Decision time

So we're now at the end of September, and still no nanny in sight. The last we heard, the embassy sent a bogus, delay tactic letter asking our potential nanny to send in her criminal record check, which SHE HAD ALREADY! So, it's still a waiting game that continues to fray on our nerves. The federal government has not resolved its labour issue with their striking workers, and we are still not resolved on our long term child care plans.
However, my month of working from home is coming to an end, so hard decisions need to be made about Quinn. I hate to do this, because I have enjoyed being at home, juggling work-related duties with mommy stuff, but I must return to being a physical presence in my office. I've loved being able to witness Quinn at this stage - hearing him try out new words, playing cars with him (his latest fascination), playing floor hockey, watching Dino Dan and the dino train (another new fascination), reading him stories before nap time. I don't want this to end. I've tossed around the idea of taking some vacation time to prolong my stay at home, but with a full plate at work, and no timeline regarding our nanny's arrival (soon I hope), I probably should save my vacation days for emergencies. Like a sick kid. Or if we still don't have a nanny in December. We don't have any family close by that we can ask to help out, and even if we did, my newborn twin niece and nephew trump all baby-sitting requests I may have.
I also hate the thought of putting Quinn into a daycare.
Now, don't get me wrong. I don't have anything against day cares per se, even though a few children have died in home daycares in recent years in the GTA, and illnesses run rampant in day care centres, and there have been documented cases of abuse in such places. We had Devlin in daycare for a year or so. But when the opportunity arose to have my children taken care of in the comfort and familiarity of their own home, we seized upon it. We've never regretted the decision to hire live-in caregivers. We adjusted to having another person in our household, and the issue of "family privacy" became a non-issue. Our nannies have been an extension of our family. Our children have loved their nannies, and three of the have known no other child care scenarios. As I've said before, it takes a village to raise a child, and I guess I'm going to have adjust to that "village" becoming larger in a geographical sense too.
I'll also admit, it's been a great convenience to have a live-in caregiver. No more morning rush to get the kids up, diaper bags packed, kids fed and dressed while doing the same for yourself, then rushing to drop them off and getting yourself to work on time. Not to mention no teary goodbyes. I think Devlin cried and sobbed almost every single day of his short day care experience. Then there's the afternoon rush to pick them up and get back home, be greeted the remains of the morning chaos, and try to get dinner on the table. With our nannies, we've been able to leave for work early when needed, not worry about getting a sleepy one out of bed, and never stressed about getting them to school on time. While I still prepared the evening meals, the dishes were done, the kids were fed a snack and homework was done by the time I arrived home.
I don't want to disrupt Quinn's life as he knows it. I don't want to have him sleep in a strange cot, without his favorite blue pillow. I don't want to change anything, but I also know I have no other viable and feasible options at this time.
It is with heavy heart that I'm now making the plans for Quinn to transition to a home daycare. It's just down our street, operated by one of Devlin's classmate's mother. Which is convenient since she'll also walk the older ones to school.  She's got two other tykes she takes care of, so I know it'll be good for Quinn socially. I'm just going to miss him like crazy. And I know he's going to cry and sob when I drop him off. And yes, I know he'll also eventually adjust to the new environment and schedule. Just like the rest of us.
At least, our current nanny Rose will still be able to take over after her classes. So Quinn will wake up from his nap to a familiar face picking him up, and his after nap schedule will remain the same. The older ones will have to wake up earlier and get ready to be dropped off earlier as well. But, their after school routine will remain the same as well, with Rose picking them up, and bringing them home for snacks, homework, piano practising, and getting ready for their extra-curriculars.
For now. Rose will be leaving at the end of November. If our new nanny isn't here by then, we'll have to figure out something else.

Helping Mommy

For the past two weeks, Daddy and I have been trading off days working from home while we anxiously await the arrival of our new nanny. Rose informed us she wanted to return to school back in December, so we started the process of sponsoring a new nanny last December! We expected her to arrive in June, then  July, August, and now it's September, and we're still waiting. We've had no word from the Canadian consulate in Hong Kong despite several efforts at contacting them, and our patience is wearing thin, very thin. All we need is an answer as to when the visa will be issued, but thanks to the federal government's lack of good faith bargaining with the striking foreign workers, we're beginning to despair.
As a stop gap measure, we've been working from home for this month, in the hopes (that now seem far-fetched and misplaced) that our new nanny was to arrive. And no, since we agreed to sponsor this individual who also has dreams of immigrating to Canada, I don't think it's right to abandon her and hire someone local. Not that we haven't looked, but the new live-in caregiver rules has made live-in caregivers a rarity. Also thanks to the federal Conservative government. Yeah, I'm not Tory supporter, never was and never will be. I'm this close to calling the Treasury Board Chair Tony Clement and telling him to be our nanny given that much of this prolonged work stoppage is HIS fault.
But I digress.
So, we're working from home. And it's been working, pardon the pun. Since Quinn naps for three hours and our current nanny comes home from school at 2:30 to take over, there's a good chunk of the day that's devoted to paid work. In fact, without the constant interruptions of the phone and emails, I'm accomplishing more at home than at the office.
Honestly? I've also been enjoying this time at home. Walking the kids to school, playing with Quinn, chasing him around the house, reading to him, hearing all the new words he's starting to pick up, listening to the giggles and uncontrollable laughter -  it's been a balm to my frayed nerves while dealing with the nanny situation.
I also get few household chores done in the morning too. The breakfast dishes, a load of laundry, sweeping, and sometimes even Quinn helps. He sorts out the laundry to be folded by owner, and will move the chairs out of the way when I'm sweeping. He'll put away his toys when asked. He's even started to help without asking.
Like today. I thought Quinn was occupied by a kid's show on the television, so I picked up a file from work and quickly reviewed it. I also checked my emails. I heard happy charttering in the background, and decided to answer an email or two. And then I turned around. There was Quinn, proud as punch. He had a wet paper towel in his hand and was industriously mopping the floor. With water. From the toilet. My floors needed a cleaning, I guess, in his opinion.

Potty Mouth Mommy

Quinn has been talking for awhile now, and he's adding words to his ever expanding vocabulary on a daily basis.
Although his most common words are "Mom", said in an increasing tempo and volume until he gets the desired effect (i.e. Mom, Mom, Mom, MOM, MOM, MOM, MOM, MOM, MOM!!!") and "Dad!", there's also "car", "plane" (while pointing to the sky), "ri" which means rice, "chee" cheese and, of course, "goal!" with arms up after a shot on the net.
He's also stringing together 3 word sentences:
"I want joo" meaning "I want juice".
"Where it go?" referring to the search for his lamb or soother.
"I don't know!"
"Who did dat?"
He has learned the word "no", but surprisingly uses it sparingly, preferring to shake his noggin vigorously and throw himself on the floor.
And last night, he picked up another word.
It was the usual crazy bedtime routine. Looking for security blankets, finding bedtime storybooks, telling the kids to brush their teeth, locating Quinn's lamb, telling the kids again to brush their teeth, prying the toothpaste out of Quinn's hands (this little boy LOVES to brush his teeth, or rather loves to suck on toothpaste - probably why his teeth are so pearly white!), and so on. You get the picture.
Quinn was upset that he had to give up the toothpaste. I handed him his sippy cup. He motioned to be picked up. I did, and had a brief discussion with the dad. As I turned to go into the hallway, Quinn dropped the full sippy cup, right onto my bare toes.
Unable to drop the offender to grab my aching, smarting toes, I reacted with a "F---!"
And then, I heard "Puck!" from the innocent looking toddler in my arms.

