Home Alone

Guests. Birthday. Guests. Guests. Sight seeing. Guests. Appointments. More appointments. Guests.

That is what my week is looking like.

Don't get me wrong it's been a great week - tons of fun. But I've been M.I.A. from here because I just haven't had the time to sit down and write anything (nor have I wanted to be rude to my guests).

Things won't really be back to normal until next week as our last guest leaves Sunday. And by "normal" I just mean all of the regular stuff which is just as busy, and actually far less fun and far more mundane.

This morning, however, I am completely alone. Our current house guest left much earlier in the day than I expected. Rio is of course at school. And the boys had therapy outside of the house so I asked Jordan to take them. So here I sit. Quietly. But not before cracking many jokes to Jordan that he is super-dad taking his kids everywhere, while I am a deadbeat mom. That damned mother guilt attacks even when I take one teeny-tiny morning off.

Anyway, I'm not publishing this post till the afternoon when I am off at an appointment for myself followed by one for Nolan to check out his golf ball sized tonsils. In the mean time, I don't want anyone to actually know I am alone. Because then I'm not really alone, am I?

So now if you'll excuse me I'm off to drink my coffee and listen to the whir of washer, dryer and dishwasher - the household symphony telling me my chores are under control. I will just sit for a minute and appreciate the so called "music" of my home appliances, accompanied by my neighbour's lawn mower in the background. For once these sounds are not drowned out by a house otherwise brimming full of noise. Soon enough that noise will be back, and who knows when I'll have near-silence like this again.

Sweet Seven

My baby girl is seven years old today. How did that happen? I'm way too young to have a seven year old. Aren't I?

AREN'T I?

No?!

Shoot. It's too bad my brain still thinks I'm twenty-four.

Anyway, seven years have passed in the blink of an eye. The once sweet baby is now an even sweeter seven year old. She is mature, but still appropriately silly. She is smart, but still awesomely naive. She is caring, but still needs her mama's TLC. She is an incredible big sister, but still my baby.

Rio, I have said this many times on this blog, and to whoever will listen to me: you are amazing. A significant portion of your life has included your family facing more challenges than a little girl should ever have to witness. But you do more than witness - you guide, comfort, and more so than I'd often like live it with us. You continually help your (sometimes weak) parents see what real strength means.

Prior to being a mom, if I imagined what my daughter would be like I could never have dreamt up someone as wonderful as you. Yes, we argue and natter, and sometimes you drive me nuts, but you are truly the best little girl I could ever ask for. I am so proud to be your mama.

I miss you as a baby, I miss you as a toddler, and I already miss your six year old self. But I also look forward to the future and all of the ways you will continue to grow and amaze us.

Happy Birthday Rio, my love.

Seven Years Ago

Seven years ago today, I was going about my business like it was a normal day.

Ok, not quite a normal day, as it was my last day of work for a year. A whole year! It was 11 days before my due date, and given I was sure with my first baby I would be overdue, I calculated that I would have about two weeks off to rest. Perfect!

I spent my day handing off clients to my co-workers and cleaning out my desk. I even went out on my break and bought Jordan his first father's day present - a month early, but I knew it could sit in the closet because I'd be far too busy with a newborn when the day actually arrived.

After work I treated myself to a pedicure - a luxury - but I wanted pretty toes when I was in labour (oh the ridiculous things you think are important when you're having your first baby). Between the hot weather and the warm foot soak, this nine month pregnant mama was was over heated and miserable. In hindsight, probably not a good idea. But my bubble gum pink toes sure were cute!

From there I picked Jordan up from the hospital. I ran into one of his coworkers who jokingly told me I better not be having the baby soon because they were busy in the unit and they would be even more short staffed if Jordan was off. I laughed and assured her he would be finishing his set.

From there we went to the grocery store to buy dinner. I was still boiling hot and he was tired after a busy 12 hour shift, so an easy meal it was. Bag of salad and a bbq'ed chicken, I remember it clearly. As we were walking down the aisle - surely to the bulk section for some treats - I felt a funny twinge I had never felt before. I turned to Jordan and said "I'm having a baby tonight", and then burst out laughing. I was joking. Totally joking.

We got home, ate our late dinner, and then tucked into bed for a marathon of Six Feet Under (something we would continue throughout the early weeks of Rio's life - lots of lying in bed, breastfeeding, and watching that show). At around 10pm I felt that same twinge again, but this time when I told Jordan we were having a baby I wasn't joking. My water had broken.

We called our midwife and she assured me that I likely wouldn't start labour till the next morning - being my first baby and all. I asked her when to call her back if contractions started - you know, just in case.

Although in shock, the broken water told us we were actually having a baby, all jokes aside. We started frantically running around, packing a hospital bag and thinking of anything we needed to do "before baby". "We" didn't last long, and quickly turned to "he" because I was soon out of commission. My contractions started pretty much immediately.

