I'll take the run.

Anytime before 6am is just too damn early. If I was dealing with adults instead of a toddler and a baby, I would tell them that, but alas. And so the growl-mutter began this morning when I finally dragged myself out of bed at around 6.01. After getting Sonja her juice and starting on breakfast and tea, I eventually found myself standing in the living room, my hands on my head, my eyes squeezed shut, growl-muttering, "get me outta here get me outta here get me outta here". Sonja was running around with no pants and Haven was sitting on the floor and crying, surrounded by toys she had no interest in. Not my finest moment. 


I've had plenty of these moments and so has every other Mom I know. I think of them as the "I hate my life (but really I don't, it just feels good right now to say I do)" moments. I think the name is pretty self-explanatory.


The growl-mutter is almost the same as the woe-is-me-whine, but it sounds angrier. And it only sounds angrier because it's desperate. When the growl-mutter shows up, it's time to take measures. In the case of this morning it meant I needed to put on my running shoes and run it off, so I packed the girls into the stroller and off we went.


But I still tried to talk myself out of running at least three times! I was dressed to go, but I picked up a pair of jeans and started to take my running shoes off. Three times. Thank goodness I stopped myself each time until we finally left the house. I guess I've been a runner long enough to know that almost going for a run is far worse than choosing not to go from the outset; once those shoes are on, the contract has been signed.


Why, if these moments are so awful and infuriating would I try to talk myself out of a solution? Is it easier to just get sucked down into the vortex? It's the same as when Sonja throws a tantrum with an obvious and easy solution and when she flat-out refuses my help, I'll ask her "Baby, are you happy right now?" She always says no, but she continues with her behaviour regardless. Apparently an easy solution is actually harder than staying in the painful moment. ...Or maybe changing tack is just too difficult, once you've invested so much of your energy into being upset.


I don't know if I've been a parent long enough to know ahead of time that my emotions and stress just rubs off on my kids. I mean, I see it in retrospect but I've had limited success nipping it in the bud before things escalate. Instead, my emotions and the girls' reception of those emotions just feeds the same vicious cycle until something finally snaps. Today I broke the cycle by going for a run. Other times, nothing stops until everyone is in tears. 


Um, I'll take the run, thank you very much.

Loss is loss.

Most of you, my lovely, loyal readers, have read my post Such beautiful boys. It stands as one of my favourite posts, and the one that I think about most often. Well, all that thinking had to boil over sometime and here it is.


When Kevin was sick and dying in St. Paul's Hospital in Vancouver, I visited him as much as I could, because I knew he didn't have a lot of time left. His partner, Walter, seemed to never leave Kevin's side. I remember being so grateful to him, but also so sad for him; Walter had already lost one Love to AIDS and we were helpless to stop it from happening again.


I was eighteen and I wanted to be a good sister, but I was scared and tired and guilty. My guilt seemed ready to drown me at times and then I would feel guilty for thinking so much about myself at a time like this. Silliness. I felt guilty because I believed that I didn't know my brother as much as I could have if I had only taken the time. 


Kevin and my Mom were best friends. They did so many things together and their personalities just meshed. When I was still living at home, Kevin would call at least once a day. I often answered the phone and he and I would have the standard "Hi, how are you? I'm fine. Yes, here's Mom." conversations. Every time I got off the bus to walk up to Kevin's hospital room, I cursed myself for not being more of a friend to my brother. Every step that drew me closer to his bedside was a step closer to losing him forever.


Keith was also visiting often and there were several times that we were there together. Having him there was a relief for me, since Keith and I were close, but it also intensified my guilt: how come I was so close to Keith, but not to Kevin? Still, it was so nice to have someone distract me from the gravity of the situation by making fun of my T-shirt or teasing me about some guy I liked. Being bugged by my big brother was a welcome diversion because by this time, Kevin was so ill that I don't think he was always aware that anyone was visiting. 


I didn't handle those last days well. That is to say, I couldn't stand to hear the sounds of a person too young to die; the moans and unconscious sounds of a boy being ripped from his life when it should have just been beginning. Because I came to see later that it wasn't the wasting, feverish, writhing sickness that had me unable to sit still; had me pacing the hallways to avoid having to watch it happen. It was that it was such a goddamn shame. Here was this twenty-five-year-old boy, about to die, about to leave this world he had barely got to know. No matter how I look at it, no matter how I think about it, it never adds up in my mind.