Caught Red-handed

Our after school routine involves emptying the backpacks and placing lunch boxes and agendas on the kitchen counter. There are after school snacks consisting of fruits not consumed at school or fresh fruits and crackers before homework and piano practising. It's a well established routine.
Which is why my Mommy radar went on high alert when Aisling rushed into the house and was quick to dump off her lunch box even before I had gotten in the door. As I finally entered the house after putting away the stroller and convincing Quinn it was time to go in, I saw Aisling rushing up the stairs, with her hands underneath her shirt.
"Whoa, where are you going?" I asked.
"Upstairs. I need some private time. Can't I have any privacy around here?" she retorted indignantly.
(Technically, her question was quite astute. There is no such thing as "privacy" in this zoo, especially for mommy who always has Quinn hot on her trail.)
"Umm, sure, but what's in your hands?"
"Nothing," came the reply as she scurried up the stairs.
Then came Ceilidh the tattle-tale of the family. "She's got cookies in her hands! I saw her take cookies!"

I gave Aisling the stare and demanded she return to the kitchen with the contraband cookies. She knew she was caught since I  had opened up her lunch box by then, and saw the evidence of her uneaten fruit snack.
However, not to be beaten, Aisling took the longer route to the kitchen (through the living room) and by the time she arrived, she had successfully stuffed three-quarters of one cookie into her mouth, and relinquished the other.

The Tidy Bed Fairies

Despite whatever dreams or hopes I have for Devlin for his future career endeavours, I suspect he’s got a path leading towards a role that involves finding ways to do the absolute minimum. Or perhaps that might be a trait of the XY chromosome.

For example, when I ask him to clean up the basement with his siblings, he makes sure to only put away the toys that belong to him, in a haphazard pile in one of his bins.

So, it really shouldn’t have been a surprise to me his delight in learning that his bed got made by someone, other than his mom, while he was at his day camp session. No, we’re not staying at a hotel. Our accommodations while I am at this continuing legal education is by no means luxurious. Not by any stretch of the imagination. We’re staying at the university dorm, complete with stale beer scented carpets and uncomfortable twin beds with thin foam mattresses, not to mention the showers with the thin trickle of water. Of course, the kids think it’s great since they’ve gotten bacon every morning for breakfast in the cafeteria.

This morning, Ceilidh was not quite ready when it was time to head down to breakfast. I asked Devlin to see what was taking her so long.

Devlin: Hurry up! What are you doing?

Ceilidh: Making my bed.

I felt a sense of satisfaction that I was raising a responsible child who didn’t need to be nagged to do the simple everyday task of straightening the bed covers. Until I heard my son’s response:

“Don’t worry about it! There’s someone that comes everyday who makes your bed for you! You can leave it messy!”

Mean Mommy / Fun Mommy

In our household, I’m often referred to as Mean Mommy. Mostly because I enforce the rules, insist the kids eat their vegetables, make their beds, and veto calls for staying up late on school nights. Now I’m not saying that my husband is not a disciplinarian but let’s face the facts – Mommy is the one who’s in the background preparing meals, scheduling extra-curricular activities and medical appointments, going through the agendas, doing loads of laundry while Daddy is in the forefront playing with the monkeys, and taking them out so I can tidy the house and enjoy the tidiness for a few minutes before the orderliness is destroyed. Daddy is the one who takes them to the park, or plays hockey in the driveway. Daddy is always the one who is on board for an après-dinner walk to the ice cream store, and sporting events complete with junk food and a souvenir or two.

But for a brief couple of days this week, I am getting to be Fun Mommy. Somehow I got roped into bringing half of our brood with me to my annual, week-long, professionally required, continuing legal education course. I usually look forward to this work related duty as a reprieve from my parental duty. There’s usually a spa session booked for after class hours, leisurely meals at restaurants that have real tablecloths and not a television set in sight, nights spent reading books without pictures, and a glass or two of fine wine. This year, I brought Devlin and Ceilidh with me. While in class, those two are at day camp – sports for both, art for Ceilidh and science for Devlin. Both seem to be enjoying their stay, and have made friends at camp. Aside from the 5 minute walk to the camp drop off location which always seems to elicit much groaning, both have been behaving for the most part. I think I’ve only raised my voice twice.

As Fun Mommy, I’ve stocked our room with chips and cookies. I rewarded their willingness to try a new food item (yummy Mediterranean cuisine) with ginormous bowls of frozen yogurt topped with all sorts of candy, of which they only ate a few spoonfuls. This Fun Mommy hasn’t raised a stink about the lack of vegetables in their meals. They had dinner at the movie theater last night! Hot dogs and popcorn, all washed down with the forbidden drink – coke!

Fun Mommy sat down and watched the Avengers with Devlin and worked on puzzles with Ceilidh. Mean Mommy is still lurking underneath to ensure teeth are brushed and manners are on display. Reasonable bedtimes are still maintained. Clearly, piano practice sessions have been cancelled and I’ve given them a break on the daily homework assignments. I’ve encouraged some leisure reading, but agreed to letting them watch a movie on the laptop before bed instead.

I’ve revelled in the spontaneous hugs from my first born, sleeping with Ceilidh in a tiny twin bed because she can’t fall asleep on her own, and having the luxury of really listening to their silly jokes and their fantasies of having a unicorn for a pet. Sometimes, I wonder if this is what life would be like we stopped at two? A more sane pace of life? Probably not.  Alas, our week is ending, and I’ll be resorting back to my usual role of Mean Mommy. I’ve enjoyed these few days of reprieve from the daily drudgery of commuting and rushing to tackle laundry, meal preparation, cleaning, handing out household tasks, nagging the kids to brush their teeth and cleaning up the bathroom after bathing 4 kids. (Why can’t the water ever stay in the tub?)

But I can’t begin to tell you about how much I miss the other half of my off-spring. It’s been a nice vacation parenting two instead of four, but I am an incomplete mother this week.  Just remind me of that when I’m cursing under my breath about the whining, squabbling, and the frenetic chaos of my life.

Delegation by Devlin

One summer evening, after cleaning up the dinner detritus and starting a load of laundry, the kids and I rode our bikes to the tennis courts. Daddy was playing a match and I thought it would be nice to cheer him on. However, the older kids had a different idea. They begged to be allowed to play at the nearby park. I agreed, on one proviso.

“Devlin, you are in charge of your sisters. You are to keep an eye on them. Mommy and Quinn will be at the tennis courts, and I’ll come get you after Daddy’s game,” I instructed.

Devlin nodded and his sisters agreed to be supervised by him.

