A Letter to You, My Youngest Kiddo…

Dear Youngest Kiddo,

You’re asleep now in your crib, hands cast above your head, fists relaxed, currently dreaming of your few short months on this earth…and perhaps the ether that came before.

I write to you, as I did your brother, in the first few months of life to also let you know what I see, where you come from, and hopefully inspire you at a later time when I am gone, and you need me.

You are the youngest in our little family of 4, and you will find it is inevitable that you will, at some point in your life, be compared to your older brother.

Even now I am guilty of posting adorable photos of you and him, side-by-side, as your birthdays are so close together, just 4 years apart. I cannot help myself as I clutch these memories of you both in those photographs with the fierceness of a mother’s love for her boys. Hoping to hold on to time, freeze it ever so briefly.

Even so, you are your own man. You are already, at such a young age, strong and independent, wanting warmth and love, and slightly surprised by the ferociousness of your older brother’s love for you. “Please be careful! Don’t smother your brother!” your Dad and I say on an hourly basis. We laugh, and exclaim that your brother will follow you to the ends of the earth to hug you as hard as he can. We hope you will let him.

This is a beautiful gift, to be the youngest, as your Mommy is the youngest sibling too.

It is important to understand that as the youngest, you have responsibilities to be not only adored (undeniably!) but to show the beauty of being unexpectedly strong while also being vulnerable. Even now I see you absorbing the essence of light and laughter around you, eyeing everyone, reading their thoughts, then responding, as you do. Intuitive you are, my little one.

Your qualities already precede you.

You are tall, with kind, grey eyes. Although ample height is not known to be common in our genetics, I hope you understand that you should always feel tall, even if you are not necessarily that in stature. Be tall in kindness, generosity, compassion, and empathy. With these qualities, others will see you from a mile away, and follow your lead. This world will thank you.

You find patterns to be marvellous wonders, and are astonished by their existence. You see these before anyone else notices they are there, and I hope you hold on to this curiosity and astuteness. Life is made of patterns, and the sooner you see them, the more you can share them with others, perhaps helping them find their way in a confusing labyrinth.

Your voice is powerful, and you are not afraid to share your opinion, my sweet child. Currently, you use this to let me know when you are hungry or annoyed, but it should be acknowledged that you have a strength that many others do not. I hope you will use your voice to stand up for what is right, and talk openly about when things feel wrong. Communication is vital to relationships, and you are so gifted in this, just like your father, and his father before him.

You have an affinity for snuggling like no other. Touch is your most favourite of the senses, and you should always feel love in this –never suffering, or pain. If you find yourself in the latter, I hope you have the strength to leave. Know that love is where you belong.

Although still little, I see you are wise. Your eyes give you away, revealing an old soul, and it is clear to me that you have seen the stars up close. Your experiences will make up a large part of who you are and who you will become. We have all had those days we wish we could forget, but I hope you know that mistakes are human, and learning from them is what makes you better than you were a minute, a day, a week, a month, a year ago. Mistakes are opportunities. Seize them my love.

As I lay here, post partum belly still squishy and soft with the memory of your growth, I listen to you breathe in the baby monitor, thinking of you, and the future life that lay ahead. I am already in awe of your spirit. Your transition from wherever you were onto this plane was flawless, and you have owned every second of your new life. Rock on, my small one. You have a huge village that loves you so.

Love your biggest fan,

Your Fumbling Mom

Where is Mom?

Moms are beautiful creatures.

Often we see them tending to their young in the wild terrain of cities, towns, and villages. Chasing and coaxing 50% of their DNA to ‘be careful’ and ‘have one more bite’. Bags under their eyes and hair in a messy bun spewing from the crown of their heads, the mother is often unwashed, covered in offspring’s vomit, eyeing the closest parking spot to the cart return, hair flopped to one side, lip balm close at hand.

The mother is talented, able to multi-task while keeping her spawn alive and well, she is always armed with some version of a camera to capture moments as the Mommarazzi.

By far, out of all the many notable traits, talents, and identifying features of the mother creature, the most outstanding is her mysterious quality.

So rare is the historical evidence of the existence of the mother. Never featured in the thousands of photos and videos of their young; so limited in number that a less experienced observer of the mother creature may believe that the species does not actually exist – as mysterious and rare as a sighting of the Yetti or Big Foot of the West Coast or Abominable Snowman of the Arctic. The only trace of the mother is fed, healthy, happy children…and a cracked cell phone strewn on a crumby couch while Joni Mitchell plays somewhere softly in the background…an empty bottle of wine on the counter.