When I left the hospital that night, Walter told me this would be my last visit and I knew enough to believe him, even if I didn't want to. I said goodbye to Kevin, but I didn't say the things I really wanted to say, because I wouldn't know what those things were for many years to come. In a way, I've never stopped saying goodbye and curiously, I hope I never do.


I remember waking up at around 1.15 am and looking at the clock before drifting back to sleep. The next thing I knew, it was around 8am and I woke up to find Keith sitting on the end of my bed. He had taken the hour-long bus ride from Vancouver to White Rock this early in the morning? For Keith, 7am might as well have been the middle of the night. He looked at me and smiled and I knew immediately that Kevin had died. His death and my waking in the night had happened at roughly the same time.


Keith and I went down to walk on the beach and we talked for a long time. I had a lot of trouble expressing my feelings, mostly because of my guilt at not knowing Kevin the way I would have liked to. I was trying to explain this and Keith said something I will never forget: "It would have been different if it had been me." And although this only served to grow my guilt, I knew that in a way he was right; if it had been Keith, I wouldn't have gotten out of bed.


Looking back on this now, having lost both my eldest brothers, I know that loss is loss. I miss them both for different reasons, in different ways, just as I'd known and loved them differently when they were alive. And the guilt I'd carried around? I've managed to cut it loose, because it only got in the way. Instead of worrying about all the things I didn't know about Kevin, I'd rather remember all the great things I know about him.


So to close things off, I'll share one of my favourite memories of spending time with Kevin and Walter. They had invited me to Vancouver to see a play. They did this often; plays, the symphony, concerts, all sorts of things. Afterward, they were waiting with me at the bus stop to see me off and a young guy was walking toward us wearing a "Boy's Co." T-shirt. You might remember these shirts. They were usually black and from a distance they just said "BOY" across the front in big block letters. In very little printing at the bottom of the "Y" was printed "'s Co." They were pretty popular for awhile but I'd never been a fan. 


We had been waiting at the bus stop for a little while and the conversation had dwindled. I spotted this guy wearing this shirt, so I said "What's it say on the back, 'TOY'?" Apparently this was not what Kevin and Walter expected a sixteen-year-old girl to say and I'd never seen them, especially Walter, laugh that loud. This moment stands as one of my favourite moments ever spent with any of my family members. I'd never felt so funny.

Who wouldn't love that face?

There came a time when Sonja discovered her reflection. All babies seem to love seeing themselves in the mirror, and this was full-on infatuation. 


When it first began, she was able to crawl but not yet able to walk. She would haul herself to a standing position in front of the mirror and squeal with excitement as she gazed at her reflection. This would go on for hours at a time, meaning that whatever we were doing, we would always end up back in front of the mirror. And it continued for months.

Sonja, ten-months old, January 2009.

Sonja, 11-months old, February 2009.

So it's not unusual or surprising that Haven is now completely in love with her reflection. In fact, it's just as cute watching Haven as it was watching Sonja. 

Haven, nine-months old, January 2011.

Sometimes I really wish that babies would grow up still thinking their reflection was the best thing going. It's not that I think we should be raising little narcissists, but with so many people growing up to dislike their bodies and the way they look, a little taste of being enamoured with yourself wouldn't hurt anyone. 

But it also makes me wonder and think about all the little nasty things that happen to us as we grow older, things that teach us that it's perfectly fine to dislike or even hate the way we look. Just imagine sweet little babes hating their bodies, or hating something about the way they look, and you'll agree that it is not alright. Why, if it's unthinkable for a small child, is it OK for an adult? When does that change happen?

Pep talks.

I've been a wee bit distracted lately and I'll tell you why. Some of you may already know why, so this is for the rest of you fine folks. And I'll be upfront: this is shameless self-promotion and the one and only time I will use Once Little for this purpose. Cool?


My lovely boss approached me on January 1st (not even a month ago, holy moly) with an idea to start a website/community called runningmoms.ca. I was intrigued, so I played along. Now all of sudden I actually have a website and a Facebook page dedicated to this idea and I'm spending all my free time (free time??) furiously brainstorming and writing content to post when the website officially launches sometime in February. Not only that, but I have two amazing people helping me with everything: logo design, concepts, marketing and even promotional photographs. 