(For those of you parents who are outraged that I left the kids alone, the park was less than 250 metres from the tennis courts, and within hearing/shouting distance.)

Quinn and I continued on to the tennis courts. Fifteen minutes later, while I was watching Quinn chase after a wayward tennis ball, I spied Devlin coming towards me on his bike.

“Devlin!?!? What are you doing here? Where are your sisters? You were supposed to be watching over Ceilidh and Aisling!”

Very nonchalantly, he replied “Don’t worry Mom. I left Ceilidh in charge of Aisling.”

That’s a sure sign of maturing, I guess. Learning the ability to delegate.

No child slave labour here!

In the days of yore, rural families had large numbers of children. All to serve one purpose – to share in the grueling demands of the farm chores without having to pay the labour. While we don’t have a farm, we certainly try to model that idea of free labour. There’s no such thing as allowance in our home. Probably because with four growing kids, one of whom is a bottomless pit, their constant need for bigger clothes and shoes, and the various extra-curricular activities the said four are involved in, there’s not much left-over to pay an allowance, even a measly one. So, instead we ascribe to the true spirit of communism, where each individual is assigned a certain role in the household, and all is done for the better good or health of the larger family unit. In other words, our children have chores, and they don’t get paid for it. When they complain about having to clean up a mess that wasn’t created by them (shocking!), I remind them I didn’t wear their dirty clothes, but I washed them. If the table isn’t set, then dinner isn’t served. Clean laundry is folded by an adult, but the wearer of the articles of clothing as tasked with putting them away. Soon, folding laundry will be added to their to-do list. Even Quinn has a job – putting his dirty laundry in his hamper and tossing his soiled diapers in the garbage.

And it makes sense to me that they don’t get paid to do this. After all, I don’t get paid to prepare their meals and clean up. Their dad doesn’t get paid to haul out the garbage and recycling. So these costly dependents shouldn’t get paid to make their beds in the morning. As you can tell, I view allowance as payment for the everyday tasks that we should all do without expecting compensation. Some might argue that allowance teaches children money management and responsibility at a young age. Maybe that’s a valid point seeing as how my kids like toss their tooth fairy coins around the house. In fact, I’ve managed to buy a few coffees simply by sweeping up the loose change around their piggy banks. Finders keepers, right? Okay, I’m not cheap. I usually just chuck the change into the nearest piggy, but I think that’s how Aisling (who still has all her teeth) has gotten rich recently.

I think I’ll leave the money  management lessons to later in their childhoods, like when they’re teenagers and earning some dollars with after-school jobs. It’s always way more meaningful when they’ve actually worked outside the home (not employed by Mom and Dad) for it.

Last night, Daddy decided to put the extra hands we have around our zoo to use. He brought down a large bag of loose change and some coin rolling paper.

Daddy: Who would like to help me count all this money and roll it up? It’ll be fun!

Aisling: Okay! (very enthusiastic)

Devlin: No way. That sounds boring. And you’re just trying to get us to do your work.

Daddy: Well, how about if I pay you one dollar after all the coins are rolled?

Ceilidh (face all wrinkled in disgust): One dollar?! No way! Maybe if you gave me two dollars, I’d do it.

Daddy: Well, you drive a hard bargain. But okay, I’ll give you each $2. That’s some great negotiating.

Aisling: How about five?

Daddy: No way. I’m holding at two.

I finally looked up, after wiping the tears from eyes, and wondered, “Will you have any money left to deposit in a bank after paying out for the labour?”

End of the boob road for Quinn

While the experts say "breast is best" for baby, there's still lots of women who choose not to go down that road. The ability to leave baby with whomever and whenever, not having to deal with breast issues like cracked nipples and sagging, are among the oft-cited reasons. I chose to breast feed all of my babies for the simple fact that is was cheaper. Way cheaper than formula. And until Quinn, there weren't many difficulties associated with breast feeding. All took to it with minimal problems, and aside from a few infections and episodes of plugged ducts, it went well for the most part. In hindsight, I often wonder if nursing Devlin longer than six months would have side-stepped the peanut allergy issue he has. But alas, I was returning to work early (being on contract at that time), and hadn't turned my mind to nursing him when I returned from work.
Devlin took to the bottle without a problem, but it took some time before we found the right formula for him since we discovered after many bouts of projectile vomiting that he was lactose intolerant. Ceilidh and Aisling were also great at nursing, and both provided no obstacles when it was time to wean.
Then came Quinn.
My baby, my last baby, He loved to nurse. When it was time for a feed, he'd kick his legs enthusiastically and smack his lips. Even after solids were introduced, he still loved to nurse. At that "magic" 11 month mark, when it's easiest to wean a baby, Quinn got sick. As did Mommy. Weaning seemed like cruel and unusual punishment. So we nursed. He took juice and water from a sippy cup, but absolutely refused to swallow milk that didn't come from Mommy. I returned to work, and came home with aching breasts, and was greeted with open arms by Quinn who was eager for his feed. This continued for a few weeks until I convinced him to wait until bed time. And for awhile, he'd been nursing at bedtime, first thing in the morning and all through the night.
After one night of hourly feeds throughout the night, I started to research how to night wean while co-sleeping. Tried a few tips, and our sleeps got better. Quinn was learning to sleep and only wake once or not at all. I also realized that if I woke up before him and snuck down to exercise, he'd manage without a morning session of boob juice just fine.
All the articles I read on weaning a toddler suggested talking to Quinn about the end of the boob road, and substituting lots of cuddles instead. Or waiting until the child was ready himself. Neither was going to work for me. When I talked to Quinn about "growing up and being a big boy" he looked at me askance, and insisted on a feed instead. He would spit out his soother, climb into my lap and cough "ah ah"  -  his signal that he was ready for his evening ritual. Child led weaning, in my opinion, is one of those mother/parenthood myths, like a baby that sleeps through the night at 6 weeks or a child that toilet trained over the course of a weekend.
The doctor stated there was no way to wean at this late stage with me around. She suggested I take a trip away. So I planned a girls' weekend in Vegas, but due to scheduling conflicts the trip won't be until November. I despaired at nursing until then. I did have a work related excursion at the end of summer, but I also felt bad about leaving Daddy with a still nursing child. And truth be told, I was reluctant to end the nursing. Quinn is my last baby, and this will be the last baby I get to cuddle and nurse. I did enjoy those moments we were connected and the gentle snores that came when he fell asleep on the breast. The talking we did with our eyes as we started at each other while he drank. I loved how his fingers would get tangled up in the bra straps while I stroked his feet.
Until this week. I got sick. One of summer illnesses that suck all the energy out of you and leaves you listless and wanting to sleep. I was also worn out. From a few weeks of frenetic activity. There were birthday party preparations for Devlin and then executing the party, cleaning and clearing up my desk at work in preparation for week off, the said week off that was spent in Minnesota helping my very pregnant sister perpare to move back to Canada, and then returning home and back to busy work schedule. On top of the illness, I ended up cracked and bleeding nipples. It was the straw that broke the camel's back. The pain of that negated any of the special "bonding" I derived from our daily boob sessions with Quinn.
I spent a fortune on fun looking sippy cups, and made up a cocktail of formula and milk. I thrust the bottles and Quinn at this dad and went to hide in a separate room. It's been three days now, and fingers crossed, knock on wood, but the weaning is going well! He's gone to sleep for Daddy, and only woken up once each night. This morning, he even came to me for a cuddle. I was braced for Quinn to start looking for a sip from from the boob fountain as he usually does during the early morning cuddles, but he was content to stick his fingers up my nose and giggle. I miss sleeping next to him, but until I'm sure he's done with the boob, I have to stay away. So, I steal some cuddles while he sleeps and quietly grieve the end of the boob road.

