When my almost 4-year-old son asked me what I wanted for my birthday this weekend I asked for a drawing from him ………………..and if he’d stop pooping in his pull-ups that be pretty awesome too.

It wasn’t too long ago that when the calendar turned to May that I would declare it Birthday month. May meant an excuse to shop, go to the spa, spend most evenings out with friends eating fabulous appies on heated patios and having drinks with no less than three ingredients.

I loved May and I loved the excuse to celebrate and treat myself for an entire month. When I met my now husband, I had to educate him on the importance of birthdays, specifically my birthday.

His first chance to demonstrate his understanding of my love of birthdays was my 29^th Birthday. He had sent me to Puerto Vallarta the week before my birthday and then threw me a party at his restaurant. He adorned me with a tiara and wand and invited all my closest friends. It was a fabulous party topped only by his proposing to me the next day.

My 30^th birthday found me 6 months pregnant with our first child. My husband had a backyard BBQ for me. My friends spoiled me with spa gift certificates. My boss gave me a bottle of my favorite wine “to celebrate with in a few months”.  The next day my husband took me for a 3D Ultrasound and we found out we were having a baby boy.

On my 31^st birthday we decided to get out of town for a few days away with our 8-month old son. We headed to Tofino, on Vancouver Island. This was the first time that I was not at home having a party on my birthday and the first time we went away as a family. Priorities were changing.

For my son’s 1st birthday we had backyard BBQ with about 50 guests. My husband’s band jammed under a tent. There was a keg of beer, and a baby pool full of ice and other beverages. My one-year-old son sat in front of an enormous cake and met his new best friend, chocolate.

On my 32^nd birthday I was pregnant again…

My son’s 2^nd birthday I was in labour…

On my 33^rd birthday we were on holiday in Maui, our first vacation as a family of four. We spent the day sun tanning and playing on the beach.

On my son’s 1^st and 3^rd birthday (yes they share a birthday) we had another BBQ with 75 guests and 30 kids. There was an inflatable bouncy castle, a popcorn machine, Guinness on tap (happens when you are a partner in an Irish Pub), two cakes, one chocolate, one vanilla and a late night jam session in the basement. It was a great birthday party and we’re already well into planning this years.

But first, it’s my 34^th birthday. On May 1^st I declared it birthday month and then promptly forgot about it. My life is so full now that I have children. Logistics’ wouldn’t allow me to spend most evenings out with friends and really, I don’t even want to. I love Friday movie nights. I love how excited my kids are to eat popcorn in the living room.

Six years ago, I got together with a guy at a bar on my birthday. Now, I find myself married to him, with two boys. I still love my birthday, but I’ll reserve the parties for my kids.

The sun is streaming in through the living room windows on a beautiful Friday afternoon. A girlfriend has brought her kids over for a play date. They are running in circles, living room, dining room, kitchen, hallway, around and around they go, giggling and emitting the odd shriek.

We are sitting on the couch watching them. The kids are having a play date and we are having a wine date. It feels a little devious, rebellious, to be drinking wine before dinner. We should probably be drinking tea and engaging with our children while they play but we are so comfortable on the couch, catching up, taking advantage of the fact that our kids are finally at an age where they will play together without our encouragement. We are sipping wine and swapping stories. Despite the shrieks from the kids this feels quite civilized.

My eldest son comes running into the living room with a container of felt markers.

“Can we colour Mum?”

“Yes” I say and open the container for him. The two of them run off towards the kitchen giggling.

I continue on with my tale about work or my husband or some adorable habit my 20 month old has.

Eventually we realize the kids have been quiet for a long time. Quiet kids, in my experience, have always been trouble.

One evening when my oldest son was about one, I had been trying to squeeze in baking a batch of breakfast cookies before getting him off to bed. He had been sitting on the floor of the kitchen behind me smacking wooden spoons on pots and pans. It got quiet but I didn’t turn around. I wanted to finish these cookies. I knew he was still in the kitchen so assumed he couldn’t be getting into too much trouble. I put the cookies in the oven and then finally turned around. My son was covered, head to toe, in peanut butter. Having found the jar in the cupboard, he had unscrewed the lid and was eating handfuls of peanut butter. I couldn’t help but laugh even though it took an hour in the bath to free him of the peanut butter body wrap. I learned a lesson that day, a quiet child in my house is trouble.

