Gathering In

I took you to bed tonight, a quick struggle on the way about socks, and fussing about socks and pajama bottoms and getting your feet under the covers. You were so very tired, so beyond reason, that you were overly upset, and we had to stop for some deep breaths and quieting before we could start our end of night ritual of counting out affection.

Once quieted, we began. How many kisses would you like? How many hugs? How many pats? You claimed your usual numbers, and I doled them out with a few extra kisses tucked in, sneakily, because I love giving you more kisses than you love to ask for, as I know you know. You told me so one day recently, stating I don't love kisses, but you love to give me kisses, so I let you. I stroked away the residual upset with my pats, smoothing you closer to sleep, running fingers over smooth forehead and still-damp hair, preparing to get up from your bed as usual. Tonight, though, you asked me to stay, hand seeking my thumb and holding fast. You ask this on occasion, and time after time I decline, not wanting to start a new, regressive pattern, and insisting that I must go, but tonight...

Tonight, I decided to snatch an extra bit of Mother's Day, a few extra minutes of your shrinking little-girl-hood, an extra few breathings-in of your sweet skin. I lay, arm draped around you, kissed your forehead, whispered that I loved you. You threw an arm over my neck, responded I love you, too. I admit, it made me teary as I thought of how you will have no idea of how very, very much, how deeply and thoroughly and fiercely I love you unless you some day have a child of your own, and how even if you do, it will be a long time before you appreciate how amazingly heart-changing it is to love your own child. I hope that we are close when that day comes so that you might be able to say what I can't say to my own mother - I had no idea. And thank you. I grew teary, thinking of how very changed you will be, are starting to be already, from the tiny girl I grew to love that fiercely.

Through my swimming eyes, I watched as your own two eyes grew heavy and slipped closed, as your grip on my thumb grew lax and your arm slid off of my neck, startling and re-grasping once or twice before letting go entirely. I watched as you rolled slightly, your mouth parted a touch, and your beautiful face grew still. And as I drank you in by the dim light of your room, on this last Mother's Day with you as my only child, my favourite child, I grew sad to think of how you would draw away as you grew.

I cried on Misterpie's shoulder how I was proud of you, pleased to see you growing into a fine, smart, strong child, but sad to think of you no longer my little girl, sad to think of the day when bundling you onto my lap would no longer be an option, when my kisses were no longer tolerated out of a generous spirit, and when you wouldn't want me in your room any longer. And so, missing it already, innoculating myself against the future, I stayed by you a little longer tonight to snatch that precious slice of a few moments so I might tuck it away in my mother's heart for later.

I love you the most, my little sweet pea, my Pumpkinpie. You have made a mother of me, changed me forever, shown me what that extra layer of love looks like. And on this Mother's Day, I thank you for that, even if it hurts at times.

This week in Canadian fast food news...

Did you hear? Mr. Robbins died on monday. Canadian connection? He was born in Winnipeg. Who knew? But can we all take a moment to bow our heads (preferably into our ice cream cones) and give thanks for his great 31-flavoured vision? (Apparently Mr. Baskin died way back in the 50s, so either he was or was not eating enough ice cream. I prefer to think he wsn't eating enough, myself.) I may need to go and get a cone. You know, out of respect and all.


And Tim Horton's? The major Canadian franchise and practically a national symbol right next to the pointy leaf and the toothy rodent? Well, one of their franchisees blew it this week. Seriously. Fired a mother of four - a single mother of four, in fact - for giving away a Timbit to a baby. A timbit. All 16 or 17 cents worth. I routinely order one for pumpkinpie and get three in the bag, I might add. And it may well be store policy not to give out free food, but wouldn't a reprimand have sufficed? The coproation, at least, is allowing her to move to a different store and is issuing an apology. Still, I bet she feels all nervy at work now, which is no fun.

Piercing Insight

We were walking to daycare one morning, when Pumpkinpie said something.

I want to get a piercing.

The hell? Did I hear that? I asked, "What was that, Pumpkinpie?"

I want to get a piercing.

You mean a piercing like I have my ears pierced?

Yes. And Teacher N has her bellybutton pierced and [some other teacher I can't recall] has her tongue pierced.

