“Who wants more freshly-baked banana oatmeal cookies?” our play date hostess asks.

With a quick scramble and expressing good manners, the four children sit down at the kitchen table to nosh on the treats. Kathy (not her real name) smiles at the sight and comes over to offer me one. I shake my head politely and cross over to the table to help my two-year-old to open her water.

“How do you have time to bake?” I ask.

“Oh I make time. Nothing packaged or processed for my kids.” She sweetly declares.

I sigh as I reflect on my cupboard back home, filled with packaged and processed goods. It’s not that I don’t want my kids to experience freshly baked treats; I just don’t have the time with them and my work-at-home job. Chuckling inwardly, I know I don’t even know how to bake or cook except for a few recipes.

Memories of my own childhood come to mind. My mom adored her new microwave, becoming our new household appliance when I was seven years old. TV dinners in front of the TV watching the latest VHS tape that my dad rented were my norm.

My mom spent her time with us when she wasn’t napping after her latest chemo treatment. I didn’t know that moms cooked or baked from scratch daily until I became a mom. Since my childhood I have learned how bad microwaves can be. So we don’t have one. My girls play pretend with their plastic kitchen toys.

I break from my nostalgic space to realize that everyone has finished their snacks and went back to playing in the next room.

Watching my oldest daughter play with the toy microwave in the kitchenette makes me miss my mom so much. It is that pang on my heart that I remind myself that my kids won’t remember that I didn’t make a three-course dinner every night. It’s my hope that their childhood memories will be filled of me playing dress-up with them, or just being there.

My youngest girl races over to me demanding to pick up. I know that is my cue that we need to go. Over my oldest loudly protesting we say our good-byes. I buckle them snug in their car seats and head home.

Since being a mom I have started to let go of ‘being the mom I think I have to be’ and more of the mom that I am. I now understand that is what my mom was to me.

We get home and I settle my two-year-old for her nap. I curl up with my oldest to watch a DVD.

It is amazing how for many years I forgot major parts of my childhood. Now being a parent the memories arrive daily.

I have since dug deep into the years following my mother’s death, my father’s abuse and when I left home at sixteen. I swore that I would never be a mom. Nowadays, if I feel my anger boil, I either walk away or scream into a pillow. In this house hands are for hugs or high-fives only.

My oldest squeezes me into a big bear hug and says she loves me.

“I love you too.” I whisper into her ear.

I do know that my mom loves me wherever she is now. My greatest gift to my girls is to love them like my mother loves me. Learning of what I didn’t like as a child and repairing my past for my children’s future is one of the best parenting skills I own, packaged food included.

I wake up with a jump. Realizing it is my two-year-old calling me; I slip out from my four-year-olds sleepy hug and race upstairs. After a potty break, I settle my toddler down to a snack and change the TV to one of her shows. My four-year-old wakes up and asks for a Bear Paw. I un-wrap the packaged food and smile at the irony of today.

I settle down on the couch hearing the kids munch away. When they are done I gather us up to go outside and to walk to the park. In foresight, I know I need to let them race around to burn off the extra energy so they will go to bed at their regular bedtime.

“Come on, mom! It’s your turn!” my oldest bellows at me breaking me from my memories. I climb up on the slide and hold both my girls as we all slide down together. After three rounds I beg for a break. I sit on the bench and watch my kids play and race around the park.

With a nostalgic smile, I see in my memory my mother having races on the swings of who would go higher. As I grew older I would win. I recall her pushing me to ride my bike alone on the way home. She would be steps ahead calling me. I knew she would be there if I needed her. When she died, it took me years to realize that she will always be there for me. I just couldn’t hear her back. Being a mom, I now hear her.

She didn’t make housework a priority, and she used the new kitchen gadgets to speed up her time in the kitchen. Crockpots and TV dinners were the regular feasts. I used to give myself heck trying to be the supermom- in my mind the mom who baked and cooked from scratch and kept a spotless house. I thought I would be the mom who knew what she was doing.

I will always miss my mom. Yet I know her more than ever today. For the ten years I knew her in real life, she was always there for my sister and I.  The hugs were always given. The “I love you more than a million oceans’” expressed several times a day from her. She showed me that it was not being perfect, but present, was what is most important in being a mom.

I drink in the beauty of my daughters playing in the bright sunny afternoon.  While I turn the same age this year that my mom died, I am no longer fearful I will have the same fate. I live each day making good memories and regrettable mistakes in parenting, and I know I will make more. I am certain that this is what my mom felt. Holding her cancer fears away from us as young kids, we got to enjoy her as she was. Our mom.