So we take our wine into the kitchen to start making dinner for everyone. At first I didn’t notice but then my vision grew sharper, the kids had been colouring the wood on our deck. They coloured every single piece. They used up all the ink up in some of the felt markers. At first I laughed but then I remembered we rent this house. I closed my eyes thinking our damage deposit had just been scribbled away. Why had I said yes without checking what he was colouring?

I packed away the felts, we had dinner, the wine was gone, the visit was over.

The next day it rained and the Crayola washable ink disappeared from the deck.

“You’re lucky T”, I told my son, “but next time lets colour with chalk outside”.

We are a happy family of four, my husband, two boys, myself.  We have two cats. We live in a nice 3- bedroom house. The kids at almost 2 & 4 are getting easier. They sleep by themselves…. all night….in their own rooms. They play well together. I’m in a writing club. My husband and I have date nights. I have a good job.

But I lust for another baby; another baby that would keep me up all night; a baby that would cost another small fortune in diapers; a baby that could rock the balance we have in our home; a baby that could send me back into the depths of depression.

It feels irrational to want to have a third. As irrational as buying the $500 Kate Spade bag I covet.

We had the first child and not wanting to have an only child we had a second child but the third, the third is something else.

And yet the lust remains.

Maybe I would have a little girl. A little girl I could dress up; who would play with dolls and take dance class. Of course then she’ll grow-up and they’ll be make-up and boyfriends….maybe another little boy would be less stressful.

And what would he be like, with a jock and an artist already in the house, a mama’s boy maybe?

My brain says things are good, you are in a good place, physically back in shape, mentally stable, working for a great company with places for me to go, it’s not logical to have another baby.

My heart says I want a baby; to hold, to love. I want another baby so that I can do it right; appreciate the moments that I rushed through with the other two. I want a baby to add another layer, another personality, to our family. A baby to complete the family picture that I have always had in my head.

So what wins the logic in my head or the lust in my heart?

This is post #4 of the Momalom.com Five for Ten Challenge.

Writing Start: Lust

Sitting in a chair at the foot of my youngest son’s crib, we snuggle up, his blue velour blankie over our laps and read a book. I love this time. The top of his head under my chin, I can drink in the smell of his freshly bathed skin. It is perfection.

“Hurry, Thomas! We’re late, you know. Take me to the train show. Go, train go!”

Go, Train, Go – Awdry

We’ve only been reading this story for a couple of weeks. I haven’t re-memorized it yet. Having recently re-discovered the collection of Thomas the Train board books in my older son’s room, I relocated them to B’s room. It had been a while since T had picked them off the shelf to read.

“A is for apples, some green and some red. B is for breakfast we’re having in bed.”

A B C – Quentin Blake

Each night I sit on the end of T’s bed as he goes through all the books on his bookshelf. He pulls out a book, gazes at the cover, mulling over the story in his head. He is not judging these books by their cover. He’s reviewing the memorized story in his head and making a decision.

“You can think about birds, that’s what you can do. You can think yellow or think about blue.”

Oh, the Thinks You Can Think – Dr. Seuss

I imagine him remembering the last time his Dad read him that story. His Dad changes up the story and is quite animated when reading it. They make games of guessing “How long is the tail of a zong” or “How much water can 55 elephants drink?” . His Dad could spend 15 minutes reading that one book alone and the giggles can be heard from anywhere in the house.

“Brown Bear, Brown Bear what do you see?” I see a red bird looking at me.”

Brown Bear Brown Bear – Bill Martin Jr/ Eric Carle

My current specialty is this simple story. I read it to him, pretending that I’ve forgotten the story letting him fill in the blanks. I replace “Teacher, Teacher, what do you see” with my son’s name.

He bursts out every time “Mummy it’s Teacher, like Caroline or Megan (his preschool teachers).”

“Five little ducks went out one day, over the hills and far away.”

Five Little Ducks – Rafi

And when he is tired, he’ll pick a baby classic that to be sung to him in a whisper.

We have been reading these stories several times a week for the past few years. I know them by heart. I can read the stories lying beside him in bed with my eyes closed. I can recite them backwards and forwards. The words fall off my tongue without thinking about them. I can make a mental shopping list, draft an email, make plans for the weekend and still recite the stories without missing a word, but this doesn’t make reading to my children nightly any less enjoyable. It is a time I savor. So precious. So fleeting. I try not to make those lists and instead focus on my son’s faces (since I don’t have to look at the pages to read the story).

At 4 I can already see that these times won’t last forever. The days where he asks me to stay in bed with him till he’s fallen asleep are happening less often. Sometimes he even asks me to leave and shut the door behind me.

