Extreme Sport

"If everything seems under control, 

you're just not going fast enough." 

 Mario Andretti.

Motherhood is an extreme sport.  As a mother, you feel all emotions to the extreme; love, fear, tenderness, frustration, worry, joy, happiness...you name it.  And quite often you swing from one intense emotion to its' polar opposite in a matter of minutes!  

Last Wednesday, for example, I ricocheted from joy to frustration to love to laughter and back to joy again in one afternoon.  It all began with joy.  Although it was a gloomy, wet day, I got out the rain gear and nestled the girls into the double-stroller for an afternoon walk.  If you're a resident of the Comox Valley, you know how beautiful Filberg Park is, and we're lucky enough to be able to walk there in minutes.  As we entered the park I saw a dozen deer sleeping in the field.  A little fawn stood up to investigate us and I looked in the stroller to see Pip's reaction.  She was sound asleep.  There's something terribly moving about watching your child sleep.  It's a profoundly beautiful thing.  

I pushed the stroller through the park, down to the beach-side promenade, and I felt as though I was truly seeing every beautiful flower, every precious plant.  There were no other human visitors to the park that day, but I saw deer at every turn.  Crazybaby was happily absorbing the beautiful scenery while her sister slept, and I felt an intense wave of gratitude.  Strolling with my two beautiful, healthy girls in such a gorgeous part of the world, I was filled with joy.  Pure joy.

Little did I know that an hour later I would be standing in the kitchen with two girls crying and clinging onto my legs.  My husband was at a function for dinner that night, so I was flying solo.  (I have such respect for single parents.)  I had awoken Pip when we got home from our walk, otherwise she would've been up until midnight.  She has never had an easy time waking up from naps, and this afternoon was no exception.  She was upset that she missed the park and she wanted to go back.  Then she was upset that I couldn't carry her into the house.  Pip reverts back to infancy when she's grumpy, so she started crying and repeating the plea, "Mama."  Naturally, her behaviour prompted Crazybaby to start wailing.  By the time I got us all into the house and out of our jackets, both girls had tears streaming down their hot little red cheeks.  I wiped their noses and tears,  then I foolishly tried to make my way into the kitchen to start cooking dinner.  My daughters followed me and each little body latched onto a leg.

At this point, I took a deep breath, turned the stove off and just sat down on the kitchen floor with a daughter on each knee.  Screw the steamed vegetables.  My babies needed some love, so I abandoned my dinner plan and tried to soothe them.  It didn't work.  Pip had worked herself into such a state that she was inconsolable.  I needed a distraction.  I decided to resort to the thirty-nine-inch babysitter.  I hoisted both girls up and into the living room to watch The Wiggles.  After several minutes of cuddling and Wiggle-watching on the couch, Pip had calmed down.  "I'm happy now, Mama," she finally reported, and I was released back into the kitchen.

Minutes later, the girls and I sat down to dinner: grilled cheese sandwiches with grapes on the side.  (You do what you have to do.)  Oh yes, I had a glass of Merlot as well.  I had earned it, and the meal required it.  I was not prepared for what came next.  Little Pip, sitting next to me in her booster seat, put her hand on my arm and said, "You're filled with love, Mama.  And soon, it'll go out to daddy and out to me, and then back; back into your heart."  I swear those were her very words.  I had my notebook on the counter behind me and I wrote everything down, word for word.  I certainly was filled with love.  Pip got that right.

Because our nutritious dinner was late, we went straight from the table to our bath-time routine.  Pip hopped up on the toilet before entering the tub.  She decided not to use the little toddler seat, so she was using all of the strength in her arms to keep herself from falling into the toilet bowl.  "Mama," she began, "your bum is soooooooooo big that you can't fall into the toilet."  Perhaps it was sheer exhaustion from my day of extreme sport, but I honestly could not stop laughing.

My emotions came full circle while watching the girls in the tub together.  Crazybaby played peek-a-boo with Pip and used the shower curtain to cover her face.  They were simply making each other laugh, but seeing my daughters erupt in fits of giggles filled me with joy once again.  

It's no wonder that I sometimes feel out-of-control; my emotions are bungee-jumping all over the place.  I'm more of an artistic soul than an athletic one, and have never been interested in extreme sports.  It's a new feeling for me.  I prefer calmer, more predictable sports like hiking, beach-combing and floating in warm, salty bodies of water.  I'm adapting though.  I'm learning to go with the flow, to drop my own agenda sometimes so that I can really be in the moment.  I accept that some moments are going to be like cliff-diving, but others will be as sweet as floating in a warm, salty sea.

