Laughing at Bats

This evening Secundo and I watched the sun go down at Willows Beach while Primo hunkered down by a tide pool and counted snails. I swept my eyes across the water, saw it go from pewter gray to purple, and in between that crazy shade of pink sunset blue that disappeared in seconds. Ahh. We packed up our nets and bucket, and two sandy, blackberry stained boys and I headed across the beach.

“Mama tar,” Secundo said, pointing from the breakwater. “Go home.” He’s making two word sentences now. We piled into my Subaru, grabbed handfuls of cashews, and drove to our little yellow house on Cedar Hill Cross.

At our new table – Andy brought one truckload of stuff with him this week! -- we drank warm milk with caramel flavour, then brushed teeth and washed sticky hands. I saw that the soles of their little feet were dirty as they climbed into bed. Who cares, I thought, it’s summer.

I read Secundo a book about earth movers while Primo made hand shadows on the wall. “This is a hermit crab, Mom,” he said. “And look at this, it’s Scooby Doo!”

Then it was bedtime. “Turn out all the lights,” Primo said in a voice that slurred. He sighed blissfully when the room went dark. “My stars are glowing.” And so they were, on the ceiling above his head, a crescent moon too.

Secundo took a little longer. At 10 pm he said “Poo” and we went to the bathroom. He deposited some in the potty then wandered around saying “Honey,” in his little Vienna boy’s choir soprano voice. “Honey. You know what? Honey.” He’s so damn cute I could just cry. And usually I do.

They came back to me today. After two nights and three days with their father. When I cuddled Secundo to sleep I didn’t recognize the smell on his head. An unfamiliar shampoo, or maybe his caregiver’s perfume. God, it’s hard to let them go.

Yesterday I went climbing with Andy and Shannon. Pulling myself up a rock face, balancing and pivoting 10 metres above ground, using my toes, my fingertips to hang on – this is a new passion for me. Andy loves climbing and he thrives on instruction, so he makes a great teacher. He promised to have us climb until we were exhausted. But after only three climbs, my energy flagged.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Secundo. My two-year-old. Not with me. Two nights away every week. Soon to be three. It stops my heart beating, and I gasp for breath when I think of it.

“I can’t have fun,” I said to Andy while I was belaying Shannon. “I feel so guilty when I’m not with them.”

I saw a shadow cross his face.

I pulled Shannon’s rope taut and watched her struggle on the rock. “I’m going to put my toe on that? It’s not going to hold me. And that little chip? It’s not possible to hang on to only that.” Fear. The unknown. Difficulty.

“Try it,” Andy said. “You can do it.”

“I can’t!”

“You might be surprised.”

She did it. Dug in her toe and hauled herself up with her fingernails. She was so proud of herself.

That’s what I do every day that my kids aren’t with me. July was particularly bad. The feeling of missing them was torture. I cried a lot.

“But it’s all so good,” Zana said. “It’s all so much better now.”

Yes, it is. Yes. Yes. Oh, yessss. And I will not tell you it doesn’t hurt. It just feels wrong when they’re not with me. Sorry.

Andy and I had dinner at 8 pm last night. Just the two of us. White Truck chardonnay. Halibut in a maple syrup tamari lime sauce. Steamed veggies. Fresh brown bread with butter. Yum. Then we made a fire. Made love. More yum.

But before the fireworks, I shut down, couldn’t keep my mind off the boys. I knew they were safe with their father. Well taken care of. Absolutely fine. And still, my mind went there. Is Secundo away from me too much -- he’s only two? Do they have enough of me? Do I have enough of them? This isn’t OK. How do I live with this?

I know it’s not easy for Andy when I go into this funk. He loves the boys. He shares the pleasure and delight that he takes in them. “I never wanted kids,” he tells me. “And I’m so happy that I’m not missing out on this!” He says it’s beautiful to fall in love with them as he falls in love with me. He is patient and sympathetic, and he wants me to move on, to be happy, to have fun.

Me too. And I am. But this is going to take the time it takes.

My friend Judi says it’s impossible for me to let go. A mother can’t. It’s simply not possible. All I can do is trust that all is well. And find a tiny hold on the rock where I can place my fingertips and pull myself up.

So, that’s what I do. Give Andy one last kiss before he drives his Tacoma back to Canmore where he will put the finishing touches on his house so the new owners can take possession of it in a week. Then he’ll move here to be with us. Forever.