And throughout it all, I'm still writing everyday for Once Little (my sanity, my saviour), looking after Sonja and Haven (my emotional and moral conscience, my little loves), and trying to find time to actually run (my invaluable outlet). Now I just need Peter to get home (my rock, my epicentre), which will happen in three days (and yes, I'm counting the hours).


This is an amazing time for me, because I'm effectively bringing together four of the things I love in my life: my kids, writing, running and encouraging and inspiring other people to run. But as much as I am so excited, I am understandably nervous, since if you'll remember, I like to talk myself out of things and I'm pretty darn good at it. Needless to say, I've been giving myself some 1970's-era-sports-movie style, half-time locker-room pep talks lately and so far they are doing the trick. The team is pumped, convinced of their imminent victory, and is exploding back onto the field to take what is rightfully theirs. Rah, rah!


One of my biggest motivations, beyond bringing together a fantastic community of Moms, is the example I am setting for my girls. Not only will they see their Mom leading an active lifestyle and encouraging others to do the same, they will see their Mom following through and building something from the ground up. They'll see their Mom stop talking and start doing.

Foggy nights.

"Fog as thick as pea soup." Depending on your opinion of pea soup, this expression sounds either yummy or shudder-inducing. Either way, there's little denying that fog is often two things at once: beautiful and mysterious, or perhaps enticing and kinda freaky.

I've always loved the fog. I love the silence of it, how when it's really thick you can yell into it and you may as well be yelling into a heavily-walled vault; almost as though the sound is confused. I also love how when you walk (or better yet, run) through fog, the mist deposits itself on every part of you where it can find purchase. 


Many is the time I've come back from a foggy run and quickly found a mirror to examine the tiny droplets of water clinging to my eyebrows, hair, and the teensy-fine hairs on my cheeks; the hairs I never notice until fog so triumphantly displays them. For a moment, I am covered in an intricate dusting of shimmering white water. Cleansed by the fog.

We have had some spectacular fog these last couple of nights. I was up twice with Haven last night and each time I looked outside to see the empty streets laden with thick, seemingly impenetrable fog. The traffic light on the corner was straining against it, sending a smeared, red mess of light through my kitchen window. I should have been hurrying up to bed after settling Haven back to sleep, but I waited it out, wanting to see each colour: red, green, yellow and red again, each one as stymied as the last.

Victoria is a coastal city, so it's not unusual to have great fog, but it's also a very windy city, so it's nice when the wind dies down long enough to give the fog an opportunity to linger. To linger and rest, and hover and settle, to creep and drift. 


To me, there's an inherent nostalgia to fog, as if its misty borders are the blurred and fraying edges of a beloved photographic memory; a memory I've yet to forge, but am struggling to imagine.

Don't just sit there.

Some days just feel like this. Some days are just like this. There's no point in trying to explain it and no point in dwelling on it. Shit happens, just like everyone has always told you it does. 

It's more important to take a breath and decide how you are going to proceed from this point forward, because no matter how much you'd like to, you can't work on the past. The future is your only open door, so hold your head up, set your gaze, and get going already.

Semantics.

"You're not a kid anymore." Is there a more depressing utterance in the English language?


In many ways, I'm glad I'm not a child anymore. I really didn't enjoy the social awkwardness and competitiveness of school, either elementary or secondary. In many ways I didn't feel up to the task; I desperately wanted to be liked, but I always felt on the periphery despite, or maybe due to, how hard I tried. From a social standpoint, I wouldn't go back to my school days if you paid me.


I also do not miss my many agonized days of self-doubt and complete lack of confidence. Oh, I always put up an impressive front of arrogance and self-sufficience, but inside I wanted someone to just live my life for me so I wouldn't screw everything up. This isn't to say that I have exorcised self-doubt and lack of confidence from my life, far from it. I've just come to accept that they are barriers I've built all on my own and because they are mine, they are mine to scale and raze. No matter what happened to me in my life, no one and nothing forced me to build walls; every tool mark in those walls was put there by me.

