Four kids...and no more

I've been giving a lot of thought lately to the size of my family. Perhaps it was the stress of turning 40 this year, and wondering what I've accomplished in 4 decades. Or maybe it was the knowledge that my husband's minor surgical procedure was looming  - the one that would effectively leave us with four kids, and no more.
Four children does make for a large family. A family with four kids cannot survive with a standard sedan - a minivan or those special 7-seater SUVs are a necessity.  It means having a Costco membership and knowing when the warehouse sales are being held for children's shoes, toys and clothes. While the cost of extra-curricular activities do increase with each new addition, I've discovered that "family" memberships usually mean two adults and up to four children. Many organizations also offer discounts with each sibling. Next year, Aisling's school photos will be free!
Several years ago I read an article that more and more families were having three children, but four or more was not a popular option. Families with two cannot fathom having three or more. With two children, it's easy to implement the idea of "divide and conquer".  Three or more means playing zone defence. Of course, once you've mastered zone, going from three to more is easy. It's all about the teaching the older ones to become more independent and responsible for themselves and their younger siblings.
Yet, tell anyone you have four kids and the looks of wonder and surprise are all too common. In this day and age where two is the norm, we are getting used to the stares. Although in a strange coincidence, Devlin's soccer team last year boasted 4 families with four kids, or soon-to-be four kids. What were the odds of that?!
And then there was the time we got mistaken for a daycare. As I shepherded my brood in downtown Toronto - baby strapped to my chest, with a knapsack on my back, yelling at the others to walk in single file while instructing them to take in the sights of city hall and the Nathan Phillips Square - we probably did look like group on a field trip.
Four kids from one marriage is pretty significant. Apparently so too is the fact that I work outside of the home. How could I not? I need my career for my sanity and we need to be able to house, feed and clothe the offspring.  Although at times, I muse about trying to stay home after my year's leave. But that's another post for another time, and quite possibly the product of too many nights  years of interrupted sleep.
Sometimes I gaze upon my children, and wonder how I ended up in this position. No I don't mean that, but how did I even become a mother of one, let alone four. Back in the days when I only had two kids, I'd be driving the minivan and I'd have the odd sensation that I was living someone else's life. I'd peek in the rearview mirror, see two little faces and be jolted by the knowledge that the two kids in the back belonged to me. I'm sure there are several members of my family who would also admit to surprise and bewilderment at my predicament. Even though I am the eldest of four children, my younger siblings would probably not use "nurturing" to describe me. I'm sure there are some other choice adjectives that quickly come to their lips instead. My mother would echo them.
And if I had ever considered my talents as a gardener as any indication of my parenting abilities, I would never have signed up to be mother. I am notoriously horrible in the gardening department. While both my grandmother and mother have green thumbs, sadly I do not. I think I once killed a cactus. Every year, I optimistically plant some seeds in the hopes of increasing the curb appeal of our home. Of course, part of the problem is the lack of time I have to devote to weeding, fertilizing, and general maintenance beyond watering. Once the plants start to grow and some colourful buds appear, I leave it be. I figure "why mess with nature - it's doing fine on its own". This year, after spending a few minutes researching, I have learned that one needs to prune, deadhead, and regularly check for weeds to nurture the plants.  Who has the time? Answer - not the mother of four kids.
But I reached into my childhood memories as I snuggled Quinn next to my old blue teddy bear who also reached his 40th year. I thought about the toys I played with and the games I played. I remember always playing "house" and being the "mom". We had a plastic table and chairs, toy dishes and cutlery that I would arrange in my "kitchen". I remember having baby dolls but they were made of hard plastic, so I would instead wrap my teddy bears in blankets and have them as my "babies". There were at least two babies - the blue bear and a pink bear. Rather than playing "school" and being the teacher like my sister Shunaha, I always gravitated to my wrapped babies. Hmmm, perhaps my childhood games mapped out my life's paths.