One look at the clock on my iPhone, I realize that we need to go back home to make dinner. My husband will be home soon. We work hard to have dinner together every night. We talk about our day while we eat. My heart swells when I hear my oldest daughter tell her playmates that we have to go home for family time.

As I walk with my girls, the stroller packed and our skin lightly tinted pink, my grief over my girls not having their grandma subsides a little.  Without realizing it, I became my mother. I parent with what I know. It gives me strength to keep doing what I am doing, which is being like my mother with my own spin.

My head is spinning out of control. I feel like I am on a tilt a whirl at the carnival and it’s not stopping. A wave of nausea has hit me so hard I edge my way along the wall in the direction of the bathroom. The antiseptic cleaners sting my nose, which make the room spin harder. I open the bathroom door and drop on all fours, positioning my head over the white bright toilet bowl. The next wave of nausea convinces me that I am going throw up. However, nothing happens. This position hurts my back so I sit my bum on the hard cement floor. What is wrong with me? I need to go back into the room to tell my Grandma I want to leave mom’s hospital room. Everyone is crying. My mom is not able to speak. I do not understand what is going on.

“Everything okay in there?” A man’s voice asks.

I realize I am not actually in that hospital room. I am in my own bathroom, in my own house. Its twenty-two years later and I am nauseous again, but for a very different reason. My big, swollen belly is making it hard for me to get up. My husband comes in and dabs a cold cloth on my forehead while I steady myself on the sink.

I cannot tell him what I just experienced. I do not understand it myself.

He yawns as he asks me if I want to lie down on the couch or upstairs in our bedroom.

“The couch. I can’t do more stairs”. In the ten steps it takes to get to the couch, I stop twice for contractions.

It is Day 2 of labour without any hope in sight. The contractions are every ten minutes for thirty-six hours now. We have just gotten back from our second attempt to be admitted at the hospital.

After I am settled on the couch I realize it is 2:30 am, so I insist my husband to go to bed. He hands me my cell phone so I can call him if anything happens. His will be beside him in bed.

The house is very still. I turn on the television in hopes of distraction. It does not help. I cannot get my mind off my bathroom flashback.

I really could use my mom right now.

 

I was ten years old when she died of breast cancer. When I had that intense bout of nausea outside her hospital room, I did not know that four hours later she would pass away. Even though it has been over twenty years, I still miss her.

I want to ask her about what she went through when she was in labour with my younger sister and I. One of my labour fears is that I will give birth to a big baby as my sister and I were both over eleven pounds. I am uncertain if our births were natural or by c-section. I am almost ready to wake up Michael. The loneliness is too much to bear. It is my finally throwing up that wakes him.

After seventy hours of labour we have a healthy baby girl named Alexa Patricia weighing 8 pounds, 12 ounces. After one night in the hospital, we are released to go home. I could not wait to show Alexa her home and her new crib and our cats.

We arrive as a threesome to a quiet house and quickly realize we do not know what to do. Do we just hang out?  Based on what the pregnancy and baby books recommend, I ask for no visitors until we are settled at home for a few days. I cuddle with Alexa as Michael heats up a frozen entrée from our full fridge. Another tip from the books is to stock up your cupboards for the first few weeks.The books are my only resource with the exception of a few friends. What family we have live acrossCanada. In my baby photo album, the photos show grandparents, aunts and uncles surrounded in the house the day I came home. My mom is pictured in a comfortable chair with her feet up, eating or socializing. I am passed around for photo opportunities, being the first grandchild and niece on my moms and dads side.

 We eat our dinner with Alexa sleeping on my chest. I take the first night shift and let Michael go to bed for a few hours. The rest of the night we take turns to feed and burp.  We are proud of how we are doing it together as new parents. My soul hurts not being able to share this wonderful day with my mom.

 During my 3am shift, I look at our little bundle in my arms. My next breath brings panic.  What if I have the same fate as my mom? What if I am gone before I can tell my child about all these moments? I am thirty-three years old, the same age as my mom when she was diagnosed with cancer for the second time. My mom died at thirty-eight. I have taken care of myself as much as possible by having regular mammograms, watching my diet, exercising and fund raising for breast cancer. I yearn to record my history and Alexa’s stories, just in case.