Frances

"We can only be said to be alive in those moments 

when our hearts are conscious of our treasures." 

Thornton Wilder

Her name was Frances.  I knew from my girlfriend Susan, who had taught Frances in the first grade, that she was a special girl.  I was teaching Grade Three when Frances was in my class.  

I was passionate about getting the kids to write, so I had them each keep a 'writer's notebook.'  It wasn't meant to be a journal, it was intended to be a very special book where my young authors could collect ideas for future writings.  They could record little snippets of conversation, notes, quotations, thoughts, absolutely anything they were inspired to jot down.  The writers' notebooks would never be graded, but I did collect them from time to time to provide the kids with feedback.  I loved reading through these books.  They came in all shapes and sizes, and were as unique as the writers who owned them.

I wish I could remember more of what Frances wrote, (and said for that matter,) but one little sentence of hers has stuck with me over time.  She wrote, "I'm really enjoying my life."  She was eight years old. 

Now that I have children of my own I wonder, how does one encourage that level of self-reflection and appreciation at such a tender age?  Perhaps it's through modeling.  I trust that if we're grateful mamas, we're going to raise grateful kids.

Have a happy Mothers' Day you beautiful mamas!  

Maya

"The soul would have no rainbow if the eyes had no tears."

Hopi Indian

I think it was the great Maya Angelou who first introduced me to the idea of giving thanks when you least feel like giving thanks.  She was telling Oprah that when you're in a difficult situation, (I'm paraphrasing here,) you should thank the universe for providing you with the experience, because it is an opportunity for growth.  You may not be able to see it in the moment, but after some time passes you might recognize a lesson or gift that has come from your experience.

This is a tricky one.  When you're dealing with tragedy, loss or illness, it takes a highly evolved individual to look Pain in the face and say, "thank you."  I've met such a person, though.  I was volunteering at The Vancouver Children's Hospital to provide support for parents with sick children.  I'd take coffee, tea and baked goods to a little room where parents could meet and chat.  I was there to serve them and to visit with them if they felt like talking.  If parents didn't want to leave their child's bedside I would take food and drinks to their rooms.  Most of the time parents just wanted to make small-talk.  I once chatted with a man about the Canucks for an hour before learning that he was leaving Vancouver the next day because his son had died.   

There was one young mom I will not soon forget.  She had brightly colored hair, a few piercings, and punk clothes.  Her daughter was terminally ill and the doctors didn't expect her to ever leave the hospital.  Mother and daughter were far away from home, friends and family.   This mom had every reason to be sad, withdrawn, depressed, furious; yet she would come into the coffee room and support other parents.  She had a natural ability to boost people's spirits.  I was in awe of her.  I joked with her at one point about how she was taking over my job and she smiled.  I asked her how she did it; how she was able to stay positive and spread hope to others in the midst of such pain.  She told me that her daughter had taught her something wonderful: that she was a good mom.  No matter what her baby girl was going through, no matter how bad things got, she had found the strength to be right there beside her every step of the way.  She said it was a gift.

Imagine that.  I think Maya would have been inspired by this woman.  I certainly was.

Mother Goose

"I am thankful for laughter, 

except when milk comes out of my nose."  

Woody Allen

My husband and I decided that we would teach Pip the scientifically correct terminology for her  private parts.  There would be no 'wee-wees' or 'pee-pees' in our household; we were going to call a spade a spade right from the get-go.  For the purpose of this story, though, I'll adopt a Grey's Anatomy term and call it a 'Vajayjay'.  (Forgive me.)

One Thursday morning this past winter, the girls and I made our way to 'Mother Goose,' a wonderful local programme where pre-schoolers sing songs, hear stories and eat snacks.  It's toddler-heaven, really.  On this particular Thursday, Pip seemed unusually enthusiastic about the introduction song in which each child chooses an item of their clothing and we all sing about it: "Pip wore her grey shirt, grey shirt, grey shirt, Pip wore her grey shirt all day long."  You get the idea.

We sang about shoes, sweaters, socks and pants, then Mother Goose led us through a host of other happy little songs and, before we knew it, the class was over.  As we started to gather our coats, Pip marched up to the instructor and announced, "We forgot to sing about my black pants!"  Heaven forbid.  The ever-accommodating  Mother Goose decided to indulge Pip, so we sang a rousing verse of, "Pip wore her black pants, black pants, black pants," before heading out the door.  