As soon as my work is done, I cycle off to fetch Secundo. “Mama!” he runs to me, his two-year-old feet are getting more and more adept each day.



Ahh. Bliss. It feels so right when he’s with me. When we are together, it doesn’t matter that we were apart. He is fine. Glowing, bursting with life. Tonight at the beach he watched bats fly for the first time in his life, and he laughed. Threw his head back and danced his hands in imitation of their erratic flapping flight. Then let loose with that glorious, gurgling chuckle that makes anyone in a three-metre radius laugh along with him.

I did. So did his bro.

This is my lovely life and I am swimming in every beautiful wave of it.

Wants and Needs

What a baby wants is what it needs. Attachment parenting proponent William Sears says this. Milk (food), touch, and being held are the obvious early needs. As the baby becomes a child, this becomes trickier. Obviously we’re not going to give our kids everything they want. So, how do we determine their needs?

Well, that’s a good question. One that I answered by looking at my own wants and needs. Could I separate the two? This contemplation – over years – led me to respect my own wants, and this has allowed me to open my heart – to myself, my children, and others in my life.

What about night time parenting – do our children need us at night? I struggled with this in the early days of parenting when Primo woke many times in the night to nurse and to be comforted. To answer the question I turned to my own life. I had company in my bed at night. I love to stretch out a foot and feel the warm sleeping body next to me.

Mammal babies sleep in a heap. It’s how we start life, cozily curled up inside the mother, lulled by a heartbeat. I love the idea of maintaining this sensuous connection.

What I didn’t like was being the only one to respond in the night.

I set myself up for failure when I began to do all the night time parenting. I had the breasts, after all, and he had to function during the day. We did sleep in a family bed for a while. This worked better for me, as I could easily roll over to attend to the baby, and cuddle with the other child. I learned to enjoy the pride of family. But in the end, this sleeping and parenting arrangement contributed to a further breakdown of my relationship with the kids’ father.

What I learned is that night time parenting requires teamwork and discipline – just like day time parenting. It’s a process of graduated steps that happen naturally when the child – and parents – are ready and paying attention.

Something interesting happened last night. I woke up to hear Secundo crying. It was midnight. I went to him. He had climbed off his little bed and found his brother who was sleeping in a nest on the floor. He tried to curl up with Primo but he was confused, only half awake, and crying. I pulled him back up onto his bed. We had a cozy cuddle and he fell asleep.

Around 5 am I awoke to the sounds of the two-year-old crying again. I was alone in bed. Andy had gone to Secundo. I listened. There was a lot of crying and I intended to help Andy if the crying didn’t stop. It did. Then it started again. Stopped and started.

Should I rescue Andy? Five months into parenting my two kids – is he ready for this? And Secundo – is he ready? He’s not with me every night (he spends two nights a week with his father), so when he’s in my house, I give him as much of me as he needs. I couldn’t sleep with all these thoughts.

Finally I walked through the dark kitchen and living room to the boys’ bedroom. I whispered quietly, “Do you need my help?” “No, thanks,” Andy answered. “Let me do this, please.” I respected Andy’s wish. I surrendered. Let go of my primal need to respond to my child.

Maybe it’s me who needs him, I thought. And more importantly, Andy is ready to take responsibility. He needs this opportunity to practice. And Secundo needs to learn that Andy can comfort him. This is a partnership, Andy often reminds me. That’s the way it works in a family.

Half an hour passed. Finally there was that thick, dark silence that comes with sleep.

When Andy came back to bed he gathered me in his arms. “Thanks for that,” he said. “It was hard, but we did it.”

Over toast and coffee at breakfast Andy recounted the tale of night time parenting. When he went to Secundo in the night, the boy only wanted me. “She’s not here,” Andy said. That was not the right answer. Secundo wailed. “No, no, Mummy’s asleep,” Andy corrected when Secundo finally took a breath. “We don’t want to wake her.” Secundo took some shaggy breaths, and leaned into Andy. Then started up again.

Andy picked him up and carried him into the living room. “Look,” said Andy. “It’s dark. Sleepy time.”

“Nigh-nigh,” said Secundo. “No, no.”

“It’s OK,” Andy said. “You’re OK.”

“Mummy,” Secundo pleaded.