Within an hour, my contractions were two minutes apart. By midnight I was at the hospital, surprising everyone by progressing so quickly. Four hours later (two and a half of them pushing!), after no epidural, drugs, or complications, Rio Elisabeth Trousdell was born at 4:26 a.m. And I was in love.

Seven years later, I love her even more. I will however, save writing about her until tomorrow on her actual birthday, because today I have some party prep to do! Seven little girls, two pesky little brothers, and vats of tie-dye - what was I thinking?

How different (and better) my life is than seven years ago.

Waiting for Grey

Some days, I wish I felt more grey.

I know, "grey" doesn't sound like the greatest feeling to wish for. It conjures up images of sadness or moodiness or indifference.

But that is not what I mean by grey. For me grey means middle ground. Even keel. Neutral. As opposed to the black or white extremes I often feel.

At one end of the extremes, there's guilt. I am laden with the feelings that I don't do enough for Asher. Nothing is ever enough. I don't do enough exercises with him, I don't stretch him enough, I don't make him walk often enough, I don't try to get him to crawl enough, I don't help him enough, I don't challenge him enough. And on and on and on. Long story short: "I don't _____ enough". Fill in the blank with any of the things we are supposed to do with him. Talk about overwhelming and disheartening when you think about all of the ways you could be doing better and more for your child with a disability (or any of your children for that matter).

Thinking I'd be inspired, I just finished reading a memoir written by a mom whose son has severe CP. At birth she was told he would essentially never see, move, or know who she was, but she didn't believe it. Through an unbelievable amount of work and persistence, she did therapy with him non-stop all day, every day, and he is now able to talk, eat, see, and walk with a walker. It is truly extraordinary. Now granted he was her only child, and in the process her marriage did end, but you have to give her and her son a ton of credit for what they accomplished. After reading this, however, do you think I was inspired and given hope by the brain plasticity of a child and the sheer will of his mother? No, not really. Instead I just felt inferior. Like if I tried a little bit harder, Asher would be scaling Mt. Everest. Ok not quite, but you get what I mean.

Then, away from the guilt, there's the other end of the spectrum: apathy. Sometimes, I just wonder what we're doing it all for. I see our boys work their hardest in therapy but I don't see a ton of tangible differences. I look around our house at the mounds and mounds of equipment, and wonder what good any of it is doing. Some days I wish I could take my family and run away to a tropical island and just live. No therapy, no equipment, no big bad world full of judgment and prejudice. Just us. Safe. At peace. Away from it all.

On the days I am able to remove myself from the black and white extremes, everything in the shades of grey becomes a little bit clearer. I know that I can't do it all. I know that I have three children, all equally deserving of my attention. I know that I have a marriage that needs to be a priority. I know that I am only human. I know that my family is loved, and more importantly, they know they are loved. I know I am doing the best I can.

So on the days where I'm feeling black, or white, or sometimes a bit of both, I do what I've always done since having the boys - I just ride it out. I cry. I eat chocolate. I cry a bit more. I talk to Jordan. I talk to girlfriends. I blog about it. And then I take a deep breath and know that this too shall pass, and the clarity that comes with feeling grey will be just around the next bend.

***
FYI, I wrote this post yesterday when, for a multitude of reasons, I was having a very bad day and feeling both ends of the spectrum. Today however, I came in from doing some exercise (yes e-x-e-r-c-i-s-e, you read that right) to find that daddy had built a perfect blanket fort that allowed all of our kids to fit under it. Thanks for giving me a shove right back into grey territory without even trying Jord. Things like this are why our family works.

Occular Perfection

Perfect. Asher's eyes are perfect. Likely more perfect than yours or mine even.

So says his opthalmologist. The pro. The guy who looks at eyes for a living all day, every day.

The surgery was a complete success. I dare say his doctor was giddy when examining him last week, 10 days post op. So happy and repeatedly thanking Asher for doing so well - which I thought was pretty cute since he's the one who did the work.

Clearly, the "excellent measurements" he was able to get of Asher's eye before surgery paid off. Asher's eye was out by 18 units up close and 30 units from afar (Don't ask me what a 'unit' is - a degree maybe? That's how I think of it). His plan for surgery was to only correct for the 18 units - reason being if he corrected to 30 units then up close Asher would be cross-eyed when really focussing. But if he corrected to 18 units up close, Asher's eye would either figure out to correct itself for longer distance, or his eye would remain turned out a scant 12 units. Either way it didn't really matter - it would either ideally fix itself or would remain so slightly turned out from a distance that it wouldn't be noticeable.

