The Pear Tree

Archive for the ‘The Mother Load’ Category

“All I want to do,” my friend Julie told me last week, “is to be able to sleep in, in the morning, again.”

Julie has two girls, one age three years and the other three months. The older one still has afternoon naps but, from what I gather, their nap times don’t regularly coincide and so she doesn’t often get to take advantage of the downtime with a nap of her own.

Listening to her describe her experience brought back to me the dark, sleep-deprived time I had after my own daughter was born. It was just before her arrival that my then-two-year-old son quit napping altogether. That meant that, in addition to being woken three or four times a night, I was unable to catch up on sleep while the baby slept, like I did after my son was born.

Fantasizing that there might be a day when I would be able to sleep through the night until at least 7 a.m. (and Hallelujah that day has come!) helped get me through.

Julie’s fantasy is a day when both girls are old enough to go to summer camp and she will have a whole week to spend in bed, if she so desires.

I’m all about living in the moment as much as possible, but I have to admit that sometimes anticipating what it might be like in the future – whether or not it’s realistic – can be The thing that gets you through the tough stages.

It’s like the parent version of the song My Favourite Things. Except, instead of “raindrops on roses and whiskers on kittens,” it’s the thought of going to the bathroom, just once, without one kid or the other banging on the door while another one lies kicking and screaming on the floor, that helps you weather the storms.

So, while I love my children and adore spending time with them, I have compiled a list of things that I long to do someday when they are more independent.

- Go on a long, Sunday morning bike ride, by myself, to a café or eatery across town, buy myself some breakfast and a bottomless cup of coffee, and spend two hours pouring over my favourite newspaper.
- Take an entire morning – or a whole day – to flit from specialty boutique shop to specialty boutique shop, without warning anyone to keep their hands behind their backs every two seconds, and maybe even making a purchase or two with money that once funded diapers.
- Go on a humanitarian trip to a country I’ve never been to (preferably with family in tow, once they are old enough) to help fill a need for a community of people.
- Be able to cook my favourite dishes on a regular basis without having to prepare a back-up because they are too (pick one) spicy, crunchy, mushroomy, tomatoey, sticky or strange.
- Be able to buy a fine piece of furniture and put it out on display without fear that it will be scratched or broken or coloured on.

I know that, technically, I could find a way to do many of these things right now but – and this is essential – I look forward to the day when I can do them without the guilty feeling plaguing me that someone is either in the way or has been left behind or neglected in favour of my own selfish pursuits.

I don’t want to rush things. I know we’ll get there when we get there, and I make a deliberate attempt to find something to enjoy in every step along the way. But on the more challenging days, it sure is nice to have an attractive ideal to escape to – even if it’s still a few years away.

- Words and photos by Lori-Anne Poirier

Recently my son, Oliver, attended a weeklong art camp at our area art gallery. At the age of four, it was a first for him to be left for two hours a day in the care of someone he didn’t know.

But it was also a first for his two-year-old sister, Amélie, to have an entire morning – or rather, a whole week of mornings – with just her and her mum. While we have spent snippets of time together, without the company of her brother or dad or other friend or family member, having these regular blocks of time for exclusive “us” time was a new luxury.

I decided to take the opportunity for some serious bonding, to do some things together that we wouldn’t normally do with her brother in tow.

The first morning was a write-off, since I had to spend the time catching up on some work I had fallen behind on.

The second morning, we tried a little boutique shopping. We stopped by some of my favourite specialty gift and home décor stores – the ones that I stopped going to because it felt too much like I was unleashing Thing 1 and Thing 2 on a series of small and rather expensive spaces. Dr. Seuss himself would have a hard time imagining the places they’ll go, things they can bump and the things they can hit (and no, I don’t like it! Not one little bit!). Sadly, that didn’t go over very well because Thing 2 on her own is just about as much work as Thing 1 and Thing 2 together.

The next day we went out for a big explore, walking and walking to no where in particular and back. It was nice, but it was hot and we were both pretty tired in the end – she of walking, and me of carrying her.

Our penultimate morning was our most successful. It was the morning the two of us went out for our first “coffee date.” Okay, I had a Chai latte and she had lemonade, but going out for coffee is less about what’s in your cup than about the attractive location and social engagement.

Of course, this wasn’t the girl’s first time in a coffee shop. One of her first outings after she was born was to Starbucks. In fact, she’s a regular at the three Starbucks coffee shops that are located within a five-minute drive from our house.

But this time it was different. This time, it was just us. Mother and daughter. Chai and lemonade.

It was a perfect day for a mother-daughter coffee date. Under a vibrant, blue sky we walked, hand in hand, up the street from our car, across an intersection and into an overflowing shop. The queue was out the door, and the visit started out as an exercise in patience, but we got through it without too much drama.