As I walk down the hallway, I place a hand on my youngest son’s door. I am so thankful that I still have several years of memorized stories and snuggles ahead.

This is the third installment of Momalom.com‘s Five for Ten blogging adventure in reading, writing and connecting with amazing women.

Writing Start: Memory

“Mummy, can I run around the tree”

My 3 1/2 year old son, grins and lets out a high-pitched squeal as he starts doing laps around the tree outside his preschool. Within minutes 1/2 a dozen preschoolers are laughing, jumping and running in circles.

Oh to feel that free.

I let out a big sigh. The 45 minutes leading up to this drop off were spent force feeding my son toast, then pushing him down the hall way to the bathroom, squirting water in the general direction of his head in an attempt to get his hair to lay flat. Then wash his face, brush his teeth and try to get him to look presentable so that my kid isn’t “that” kid in the preschool.

Through this whole routine my son drags his feet, clamps his jaw shut and scowls at me. He can hear his younger brother playing in the next room and he wants to join him. He doesn’t care what he looks like, only I do. I bark at him.

“We’re late. Come on. Come on. I tap my foot anxiously and I want to yell. Yelling would feel good, but only for that second.

He points to a scratch over his eye. “Mummy, why am I red on the inside?”

Deep breath in. I don’t have time for this.

“T, please get your shoes and jacket, we gotta go.”

He spots a toy car on the way to the door and drops down on all fours to play.

“No, buddy, shoes, jacket, now.”

My temperature is rising and in my head I’m already making up excuses for why I am late to work again.

“Bud, you’re going to be late for school and I’m going to be late for work. Let’s move.”

He still sits on the floor making siren sounds and pushing the car up the baseboard.

“Seriously, WE”VE GOT TO GO”.

I must be yelling now because T yells back at me “OK”.

I’ve become a mother who yells.

Packed in the car and off we go. We arrive, as most of the other kids do, 5 minutes late. T runs off in front of me. He’s so happy. The morning struggle forgotten and as I watch him, I can’t understand why a few minutes ago I was yelling at him.

Happiness is so simple to him. It’s running in circles, it’s a hug from his dad, its peanut butter on celery for dinner. My 3 1/2 year old son has it right, happiness is not complicated.

This is my second installment of the Momalom Five for Ten Blogging Project.

Writing Start: Happiness

1994: I’m 18 and I’m sure I’m going insane. Not the teenaged, nobody in the world gets me, variety of insanity. The kind of insanity that happens after an abusive relationship. Most days I feel normal but then, without warning, I’ll find myself back at the scene and fighting for my life only to “come to” and find myself striking a friend and not my ex-boyfriend. Convinced I’ve truly lost it, I tell my mum and my family doctor. My family doctor gives me a label and I feel a bit better. P.T.S.D. or post traumatic stress disorder, not insanity, phew!

I am referred to a Psychiatrist who I then see on and off for 8 years. He prescribes medication and we set goals. We mostly just talk about work, a new boyfriend, my parents, my sister, life. We never speak about the P.T.S.D. or my depression or anxiety. He tells me once that I have poor judgment and that he’d be willing to meet any boyfriends to give me an assessment.

2002: I’m engaged but having doubts. I introduce my fiancé to the Psychiatrist. He tells me I’ll probably be happy for a short time but that this isn’t the guy. I break up with my fiance a few months later. This is the last time I see the Psychiatrist.

2006: I’m married to the right guy and I’ve just had a baby. I’m depressed, lonely, overwhelmed. The news breaks, my Psychiatrist had been stricken from the records, like he never existed. He’s been sexting with teenaged patients; even having a relationship with one. He no longer can practice. His office is gone. His phone number is disconnected.

I feel so betrayed. The person I trusted with everything, who I went to with everything, is gone. I can never reach him again and worse than that, he’s a completely f#*ked up individual. I start to second guess everything he’s ever said to me. All those years, had he helped me? Make things better? Worse? Have my best interests in mind? Could a man who had inappropriate relationships with his patients really help me with my inappropriate relationships?

I’m devastated by the loss of him, but friends and family just want to talk about his indiscretions. No-one consoles me about my loss or eases my mind that keeps asking, was the therapy, support, advice he gave me real?