Well, it fixed itself. Measuring both distance and close up, Asher's eye is totally and completely aligned. Not only does it aesthetically look amazing, but it should restore his 3D vision - a hard thing to be sure of when a 3 year old doesn't really want to answer the doctor's questions on command, nor does he have the fine motor skills to "grab" the things that should be jumping out at him with 3D glasses on. But the eye is fixed so we have no reason to believe the depth perception that most of the rest of us take for granted will come back.

All in all, it was really the best case scenario. Yes, the day of the surgery was dramatic but now we know it was all worth it to have such a successful outcome. The only small (and I mean small) negative that comes out of this ordeal is that the surgery may have to be repeated in a few years, due to his eye potentially loosening up again*. For now however, we're not thinking about that. We're just thankful that our perfect little boy now has perfect eyes too.

On another positive note - both boys' vision is still great. At each appointment he says they will need glasses "at some point" but he has been saying that for years, so the longer they go the better! (Part of me was secretly disappointed because I know how cute they'll be in glasses - is that ridiculous or what?!)

Seriously cute, right?

We're so happy. So thankful for both doctor and patient. So glad this is behind us.

*The main part of this that concerns me is that Asher's eye hasn't always been out. I'm not entirely sure when it started, but when I look at pictures of the first two years of his life there is no evidence of it. So, likely thanks to his CP, it started weakening which technically means it could weaken again (as it does in others, cautioned the doctor). But we'll cross that bridge when we come to it, should the need every arise.

Motherless Mother's Day

Mother's Day is a bit of a strange day for those of us who are moms, but have no mom of our own. Thankfully, my life is full of loving, smart, supportive women, most of whom who happen to be moms. I am blessed to have several mother figures, each inspiring me in their own way to be a better mother. Thank you to all of the moms I know, doing their best for their kids every single day. And thank you to my kids for being who you are and making me so proud and honoured to be your mom.

On this nineteenth mother's day without my own mom, I'm reposting a piece about her, me, and motherhood, that I am very proud of. Not to mention it got me runner up in a writing contest, so there's that (brag, brag).

Happy Mother's Day to all of the wonderful moms in my life, near and far!

----

The Letter

Holding my twin boys at their bedside, I've been rocking back and forth so long that my legs are numb. I look down at their tiny faces, amazed at what they've been through. I can barely see their pale skin under a mass of wires and tubes and I am sharply reminded of the multitude of obstacles they still need to overcome before we can bring them home. I close my eyes, focus on the warmth of their bodies against my chest. The familiar sound of the cardiac monitors around us becomes nothing more than white noise. I am lulled into a trance.

Asher and Nolan have been in the neonatal intensive care unit for three months. Since their birth at twenty-six weeks gestation, weighing only two pounds each, my husband, Jordan, and I have spent every day coming and going from the hospital while trying to keep life as normal as possible for our three-year-old daughter, Rio.

Knowing it must be late now, I look up to check the clock and see my mom walking in. She hadn't told me she was coming today, and as she moves towards me, I sense that something isn't right. She gives me a reassuring smile and my posture loosens in relief.

I open my mouth to say hello and instead, I'm startled by the sound of a ringing monitor. I see Nolan's skin begin to turn a familiar shade of bluish-grey. I glance at the screen to see the numbers plummeting. As my own pulse quickens, he pinks up and his heart rate and breathing stabilize, just as quickly as they fell. His nurse watches closely. I give her a nod letting her know we're both fine and take a deep breath. These scares never get any easier.

I look around for my mom and she's no longer there. I am momentarily confused. Then, reality sets in.

How could I have been so silly? Of course, she's gone. She was never here. She died when I was nineteen and I am left with only fantasizing about her presence when I need her. I shake my head, wishing that, for once, it had not been a dream.

There have been countless times over the years when I could have used my mom's guidance at all the important moments, like when I got married or when I was pregnant with Rio or when I was buried in grief after the loss of another daughter. But I could also have used the little things I missed out on learning from her, like how to tie your husband's tie in a perfect double windsor or how to make a turkey dinner for twelve.

So like when I read through her recipes, trying to guess at the correct cooking time that was kept only in her head, I muddle my way through motherhood without her here to counsel me. I desperately want her advice, so I go looking for it.

*****

"Where could it be?" I mutter to myself with increasing urgency.

I pull every book off the shelf, leaving a pile scattered across the floor. I grab a box from the top shelf of the closet, wipe the dust off and open the lid: nothing. I run frantically downstairs and begin rifling through drawers, even though I'm sure it's not there. As a last ditch effort, I brave our cold, musty garage to see if my box of mementos is tucked up in a far corner. I balance on a dirty ten-gallon bucket I've turned upside down, reaching in without seeing. I can't feel it and exhale in dismay.

The letter that my mother had written to me on her deathbed is gone. My last tie to her has vanished to a hidden nook of my house.

