now and always. My legs shook as I knelt, holding her head-down to allow her lungs and passages to drain. I stared first at her red face, then at her long length and girl parts. Here she is, my daughter. I thought. I’m so glad you’ve come to me!

So as I prepare to ice the cake, putting a heavy dose of love on it, I’ll mix onto the sweetness my secret celebration of my on-going journey, now 5 years old. Michael added a new layer of engagement for me and for us. He’s made us richer, laugh harder and love more deeply still. So I ice the cake for both babes who come for me to mother, and celebrate the mysterious, affirming and surprising mothering journey we are on together. Happy Birthday Kate!

My daughter opted to attend her Dad’s hair cut the other evening. The staff was terrific about giving her a piece of paper, coloured markers and a seat at the “waiting counter”. She busily got to her art project while her Dad had his ears lowered. (more…)

Fifteen days of blissful gazing into the eyes of your newborn, resting, nursing and finding that Zen Momma place reads like an idyllic start to a new life together. But who can actually stay in bed for 15 days?? You’ve got new grandparents clamouring at the door, a bundle of joy to show off and your brain is accustomed to multi-tasking 16 things. Lying-in is not for you, right? Don’t write it off so quickly. (more…)

There are moments when I look into my daughter’s face and see her for the woman she will become. At present she is innocently unaware of her beauty and able to enjoy her body for its strength, agility and dress-up fun. She is able to simply “be”.

(more…)

My son and I spent months in a stalemate. I wanted nights of continuous sleep and he wanted me when he woke every night. As far as I could tell these were fundamentally incongruous objectives.

(more…)

When I began to wonder who was in charge of my state of being, I was 7 months pregnant. I had expected to feel the presence of my baby by that point, but the eye-wandering distraction which came to envelop me, caught me off-guard. One day it was upon me and I could not get back to “myself”. My laser sharp focus, intuitive observations and crisp synthesization slipped through my grasp, seemingly gone forever.

(more…)

As the angry words flowed from my mouth with volcanic intensity, simultaneously I could feel the lava gushing forth and objectively observe myself, as if from above. I knew that the pissy 3 year old in me had broken loose and was shattering a dream for my little girl. But I could not — I did not arrest myself.

(more…)

My prayer remains unanswered. I am having one of those days where I despair that I will ever have a proper night of sleep again.

After 4 years of fairly regular nocturnal interruptions, I know I am not a good mother when I am sleep deprived. I have no patience, but recently it’s more than that. There is a dark voice, a petty childish voice that if left uncensored, can jab back sarcastically at the real needs of my little kids. I sound like I’m about 3 years old and want the kids to go home from this playdate. But this playdate is my reality and the dark voice in me is getting a bit pissy about it.

(more…)