Is she shy? Invisible? Stealthy?

Where is Mom?

I will be the first to admit that I am rarely in photos or videos with my kids.

When I was a kid, my Mom was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I still think that today. I think a lot of kids feel that way about their Moms. There is just something special about the face that you have known literally your entire life. The first face you memorized as an infant, and loved unconditionally. That person protected you, cared for you, scolded you, laughed with you, cried with you, was so proud of you. How could you not find that person to be the most beautiful human you have ever seen?

I have a video of my 6th birthday party, and my Mom was the host in our house. It is the only historical footage I have of my younger self and my mother in one package, and I cherish it dearly… and she hates it!

I am rarely in photos with my own kids for the same reason: Because I think there is a common thread in the Mom World where we are not super happy with the way we look all the time, and documenting that feels bad/scary/[insert negative feeling here].

Isn’t that crappy?

It is crappy. And today, I thought, you know what? My kids might feel the way I do about my Mom: How I wish I had more photos of our life together where both of us were in it.

Photos are so treasured! What the hell am I doing not annoyingly inserting myself into every picture with my kids (heck, the whole fam-damily) even when my hair’s a mess, no makeup on, and feeling extra postpartum chubby?

I implore you to take that awkward selfie because you and your human are wearing matching t-shirts. Be bold, brave, and brag about it! Do it! Email those pictures to your kids, print them off, make a photo book…whatever floats your boat. Just get ‘Mom’ back in those images, frozen in time.

Because those pictures are not actually for you, in the end, are they?

They are for those little people who will grow up to be big people who will one day miss their Mom, and will need to remember the moments they spent with her. With you! The woman they believe to be the most beautiful human in the world: the wonderful and mysterious Mom Creature.

#putMombackinthephoto

Sincerely yours,

Fumbling Mom

The Pink Nightmare

Do you have dreams, like I do, where you are not familiar with the environment, are not entirely certain who you are, but you know that you are not who you are in your waking life?

See, I was born in the 80’s, and that meant I was a youngster in the early 90’s, where mushroom cuts were all the rage. I preferred having short hair for a good majority of my childhood simply because I liked the way the clippers felt when they shaved the back of my head to get that perfect mushroom bowl. This preference, my preference, led others to conclude that I was male because my hair was short, and my face is handsome rather than fine featured.

Preference. That’s a funny word.

So, my mom had my ears pierced when I was 5 years old to help convince other folks that I was female; and like I said, it was the early 90’s, and men (even a handful of boys) also had their ears pierced, so this tactic was about as successful as Pepsi Clear.

“You are such a cute little boy!” said the neighbour lady who lived next door to me since FOREVER at the time.

My sister and friends were always slightly more offended than I was by ‘you must have a penis’ commentary, and were quick to jump to my defence by shouting from the bottom of the neighbour lady’s driveway that I was indeed, a girl.

Preference. Hm.

I remember being invited to a ballet-themed birthday party when I was 5, and borrowed pink tights, a tutu from god knows who, and pink ballet flats that were just this side of too small. Cutting my too long little kid toe nails didn’t help the cause.

I went to that party with my baby fat shoved into a pink sausage case onesie, my mushroom hair freshly cut, and infected pierced ears, thinking, “What in the hell?” as I stared into the mirror seeing a true pink nightmare. Ralphie who?

I remember that moment because it was the first time I wished I were a boy rather than simply looking like one.

Enter the confusing time in every child’s life where we become aware of stereotypes that are thrust upon us (mainly for the purpose of commercialism and product marketing) but also for the purpose of determining a deeper sense of identity and personal belonging in a community. The community of gender.

I am female, and identify as female, but I participate in the world in a way that our current culture still stutters in believing to be male. For example:

• I am the working parent
• I will choose to wear blue over pink
• I prefer to play sports roughly (Foul is my middle name in basketball, and I tend to make it a contact sport)
• I am trained in Kung Fu
• I prefer to lead (in the boardroom, and in the ballroom)
• I think farts are hilarious, and my sense of humour is almost always circling the toilet

I could go on…

For me, being a parent of two boys in this era is a conscious effort. It is important that my sons are supportive and understanding of gender fluidity, and that no, Donald, makeup is not only for girls, and yes pink does make a great hockey helmet for my boy, and if you refer to my child as a ‘bundle of sticks’ one more time I will Kung Fu punch-you-in-the-throat.