“I’m right here with you,” Andy reassured him.

Finally Secundo relaxed. Stopped crying. And leaned his head against Andy’s chest. “Should we get a sleeping bag for you?” Andy suggested. “Just like your brother.”

“Yeah,” Secundo liked that idea. “

They lay down together. “Mumma?” Secundo asked again.

“I’m here,” Andy said.

“Mummy?” Secundo held onto Andy’s finger. Relaxed. “Daddy,” he said and finally succumbed to sleep.

Andy didn’t dare move until the boy was deep in. Then he extricated his stiff shoulder from under the slumbering body and headed back to our bed. Dazed, dozy, blissful.

That’s how the attachment grows. That’s how the bond develops. I step aside and let Andy do some of the hard work. It’s ironic that what I used to dread – the night time parenting – is now a joy and a privilege that we share and appreciate. That time of the day is so tender.

In the end, a mammal’s needs in the night are so easy to meet: comfort, touch, reassurance. A mother can provide this. Siblings too. Father. Dada Andy. And when the boy’s ready he’ll sleep through the night -- look at his brother. Primo didn’t wake through any of that. I didn’t believe it would ever happen.

Now I have faith. And I’m not in any hurry. I’m so enjoying this lovely time of our life.

Every Little Thing

Today in the change room, after 90 minutes of Bikram, a sister yogini came up to me and said, quietly. “I don’t mean to pry, but I saw that you were upset earlier, and I hope everything turns out all right for you.” I smiled at her. “Thanks,” I said. “Thanks a lot.” She walked out without a backward look. But it helped.

In the busy of world of business-y Bikram yoga, in the change room full of women surreptitiously checking each other’s between-the-legs hairstyles and comparing the thin-ness of the other girl’s butt floss (or maybe that’s just me?), I love finding (and making) the connections. Wendy, a friendly teacher whose philosophy I appreciate, pressed on my sweaty back during rabbit pose today. “Let it go,” she said into the mike around her ear. “Let go. Release. Whatever it is, it’s OK. Just let it go. There it goes.”

My intention for today’s class was this: I want to learn what it is I need to let go of so that I can write. I’m talking write. Blog. Articles. Novels. Publish. Sell. Succeed. What came up was that I have to let go of worrying about my kids when they’re not with me. I have to let go of feeling guilty when they’re not with me. I have to BELIEVE THAT THIS IS ALL WORKING OUT PERFECTLY! I have to trust that the two of them – two and five years old – have enough mummy, though they have me 70% of the time and it’s dropping to 60% next month.

God, just writing that on the page chokes me up. During class I was bawling. Quietly, mind you. But the tears were flowing, though I could hardly tell the difference between them and the sweat. Toxins – mental, emotional, and physical – released in those salty body fluids.

As I cried, I pictured their faces. That’s how I pull the weeds from my mental garden, as my friend Raj Pal Singh recommends. I saw Primo’s smiling face, all pink and healthy, highlighted by his long white-blonde hair that curls as it touches the back of his neck. And Secundo, still baby chubby, he is sturdy and so yummy I could eat him up. He is a happy lad, at home in the world, confident, secure, with an infectious chuckle. I know they’re both good. They have me. They have their dad. And they have Andy, my new partner, who is developing a beautiful bond with them.

So, what am I crying about?

Maybe it’s just an old pattern. It’s a habit, worrying about stuff. I’ve lived with anxiety for a lot of years. Probably since I graduated from Grade 13 and didn’t know what the hell to do next. Am I safe in the world? A lot of things eat rabbits, you know. And I’m a rabbit from way back.

As I lay in sivasana after tucking my head between my knees and lengthening my spine, I realized that I’ve made it through seven days without being terrified. That’s a record. After twenty-five years of anxiety, a week without worry is strange. No wonder I was worrying about the boys. My mind was struggling to get back into a known pattern.

Life without anxiety is very smooth. It’s peaceful. Calm. Quite nice. Maybe even a little boring? The trick is to learn to feel comfortable with feeling at ease. That sounds strange, but it’s part of neuroplasticity – creating new neural pathways. The new healthy pattern is going to feel weirder than the old crappy one that you want to discard – at first. After a while, the new pattern becomes the norm.