Once our drinks were ordered and a table found, we discovered lots to talk about, from the odd assortment of people around us to the artwork on the walls. I paged through the newspaper, stopping to chat about the pictures of big trucks or children or animals that caught her eye.

It was definitely different from going out for coffee with one’s peers. For one thing, great delight was had blowing bubbles in the lemonade. And after a few bites of our shared banana loaf, Amélie thought it would be more fun to crumble handfuls of it up and drop it on the ground. My half, too.

A highlight, for her, was making multiple trips to the garbage can to throw away our rubbish, one piece at a time. Then, when a man with a beard sat at a table close to ours, she suddenly felt shy and let me know it was time to go.

And it was – her brother would be waiting for us, full of stories about his own adventure, and she would once again be the little sister, sharing the limelight.

As bonding moments go, it was nothing deep – but then, most of the fondest memories in our lives aren’t, at least not for several months or weeks after the fact. But it was a little harbinger of moments to come. Moments that will be just ours. I can’t wait to do more with this fabulous, quirky, little person.

A couple of weeks ago, a friend of mine gave me a framed quotation she had from when her kids were young. It’s by American author and illustrator SARK (Susan Ariel Rainbow Kennedy), and it’s called How to Really Love a Child. It’s a beautiful sentiment and, set behind a yellow mat in a simple glass frame, it coordinates nicely with my daughter’s room.

Apparently, it hung in my friend’s daughter’s room for a long time, but now that she’s 21, my friend was looking for a new home for it and wanted to pass it along to someone with young kids.

The entire message can be found in the book SARK’s New Creative Companion, and on SARK’s website planetsark.com, but contains a list of things such as “let them bang on pots and pans,” “teach feelings” and “invent pleasures together.”

As soon as I read it, I just knew that this was going to be a manifesto for our home. It’s full of simple wisdom that’s achievable as long as you have the right
frame of mind.

But after reading it a few times, there was a part of me that wanted to write my own manifesto, tailored to who I am, who my husband is and who my kids are.

I’ve been working on it, and thought I’d share with you what I have so far. Here’s my version of How to Really Love a Child:

Listen. No, really, listen. Climb to the top of a hill together and lie under the sun. Watch the clouds go by. Jump through mud puddles, hand in hand. Laugh until the tears roll down your cheeks. Get your hands dirty. Kiss the owies better. Use the proper voices when you read. Say “yes” when it really doesn’t matter either way, but stand your ground when it does. Teach them the ancient art of wicked fort building. Say “I love you” every day. Admit it when you’re wrong. Answer the “whys?” Be the kind of person you hope they will become. Really be it, don’t just pretend. Sing and dance from your soul. Tell them about when you were little, and not just how hard you had it walking to school. Remind yourself that they probably are acting their age. Breathe. Teach them that they are worth an infinite amount. Because they are.

I don’t know if I’ll actually write it down and frame it. I might. I know I should, because this one is a manifesto right from my own heart – and while it comes from there I don’t actually have it memorized by heart, and quite frequently I need reminding. It would be good to have it in a central spot for easy access when I’m having one of “those” days and need to be brought around.

If it were up to me, everyone who works with kids would have to write their own, listing in no particular order what they see as priorities for interacting with children. Because, even though it seems like it should be simple to really love a child, it takes thought and it takes action and it takes reminding ourselves daily of the ultimate goal.

- Words and photos by Lori-Anne Poirier

Our little tree is only a few days old but already its branches, which creep up the kitchen wall toward the ceiling, are replete with colourful leaves.

With its craft paper trunk and construction paper leaves, our tree would be better suited to a kindergarten classroom than our (ahem) stylish cooking area, but it serves an important purpose in our home, over and above being a colourful, autumn decoration.

I’ve wanted to have a Thanksgiving tree ever since a friend of mine wrote about hers two years ago, on her blog, nilsenlife.blogspot.com. I waited until this year to try it because I felt my kids, now aged four and two, were still too young earlier to understand and express gratitude for random, off-the-top-of-your-head things. (We still might be pushing it this year – especially for Miss Two, but we are pretty lax with the rules and mostly just try to have fun.)

The idea is, in the run-up to Thanksgiving Day, to take a minute or two each day to think about what you’re thankful for. Write it down on a leaf, and attach it to your tree. By Thanksgiving Day, we should have a tree full of reminders of how blessed we are.

There are lots of positive illustrations you can make from the activity, not the least of which is that thankfulness grows beauty in your life.

Let’s face it, in our culture where, even in recession times, clothes, toys, food and electronics are cheap and easy to obtain, it’s hard not to take such luxuries for granted. I know I do. I don’t want to, but I do.