2008: I give birth to my second child. I can be found at the bottom of a deep well of depression. Anxiety, like the water at the bottom of the well chokes me. There is no relief. I don’t cry, it just built up in my head. I see another psychiatrist. She suggests that I am bi-polar. This feels familiar. Suggested to me many years ago it’s been something I’ve kept on a folded up piece of paper in my back pocket. Occasionally I’d look at it, but I’d always put it back in my pocket, and then throw my jeans in the wash.

2010: I’m ready to take control of my life. I need my old file. What did the Psychiatrist say about me? Did he think I was bi-polar? What were all those years about? I’m scared to find out what he has written. I’m scared he wrote nothing.

I fill out the request form. My file has found its way to a holding facility in Ottawa. Exploring ones mental health is frightening, I’m hoping some courage will be included in the envelope when it arrives.

Writing Start: Courage

In Grade 5 my teacher held a writing contest. The prize was a spot at a Young Writers Conference. She used the opportunity to have the class write stories about the projects we had done that year, field trips we’d been on, books we’d read, in order to fill up our class yearbook.  All afternoon she gave us topics and we wrote little stories. She collected them, chose the best three on each topic and read them back to the class to vote on. Whoever had the most stories picked would be the winner. I coveted this prize. Like other kids wanted to go to Disneyland, I wanted to go to this conference.

I tried my best. I wrote about growing mold on bread and then visiting the Wonder bread Bakery, replicating Fort Langley out of popsicle sticks, incubating Duck eggs and  later releasing the ducklings on a farm and finally catching caterpillars, watching them build cocoons and turn into Butterflies.

We did not know in advance the author of the top three stories of each topic. As she read them to us my heart started pounding in my chest as I recognized my stories. I bit my lip as the class voted, too shy to vote for my work yet I won each time.

I felt this was destiny. From the time I could read at age 4, I wanted to be a writer. I loved the feel of a book, the weight of it in my hands, the magic that unfolded with each page, the images that simple words could create; that each authors story could become my own with my imagination.  When I grew up I never wanted to be a ballerina or a teacher or a nurse. I wanted to be a writer.

Sometime around the age of 18, I forgot about that. I didn’t do a lot of creative writing. The ideas didn’t stop but putting pen to paper did. When probed about my passion or when asked over a bottle of wine what would be my dream career, I would whisper “writer”.

I credit Cori Howard (journalist and creator of The Momoir Project) for helping me find my voice again. When I signed up for the Momoir Project I didn’t expect to meet an amazing group of creative women who, though living very different lives and with having very different interests, shared my passion for telling stories. With them I’ve created a writing club. We read together, write together, critique and inspire together.

Through twitter I’ve expanded my group of writing friends. We share our blogs. We interview each other. We put ideas out into the twitterverse and see if we get any bites. Is this an article you’d like to read? Could someone please write this article?

I spoke to Rebecca Eckler (Canadian author, columnist, blogger) who told me I can do this.

“Write everyday” she said. A book is 80,000 words. 1000 words a day, it’s done in 80 days. 500 words a day, it’s done in 160 days.”

 That’s attainable. That’s not so overwhelming.

And even if I’m not ready to go that route yet, writing and publishing has never been so accessible. I have a blog where I can write and share my stories with anyone who wants to read them. I’m putting it out there. I’m not sure if that make me a writer, but it at least makes me a writer in progress.

My first post for the Momoir Project Blog can be read here.  

Standing in line with what feels like a dozen people in front of me, I’m starting to sweat. My 7-month old son is in his stroller has moved past antsy and is well into agitated. He’s going to start crying, that bad kind of crying. He’s hungry and late for his nap. So silly of me thinking I could selfishly squeeze in a trip to the stores to buy a non-nursing top to go out for an actual dinner alone with my husband.

I’m rocking the stroller back and forth with increasing ferocity thinking there must be another mom in this line-up. Can’t she see or rather hear the infant melt down that’s happening back here? I self righteously think if I were at the front of the line and I heard this at the back of the line, I would let the other mom take my place. Aren’t we all in the same club? You’ve been there sister.

My Blackberry vibrating in my pocket interrupts my negative train of thought. It’s a text from my husband.

“Did you find something sexy to wear tonight?” the screen flashes at me.

I roll my eyes and physically bite my tongue to stop myself swearing audibly at both my husband and my crying son. But with phone now in hand I remember…..Baby Beluga…..of course.

My husband in one of his finer moments had downloaded an animated video of the Rafi classic, Baby Beluga, onto my Blackberry. My son is obsessed with the song. It started when someone gave us the board book version of Baby Beluga two days after we arrived home from the hospital. It had not occurred to me to read to a person whose only skill appeared to be eating and sleeping at all the wrong times. Books for the baby and not about the baby were not on any of the must have’s for the newborn shopping lists I had read so this little book ended up being read a lot.