Ah. Well. Um. You know, that's the kind of decision you have to be older to make, you know. When you are a grownup, and you think about it for a while and make sure you know all about what you're getting into, then you can go ahead and get a piercing, because it will be your decision. But you have to think about things like tongue piercings, because they can really hurt, and get infected, and be tough on your teeth, so I think it's always a good idea to make sure you're sure, first, okay?

Okay!

Which is pretty much where I stand on all this stuff, really. My neighbour's son just got a massive tattoo on his shoulder, at all of 17 years of age. We were talking about it last weekend. and I have to say, while I would make Pumpkinpie wait until 18 instead of signing permission for it so she had to think longer, I agreed with his reasoning, that his son is not a wild kid, it's a symbol that means something about him (not, say, a band or something subject to change), he's thought about it, and so on.

But I had to laugh, as we talked, thinking of how I will have to talk Misterpie off a ledge the day Pumpkinpie decides she wants one. Because me, I will give her the things I think she needs to think about and a waiting period in which to make sure it's what she wants, and then let her make her call. I don't regret mine, after all. Funny how someone as cautious as I can be the more open-minded and wilder one in the pair!

But goodness - it starts early! Ha!

Notes

To Canada:
I know we're not a gushy nation, or a nation that plesdges allegiance or has a fistful of patriotic songs. We don't tend to carry on about how great you are, even though I think we quietly feel it, for the most part. But This week? I have to say thanks.

Thanks for your slightly socialist bent that keeps us from the insane injustice of millions of people not able to access health care they really need, which means that moms with special kids here don't have to step up and br brave like Kyla to try to convince the government to do right.

And thanks, too, for your mostly open minded approach. Pumpkinpie told me this week she and her friend, I'll call her Tasha, were going to be married. And I was so happy to be able to tell her that we are lucky to live in a country where she can marry whoever she wants, boy or girl, and no one is allowed to tell her who to love.

So thanks, Canada. love, kittenpie.

To Pumpkinpie:
We went to the doctor last week. You were great at waiting, though it wasn't for long. You melted my heart into a big gushy pile of goo when you leaned into me, hugging my arm as we waited for the nurses, and told me, "You're a really great mommy." after I explained about the pressure cuff hugging your arm.

You were a bit crazy in the doctor's office, running around in your undies giggling, but I get that that would seem pretty funny, being nearly nakey and not at home. You were a total champ about your vaccination, as always, barely flinching and thanking the nurses afterwards, so I let you have that purple lollipop while we waited out the 15 minutes afterwards. Good stuff.

But when, as we sat on the bench and you sucked your candy treat, I was bursting with pleasure and pride and told you, "I'm a lucky mommy to have such a nice girl."? You kind of missed the mark. The correct response was close to but not quite what you came out with, which was, "And I'm a lucky girl to have such a nice daddy!" Nice try, but no cigar, kid.

To my bellybutton:
Really? Seriously? 4.5 months and you are waffling back and forth between popping flat when I lie down and being sort of recreated through the magic of gravity when I'm upright, as in, you could go at any time? Seriously? Didn't you hold on until like 7 or 8 months last time? Feh.

To the guy on the subway the other night:
I wasn't really staring at you the whole trip, I would just like you to know. I was just compelled to look up every now and then, and you somehow kept catching my eye. I say compelled because, well, frankly, you were pretty damn cute and it's not too often I see someone who falls into my type range on the subway, so there you go. Anyhow. I really was reading my book, too. And um, my hair's not always that crazy. Really.

To my big, swollen feet:
I'm trying, really. Did you know there is salt in everything? I'm not even kidding. Okay, I skipped breakfast sausages for you, which was tough, but I can take it. But then? Last night I thought well, maybe I can open a can of chick peas and put some oil and vinegar on them, and there is even salt in freaking chick peas! So pasta with butter and pepper? Blah. I hope you appreciate the effort, though you are still a little puffy, I have to say. I'm trying to figure this out, but I hope you will have a little patience and not blow up or cause me a stroke or something in the meantime, okay? I'm just trying to figure out the lunch options, and Misterpie is having trouble with the dinner things, since he's getting home a little late and relying on at least some prepared food, and well, it sucks, but I hear you, alright?