Mommy doesn't get it!

Last week, I seized upon rare (these days) opportunity to pick up the kids from school. Both Ceilidh and Devlin were happy to see me waiting on the tarmac with their baby brother in the stroller. Aisling sped out the door to give me a big hug. After dealing with some whining about having to wear jackets, it was homeward bound, with promises of television once homework and piano practising was completed, and a cookie treat before homework.
The trek home was chaotic and noisy as usual. All three chattered about their day, at the same time. Whoever was the loudest got heard of course. Perhaps that's why Aisling does NOT have an indoor voice. First I heard about Aisling's big day at school. It was her birthday, and her class mates sang "Happy Birthday" and she received a special birthday sticker, but it got ripped, so she threw it in the garbage. Then Devlin said his day at school was "okay" and that they didn't "learn much". I was also informed that he lost his free time on Friday afternoon for "no good reason". Well, actually, because someone blamed him and his friend for a girl falling down earlier in the week, but he hadn't been questioned about it, and was unable to explain that it wasn't him, that he was nowhere near where the incident had occurred, and that it couldn't have possibly been him. (Kind of sound like the Toronto mayor Rob Ford!") When I asked why there was no note from the teacher, Devlin decided to hang back and walk with a classmate. Convenient.
Then it was Ceilidh's turn to chat about her day. Here went the conversation:
C: Devlin pushed me at the end of recess and I fell.
M: He pushed you?
C: For no reason.
M: Did you tell the teacher?
C: No, it was end of recess.
M: What was happening before he pushed you?
C: Nothing.
M:Nothing at all? I'll have to get Devlin's explanation.
C: Well, my friend Aleena and I were tickling him, and then he pushed me really hard.
M: Why were you tickling him?
C: I wasn't. My friend Aleena was.
M: Did he ask you to stop bothering him?
C: I wasn't bothering him. My friend and I were practising our gymnastics, and he came over and stepped on my hand. See? (showing me non-existent injury)
M: I thought you said you were tickling him?
C: No at last recess.
M: Then when did the gymnastics incident happen?
C: Not Devlin - some other boy stepped on my hand.
M: (wishing my cross-examination skills would produce such results great results in court) Which boy? When?
C: At the other recess, and I only tickled Devlin because my friend did it too. And his friends were mean to me!
M: Wait, I thought you said you didn't tickle. Which is it?
C: AAARGH! You don't understand my kid life!!!! (throwing her hands up in frustration and stomping away)

I never did figure out if there was a push, as Devlin denied it categorically. There might have been some tickling or at least, some pursuit by Ceilidh and her friend, but not sure at which recess. And gymnastics? When questioned further, it was gym class!

On Mother's Day...

Most of us Moms would love some time to ourselves, right? Breakfast in my bed is a nice idea. Likewise the flowers. As is a gift certificate to a spa. A day free of chores would be nice. Or simply some time to ourselves. To do whatever. To read a book, browse the stores, savour a cup of coffee, flip through a magazine.
Me? Well, I got breakfast (but not in bed), flowers and ...a day to spend with my kids.
As Ceilidh declared the other day, on Mother's Day, you have to spend the day with your kids because that's what being a mother is about.So, then I guess every day is Mother's Day. And with that...enjoy the day with the kids, the ones that gave us the label of "Mom".

Mother's Day

It's Mother's Day, and a time to reflect on how much we appreciate our mothers, and mother figures in our lives. Now that I'm a mother, I truly do appreciate my own mom, and my grandmother (who passed away almost 5 years ago) and all that they did, and still do, for my siblings, for me, for my children. Being a mom is darn hard work. There's never an easy day. There's never a day off. There's not a moment's rest. (Even when I attempt to have five minutes of peace and relaxation in a bubble bath, there's a often a child or two who comes up to join before long.) And most of the time, much of our efforts go unnoticed.
Or so I thought...
It's been a rough week with Aisling. I swear my kids tag team each other on who will be the naughty child for the day or week. Aisling got tagged. She has been extremely difficult, between not eating dinner, to talking back, to not participating in dance class. Never mind the efforts to get her to use an "indoor" voice. That's not to say that Devlin and Ceilidh have been absolute angels either. There was the incident with the garden hose with Devlin. Ceilidh stomping around about something. Quinn is also starting to get in on the action. His latest? Throwing himself on the ground and cry to protest being brought indoors.
Like I said, it's been a not-so-quite calm time in our zoo.
At one point, over the din of the crying/screaming/whining, my ever faithful partner in this asylum stated, "You and I need a vacation, away from the kids!"
"Hah!" I answered. "Like they'd let us out of this place!"
Well, that started a whole other commotion.
Aisling wanted to know who would pack her lunch? Make her cheese sandwiches and put cookies in her lunch bag?
Aisling then wanted to know who would prepare her breakfast? I stated Devlin could, since he's started preparing breakfast for himself and his sister Ceilidh lately. (It's only toast, so let's not get too excited.)
Devlin protested he couldn't pour the milk. So we volunteered Ceilidh for that job.
Well, who would take care of Quinn?  Who would change Quinn's diapers? We told Devlin he'd have to learn, and he wasn't on board with that idea. Devlin also quite astutely pointed out he could not breastfeed his baby brother, so there was no way his mother could leave.
Ceilidh quietly took in this scene, saw the panic on her siblings' faces and loudly declared, "I'm making a new rule - NO ONE is going on vacation. That means, Mommy and Daddy can't leave us!"

So, maybe our kids do appreciate the little jobs we mothers and fathers do for our offspring. Maybe they do understand the sacrifices we make on a daily basis. Like, instead of watching television, we are chauffering them to dance, hockey, Cubs, and the like. Instead of going to bed, we're baking a batch of muffins to pack into their lunch box. Instead of getting caught up on the news, we're loading up the washing maching with yet another load, while signing permission slips and wracking our tired brains for a suitable (acceptable to picky palates) meal the next day. Do they appreciate that I spend my lunch hours at work running around the stores to pick up twisty cheese, birthday party gifts, and pyjama pants?

Maybe? One can only hope.

Oh well, at the end of the day, it's the big hugs and cuddles and declaration of undying love from our monkeys that make it all worthwhile.