Then my mom showed up with the CD. There was nothing that could settle my little guy faster than hearing these now familiar words put to music. For months now the song had been on near constant repeat in our house and had stopped many a crying spell.

I press play on the video and dance the phone around in front of my sons face. No effect. Still red face, open mouth, crying. I turn up the volume. The whole line-up can now hear the song and finally, so does my son. He stops and reaches for my phone. I surrender the phone and my negativity to him.

Baby Beluga in the deep blue sea, swim so wild and you swim so free.

A woman in front of me turns around and smiles. “Oh my kids loved that song too” she remarks.

Today the sisterhood didn’t come through for me but like the Lone Ranger riding in on Silver, Baby Beluga on my Blackberry saved the day.

Where has technology intersected with your parenting?

Has technology impacted your child’s literary experience?

Where does the value of books and electronic media rank in your household? Why?

It certainly would have been easy to write more than 500 words thinking about any of those questions. I chose to write a scene about waiting in line with my son when he was a baby and how a video I had previously downloaded on my Blackberry saved the day. If it doesn’t get published on their blog I will post it here later.

My Blackberry has been as essential as a stroller since becoming a parent. From panicked calls to my husband (and then more logically BCAA)  when I had a flat tire and two small kids in the car to texting our sitter to make arrangements for next weekend or even my Dad to pick-up some milk on his way over. Calling my husband and putting him on speakerphone so he can entertain the kids while I try to finish dinner, or letting the kids record messages of themselves so I can set it as my ring tone and smile whenever my phone rings and not grimace.

I love my Blackberry. I used it to take the first pictures of my son when he was born and then to email out the birth announcement. It has survived a near drowning in the kids bath (Tip – take phone apart, battery, sim card etc and put all parts in a bag of rice, a day later, works perfectly), flown off the hood of my car while driving into a major intersection. It has even been stolen and returned.

I’m not sure how my parents got through the day without the technology we have now. Portable DVD players, Blackberry’s, iPod’s, Wii’s, Leapfrog’s, are all part of our every day life. I think our job as parents is to monitor and experience with our kids how technology is teaching them about the word around us. They may even show us a thing or two. But  at the end of the day, as we cuddle up in bed, my kids still prefer me over the Leapfrog to read them a story.

I’ve read that the key thing we can do as a family to prevent  our children from abusing substances or, god forbid, having teenaged sex, is spending time together around the dinner table as a family.

Ha, I laugh out loud.

We have a 1950’s arborite table purchased not because of the cool vintage factor, but because it is easy to clean. Little spritz of some sort of cleaning agent that is probably not “earth friendly” but does only take one spritz and one wipe which is exactly the amount of time I have allotted to cleaning, and done. Done like dinner.

And who on earth came up with that expression! Dinner rarely gets “eaten” at our table. That’s not because we eat off our laps in the living room while watching TV. I do try to have us eat meals together but in actuality my husband is never home at dinner time. And no, he’s not a deadbeat. His work day ends at 7pm so at 5pm, it’s just me and my boys at their finest hour of the day. I stopped using plates months ago because they just ended up thrown on the floor or at each other, just nice plastic, easily wipeable, place mats. It seems barbaric to eat directly of the table, although I do try and avoid cutlery.

Ahhh dinner, the food looked so good in the skillet. It doesn’t look so good coming out of my youngest mouth. He’s like a cow having to chew things twice before swallowing. That is, one mouthful in, chew, chew, spit out, pick-up, back in mouth, chew, chew swallow, repeat. My oldest blows through a straw filling his cup with bubbles. Every night we have the same argument about how many straws he’s going to use. It can range from 1 – 5. Thank goodness for IKEA and there $3.00 for 500 pack of straws.

My oldest then tries to make deals with me.

“I’ll eat dinner if I can call Daddy”

“I’ll eat dinner if we can go for a drive afterwards”

“I’ll eat dinner if I can have a chocolate”

And even if we do make a deal, as I’m trying to get the youngest one to stop trying to climb out of his high chair, the older one, in lightening speed announces he’s done and tosses it all in the garbage.

Ahh yes, I’m sure it is this quality time together spent together round the dinner table that will help them make better choices about drinking, trying drugs or having sex.

Ha, I laugh out loud again.

Writing Start: The dinner table