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".