Drinking thine image with my eyes

I've seen that phrase before, here and there, and had some vague notion of what it meant. Sort of like feasting one's eyes upon a desirable object.
And now I really "get" what it means. It's what happens, every evening when I walk in the door upon my return from the working world (or make that the "paid" working world), and I cast my eyes about, searching for and locating my youngest. Whatever he's doing, whereever he is, I will stop and gaze upon his tiny, energetic body as he either runs to me excitedly, or sits upon the lowest stair and jabber on in his nonsensical syllables. He may be at the sliding door to the backyard, watching his older siblings, or throwing a tantrum on the kitchen floor because he's been taken away from his beloved game of hockey. It doesn't matter to me. I am content to watch him, and fill my mental video card with images of him. As I drink in the sight of Quinn, I feel the stresses of the work day (that is, paid work day) and the frustrations of the commute home melt away.  It's as if the day long separation from Quinn has depleted my inner stores of energy, and seeing him once again restores my equilibrium.
Don't be mistaken that I don't love gazing upon my other three children. I do, most especially when they are sleeping and appear angelic. But I harness a different energy from the others, probably because they can converse with real words, and can relay to me, snippets of their day that I am not around to personally witness. I can replay our conversations in our mind later when I'm away from them. Their antics make me smile (like Devlin's impromptu song and dance on my bed, in front of our mirror, not realizing his parents were watching from the hallway), and their verbal declarations of affection a perfect balm to my exhausted soul. Of course, the fact that Devlin, Ceilidh and Aisling can talk also means they may add to my daily stresses the moment I walk in the door. To be bombarded with outrageous requests, disagreements, and having to referee before my high heels are off makes me want to run out the door.
This morning, Quinn woke up much too early in my opinion. But the moment he opened his eyes, there was a smile on his face. He showed no interest in his Daddy, but gazed upon me, his sleepy mother. He refused all suggestions to sleep a little longer. Instead, he insisted on smiling and staring at me. His eyes were drinking in my image, and perhaps he was filling up his mental stores of mommy's face in preparation for our daily separation.
Or perhaps, he was just waiting for Mommy to smile and signal that she was ready to play. The moment I did smile, and reached out to tickle him, he promptly put his fingers up my nose and giggled heartily.

There's always tomorrow

Yes, we still co-sleep. It works for us - most of the time. But not all in the same bed. That would be insane. It's always Mommy and Quinn, and most often than not, Aisling in one bed. Daddy always gets Ceilidh and Devlin. Sometimes, Devlin and Aisling trade off, or I get three when Devlin is feeling the need to be close to Mommy.
Last night, Aisling  - who's had a rough week behaviour-wise - asked Daddy if he'd come and sleep with her once her older siblings had fallen asleep.
"Well, will you be a good girl tonight?" Daddy asked.
There was a momentary hesitation, and then came the answer.
"I'll be good tomorrow!"

Definitely Daddy's Girl

Ever since Aisling joined our family, Ceilidh has become a Daddy's girl. While it's Mommy who shops for her pretty clothes, and bakes her favorite cookies, it is Daddy who garners her attention. On the rare occasion Ceilidh may decide to sit next to me. But that's only when her father is nowhere neaby.
As Daddy can do no wrong in her eyes, it's not surprising that she doesn't mind taking after Daddy. On a recent trip to the hairdresser's, I noticed that Ceilidh's once black hair has lightened up considerably. Now, it's a lustrous dark brown.
"Just like Daddy's," I said.
She beamed, clearly pleased with the comparison.
Her reaction brought back a memory from a few months ago. Ceilidh and Devlin were finishing their nightly baths. It's no secret that Devlin is shorter and lighter than his younger sister. He also has much less body hair - a complete reversal from when he was first born and resembled a small primate.
"Wow Ceilidh. Maybe you should be a boy!" Devlin stated.
"What do you mean?" she asked puzzled, and not the least bit put out.
"You've got lots of hair on your legs!" my tactless son pointed out.
"Oh that, that's because I take after Daddy!" Ceilidh explained, quite proudly. "He has lots of hair too."

Lay on the guilt

It's one of those mornings - I've woken up early, exercised, packed my lunch and eaten my healthy-ish breakfast. I've cuddled with Quinn, changed his diaper and got him started on his breakfast. I've awakened the others by bribing them with some forbidden Lucky Charms for breakfast. A minor spat over "sitting rights" on the couch has been dealt with and now I'm way behind schedule. I ask Devlin to keep his younger brother occupied by feeding him some cereal so I can race to the showers.
I'm about 10 minutes late, but I figure I can make up the time if the traffic lights are in my favour.
Just as I'm balancing the coffee mug, and keys while shrugging into a jacket, I hear "Mommy?"
Quickly I bestow kisses on my offspring, and with one foot out the door, I hear it again, "Mommy?"
I look down, and there's Aisling with her eyes wide and pleading.
"Yes?"
"Mommy, could you please ask your work if you can walk your kids to school one day like you used to last year?"
Wham! The ball of guilt that she's unknowingly just lobbed at me crushes the breath out of me.
I swallow down the surge of nausea, and plaster on a smile, "Sure sweetie. I promise I'll ask."
Aisling face lights up with a mega-watt smile. My temples begin to pound, and I rush out the door.
As I race along to work, breaking the speed limit but keeping up with the flow of traffic, tears are threatening to spill over. I've no vacation time coming up this month, but perhaps a mental health day soon could be in order? If nothing else, this morning's episode is enough to topple me into the abyss of working mom guilt. (Not that I don't find myself there on a regular basis.)

A milestone birthday!

Today's a big day for Daddy - it's his 50th birthday celebration.

And so on this morning, he awoke to 50 pink birds!

Quinn's First Haircut

I don't know why, but it's a little a heartbreaking to trim off your baby's locks. My husband thinks I'm silly to get teary eyed over the moment, but then again, he's a man who didn't carry the baby for nine months in an expanding belly. So, for weeks, I've been putting off the inevitable, having Quinn's long-ish hair trimmed. But alas, on Sunday morning, he awoke with crazy hair. Like he had escaped from Who-ville hair.

So, off we went to Melonheads with its colourful walls and television screens displaying Thomas the Tank Engine. At first, Quinn seem enthralled by this new environment and all of the little people in there. But once we were told to select a chair, things took a turn for the worse.
Quinn started screaming the moment his butt made contact with the colourful Nemo barber seat at the children's hair salon.

The tears soon followed. The solution was to have Mommy hold Quinn in her lap. We were both covered with snippets of hair by the end of that traumatic event.