To my cold:
Could you please, please either get bad enough to warrant a day off or just go the hell away? I'm sick of sneezing, of lumpy sore throats, of being tired, of toting around kleenex. I know I'm not helping with the restless sleep, but that you can blame on the bad schedule and the uncomfy fetal thing going on in my belly. Really, if you'd just blow up into something respectable, I'd take a day off and sleep and drink chicken soup, so can we get on with it? I'm not allowed the drambuie part of the cure, though, sorry. I know, that part's my favourite, too. But that's back on the fetal business. Talk to him.

To my boobs:
Okay, I bought you D cups, can we cut it out, now? Please? Thanks.

Second Helpings

I always thought I wanted a single child. With one child, I figured, you can take them along with you pretty much anywhere without turning into the Family Circus. There would be no squabbling to referee, just one nice child who could entertain themselves. Your life wouldn't be completely disrupted and turned upside down, you wouldn't be forced to abandon the world of adults as much as you would be with two, and you could offer them more experiences of that world, not only for being easier to bring along, but also for the lower cost of entry for just the three of us.

But somewhere along the way, we changed our minds. We decided that while we might find ourselves regretting not having another, we were certain we would not regret a child we did have. And so we dove in. Feeling brave, while other people I know were always certain they wanted more than one, and went blithely ahead without the hand-wringing. Either way, the end result is two. Myself, I grew up a single until nearly 12, so my view of ideal childhood is predicated on that, on how easy a child I was reputed to be, but I hear from others that I might be wrong.

People sound pretty convinced, even a little convincing when they tell me this, and I hope they're right - but not only for myself. You see, I write this post to join in the virtual shower (via Playdate) to welcome the second babies of HBM and Mrs. Chicky, two bloggers dear to my heart, as well as another for Chicken & Cheese, a blogger new to me. And of all things, the theme here is to be advice about the having of two. With nothing to go on of my own, I give you ladies what others have told me, direct from the comments on my own post pondering the possibility of #2.

Mo-Wo told me: "With #1 you think about a lot of things done wrong with 2 you think about how you can really make the best of everyday." and "Now I can say to her.. that is your brother and he will love you for his whole life and it is wonderful."

Bub & Pie pointed out that: "if you can survive Baby #1, you can survive anything."

An old, old friend of mine with 4, told me: "I think you'll be pleasantly surprised by #2, if you choose to go that route. My #2 is a sweet, loving, sensitive person; overshadowed at times by #1's gregarious personality, but I cannot imagine my life any other way!"

Mad worried that:"I do think that I am denying my daughter something as vital as oxygen by denying her a sibling but, as I say, I am ancient which means the decision is pretty much out of my hands."

GGC is all for a second, and making it a boy - you hear that HBM? She said:"Seriously BOYS are fabulous. No offense to only children but, well... okay, I'm not going to say anything. Have another and have a boy (not that you can help it, Ha!) because boys are just, well... have you seen mine? He's my absolute hero."

Ruth Dynamite told me:"I've always believed that the best gift you can give a child is a sibling - but that's just me. Yes, another child complicates your life and makes some things harder. Is it impossible? No. Are the joys magnified? Yes. Is it thrilling to watch your children play with eachother and shriek with laughter? Yes. The best."

Mama Tulip is honest, but inspiring, saying: "It was hard at first with two being two years apart, but I see the bond they're forming and it's all worth it. The way they interact is amazing. The way Julia looks out for him touches me deeply; the way his face lights up when he sees her brings tears to my eyes. Yeah, there's moments where they bug each other and moments where I have to take toys away because they're not sharing, but honestly, their relationship is so, so cool. I love that they have each other."

Izzy's process was so close to mine it's a mite scary: "I was set on one for a long time but one day I realized the clock was ticking for me and that I'd better be sure. And that's when I realized that I really did want another child. So we had our son, who I had hoped would be another girl, but now that he's here, I cannot imagine having anyone but him!"

HBM, I remind you of your comment to me: "I'll add this, though: I loved having a sibling. We bickered and fought and clashed, but at the end of the day, she was always my ally and my friend, and I wouldn't trade that experience for anything. And I want [Wonderbaby] to have something of that."