My four year old is constantly asking me whether a toy or product is meant for boys or for girls, and I consciously explain it is always both. I have yet to see a child’s toy that is operated using genitals, and if I do find one, you can be certain that a strongly worded letter to the manufacturer will follow shortly thereafter…then a bon fire…then that mind eraser thingy-ma-bob from MIB.

Son, you want to wear makeup to the mall?

Absolutely.

You want to have a Barbie for Christmas?

Santa says yes.

You want to wear a dress to your buddy’s birthday?

You betcha kiddo.

Look, I’m not on a crusade here. I’m just fiddle-farting my way through Mommyhood just like everyone else- throwing shit at a wall and seeing what sticks. All that I’m trying to accomplish is to instil empathy and compassion in my children, who just happen to be born male, but can be whoever the heck they wanna be, and should encourage others to be just as courageous and understanding.

So, do you have dreams, like I do, where you are not familiar with the environment, are not entirely certain who you are, but you know that you are not who you are in your waking life? Well, in these dreams, I am always a dude. It’s nuts!

Sincerely yours,

Fumbling Mom

Helicopter or Bust?

So I’m sitting here watching my kiddo figure out how a number puzzle of orange 1,2,3-shaped plastic fits into the 1,2,3-shaped holes…

So I’m sitting here watching my kiddo push around a wooden toy truck under foot in the kitchen, as he makes vroom noises with his mouth…

So I’m sitting here watching my kiddo navigate an iPad and/or iPhone better than I can, watching the Point Pleasant Police Department sketch on Jimmy Fallon for the millionth time…

So I’m standing here watching my kiddo run around a football field with his family and friends at the annual Mudbowl game on New Years Day. Laughing, then crying because he fell, then laughing as he scrapes himself off the frozen ground and continues to chase chaos as a player of the game in amongst the adults…

So I’m sitting here enjoying a coffee and watching my kiddo run around the McDonald’s Play Place before swimming lessons, babbling to other children, lightly tapping an arm or a chest to instigate a game of tag, returning to the table only to have a bite of a Chicken McNugget before he scampers away again to explore…

And through all these activities, I’m also staring at the 2 stitches he recently acquired when he decided to battle a bed frame over Christmas at the mountain, and lost…

…shooting down an icy mountain slide in a tube unrestrained in my lap with no helmet, no problem… Bed frame? Game over.

Which one of these events made you gasp internally (externally?) as a parent? 

Playing with plastic? Playing underfoot in the kitchen? Eating McDonalds? Playing independently in a play centre? Watching videos on an iPad? Playing football with adults in the cold? Winter sports without a helmet? The bed frame incident and the stitches that followed? 

All of the above?

Me too.

I argue with myself every day making choices as a parent. 

Choosing my battles with a high energy toddler who tantrums often. 

Choosing to save my energy. 

Choosing survival and happiness over perfection.

I’ve learned over the couple years this small person has been in existence that I’m not part of the helicopter parent group, nor do I feel it necessary to judge the parents who are. Sure, they cramp my style sometimes at the playground with their hairy eyeballs, but that’s just a day here and there. No big.

Through trial and error, I’ve decided my role in my kid’s life is to be the chick with the landing lights at the airport…maybe sometimes the broad at the control tower when stuff gets real. My little dude, however, needs to pilot his own helicopter.

What this means is my kid has A LOT of learning moments:

-climbing on a slippery surface in sock feet means I need extraordinary balancing skills to accomplish the mission. Still attempting success.

-trying the stairs without holding the railing is not a good idea as a top heavy child.

-pushing too hard at the playground means other kids won’t want to play with me.

-if my parents’ faces don’t look worried, then what I’m doing is okay.

The list could go on and on, but you get the idea.

Is it difficult to watch my son fall at the playground while he’s learning his body’s abilities? Totally.

Does it suck to hold him down while the doctor stitches up a fresh wound in his forehead? Oh yeah.

Is it hilarious listening to him babble to other children to ask them to play? And then explain his name is Jimmy Fallon? Uh huh.

It’s difficult, sucky, and hilarious to watch him grow into a little person.

What I’m saying is, whatever your style as a parent, you’re doing a good job. There will always be that person who judges your decisions, or questions your choices, or gossips with other parents about you. Ignore that garbage. Smart people talk about ideas and solutions, not about what your child ate for lunch.
I think it’s important to support each other as parents regardless of differing choices. Parent Wars are so 2012…and also so ridiculous. Choose community.

You can do this parent thing, I believe in you.

Excuse me a moment, my child is asking if he can make a phone call to Jimmy Fallon…again.

Yours truly,

Fumbling Mom