But there are implications in the saying "you're not a kid anymore" that I simply can't abide. Show me the rulebook or constitution that states that there is an age limit on being a "kid". Sure, we have to be responsible for our actions and accountable to ourselves and the people around us, I'm not saying any different. I take it more literally: "you're not a kid anymore" is not the same as saying "you're an adult now". It's just not, because there is a vast difference between being an "adult" and being "not a kid". Even though we all wanted to grow up and be "grown up" didn't mean that we ever imagined we would stop being "kids"; not really. 


My mother-in-law told me over the weekend how her Mom grew more and more uptight as she grew older. She said her Mom wasn't all that comfortable having the grandkids in her house because they were "so messy". I laughed heartily when she told me this, because I had spoken recently with other people who had recounted similar tales and it really solidified my theory about people who live their lives being "not a kid". I can appreciate not liking messes, but to have that keep you from enjoying the company of your grandchildren speaks to an inability to relate to kids, not because you're a bad person (of course not), but because you have removed yourself from the realm of being a kid. Let me reiterate: you have removed yourself. 


No one and nothing makes us grow older, as long as we feed and look after ourselves, our bodies do that all on their own. But "you're not a kid anymore" is not decided by our cells, hormones or genes, it is decided by us. 


Get out there and get messy, people.

Deceit.

Just before Christmas I posted about Sonja's love for her Muppet Babies figurines. Gonzo was the stand-out at the time, but Kermit, Fozzy and Miss Pig (as Sonja calls her) have all had their turn as the favourite. Miss Pig was lost for a week or so recently and when Sonja finally found her in a bag of blocks, there was much rejoicing.


Of course, all four friends had to come with us to my in-laws' place this past weekend and they made their journey after Sonja placed them lovingly into her green-felt Easter Bunny bag. As all of Sonja's toys know, if you make it into the green-felt Easter Bunny bag, you're somebody. Miss Pig took it one step further: while her cohorts rode in the Easter Bunny bag, she rode with Sonja in her car seat. Yes, Miss Pig is currently leading the Muppet Babies' popularity poll.


When we arrived in Mill Bay, Sonja brought Miss Pig into the house first thing, while all the other toys were brought in later. Sonja immediately started playing with all the other little toys that stay at my in-laws' place and Miss Pig became lost in the crowd. We all settled in and I brought all our stuff inside while the girls played. A little while later, Sonja wondered aloud where Miss Pig had gone and I said I didn't know, but that she would turn up. 

Well, I think Joyanna and I noticed at the same time that there were tiny pink fragments lying under the dining-room table... Tiny pink Miss Pig fragments. Seems that Jeff and Joyanna's puppy Otis found Miss Pig and decided she would make a good chew toy. We quickly disposed of the evidence and then the deceit began.


Deceit, you ask? Yes, deceit. As soon as this all happened (we're talking within minutes), I quickly hopped on eBay and bought a replacement Miss Pig. I then told Sonja that Miss Pig was lost again, but I was sure we'd see her soon. Joyanna just followed my lead, bless her; I really don't want my almost-three-year-old daughter to catch me in a lie. Sigh.


When we left and came home yesterday, Sonja again asked for Miss Pig, this time with urgency, since she was afraid we would forget her. I told her that everything was packed away in the car and we would get everything out once we were home. ...I never actually said that Miss Pig was in the car. When we arrived home, Sonja looked in her green-felt Easter Bunny bag, then looked at me and exclaimed "Miss Pig!" I said, "Well, it looks like we lost her again, but we found her before, right? She'll turn up again, don't worry." And Sonja agreed that we would find Miss Pig again.


Yikes. I'm really just trying to avoid seeing this face:

Wouldn't you??

So unlike me.

Hmm. I can't believe it happened, but it happened: I didn't get bogged down by the bullshit. 

My mind seeks out the bullshit. It just loves to wallow. I've known this about myself for a long time and I accept it, but today my mind surprised me.

Sonja and Haven started to come down with a cold overnight while we were staying with Jeff and Joyanna (Peter's parents) at their beautiful place in Mill Bay. I was originally planning to stay until late-afternoon, but we made a quick exit mid-morning instead to try to get home in time for naps.

As I usually do when we leave somewhere, I asked Sonja if she had fun during our stay. We then went over all the fun things we did while we were visiting: playing in the sandbox, playing in the sandbox at night with a flashlight, swinging on the swings, blowing up balloons and drawing faces on them, eating apple pie, playing the recorder, watching movies, playing with the dogs. Sonja agreed that it had been a good time.