I had last pulled it out while the boys were still in hospital, trying to find some sage words of advice that would help me get through the exhausting, and often hopeless, journey we were on. I didn't find them.

What I did find was the scrawling, nearly unrecognizable handwriting – a sign of the cancer that was ravaging her. In it, she told me what a surprise it was to find out she was pregnant with me, the fourth child, when she was forty. She advised me to choose my husband wisely, although she knew I would. She made jokes about how many grandchildren she would have. She reminded me that everything happens for a reason, even if it's hard to understand. And then, with a "Love Mom," it was over. That was it. No answers to all of motherhood's great questions, just a dying mother saying her final goodbyes.

Now, months later, after Asher has been diagnosed with Cerebral Palsy as a result of the brain injury he suffered at birth, I am trying to find that letter again. I'm hoping that maybe this time, I'll uncover some jewel that I had previously missed, to help me to deal with this life-altering news. But if I can't find the letter, I can't find my answers. After searching every plausible hiding spot, I fall into Jordan's chest in frustration.

"We'll find it," he assures me as he smoothes my hair.

"And what if we don't?" I ask dejectedly.

*****

There's flour all over the kitchen floor and sprinkled down the front of Rio. We're making sugar cookies and while I roll out the dough, she carefully imprints the butterfly cookie cutter. I resist my urge to do it for her, trying to speed up the process and minimize the mess, reminding myself that she's having fun. She laughs with abandon as I catch her sneaking yet another mouthful of dough. She is the image of me at her age, wearing the blue Bambi apron I once wore, a little worse for wear, but still intact.

I think back to baking with my mom. Standing on tiptoes to see fresh cookies on cooling racks is one of my fondest childhood memories. I look over at those very same racks on my own counter – another of the many things I pilfered from home after my mom died and I moved away.

As I observe this interaction with Rio, I reflect on the many parallels between my mom and me. Sure, there's our love of baking, our ability to be a great hostess and our penchant for making a good list. More importantly though I realize that it's the bigger things. I may do things differently than she did: she was strict and old-fashioned, while I am much more liberal and communicative. But the fundamental morals and values remain the same. My mom gave life lessons by example and she taught me how to be a mother long before I became one: to be a good person, to fiercely love your family and friends and to believe in your own strength.

I now strive to bestow this upon my own kids.

*****

I'm back in the bedroom, tearing the bookshelf apart one last time.

"It has to be here," I tell myself as I pull out all of the same books, hoping the letter will fall out from between them.

It doesn't.

I resign myself to the fact that, at least for now, it's lost. As I begin to load the books back on the shelf, I see a glimpse of white. I take a closer look, and sure enough, there it is, an envelope tucked along the back wall of the shelf.

I quickly grab it and clutch it tightly to my chest for only a moment before putting it back safely where I know I'll find it next time. Strangely, I don't need to read it. I just need to know it's there. I know the answers to motherhood that I've been looking for have been inside me all along, waiting for life to show them to me. My mom may only be here in spirit, but with the foundation she provided, I am becoming the mother my children deserve and one I hope that she would be proud of.

Open Door

The rhythmic "thump, thump, thump" woke me. I looked at the clock - 6:40 a.m. I wondered what our tenants were doing and I tried to get back to sleep for a few glorious minutes before I knew the kids would wake up.

Again with the thump, thump, thump.

Before I had to think any more about what that sound could possibly be, I heard: "Mama, can I pet the caterpillar?".

My eyes opened widely and I sat up quickly, realizing what I'd just heard. I sprang from the bed and went running to our sliding glass deck door. Closed and locked.

Then I looked over at the other sliding glass door - the one that accesses the boys' room. Open, of course. And there was Nolan, happy as can be riding his plasma car* on the deck and searching for caterpillars.

At 6:40 a.m. Alone. Outside.

I tried not to freak out while grabbing his hand and tugging him into the house.

"Buddy, it's not ok to go outside without asking mommy and daddy", I plainly stated.

"Ok mom. But can I pet the caterpillar?". Message likely not heard, overshadowed by concern for a missed caterpillar petting opportunity, but he came in without argument regardless.

Thankfully, since that morning he has not gone out again. Did he learn his lesson from that simple chat? No, not likely. I'm guessing he's been helped along by the additional lock that daddy promptly installed on the door, too high for him to unlock himself.

What is parenting, if not (sometimes failed) attempts to keep your kids safe, and (usually failed) attempts to stay one step ahead of their mischief?

----

UPDATE: After re-reading this I realized that for those of you who don't know my house it may not have been clear that he was only on our deck and couldn't have gone further. Ok, yes, technically he could have gone to the backyard but he would never have done that because he knows the gate and stairs are completely off limits (and truthfully he is pretty scared of stairs so would never choose to walk them alone).

* The thumping was from a squared off edge on one of the plasma car wheels.