But in the end, a very cute little boy emerged, red eyes and all.
 Before:

 And after:

What kids hear when you speak

As any parent will tell you, one of the most frustrating aspects of parenting is telling kids something over and over again.  When you feel like your voice and message is on replay all the time, it's aggravating to be ignored by your off-spring as if you had never spoken. Or be stared dumbly at, or better yet, the confused look, while you once again repeat whatever you had been stating. I've often wondered if my kids even hear me at all. I've sometimes mused that children must hear sounds at frequencies different from the adult voice. Like how dogs can hear the high pitched whistle but the human ear cannot. Well, a conversation with Devlin this morning confirmed that while kids do actually hear our voices, it's the message that gets scrambled.
We're always trying to emphasize the importance of eating balanced meals, exercising and being healthy. While we all love bacon, it's a weekend treat because of its high fat and sodium levels. When asked why we couldn't eat bacon everyday, Aisling was told because we'd all get fat if we ate bacon all the time. She remembered that, and while getting her haircut over the holidays, she told the hairdresser, "I love bacon, but we can't eat too much because we'd get fat. That's what happened to my dad. He ate too much bacon and got fat. But it's okay because he's going to exercise now."
As you can imagine, the entire hair salon exploded in laughter.
So, Daddy decided to explain that bacon wasn't the evil cuplrit.
He told the kids that it's important to exercise and eat well. He also explained that he didn't gain weight from eating bacon, but because he was so busy taking the kids to various activities, he found it hard to find time to exercise.
This morning, we had our weekend breakfast of pancakes and bacon. I asked Aisling how many pieces of bacon she'd had.
"None!" she stated.
"Why? It's your favorite!"
"I don't want to get fat!"
"You won't get fat from eating bacon. You won't get fat if you exercise! And stay healthy," I tried to explain.
Devlin decided to help. "Yeah, you get fat by having kids!"
"What?!" I asked outraged, and insulted at what he was suggesting. "You don't get fat from having kids. Do I look fat?"
"Well, Daddy said he got fat because you had four kids, and then he couldn't exercise because you made him change diapers and stuff."

13 months and a going concern

As I sat up groggily in bed this morning, while nursing Quinn, I was struck with the realization that it's been 13 months since he's joioned the zoo. Thirteen months since he's brought more laughter and love into our household. And thirteen months since he's triggered more chaos.
Picture, if you will, the cartoon or comedy sketch of a hapless babysitter (usually a dad) left alone with an overly curious child. Usually the child's minder is snoring behind an open newspaper or zoned out to a television set, while the youngster is opening shelves, and dangling his or hand into a fishbowl. No sooner has the babysitter rescued the imp from one disaster and sorted the room to rights, has the wayward toddler gone off to create another. That's our Quinn.
I'll open the fridge to grab ingredients for a meal, and he's in there, between my legs reaching for bottles of condiments and racing off to the living room with his treasure. Or he's in the pantry cupboards, pulling out cans of tomatoes, and granola bars wrapped in shiny foil. He also loves getting into the pots and pans. He'll pull out the mixing bowls and find a spatula and stir away. The mesh of the sieves attract his little feet. All of my strainers are dented and misshapen now. His grandmother recently passed on her old pots and pans to him, and Quinn will happily bang away on the lids. I don't know if he's got a future as a chef or a musician!
He's also become adept at removing the child safety locks on the cabinets. We're constantly chasing after him for the locks, and and whatever else he's managed to grab with his small paw.
Water is also a problem. He's learned to splash mightily in the tub. He's also aware that there's water in the toilets, and darned, if I don't catch him splashing in there as well. Everyone in the household has been warned to leave the lids down, but that doesn't seem to deter the Quinn-meister. 
Since he's mastered climbing the stairs, there is no place where Quinn won't appear in our home. I've often heard him enter my bathroom while I'm in the shower in the morning. Confirmation that it's Quinn appears in the form of a magazine or book being pushed into the tub. Or having the shower curtain pulled aside accompanied by a grinning little monkey peering up at me, unfazed by the water sprinkling onto him.
And while he has brought another level of mischief to our home, he has also added his own special Quinn-essence. There's nothing better than returning home after a long and stressful day, to a grinning face at the windows, and hearing him shout "Da-da" or "Ma-ma" while toddling over to grasp your legs. Or seeing him wake up, blinking sleepily, but smiling once he registers that you're there. Or hearing him query "Mama?" when he hears my voice in another room. Or seeing him point and blabber excitedly upon the return of his siblings from school. Watching him get excited over green beans or broccoli is hilarious! If only his siblings would follow suit.
Happy 13 months Quinnster!

Who's afraid of the Big Bad Wolf?

Or, in this case, Mean Mommy?

We just returned from Devlin's hockey tournament. It was fun filled weekend for the team. The Novice Credit Valley Wolves advanced to the finals but lost 2-1. The silver medals were handed out by Walter Gretzky. I think the parents got more of a kick out of that than the players. I had my proud mommy moment - Devlin was awarded the MVP for the first game. Unfortunately, I was unable to attend that game, so I'll have to watch the video.
Although the tournament was held in Brantford, we decided to book a room at the hotel. It would save from driving back and forth every day, and act as a mini vacation for the kids. I stress, for the kids. It was not a vacation for the adults. Okay, so I got a break from cooking meals, but I would have preferred to cook than ingest the amount of junk we did. The kids did enjoy the swimming pool at the hotel. Quinn especially, loved splashing in the water.
But what's a hockey tournament without some of the kids going nuts on their last night? The entire hotel was pretty much filled with tournament participants. On Saturday night, there much rowdiness occuring. Obviously, this particular team had not advanced. We made several requests to the parents in the hallway. The parents of the kids were not effective at all in controlling the noise level.  Our team had an early game the next day. Sleep was a priority. It was past midnight, and the noise showed no signs of abating. I was getting frustrated from trying to get Quinn back to sleep. More complaints were made, this time to the front desk. No improvement.
The next morning, short on sleep and patience wearing very thin, I asked Ceilidh several times to put on her shoes so we could get out the door to the game.
"I've asked you five times nicely. I'm losing my patience with you. Now, PUT ON YOUR SHOES or I will get very upset!" I snapped.
"Yeah, you don't want to see Mean Mommy come out, do you? She's scary!" echoes their ever helpful father.
Ceilidh looks up from tying her shoelaces, "Why are you scared of her? You married her!"

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways...

If there is one definite thing my spouse is better at than me (I'm sure there's many things, but I'd hate to give him any reason not fit through the doorway) - it's telling the kids that he loves them even when he's quite angry with them. I'm not able to easily and glibly state "I love you" to my misbehaving miscreants. Especially when they are doing their absolute best to infuriate me by talking back, or refusing to answer "Who did this?", or stomping around to show their displeasure with a disciplinary measure I've just imposed.
My husband will tuck the delinquent child into bed, and kiss them good night, and assure him or her that Daddy still loves him/her. Whereas I will wait until the child is asleep before placing the good night kiss upon a sweaty brow.
Recently, Ceilidh declared that I did not love her. As I had not actually stated that, nor was this in the heat of the moment or midway through a temper tantrum, I questioned her as to why she would think such a thought. Ceilidh's reasoning? I did not love her because I imposed time-outs, took away the Xbox on occasion (as a disciplinary measure), didn't buy her whatever toys she desired, and horror of horrors, made her eat yucky stuff like vegetables.  I tried to explain that it was because I loved her and her siblings, that I did all of the above actions, and more. Like scouting out sales to outfit them in clothing, and trying to find new recipes to tempt their palates, and doing copious amounts of laundry so they had clean clothes to wear, and assigning extra "homework" so they could do better at school.   If I didn't love her or any of the other kids, I advised that I wouldn't give a care whether or not they played in traffic, ate junk food all the time so that their teeth fell out, and couldn't read more than her name. If I didn't love them,  they could watch all the television they wanted until their brains became smoother than a baby's bottom. And I would have great sleep since I wouldn't be up at night stressing over whether or not I was doing okay as a mother. I'd also be out every night at a fabulous restaurant enjoying fine foods and fine wine, or I'd be shopping for myself at the higher end boutiques. Hitting the spa and hiring a personal trainer. Why not? After all, if I didn't love my kids, I wouldn't need to spend every last dime and nickel on them and their futures. I wouldn't have to bother with dance lessons, skating, piano and saving for a university education.
Well, that little speech gave my six-year-old something to think about, but I don't think she was quite convinced, as she then asked her Dad if he would lover her always - forever and forever. Daddy answered, yes, of course, in fact, he loved them unconditionally. What did that mean, the munchkins wondered. So Daddy explained that he loved them no matter what. That even when they were bad and misbehaving, he still loved them.
Aisling pounced on that concept.
A: So even when you're mad at me, you still love me?
Dad: Yes, even when I'm angry with you because you weren't obeying Mommy and Daddy, I still love you. We both still love you.
A: Really?
Mommy: Yes, but that doesn't mean you can be bad all the time! We're much happier with you when you're a good girl.
A: Well, Daddy still loves me even when I'm bad! Ha-Ha.
(And I'm pretty sure she stuck out her tongue at my back).

