Saturday, November 23, 2013

A Bit of a Blather

Some people that read this little blog of mine have mentioned that I haven't been writing as much as I used to.

This is a true statement.  I haven't.  My answer, to those that ask why, has been that I just haven't been feeling all that inspired.

That really isn't the truth.

The fact is this blog began sort of as a public journal.  I wanted to start up again my love for the written word as well as to be frank and open about the deep, dark, beautiful, heartbreaking, soul altering, hilarious gorgeous mess of Motherhood.  I wanted to leave a mark about my early role as a Mother.  I wanted to tell touching, funny, insane, real stories about my boys.

I wanted it all to be recorded and written and read.  For their future as well as my own.

If I'm going to be super cheesy about it all, I will quote the words from Aerosmith's song, my view as a Mother is, 'I Don't Want to Miss a Thing'.

Although every moment I spend with them is certainly not always a's ours.  The moments are all ours.  Unique, chaotic, challenging as hell.  Sometimes so ridiculous and frustrating that I have no choice but to laugh and cry at the same time.

And that's all perfectly how it should be.

A lot of the super sweet and hilarious times have been written about.  Now that they're older there seems to be so very many moments in a day that happen that I say to myself, "I must write about this.  I have to get this down.  I can't forget it."  So really, my inspiration is daily. Sometimes minute to minute. My children are incredibly entertaining.

So perhaps the problem is that I'm too inspired?

The night comes and I'm so freakin' exhausted that to even open a book some nights and read one page is too much.  I honestly don't know how I wrote so much 3 years ago!  With a one and two year old at that. But I suppose back then there were such things as naps.

Aha.  Now I know.

These days when I hear Finley say something like, 'Upsy-side down', I think, "Oh! Oh!  I have to write about that!"  Or when he's accused of being or doing something he yells, "NO I AMEN'T!" instead of no I'm not.  Or how he calls frost 'frosting'.  Or pretty much any dream that he has which are incredible in detail.  In fact both my boys are huge dreamers.

But really, who cares about how damn cute all that sounds other than to me and his Dad?  Or the unsavoury parts of Finley's childhood when all of a sudden he's terrified of even the most remote dimness in a room.  God forbid there's a light off in a room in broad daylight.  Shadows are not his friends.  Or what about that time recently when he got so pissed off at me that he bit me in the ass and left a red welt and almost made me cry?  Or that other time when he was 2 and somehow got a hold of a paring knife and stabbed me in the butt?  Only to find out seconds beforehand he was wielding it threateningly it in front of his older brother and I completely ignored the yells because I was too busy making dinner and well...brothers yell at each other?  Like all.the.time.??? Perhaps that was a far worse than bad factoid to share about my Mothering skills.  But I'm honest.  And I can't possibly be the only Mother in the whole of this world that's been pierced with a knife in the buttocks by her 2 year old child as he screams, "HI-YA!"


The other night as I lay with Adrian he asked me, as he often does, about what toys we played with as kids.

"Did Uncle Russ have Hotwheels Mummy?"

"He sure did.  I played with them too."

"You did?  What else did you play with?"

"Well when we were little we didn't have nearly as many toys as you guys do..."  Yep.  This is the sentence that comes out of your mouth when you realize you've become your parents. "But I had a couple Cabbage Patch dolls and I played with My Little Ponies.  I also had an Easy Bake Oven that I loved."  I recall vividly the 70's style yellowish-hued oven sitting atop the red shag carpet as I sat on my knees in front of it, metal utensil in hand waiting impatiently for it to cook.

This must be where my interest in culinary came from.


"You did?"  This was very exciting news for my huge sweet tooth of a son.  "Did it really bake cakes?"

"It sure did.  Tiny little ones. With a light bulb!  I can still remember what they smelled like in my mind."

I can.  It's almost like I can actually smell those cakes a bakin' right now.

Adrian takes a deep breath in through his nose, "I can smell candy in my memory.  Lollipops.  And what Luke and Cole smell like.  And Justin and Branden.  And I can smell Daddy too.  He smells like hair gel.  And something else...."  He sniffs the air.  He is a major olfactory freak.  He has a nose like a bloodhound.  Just like his father.

"Maybe his deodorant?"

"Yeahyeah!  His deodorant.  And you smell like..."  he sniffs my arm, "Coconut Oil."

Indeed I do.

You see?  This is a little moment in time that I am so happy I just wrote down.  How perfectly lovely was that?

Tonight as he played Mr. DJ (I have no idea where he gets this obvious and awesome talent from) perched atop the kitchen counters playing an eclectic mix of Green Day, Justin Beiber, Pink and One Direction he announced, "Finley this one is for you!"

On came 'When Can I See You Again?' by Owl City.  My baby boy got down like a little Mister and the moment was priceless.

Then there are the every morning moments when they cuddle up to me in my bed and we watch Arthur (best cartoon EVER) or at night when we read book after book and after book...and now my 5 year old is reading which is really too precious to even handle sometimes.  He wants to be a doctor you know.  He has been saying this pretty much since he could talk.  Specifics of the area in which he wishes to practice have recently and alarmingly come into play.

He states, "I want to cut people open."

Future surgeon is the less disturbing way to put it.  I've no doubt in my mind that IF that is what he wants to do than certainly with his ingrained determination, perseverance and amazing little brain he will.  And if he wishes to work at 4cats Art Studio 'when he grows up' as he mentioned this evening than by all means he should do that too.

"I want to work there too when I grow up!"

He leaned into me, his nose touched mine, "You already are a grown up!"

"Says who!?"

Really...says who?  I feel no more older than an awkward 13 year old girl some days.