I know my four kids are more than enough for us. We are lucky and blessed to have four beautiful and healthy children. But that doesn't mean I don't feel a twinge of sadness to acknowledge that we are done with adding to the world's population.
Logically I know that I am done having children. For one, I am now 40 years old. I don't think my body would ever recover from the stress of another pregnancy. It's been almost 6 months, and I still haven't found my pre-baby body. I think it's gone forever. Scientifically, I know the risks of having a child with abnormalities increase significantly once you're over 40.
I also gave away all of my maternity clothes, save for the pieces I am returning to my sister. When I returned home with Quinn, I boxed up all of the baby girl clothes and donated those too! As Quinn outgrows his baby clothes, I am packing and readying them to be passed on. Same with the baby equipment and paraphernalia he outgrows.
Intellectually I know we are not having any more children. Neither one of us has the patience of Job and our sanity would never return if we had another. We couldn't afford to anyways. But, emotionally I am bereft to know I will never again have the sensation of being nudged and kicked from within. I will never hold a naked, squalling seconds-old infant against my chest.
So I'll try to memorize every sensation in the moments I have with Quinn. The sweet baby's breath. The satisfying weight of a slumbering infant on your chest or arm. The feeling of invincibility when his sobbing halts the moment I pick him up and cuddle him against chest. The peace that washes over me when he snuggles his face into my neck and sighs. I am not going to wish he'd grow up faster, or start crawling soon, or even sit up. My baby is already growing up too quickly. Not yet six months and he has sprouted two teeth, is eating solids (or rather purees), and creeping along the floor on his tummy. No, I want time to slow down so I won't forget any of these precious moments. I want to remember forever this period in his life when his mommy is the only one that matters to him. When his mother is one that will meet his needs, comfort him and bring a smile to his face. This brief stage of life when mommy is the center of his universe -  before toys and play times, friends and siblings, sports and action heroes take over.

Mommy's been told!

Being on maternity leave, I am, for the most part, enjoying the opportunity to walk my children to and from school. Generally, the mornings are a coin toss. Often I am nagging the kids to walk faster, or having an argument about why it is necessary for them to wear snow pants when it's minus 15 with the windchill. On other mornings, I am quizzing Devlin on his spelling or math. Sometimes, we chat about what's happening in school or they tell me what their dreams were about the night before. It is greatly soothing to the soul to listen to Ceilidh sing a popular song from the radio, or watch her giggle uncontrollably as she chants the age-old rhyme "Mama had a baby and the head popped off" as she flicks the yellow dandelion tops from the stems.
In the afternoons, Aisling chatters incessantly as we stroll to the school to gather up her older siblings. Sometimes, she talks about her favorite Samurai Power Ranger, or what she wants for a snack. Last week, she had a serious discussion with me.
A: Mommy, you say some bad words to Uncle Billy. That's not very nice.
M: I do? (Then I realize, she's overheard my brother and me joking around, and interjecting "Shut UP" as we each make ridiculous comments.)
A: Yup. It's not nice, and Uncle Billy doesn't like it when you say bad words. You need to be nicer to Uncle Billy.
M: Yes, I will certainly try. You're right, I do need to stop saying bad words.

Later that evening, my second child was being very, very difficult. Very loud too. I said some choice comments to my second born. Who, of course, ignored them and continued with her tantrum.

Aisling, however, heard every word. With a serious look on her face, knitted brows an all, she said to me sternly, "Mommy, those are bad words. Remember we talked about this earlier in the afternoon? You need to stop saying bad words!"