Blue is a little braver than I about the outings with more than one, but it's nice to hear it can work: "I've always desired a large family. I do find that it is possible to do the outings like restaurants, movies, trips, and the like with two children. It takes lots of will and gusto!"

Nancy mentioned the one thing I haven't worried much about, but it may be nice to hear: "It's funny what they say -- when you have one child, you can never imagine loving a second one the way you do the first. But your heart expands infinitely. It's a wonderful thing."

So for you three, for me, for anyone else out there expecting another, let's hope all these cheerleaders for the joys of two are not only telling the truth, but maybe even understating it. Good luck ladies, and let me know how it goes...

Bites of Pumpkinpie

From the last couple of weeks of being a three-year-old...

on turning four soon: I'm getting old, I say, I'm getting old.

at breakfast: Here's some banana for you, mommy. I ate some and I saved you the rest! (feeding me is a common theme for her - she also offers me animal crackers and so on, not to mention the many, many fake food or pretend food or mud food meals she's brought me, watching solicitously as I "eat" it. She always has. I, however, am not necessarily thrilled to be handed banana that has been gripped in her little fist. Ah, well, it's a nice gesture, I'll suck it up.)

On kisses: I don't like kisses, but I know you like to kiss me, so I let you give me three kisses.

at dinner: I'm going to eat my eye! Then pretends to scoop it out with her spoon, and closes the eye like it's gone! I laughed my ass off. The kid's a joker.

after dinner, before bath, on the toilet: I have a hundred pieces of poop in my bum and each is pushing the other to come out and they are going into a parade of poop! Again, me laughing. She cracks me up.

Walking to daycare, we spotted what looked suspiciously like mouse poop on a retaining wall she was balancing on. She insisted that no, they were chocolate eggs. Grossed out, I countered. So she told me the whole story of the bird. It laid some chocolate eggs, and the the humans came and took it away and inside and then it didn't have any baby birds inside the eggs and then the mother bird died. [Okaaay...] That's a very sad story! Poor mother bird! Did the mother bird die because her heart was broken when she was so sad her eggs were missing, Pumpkinpie? No, the humans took the NEST! Oh. You know, that's why mommy birds never leave their nest when they have eggs, so no one can take their eggs or their nest! Mmm-hmmm, but she was hungry.

Well, THAT I can understand! [What a crazy tale-spinner. She's covering every detail, here. I love it.]

Driving in the car: The CN Tower and those buildings are moving along with us!

On baths: If I take a bath two nights in a row, I will turn into a mermaid. You will have to take me to Mexico to live in the Mermaid Kingdom. (We do on occasion risk this one. We are brave, we parents.)

A selection of the Wisdom of Pumpkinpie:

Some people are one way, some people are another way. That's the way it is.

You get what you get.

Chocolate and milk go well together.

... and a bunch of other stuff I thought I had to try and remember and then couldn't. She is keeping me in stitches these days. I wish I had a tape recorder running at all times to catch some of it.

The Shape of Three: Reprise

It's been a long year, three. A year of growth and of shrinking back, of testing and pushing, of coming back together and sharing love, a year of the ups and downs of learning to be friends, a year of genderification, of telling tales and singing songs, of bossing and being bossed. It's been a long year of crucial development, and plenty of the growing pains that attend it.


It was a year marked by more struggles, more intense struggles, than we ever had over the year of two. Two was, in fact, easy, while three has been a battle waged over and over, a few weeks long, repeated every few months. A time of pushing and trying things out, of refusals to listen, of removing of privileges, of occasional threats or bribes. It has been tough at times, as she fights to establish an independence that she is not truly ready for yet, and we insist on retaining parental standards and authority. Still, the in between times have been sweet and fascinating to watch, as you become ever smarter and more girl-like, moving away from the toddler you were.


There were growing pains - like the "not your friend" epidemic that went around the class, with even her best friends telling her that at times, and her trying it out on me, much like she tried to bite me once after being bitten herself back around the 2-year mark. Equally painful for her, too, I imagine, especially when you are young, as she is. I explained to her that really, probably that friend just didn't want to play right then, but didn't know how to say that in a better way. That phase seems to have died down for now, but will no doubt rear its head again in school time and time again. Still, friend have become a big part of her life, and one morning not long ago, she counted them off to me on her fingers like jewels.