Around halfway home, I suddenly realized that I'd remembered our stay exactly how I'd recounted it to Sonja; I thought of all the good stuff and only the good stuff. It made me chuckle, because this is so unlike me. Although I consider myself an optimist, I do have a knack for letting the little things get to me, and even though I make a point to remind Sonja of all the fun we had, inside I'm usually brooding over the crappy things that happened.

We did have a great time, but there were a few moments that I normally would have got all worked up about. Maybe it's the fact that I got out for a really good run yesterday, or maybe it's because it's so very nice to have two wonderful people giving me a hand looking after the girls, but all those little crappy things just didn't manage to burrow under the surface. They were just things that happened.

Well... barely getting any sleep last night due to Sonja and Haven getting sick definitely bugged me, but I didn't even let that get the best of me, I just upped my tea intake this morning (if that's even possible). It wasn't until we were driving that all the other little things weaselled their way back into my mind. Things like stepping in dog shit, Haven knocking over an entire cup of tea, Jett rolling in what we think was deer poo and having to tie him up and hose him down, Sonja antagonizing Jeff and Joyanna's puppy Otis until he'd had enough and snapped her... and a few other things, but I honestly can't remember them at the moment.  

Hmm indeed; who am I??

Swing-set hands.

We got up early this morning, packed up the car and headed up to Peter's parents. Sonja has had a blast playing in the sandbox; when night fell, she even went out with Joyanna and played in the sandbox with her flashlight. If only she could be so focused and dedicated when it comes to eating her supper.

We put Haven in the little pink swing and it dawned on me that this was the first time she had ever been in a swing. Seriously. I don't know how that happened, but it's true. Needless to say, she was thrilled and I envision many swing-set visits in our near future.

I love the swings. As a kid I would spend hours on the swings, my hands creased and imprinted by the chains. When I was all done, I would always cover my nose with my hands and breathe in that smell: the telltale smell of swing-set hands. It's one of those scents that will be forever imbedded in my brain. To this day, if I'm at a park with a swing set and I have the opportunity, I will swing and swing. And swing some more.

The post has nothing to do with the photos.

There is something just so sad about abandoned children's items. You've likely seen them: well-used car seats out on the curb, torn umbrella strollers languishing in alleyways, bent playpens peeking out of dumpsters. It's also sad to see discarded and forgotten toys, but we use things like car seats, strollers, and playpens to keep our babes safe and comfortable and every time I see them in the trash, I wonder about their story. 


I've always felt this way, even before I had kids. When I was in my early twenties, I was walking on a sidewalk and came upon a car seat sitting out in the rain. I immediately wondered and hoped that the child who used to ride in it was safe. I actually stopped walking to stand and look at the sad, wet seat, its sopping fabric dripping onto the cement. It was just sad.


I'm not sure why I find these things so disconcerting. Perhaps it's seeing the faded imprint of a child's small body in the cloth of a seat or stroller, or the worn spot where a little one used to chew on a playpen's railing. For a child, these were trusted, loved items and now they are garbage. The stillness, the silence, the abrupt ending. 


I do know that I've always had a compassion for inanimate objects. As a small child I would feel sorry for a broken chair and I'd hang on to scraps of paper and stickers that had lost their stick. I didn't think they deserved to be thrown away just because they were useless. If I thought too much about it, these things would make me cry. I was and am a marshmallow. 


But really I'm lucky I didn't become a hoarder.

Wavin' Haven.

Haven has always been a social girl. From the time she was capable of eye contact, she has loved people and done her utmost to engage them. She is a total flirt. We have always been popular in the grocery store because while Haven entertains everyone with her smile and her big blue eyes, Sonja charms and amazes people with her skills handling the mini grocery cart. 

I have noticed a difference in our grocery shopping experience lately. Well, maybe not a difference, but an enhancement.  

Several times in the last couple of weeks, I have looked up from my shopping to see people, all types of people, looking in my direction and smiling and giving a little wave. It always takes me a second to realize they are waving and smiling at Haven, who is beaming at them and waving excitedly. 

Haven has discovered that when you wave to someone, they will wave back. As a result, when we shop she spends her entire time trying to catch someone's eye so she can wave to them. And her success rate is pretty near perfect; apparently it pays to be small and adorable.