It takes a concerted effort not to feel martyred when my cell phone dies or one of our two cars needs a new battery. I need to put things into perspective when I bemoan the fact that I can’t afford that sweet little skirt from Anthropologie or the adorable heritage house I’ve had my eye on since the For Sale sign went up last summer.

Of course, material things are not all I want my family to be thankful for. I want them to learn early on to recognize that time with family and friends, a play in the park, a walk on the beach collecting feathers and sticks, or a game of one-on-one football are all things that should be cherished as moments that make our lives richer and more wonderful.

I believe strongly that an essential part of living a happy life is recognizing and giving thanks for the moments and memories that we live.

Here is a sampling from some of our leaves so far:

“I’m thankful for treats” (Oliver, 4).

“Garden” (Amélie, 2. At least that’s what we think she said. And since she didn’t correct us when we said it back to her, we’re going with it!).

“Breakfast and coffee. Especially coffee” (Mr. Pear Tree).

“Early morning walks in a colour-filled park” (me).

Oh, and one more thing I’m thankful for? This time spent together every morning after breakfast, sharing the things that rock our world. Perhaps tomorrow I’ll write that one on my leaf.

- Words and photos by Lori-Anne Poirier

My mum used to called it gallivanting. I call it adventuring. Basically, it’s shirking your duties for an afternoon or (better still) a day and heading out to see a different corner of the world. It doesn’t have to be a distant corner, just something new or different from your regular routine.

I used to hate it when my mum went gallivanting. Generally, it meant I’d be walking home from school, but only after waiting an hour for her out front, tension mounting by the minute, before concluding that she had stood me up.

Dinner would be late and probably makeshift, and we (my brother, sister and I) would more often than not be met with a wardrobe’s worth of second-hand clothes – my mother’s weakness – at which we’d usually sniff ungratefully.

While I admit I wasn’t particularly sympathetic to these days away when I was young, I totally get it now. Sometimes, they’re the safety harness that keeps us mums on the very narrow and precarious balance beam of sanity.

Last week it occurred to me that it had been far too long since I had indulged in such a day.

“Okay kids,” I announced, after the teeth were brushed and the beds were made and everyone was fed and clothed. “Get in the car. We’re going adventuring!”

I thumbed my nose at the pile of laundry waiting to be sorted and washed, stuck my tongue out at the breakfast dishes and rolled my eyes at the very idea of writing anything.

I called my mum up, and it didn’t take any convincing at all for her to postpone mowing her lawn or working on her garden on her only day off that week.

Into the car we all piled, out of Kelowna we drove and towards the South Okanagan. There was no definitive plan; no specific agenda except to get away from it all and have a bit of fun at the same time.

Our first stop was at a little beachside playground in Lower Summerland. Built by the Kinsmen in 1968, it was one I had been to once or twice when I was small. It hadn’t changed much – even the unusual long, metal horse I remember riding on was still there.

After a play and a chance to throw some rocks in the water, we headed up into town for lunch.

Then, to Penticton and The Bookshop on Main Street. There, my small kids poured over book after book, walked through the maze of shelves and made friends with a couple of resident dogs.

After whiling away much of the afternoon feasting our eyes on a panoply of words and pictures and filling our noses with the smell of old paper and ink, it was time to go – much to the kidlet’s chagrin.

“Please, can’t we just stay in the bookstore a little bit longer,” my four-year-old begged. But all good things, as they say, must come to an end.

We headed back to Kelowna with a new/old book for each of us, and a feeling that we had accomplished something important, even though we accomplished very little aside from dodging our regular responsibilities.

I don’t condone escapism or shirking duties on a regular basis, but I do believe there is a time for forgetting about regularly scheduled programming and leaving the beaten path.

I think that Ferris Bueller was onto something when he said, “life moves pretty fast. If you don’t stop and look around once in a while, you could miss it.”

Does that mean I’ll be okay with my kids skipping school to go “adventuring” or “gallivanting?” Yes – as long as it’s only once a year, and as long as they make as
interesting a day as Ferris Bueller and friends did.

As for my mum’s past gallivanting days, I may have been more supportive if I had been invited along – at least some of the time. Although I can see how time away from three kids is also important.

In the future I may need a solo adventure or two, myself. And I know just the person to watch the kids when I do. I won’t even feel bad if I’m a little bit late picking them up while they’re in her care. After all, I think she owes me.

What do you call your run-away days?

- Words and photos by Lori-Anne Poirier

The Mother Load is a weekly column that runs in the Penticton Herald’s Southern Exposure, www.calgarybeacon.com and The Pear Tree.