What's Awesome about Quinn

About a month ago, the author of the Book of Awesome announced he was "retiring" the  Awesome blog. Once in a blue moon, I'd check out his blog and skim over the awesome moments. Sometimes I wholeheartedly agreed with the post, and others, I shrugged. Awesome, like beauty, is in the mind's eye of the beholder. It got me thinking about I define as awesome. To me, it's not getting to another level of the Lego Star Wars game as Devlin would declare is "totally awesome". But seeing 14/12 (yep, that's 2 extra bonus marks) on his math quiz is awesome. All those hours of blood, sweat and tears forcing him to do extra math after school is paying off.
Ceilidh might think having a play date with her two best friends is awesome, but I find that having to trim her fingernails is awesome. It appears her nail biting has become a habit of the past.
Aisling hasn't quite integrated the word "awesome" into her vocabulary yet. She prefers to use "amazing" and "cool", especially when she's watching her new favorite show, the Samurai Power Rangers, or when she's received a new Power Rangers story book. But to me, it's "amazing" that she can go from playing with Barbie dolls to pretending she is a Samurai Ranger in a matter of seconds.
Perhaps we've over-used the word "awesome" and diluted its meaning from truly awe-inspiring and spiritually uplifting to just another synonym for neat, great, quirky enough to bring a smile.  But if awesome is something that makes one feel happy to be alive, then I want to share with Quinn what makes him awesome.
Quinn, you are awesome in the following ways:
The contented smile that appears briefly as you start to fall into a deep sleep.
The happy gurgle and coo when you make eye contact with Mommy or Daddy.
The wide grin that lights up your face when you see your siblings.
The yawn that makes you look like a little bird opening up its beak.
The way you kick your legs in excitement when you know a feeding is imminent.
How you stop suckling at the breast when you sense my attention is not on you. Only when I look down and make eye contact with you, do you resume feeding.
The tuft of hair on the very top of your head. None of your siblings had that.
How you snuggle against my chest when you sleep, with one hand always holding tightly onto my shirt and the other hand curled into a fist against your head.
The sight of your chubby legs as they flail while you learn to master the jolly jumper.
How you stick out your tongue when your happily well-rested from a good nap or pleasantly full from a good feed.
How you coo and gurgle in the morning as you play with your toys. Of all the monkeys, you are certainly the happiest baby in the mornings.


I could go on and on, and this list would just get longer as the days go by. So I'll bring this post to an end for now and vow to revel in each precious moment.

From the mouths of my Monkeys

Sometimes the things my kids say are memorable. For example:

Upon seeing his baby brother dressed up in the formal white and lacy gown in preparation for the baptism, Devlin asked incredulously, "Why is Quinn wearing a wedding gown?!"

When told that we were celebrating Aisling's fourth birthday with our extended family at the cottage, Ceilidh queried "Are we getting loot bags?"

And since it's that time of the year of outdoor sports gets underway. Mommy and Daddy play ultimate frisbee one night a week. Once upon a time, we crazily played three nights a week, and year round too. Now, we're restricted to one night, because of the children's activities and because of our aging bodies. But on the one night we get to claim for ourselves, our children all tag along and play on the side lines or at the nearby playground. They are rewarded for their (generally) good behaviour by dinner at McDonald's.
So as we were walking home from picking up her older siblings at school, Aisling asked, "When are you going play frisbee again? Because I want to have some McDonald's! It's been sooo long since I had some!"

Apparently three nights is a long time, as she conveniently forgot she had some on the trip home from the cottage.

Ms. Independent

Just as I've discovered I'm one of the women who are responsible for setting back the feminist movement (because I choose to have children, breastfeed, co-sleep and wear my baby according to a cockamamie argument by French philosopher Elisabeth Badinter), I was pleasantly surprised by Ceilidh's announcement this morning.
Ceilidh is a girly girl. She loves all things pink and frilly. She loves dance and doesn't like to play sports because it makes her sweaty. She loves to play dress-up and loves anything that is related to a princess. She is nurturing and gentle. She dots her "i"s with hearts.
As we walked to school this morning, she announced that she is never getting married.
Me: Why?
C: Because it's gross!
Me: What is gross?
C: The kissing. (She points to her puckered lips.)
Me: Well, okay. But you could get married and not kiss.
C: No it's gross. I'm never getting married. I'm going to be an adventurer and a spy with my friend Michaela. We're going to have an exciting time.
Me: That's great too. Be a strong and independent woman. Nothing wrong with that.

At this point, Devlin interjected. "But don't you want cake? I'm going to get married so I can eat the cake! You get cake at weddings!"

What does she DO all day long?