Nap snap.

Sonja's nap days may be all but numbered.  Up until a few months ago, she would be asleep between noon and one o'clock and she would sleep for one to two hours.  Now I'm struggling to get her to sleep by two o'clock and then I have to wake her up so that she doesn't sleep too long and sabotage her bedtime.  And since nap time (when Sonja and Haven are both asleep) is my prime writing time, I am pretty bummed that I may soon lose the most quiet time of my day.

Already there are days when Sonja simply doesn't nap.  She'll have been in her room for up to two hours, seemingly asleep, when I'll hear a muffled noise, go to her room and find her playing on her bed surrounded by dolls.  Even as I write this, I suspect a similar scene is unfolding behind her closed door.  My first inclination is to go in there and remind her that it is nap time and she needs to go to sleep.  I've already been in there twice to do just that.  But then my mind nudges me and says, "Smarten up.  Two hours of quiet time is two hours of quiet time."

So do I keep up the ruse?  Do I keep putting her down for her "nap", knowing she won't sleep, but also knowing she'll keep the noise to a minimum in order to try to fool me into thinking she's sleeping?  Hmm.  I actually feel very OK with that.

Mistrust.

I'll never forget my Grade 10 English class.  I don't think I handed in more than a handful of assignments the entire semester and it was due to sheer laziness and spending too much time hanging out with my friends.  Plus I thought the other kids in the class were idiots and for some reason, this was justification.  At the end of the semester, right before the final exam, my teacher asked me to stay after class and told me that although she expected me to be there to write the exam, there was no way I was going to pass her course; I just didn't hand in enough assignments.  She was a nice woman and I could tell she was disappointed, but I could also see that she was exasperated with me and her aside (from my perspective) was a little "I told you so."

I wrote the exam and scored 96%.  I failed the course, even with one of the highest percentages on the test.

Apparently I am feeling very introspective lately.  I just noticed that four of the last five posts have been mostly about me and how I am feeling about certain thoughts and events in my life; I've been taking stock, as it were.  Well, yesterday's post about Trust has served only to further this trajectory.  

Last night, after publishing my post, I started thinking about my feelings on trust beyond just trusting someone with my physical well being.  Logically, I started thinking about my trust and my mistrust in myself.  And where I've ended up is exactly where I could feel myself going yesterday, but where I was not willing to go at that time: my mistrust in myself wins over my trust almost every time.

Think about the saying "you don't know if you don't try."  I have hated this saying my whole life, because I've heard it countless times from everyone from teachers to boyfriends to family members.  I've always thought it a copout; something people say but they would never put into action for themselves.  I've been pretty certain of the outcome of things before I even attempt them: I've been certain on several occasions that I would fail.  

To my teachers in high school, I looked like an underachiever.  I skipped classes, I didn't hand in homework, I failed or barely squeaked by.  But I was not necessarily an underachiever according to the dictionary definition, because when I wanted to achieve something, I usually did it very well.  The problem was when I didn't feel confident in my abilities.  If I wasn't confident and I didn't feel supported, I would back out of something entirely, or do it poorly.  And I usually backed out.  To me, backing out and not trying something at all was far preferable to attempting something and failing at it.

My Grade 10 English class wasn't necessarily a good example of not feeling supported, or not being confident, but it is a great example of my unwillingness to claw my way out of a proverbial hole.  This is another facet of my mistrust in myself: I'm sure that if I start trying to get out of the hole, I will only end up with more dirt and a wider hole.  Once I started skipping classes and missing assignments, my mindset became, "Well, why bother?  I'm already so far behind."  And this way of thinking carried me successfully through to a big fat F.  It has also kept me from realizing several unspoken dreams and desires throughout my life.

I once had a friend who pointed out that I would often start sentences by saying "I'd love to", as in "I'd love to try acting", or "I'd love to sing in a band" or "I'd love to go to Cuba".  He asked why I didn't implement any of these desires and find out what they would actually feel like, instead of just talking about them.  I was beyond annoyed.  I mean, everyone talks about the things they'd like to do and be, right?  Right.  But what's more interesting and what's more alive; being the person who talks about doing things, or being the person who dares you to do them?  