I suppose if this were to be the last entry I wrote, I hope (if they ever read these) that my sons' can see the one common thread throughout my entire blog;  how much I enjoyed them even on the days when I really didn't.  If that makes any sense at all.  I hope they can see the insane amount of gripping, all encompassing, exponentially second by second, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by day, week by week, month by month, year by year growing love that I had, have and will always have for them.  And how proud I am of the sweet, energetic, funny, polite, smart, thoughtful little boys they have become so far.

And if you read this whole entire blather and are still here reading, thank you.  Thank you for reading.  Thank you so, so much.

Good night.

Oh and also this...Adrian's first text to his Daddy...

PS...he so cried.

Thursday, November 7, 2013

Finley Turns Four


"Yes Finny?"

"Iii looove you."

Your soft voice drifts in the darkness down from the upper bunk to the lower bunk where I lay beside your older brother.

"I love you too baby.  Sweet dreams."

Adrian, "He always says that at night."

It's true.  Even after our good night smooch and hug, the i love you's and i'll see you in the mornings, you still tell me you love me just before you drift off to sleep.

It's two days before the fourth year of celebration of you coming into our lives.  It always strikes me as amazing the clarity with which I can recall the day of your Birth.

You took your time.  5 days over your due date but the night before you came into this world I slept lightly with contractions throughout the night.

The next morning I knew it was time and with all arrangements made to take care of Adrian off your Daddy and I drove to Mississauga to get you born.  It was incredibly emotional, exciting and only slightly nerve wracking as I knew what to expect already.  Except we didn't know if you were going to be a boy or a girl which was the best surprise yet to come.

The announcement of the nurses voices calling out, "It's a BOY!", the sob that choked my throat, the tears of happiness that burned my eyes. The feeling of your slippery, warm body in my hands, in my arms and against my chest. The sound of your insistent beautiful raw wails.

You got a 10 on the apgar score.  And although I'm still not quite sure what that even means, I know that they don't give them out often and I knew it was a good thing.

You, my dear boy, had a great set of lungs in you.

I could not have asked for an easier birthing.

Here you were.

Here we began.

Your father and I had picked out half a dozen names of which Finley was one.  As soon as I saw you, I looked at your Dad and said, "He's a Finley.  Finley Alexander."

You were an extraordinarily easy baby.  I recall only a couple times that you cried for longer than a few minutes in that first year.  And those times were when you were teething or hot.  Can't really blame you there.

You were happiest slung on my hip of-course.  I carried you EVERYWHERE.  Sometimes it feels like I still do.

I remember the first time I heard you laugh...hard.  You were just about 9 months.  It was a deep down in the belly laugh.  Aren't those the greatest?

Unless it's because you're laughing at your older brother who happened to trip, fall and do a faceplant on the driveway.

Then I began to worry wonder about the warped sense of humour to come in this baby boy of mine.

Oh and it's come.

Child.  Oh child of mine.  You are a bundle of dichotomy's.  Where do I begin?

You are so quiet, shy and unassuming yet the scream that comes out of you when you're excited, pissed off or just plain wanting to get on my nerves is enough to make the neighbours ears bleed.

You are heartbreakingly gentle to all small creatures, whether it's a dragonfly, a ladybug, a snail or a potato bug yet the ninja moves you come at me with some days make me wonder where that sweet soul momentarily disappeared to.

You come across as quite serious at times yet you have no problems pulling out your, "I'm Sexy and I know it" moves while singing the lyrics at the top of your little lungs and wiggling your little naked bum.

You are, in fact, one of the goofiest people I've ever had the pleasure of knowing.

You are a laid back little guy yet feisty when you feel you haven't been heard.  It's so very important to you to be heard.  When I hear you demand at the tender age of three to "Listen to what I'm saying!"  you bet I will stop and listen to what you have to say.

Your imagination is something to watch.  One of my favourite things to listen to is you playing with your little superheroes or lego characters.

You find the most random objects to fixate to and play with for days or weeks until something else will strike your fancy.

Though you've always loved music, lately you are becoming quite the little musician.  Whenever we play one of your favourite songs - usually by Owl City - you'll retrieve your box of 'song toys' and drag out the little ladybug with the bright yellow and orange drumsticks and just get lost in the music while mouthing the lyrics.  I don't know why but watching you do this makes me cry.  A happy cry of-course.

You are a Noticer.  I try to refrain from hurrying you or becoming exasperated with all of your questions about every little thing you come across, wish to know about, pick up, look at and/or question.  I try to take time with you, not to rush you, answer all of your questions with loving patience.  I try.  But I don't always succeed.  I always thought I was a Noticer too.  Perhaps I was as a child but adulthood sloughed away at it until the world around me became slightly dull and blurry.  Since you've come into my life I've found glimpses of that little girl again.  Thank you.  Thank you for that my love.

Thank you for making me laugh. Every day.  Sometimes a dozen times.

Thank you for your feisty sweetness.

Thank you for your innumerable daily kisses and hugs.

Thank you for bestowing me with your beautiful bright smile every morning.

Thank you for singing.  Your sweet little boy voice has got nothing on Justin Timberlake.

Thank you for being sensitive.  Don't ever let anyone tell you there's anything wrong with that.  The world could do with a helluva lot more sensitivity.

Thank you, most of all, for being who you are.  Unique, easy going, smart, goofy, loving, polite, inquisitive and simply wonderful.

There is only one four year old boy like you.  And I love every little bit of him.

Big Much.  And so, so, SO much more than you'll ever know.

I hope you always know that.  I hope I succeed in showing you that, always.

Happy Birthday Sweet Fin.  May this one be your sweetest yet.