Along with this sort of testing of social bullying manoeuvres has come the bossing and the rules. Lord, the bossing. The kids boss each other, they complain about each other's bossing, they try to boss us parents, too. Which hasn't gone over well, as you might imagine. so she is learning more of the social niceties - askign nicely, waiting your turn to talk, and so on, though it is a work in progress, as children are.


There was the separation of girls and boys - she now claims to like to play with both, but most certainly she doesn't like the "big boys" in the playground, the ones who run too fast and occasionally knock over a smaller child like herself, though she is growing taller and faster and learning to hold her own better. She is also not fond of loud noises (except those of her own making, apparently), and they are, without a doubt, rowdier than she likes.


With this has come some sudden, osmotic knowledge of Disney princesses, something she never saw at home. Suddenly, she knew about them, their names, the colour of their hair, the type of dress they wear. When she started to ask me for princess stories, I would tell her my own made-up versions of the standards, sticking pretty close to the norm, but with some small tweaks here and there. Eventually, though, I began bringing home versions that I didn't mind. For Christmas, a friend got her a Disney princess tin and a calendar, which she pores over, begging me to tell her the stories of her princesses. Luckily, I know them well enough to oblige at the drop of a load of laundry. I still hold out on the movies, the Disney books, and the merchandise, but she is firmly planted in girly land these days.

She has turned, this year, into such a preschooler, a real kid with real social interaction and playdates without interventions. Often enough, we parents can let them play without much interference, sending them off when they seek an ear for tattling. They can solve it themselves, we tell them, and mostly, they can now. So mostly, it works. We've even had drop-off playtimes with a few kids from her daycare circle, capable as they are all becoming of working things out. It's a lovely thing to see them, playing together, running off hand in hand.

She has at time taken great pride in her growing - riding a two-wheeler (well, 4 with the training wheels, but a Big Girl Bike nonetheless), choosing her own clothes, and keeping dry pullups overnight until we finally pulled the pullups altogether. She still resists growing up in some areas, hangs back for the closeness of having me help her dress, the ease of using fingers, not forks, the comfort of classmates she knows well. She wasn't thrilled to give up the pullups, proud as she was of their arid state each morning, but she was ready, and we try to push a bit here and there. I will need to push her more on the dressing, but hurried mornings make it tough to fight that fight every day, and I deep down don't mind the chance to hug her close as I slip her shirt over her head. For now, we have a sort of truce at her pulling on bottoms, me helping with tops. This summer, when Misterpie has time to go over it each morning, we may move to the next step, because I know that she can.

As she has grown this year, her already impressive speech and memory have grown to where she tells me stories word for word from her storybooks, correct a word out of place in my own reading, and makes up her own tales from a notebook of scribbles. She loves to rhyme words, as I do, and the storytelling and the song-making enchant me. I am thrilled to see her loving language and playing with it as a toy and a tool. I think it might be a bit like watching myself as a child, for I was notoriously language-happy myself.

It has been, as I've said many a time, tougher than two, tougher by a long shot, and yet it is amazing to see her now, a child, not a toddler, not my baby, but growing into a child who could run in a schoolyard, ride a bicycle, and gallop off with a friend without looking out of place. A picture sits on my desk at work from last summer, a picture that now looks babyish to me, with its softer, chubbier cheeks, its shyer smile, pudgier fingers, and shorter hair. She is growing longer of limb and body, leaner of face. Her longer hair makes her look older, and her expression, often as not, earnest.

It's been a harder year often enough, to be sure, one I am in some ways happy to see the close of in hopes of less struggling, and yet it has wrought changes that catch me off guard still, at times. I know the next year will separate her even further from my sweet, pliable toddler girl, make her even more herself. I welcome it, look forward to seeing her grow and learn and become, but the gap is growing wider, and now I find myself wistful for her tiny feet, softer, pinker limbs, and sweet miniature dresses in a way that I was not this time last year.

Tomorrow, my girl turns four.