And even better: being the person who gets out there and goes for it.

Trust.

By the time I was a teenager, I couldn't play Trust.  You know, that game where you cross your hands over your chest, close your eyes and fall back into the arms of a friend standing behind you.  Your friend moves a little farther away each time so every fall is bigger than the last.  I just couldn't do it.  And I didn't much like being the catcher either; what if I couldn't catch the person?  The whole business made my stomach queasy.  

So it's amazing to me to watch my kids do daredevil things, all the while depending on someone else to keep them safe.  Getting tossed into the air, jumping into our arms off a high rock or ledge, being dangled upside down.  They just giggle and squeal with joy.  They trust implicitly.

I think Peter enjoys making me cringe while he does something crazy with Sonja, something where if he wasn't so deft, she may hurt herself.  But he also knows that I'm confident he'll keep her safe and that if she does bump herself a little, it's not a big deal.  Bumps, like mistakes, can be great learning opportunities.  And besides, it's no fun going through life being cautious all the time.  No fun at all.

I never learned to ski as a kid, I never played team sports or learned to swim, and I never had my own bike.  I sometimes think if I'd experienced one or more of these things that I would have welcomed a game of Trust as a teenager; I'd have had more physical and spatial confidence.  But I'll never know, really and it makes absolutely no difference to the woman I am now, nor the teenager I was then.  ...But I do intend to make as many of these things available to my kids as I am able, assuming they'd like to try them.


All that matters is that I know enough about myself to know that although I steered myself off a waterfall in a rubber raft, I still feel awful on the wrong end of a climbing rope, having to trust that the person on the other end will catch me if I fall.  And that's OK, because recognizing something I'd like to work on is the first step toward building something I'm proud of.

Differences.

I remember when Peter and I were deciding when we wanted to start trying for our second child and every time I would meet a Mom with two or more little ones, I would ask her questions about how she had managed the transition from one to two babies. I was fortunate enough to meet Moms who were honest and said that it was not easy, but you just have to roll with the punches. It was pretty much what I already expected, but it was so valuable talking with women who had been through it so recently.


And now I am one of those Moms whom other women ask about the transition from one to two babies.  It's been a curious role for me.  I guess I've just had my head down, focusing on how to balance my attentions between my girls and I didn't realize that other women would want to hear how things are going and how I'm managing.  I must say, I quite like it.  


I spoke with a Mom of an eighteen-month-old boy at Strong Start the other day and she and her husband are thinking about trying to start for their second child.  My immediate inclination was to tell her not to think about it too much but to just do it, which is essentially what we did.  But I could see in her face and hear in her voice that although she yearned for another baby, she wasn't necessarily keen on another pregnancy, and she wasn't sure what the effect of a second child would be on her son.  


So I changed my answer and was honest: my second pregnancy was much, much harder than my first, I had a tremendous amount of Mommy guilt at not being able to spend as much time with Sonja as I had been used to doing, and it was worth all of that to have Haven with us now.  I could tell by her relieved smile that she appreciated my honesty.  She wants to go into the next pregnancy with her eyes open and she needed someone to reassure her of what she already knew: that it wouldn't be easy, but it would be worth it.

Pregnant with Sonja.

Pregnant with Haven.

She then asked if Haven was learning things or reaching milestones faster than Sonja did.  I had to stop and think.  The answer is no, really.  Sonja and Haven reached physical and cognitive milestones at a similar rate, but in terms of learning, they have simply grasped things differently.  Things that Sonja didn't do, Haven has done quite readily and vice versa.


For example, Sonja just did not get the concept of the Jolly Jumper.  She would stand and look at me with a confused look, twirl around on a toe, and occasionally lift her legs and dangle, but she would not bend her knees and jump no matter what I tried.  In the end, she would start crying for me to get her out of the confounded contraption.  On the other hand, Haven started bouncing the moment I put her in the Jolly Jumper and would happily jump for twenty minutes or more at a time.


Another example is walking.  Pretty much as soon as Sonja was able to stand with help, she would move her little feet and walk along holding our hands or cruise the furniture.  Haven is still figuring out that she has to move her feet at all and that rooting her feet to the floor and leaning in the general direction of her destination will not miraculously get her there. 


I absolutely love these differences.  My unique little Babes.  

Sonja.

Haven.