Returning to Work

I'm stressed at the thought of returning to work in a day. My shoulders are knotted and I can't sleep, despite a long day of endless laundry, cleaning, dealing with the kids and a sick husband. With previous maternity leaves, I think I was excited about the prospect of going back to office, to re-entering the world of adult conversations, and feeling like I was once again using my brain for something other than answering my kids' questions about why the sky is blue and how do clouds stay afloat. Not this time.
I've started to prepare for my return. I've taken an armload of suits to the dry-cleaners, and washed my dress shirts. I had my ever supportive spouse take me back-to-work shopping for some new outfits. While I was temporarily excited about returning to the office so I could wear the new duds, the euphoria faded away.
I'm probably a bit nervous about jumping back into my career. It's been almost 13 months and I'm sure the law has developed and changed while I was gone. I remember vaguely skimming a few articles in the paper about some Supreme Court decisions, but about what exactly, I couldn't tell you. Going back to work is probably like riding a bicycle, but right now, I don't think I could handle a tricycle.
While I am looking forward to seeing my good friends on a regular basis again, I'm reluctant to leave my comfortable world of school drop-offs and pick-ups, an hour of watching The Chew, trying out new recipes and hanging out with Quinn. I'll be the first to admit that staying-at-home would not be a good fit with me. I know I need to be away from the kids to appreciate them that much more, and I am a much happier person when I do work. Not that I haven't been gloriously happy this past year. But knowing that Quinn is my last baby, I think I really took the time to cherish the year off. I loved the walks to and from school, except when the one or more of the kids were cranky and displaying poor behaviour. I looked forward to afternoon naps with Quinn on the couch. I enjoyed the help of assistant Aisling when I baked cookies. If I could balance the working life with the home life, then I probably wouldn't be so stressed about returning to the office.
And there in lies the real issue - can I actually handle working while raising four children and maintaining a good relationship with my spouse? I'm not suggesting that staying at home would make my marriage grand. In fact, I'm sure my spouse would be the first to agree that having me at work would be a plus. Not only financially, but he does know that I love my job - most days. Besides, there were many, many days when the relationship was strained - a combination of no sleep, little patience, whining and misbehaving children and a baby that needed to be nursed every two hours. As I've stated in previous posts, my spouse is a very hands-on dad, and generally helpful around the house too. But let's face it, he's had pretty much a free ride this past year with household chores. It'll take some weeks for adjusting for him as well when I go back to work, and I know there will be a few sessions nagging on my part.
When I think of throwing 50 plus hours of "real" work, into the mix of endless loads of laundry, grocery shopping, meal preparations, nightly baths, homework supervision, to name a few....well, my heart starts to race, my shoulders start to creep up to my neck, and I'm sure I've sprouted a few more grey hairs. The thought of advance meal preparation for our busier nights paralyzes me and so, it's probably a good thing I've been batch cooking and freezing meals for the past month. I know we've managed in the past when I've returned to work, but it feels like our lives have gotten exponentially busier in the past year. Tae Kwon Do two nights a week, piano lessons, Cubs, dance lessons, hockey, swimming...
Yes, I could lessen the stress and take the kids out of the activities, but that really wouldn't be fair to them. Besides on the nights the three older kids have Tae Kwon Do with their dad, Quinn and I get a few hours to ourselves.
And then there's Quinn. I don't know how both of us will handle the separation in a day. We haven't been apart more than a few hours in the past. With the holidays, we weren't apart more than an hour at most. That also meant weaning did not go as planned. With his strong will and refusal to take more than a sip of milk from a cup, I know we are in trouble come Tuesday. Or at least my breasts will be. I do believe he knows something is afoot. Whenever I disappear from his line of sight, he panics. I went into the garage to toss out the recycling, and he started crying while making a bee line to the garage door. The other day I went out grocery shopping. His dad returned from Devlin's hockey camp before I did. When he realized that only Daddy was coming in, and no one else, he began bawling. Upon my return, there was happy babbling and eager arms reaching out to grab my legs.
With all of these factors, I am less than enthusiastic about facing my inevitable return to the world of paid work. In fact, I down-right glum, and eating lots of cookies to deal with my emotions. Which is not a good thing. Maybe I'll pour myself a glass of wine once my little lambs are asleep and hope it puts me to sleep too.

Happy 1st Birthday Quinn!

It's been a year of laughs, lots of hugs, some sleepless nights, many moments of cuteness, and an overabundance of love (that no one can complain about). As with each child that came before him, Quinn has brought us nothing but happiness, except for those long drives on the 401 when we all wished for ear plugs. We know there will be many more months and years of greatness with our Mighty Quinn if the first year is anything to go by.
Happy Birthday dear son! You'll have a long life with a future in academics (a good thing since your name means intelligence) since you selected the thread and a pen at your dol. And just because you're so darn cute with a demonstrated sweet tooth, you got two birthday cakes! (Just don't expect that every year.)