So I shed a few (pounds of) tears. But I didn’t wallow in the pain. I practiced visualizing happy, healthy boys in the context of my new life with Andy. Putting the children first, that’s the secret to successful uncoupling. When mama’s happy, so are the boys. I pictured the boys with their dad, they need him and he needs time with them to build and maintain their relationship. I know they are fine. So am I. Better than ever.

Everything is turning out all right, thanks, I want to tell my friendly yoga sister. But she’s already pulled on her panties and gone home. So I do the same and I head out into the sunshine too. And home to write.

Today

Friday, August 17. 2007.

A day for a memory books. I don’t know why. Some days are just like that.

We’re up early, 6:16 am and the boys are alert. I’m groggy, stumble as I flip the switch to the kettle. In a matter of minutes I’ll have tea.

We pick up where we left off yesterday, with books from the library. Silas pores intently over his book on earth movers. “Digga, mama!” he says triumphantly, pointing with that all-knowing index finger. Rio is paging through a Space Brats book. It’s years beyond his reading ability, but a sign of times to come. I’m reading “a poignant novel of love in the tradition of Danielle Steel.” The author seems to write about two books a year, and she sells a lot of them. Can’t hurt to figure out her secret.

The day takes off. Race car. Meteor. The TGV. With boys, that’s how it is. We head to the swimming pool for an early morning dip. Silas slows down to glazed eyed contentment in the hot tub while Rio floats across it like an astronaut. Then it’s cavorting and noodling about in the water until hunger forces us from the pool. In the change room they munch on peanut butter and jam sandwiches while I blow dry my hair, and then theirs.

Home to a Magic School Bus video. More PB and J, and then we head out again. This time we make for the Goose on my bike with chariot. Silas sits in a bike seat in front of me and his helmet bumps against my chest as I cycle. We chat together up there and Rio complains that he has no one to keep him company. Just before we get to Quadra we spy two diggers. Oh joy, oh bliss.

The blackberries are ripe and we get off the bike to graze, munch, and laugh. Silas squishes berries between his toes and Rio hounds me until my container is full. Then he sits down to devour it.

On the way home we stop at the rope swing, a length of rope attached to a willow tree branch which overhangs a little stream that meanders beneath a picturesque bridge in the Swan Lake Nature Sanctuary. We’ve spent many happy hours there getting muddy and screaming, “Who’s that trip-trapping over my bridge?” Rio grabs the rope and lets his lithe body crisscross the stream. He is light as air and full of sunshine.

The ride home is mellow. I’m tired. Doing everything with an extra 70 pounds attached is a good work out. My endorphins respond daily. One of the two diggers is still hard at work, filling a dumptruck with top soil. We pause to watch. Now our day is complete.

In the door and I prepare more snacks. The little meals are never ending at our house. Rio eats all the chicken breast and Silas and I share a salad and salty peanuts in the shell. I offer him nuts, but he prefers to crack the peanuts open with his teeth and fish them out himself.

Rio is the deep thinker. On our holiday to Canmore he asked questions like, “Did someone make us?” and “Are we just puppets?” Two-year-old Silas, on the other hand, is still soaking up the world around him. His favourite things are digga’s, polee-tah’s, and menna (concrete mixers).

Twenty minutes into Mr. Dress Up their dad comes to pick them up for a weekend of camping on Hornby Island. He shares his fries with them and then we have to say good bye. I belt Silas into his car seat and he grabs the back of my head, pushes it toward his face, closes his eyes, and kisses me passionately on the lips. Three times. Rio pecks me politely and swipes the back of his hand across his mouth when I pull my head back.

They’re good boys and I love them. And now I have a weekend to myself. Yee ha!!

I add ylang ylang to the hot water in my bathtub and sink into a full blown vision of the novel I’ve been writing in my head for the last seven years – que sorpresa. I’ve already written three versions and vowed I won’t start the next one until I know how the story ends. (I paid good money to have them try to teach me that at Ryerson.) No more fumbling about in the subconscious of my creative mind. I’m actually tired of getting lost. I have a hankering to know where I’m going.

I’m ready to shine a light on this thing. And sell a million copies – a la Syrell Rogovin Leahy. Maybe I should change my name too: how about Limon Ylang Grant? Or Penelope Pure Vida?

We’ll see. I’ll have to discuss that with my agent.

In any case, it looks like it’s time to start writing.

Yee-fuckin’-ha!!