During the short ride home we reminisced about the class, and as we walked in the front door of our house Pip shrieked, "Mama, do you know what we forgot?  We forgot to sing about my Vajayjay!!!"  Talk about gratitude.  I was so thankful that Mother Goose and the other goslings hadn't heard this particular song request.  Naturally, I had to tell Pip that we don't normally sing about our Vajayjays because they're private, but later I caught myself thinking that perhaps we'd all be a little bit better off if we did!

Giving thanks

"The daily practice of gratitude is one of the conduits by which 

your wealth will come to you."  

Wallace Wattles

When Pip started to talk, we began a daily prayer at dinnertime.  My husband and I don't subscribe to any organized religion, so we just made up our own little gratitude prayer and Pip repeated it after us.  "O Great Spirit, thank you for this beautiful day and thank you for this lovely food.  Peace and Love."  Short and sweet.  Big Daddy-O and I were big fans of our little prayer, but Pip quickly tired of saying the same thing every day.  

We decided to adopt a lovely ritual that friends of ours introduced to us: they simply call it, "thankful."  Now we just go around the table and talk about what we are thankful for.  I LOVE IT!  We usually start with Pip so that she isn't influenced by the things that Big Daddy-O and I say.   She is often thankful for us, or her frog, or the nice time she had playing at the park.  When my husband and I take our turns, I feel really connected to him.  The hour before dinner is often hectic, but when we give thanks we're sitting at the table, looking into each other's eyes, acknowledging how blessed we truly are.   

Morning Ritual

"Whatever we think about and thank about we bring about."

Dr. John Demartini

I read The Secret by Rhonda Byrne in August of 2007.  If you haven't read it, or watched the DVD, I highly recommend it.  One section of the book discusses the power of gratitude, and I remember being impacted by a very simple suggestion given by James Ray.  He writes, "Every morning I get up and say 'Thank you.'  Every morning, when my feet hit the floor, 'Thank you.'  And then I start running through what I'm grateful for, as I'm brushing my teeth and doing the things I do in the morning.  And I'm not just...doing some rote routine.  I'm putting it out there and I'm feeling the feelings of gratitude."

Thus far, I haven't been successful at making Ray's process a daily ritual, but I recall doing it intermittently throughout the early morning nursing sessions with my daughters.  I must admit that I have found the sleep deprivation aspect of motherhood to be the toughest adjustment of all.  I'm a woman who needs her sleep.  When my daughter's cries would wake me up and I'd look at the clock to see some ungodly hour glowing back at me with sinister, red numbers,  my first instinct was to curse, but when I remembered to say, "Thank you," instead, it made the whole experience much more tolerable.  (Yes, even at 3:12 am.)  Then, while I was nursing my baby, it was easy to feel grateful as I looked down at the precious little face at my breast.  (Provided my eyes were still open.)

I want to integrate James Ray's morning ritual into my life, so I'm really going to hit myself over the head with it!  This week's blogs will all have something to do with gratitude, and the Mama Mantra is simply, 'Thank you."   Every morning this week I vow to say, "Thank you," when my feet hit the floor.  What do you think?  Is anybody with me?

Eight Kids?

"Find what you love."

Dr. Wayne W. Dyer

We brought a cool children's  book home from the library this week: Incredible You!  10 ways to let your GREATNESS shine through, by Dr. Wayne W. Dyer.  In the introduction Dr. Dyer writes, "It is my desire to have these tiny, precious souls...close this book and feel so good about themselves that they feel in their hearts that nothing is impossible for them."  

Big Daddy-O read, Incredible You! to Pip the other night.  When I walked into the bedroom for my reading shift, they were just finishing the book.  "What did you think?"  I asked my husband as I crawled onto Pip's bed.

"I liked it.  It's really good.  Did you know this guy has eight kids?"

"No, really?"

"Check out the back cover," instructed Big Daddy-O.  Pip was lying motionless between us as I read the back jacket aloud.  Indeed Dr. Dyer has eight children.

"Can you imagine having eight kids?" I asked.  At this point, Pip finally piped up.  She had a look of concern on her face.  In a very timid voice she asked,

"He ate his kids?"  She was absolutely mortified.  Not quite the feeling that Dr. Dyer intended, but great entertainment value for us.