Merry Christmas 2012

I'm not one to send newsy Christmas letters with the Christmas cards. For one, it's a feat of organization that I've actually gotten the kids to pose for a picture, then ordered the cards, picked them up and mailed them out. For another, I haven't had two minutes to sit down and compose a letter in the weeks leading up to the holidays. Have you noticed the lack of recent blog posts? It's been a few feverish weeks of getting ready for the big day - shopping, baking, more shopping, remembering to pick up gifts for teachers, trying to corral the kids to sit and write a card for their teachers, running out to pick up tights for the holiday dresses, convincing Devlin that he can wear too tight church shoes for one hour of his life, trying to remember who we forgot on the gift list - it's been nutty.
While it may already be 2013, here's my Christmas message:
Dear friends,
Hope everyone is well, healthy and mostly happy. We, on the other hand, after a mostly illness-free year, have been fighting through various colds, flus, sniffles and what not in December. Poor Quinn has had the worst of it.
But happy? After some discussion with my spouse, we have determined that we are indeed happy and content, or a tad delusional.
We started the year of 2012 off with a bang. The arrival of Quinn, our fourth child, in the last minutes of 2011 insured that we would definitely be awake to greet the new year. Alas, the same could not be said for ringing in 2013. Our entire household was asleep by 11pm.
The year flew by. Devlin scored a few goals in hockey and soccer. He joined a new hockey team in September, moved up a level and is now playing left wing. He  seems to have quite the imagination as evidenced by his drawings and creative writing at school.  Ceilidh learned to ride a two-wheeler. Her transition to grade one was a bit bumpy as many of her BFFs left for French immersion. But she's settled in nicely, and all of her school work comes home covered in doodles. Ceilidh is quite the avid reader these days. By Christmas, she was singing "All I want for Christmas is my two front teeth". Or perhaps I should say she was whistling it as the gap in front made it difficult for her to enunciate. Aisling started junior kindergarten and learned to spell her name, but has not yet mastered the "indoor" voice. All three started taking Tae Kwon Do this year with their dad, and Devlin and Ceilidh progressed to yellow belt recently. Devlin is in Cubs, while Ceilidh and Aisling are continuing with dance lessons. And then there's piano lessons for Devlin and Ceilidh.
Quinn, of course, made the most progress this year. He went from lying around, to rolling over, to sitting up, to the army/belly crawl in the summer, then crawling on his hands and knees in September. And in the last two weeks, he has started walking!  And while Ceilidh gave up two teeth to the Tooth Fairy, Quinn cut two more. I think the last count was 10 teeth. We're not sure though, as we're all hesitant to put our fingers into his mouth  - he's got quite the bite.
Mommy and Daddy are still in survival mode, feeling like we've completed ten marathons by day's end. One day, we'll be like other parents and enjoy a television show and a glass of wine after the kids go to sleep. One day, in the distant future. For now, we get our energy levels refilled as we share stories about our kids and laugh together at their antics.
For example:
Walking the kids to school one morning, Ceilidh noticed I was wearing new shoes. Why was I wearing new shoes for the mundane task of going to school? I explained I was trying to break them in. What did that mean? Making them more comfortable, and trying to stretch out the shoe.
"Like making them wider?" she asked.
"Sort of," I said.
"I'm learning all about wide and long at school," she stated proudly.
"Really? What's Daddy? Wide or long?" I queried.
"Mostly wide," she replied without missing a beat.

Then there was the night I got fed up with hearing my children use the word "hate". As in "I hate you/Devlin/Ceilidh/playing piano..." You get the picture. I'm sure we all use that word, but I really didn't want them using that word so easily.
After a challenging evening with Ceilidh that resulted with her screaming "I hate you" to a certain parent, I gathered up the three kids who could speak in understandable English. Both Daddy and I presented a united front as we lectured them on how much we detested hearing the word "hate" coming from them, and we issued a cease and desist order on that word. We also informed them the consequences of uttering that word would result in the loss of Xbox for a weekend.  Ceilidh and Devlin nodded their understanding, but Aisling? She came back, quite nonchalantly, with "What about the F-word? Do you like that word?"
While Daddy struggled mightily to keep a straight face, I glared evilly and said in my most authoritative voice that the "f-word" was most certainly not an allowable word in the house. I glared once more, then rushed to the safety of my room where both Daddy and I dissolved into giggles.

So, there you have it - what 2012 has been like in our household. I'm sure 2013 will be more of the same crazy stuff, and multiplied by the Mighty Quinn who will no doubt add his own brand of comments and quirks to the mix.

From our zoo to your's, Merry Belated Christmas and Best Wishes for the new year!

It DOES Take a Village

My maternity leave is winding down to the last few days.  My baby is getting bigger. Quinn is nearly a year old. He's started walking last week. But only if you're not watching him intently, or expecting him to toddle over to you. No, he gets up, steadies himself and walks when you are ignoring him. Or not paying attention. All of sudden, you feel his tiny hands grasping the back of your leg and look down to his smiling face.  He babbles constantly, and throws whatever he doesn't want - be it the soother, food, or a toy. I feel like I'm always on my hands and knees retrieving toys, crackers, and soothers. Last week, he tossed his soother down several rows at the hockey game. I thought he might be interested in hockey given that he's always playing with the miniature stick and swatting at a ball, but after last week's display, Quinn may have a future in baseball instead.
As he discovers more of the world around on him, I am realizing that my time at home is coming to an end.
 On a recent morning run, I reflected on the idea that it does take a village to raise a child, or keep a mother sane. We were fortunate enough to have our own village. My parents who stayed with us to lend a much needed helping hand during Quinn's first few weeks of life. Our wonderful nanny who ensured the older kids were dressed and fed and ready for school in the morning. She also took care of Quinn to allow me to walk the older kids to school, and stay connected to their world. She kept our abode neat and clean, and enabled me to focus my energies on trying out new recipes or simply get our supper prepared early. Having Rose around also meant that I could exercise on a daily basis - my daily fix of baby-free adrenaline. And every once in awhile, Mommy and Daddy got a few hours to ourselves on a date night. Dinner out, or a movie. Sometimes, it was an hour spent at Walmart with a Starbucks coffee. Nothing fancy but it allowed us to reconnect and maintain our sanity as a couple.
Then there was my brother who lived with us for several months. Quinn spent many hours snoozing on Uncle Billy's chest. Having my brother help out when we were running in opposite directions for the kids' extra-curricular activities was godsend. Plus there were the delicious meals he prepared as well. Not to mention having another adult to hang out with probably saved my sanity.
We also had Auntie Grace, my youngest sister. She was in the "city" working on her Masters of Education, and spent many weekends with us. Helping Ceilidh with a craft, or reading with Aisling, or playing road hockey with Devlin - it was wonderful having Auntie Grace around. We also ran the Mississauga 10k race together in May. Without Grace pushing me to run faster and longer, I would never have gotten into shape for the race.
The dad of the family also had his village role. Besides the usual chores of baths and early morning hockey practices, chaufeurring to various activities and coaching soccer, school lunches wouldn't have been prepared if Daddy wasn't around. Weekend breakfasts are also Daddy's domain, as are the occasional pancake and bacon dinners. I know I'm minimizing his role, but I can tell you the kids don't. After all, he is "Fun Daddy", while I often get the role of "Mean Mommy". That should be telling in itself.
In reflecting on this post, I thought about how tough and disheartening it must be for those without willing partners or family. It takes two of us to give Quinn a dose of Advil when he's feverish - one to hold down his flailing limbs and one to shoot the liquid into his screaming mouth. Lately, it's taking two of us to change a diaper since he does not want to lie still for anything! There are many forms of families out there, just as there are parenting styles. Oftentimes, it feels like I'm flying by the seat of my pants. There is no manual (despite the vast volumes of parenting books and magazines and advice columns) to read in every situation. It's often a game time decision or a "go with your gut" feeling when it comes to parenting dilemmas. But truly, without our support system or village, this past year would have been a different story.