Since Devlin had not recovered from the gastrointestinal bug, he was kept home from school for a few days to rest, sleep, and rehydrate. On the first day of hanging out in his pyjamas, he stumbled into the living room early afternoon in an attempt to cuddle with me. I wasn't enthusiastic about this, since I had Quinn in my arms and did NOT want a repeat of the night before with any of the other children. So we compromised on sitting on the same couch while I indulged in my one television show I watch religiously - The Chew.
During the commercial breaks, I was not still. I was running down to the laundry room to start another load of soiled bedding. Or I was getting up to refill cups of juice and milk for thirsty animals. Or, running upstairs with a drooling baby to change a soiled diaper. If I didn't make it back in time, Devlin called out what culinary creation was being demonstrated.
At the end of the hour, he turned to me and asked, quite innocently, "Is this what you do all day when I'm at school - watch tv?"
I think the next town over could hear my indignant roar!

The Yucks of Parenthood

Funny how parenthood doesn't come with vows when you first discover you're expecting. Unlike marriage which warns you that you're signing up for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, there's no contract of sorts when you first see the positive sign on the pee stick. Although thinking about it now, parenthood pretty much means for better or for worse, for poorer and lots of sicknesses. Nope, when you're imagining the pitter patter of little feet, you're not possibly thinking about cleaning up leaking diapers, wiping up snotty noses, swabbing up vomit in the hard to reach crevices of a car seat. Nah, no one tells an expectant parent about "those" joys of parenthood.
It's nearly midnight, and I'm still awake, knowing full well that Quinn will soon be reaching for a middle of the night feed. Why am I not sleeping? Because I am waiting to load up the washing machine with another load of vomit covered bed sheets.
Just as I was drifting off, despite Daddy's loud snores, I was jolted awake by the sound of a crying child. Not Quinn. Not Aisling. I stumbled into the kids' room and discovered two wailing children and the unpleasant, raunchy odour of puke met me with full force. Turning on the lights, I could see Devlin sitting up, crying and Ceilidh struggling to sit up, also crying. I wasn't sure which one had gotten sick. Since Ceilidh was closer, I grabbed her and steered her towards the bathroom. She was walking with arms held out, crying that "It's gross, it's gross!" I rushed back to my bedroom to find my glasses, and only then did I see the full picture. Ceilidh was covered from head to toe with vomit. Chunky stuff too. Mostly in her hair.
Devlin was sitting in the bed, surrounded by the vomit - on the blankets, pillows, bed sheets, the wall! I still didn't know who did the throwing up, until Devlin hysterically screamed "I told you my stomach was hurting!"
Daddy took on the task of washing down the grossed out Ceilidh first, and then a still-sobbing Devlin. I ended up with the chore of stripping the bunk bed, moving the bed from the wall and mopping up that mess. Thank god for Lysol wipes!
In between looking for dry, clean pyjamas and clean bedsheets, we did an inventory of what Devlin had eaten. Any peanut tainted products? Nope. Fever? Not really. Maybe a bug he picked up? Possible.
We settled Ceilidh down to sleep, made sure Quinn and Aisling were still asleep and brought Devlin down to sit up on the couch. Started the laundry. Then did the only thing we could as parents. Laughed about the scene. Poor Ceilidh, looking absolutely disgusted by the puke, and crying pitifully "It's sooo gross!"
Which then stirred up memories of the time my brother threw up all over my sister in the car. Back in the day before car seats and seatbelts were mandatory, our family took a trip to the beach. Dad, Shunaha and I were in the front of the green rocket, with its vinyl seats and no air conditioning. Bill and my Grandma were in the back. Bill was standing up, hanging onto the front seats excited about the trip. As we pulled into the parking lot, he puked all over the front, which meant he puked all over Shunaha's head. I don't remember any of it getting onto the seats or Dad or myself. Just Shunaha. And I remember her pitiful cries of "Yuck. It's sooo gross!" Of course, this was back in the day before showers at the beach. Just the lake water to clean her up in.
Aaahh...the joys of parenthood.