I settle in the feeding chair with her. In my right hand I grab a pencil and notepad. I pen my first children’s book about our aging cat, Harley. Pictures are what I have of my mom and my childhood, but it is not enough. My child may not remember him so it excites me to put my love for him into a book.  If my story ends early on Earth, my child will know, in my words, how much I love them.

Two years later, I am in a birth room at the hospital that I gave birth to Alexa. I am hunched over the table with my naked spine facing the anaesthetist who is prepping the epidural. I am one week early from my due date with my second girl. The gender already confirmed by many ultrasounds. It has been a half an hour of the drug doctor poking at my back and nothing is working. I overhear him tell the doctor who is to perform the caesarean that he will try a spinal tap. My body is shaking so hard. Shivering to the point that I can’t talk clearly. The hospital smells are making my head spin in an all too familiar way. In a room full of people, I feel so alone. Hospital rules say that my birthing partner (my husband) has to wait outside until the i.v. hook up is done. Two nurses are trying to hold me in position with a warm blanket draped over my shoulders to try to calm my nerves. Tears are racing down my face. . I am thirty five years old and I want my mommy. I am scared that my fate is sealed and I will never make it to see my children.

Finally, the staff tell me that they need to put me under to get the baby out. I beg them to let me tell my husband. He will still have to stay outside for the birth. They let Michael in briefly. All I can get out of my mouth is that I am sorry he will miss the birth, and if anything happens save our child over me. I black out.

In a morphine haze, I open my eyes confused.  I can hear my name being repeated followed by questions if I am still in pain. Then, I hear my husband’s voice telling me we have another beautiful healthy baby girl. The fog clears, my eyes focus on my Michael’s face. Relief washes over me like crashing ocean waves as I hear him say that Jessie Torianne is okay. She is 10 pounds and 13 ounces. She has all her fingers and toes. The staff tell me she has a great set of lungs. I am alive. I made it through the surgery.

Hospital procedure states that all post caesarean babies must remain in ICU for ninety minutes until being reunited with their mom. Michael shows me pictures of her on the digital camera.

Jessie arrives in to our room right at the ninety-minute mark. Michael passes her to me from the hospital bassinet. I introduce myself to her. She is fast asleep. I can not take my eyes off of her. She is perfect. I want to show her off to my mom. I ache to call her with the news and have her burst into the room in full grandma glory.

Jessie stirs and opens her hazel eyes to look at me. Her expression of joy to be here reminds me of how my mom looked every time she got to come home after chemotherapy. It is as if my mom is here. As a legacy gift to her, both of our girls carry her given names. They carry a piece of her always.

My gift to my girls and their children will be to write my momoir stories. The stories I write for my girls is also great therapy for me. It fills a void in my life in hopes my girls will not feel what I have felt.

 

 

 

I breathe in the cold brisk air. I can do this, I tell myself. And with one big grunt, I heave the garage door handle up with all the strength I could gather. Not one budge. A hot coal fire races around my belly. Every now and again, I forget that the c-section and tubal ligation  I had was just five weeks ago. I should not be over doing it- doctors orders. However, it has been snowing hard for five days and I am aching to get out of my house – drive somewhere that is not here! . So far, it seems Mother Nature is not going to let us. The snow is packed up so high; I cannot get the garage open. Our only option is another walk, but we live in suburbanFraserValley, the sidewalks are stacked with the leftover snow from the plowed streets

.        My two-year-old daughter, Alexa, asks if we are going yet. I sigh as I tell her we are going to play in the snow instead. I layer her with more clothes and the five-week-old baby with more blankets. Carrying a sleeping infant in her carseat in one hand, and my toddler’s little hand in the other, we step back out into the white, white world.

       I would sell my soul to the devil himself if I had help today. I am so tired and sore from the birth, and I know I just need some sleep. I congratulate myself for getting my tubes tied at the same time as the caesarean. I cannot do this again, alone. All our family members that used to live close have either moved or passed away. There have been two deaths this month- my maternal grandmother (heart attack at 94 years old) and a dear family friend (cancer). My mom died almost twenty – five years ago. My dad and I are estranged (long abuse story). My in-laws are spread across the country. I have friends, but they have their own families and the same weather predicament as I do. So when my husband walks out the door at half past six every morning, I am the village raising the girls until he returns home ten or eleven hours later.       

 My sister and her husband live an eight-minute car ride away. They are the only babysitters we have that we can trust and afford (free). They have their own lives and trying to start a family. My husband has one sister who lives a few towns away but they have not spoken in many years.

     Before we had kids, our village used to feel bigger. When I was pregnant, I had many co-workers, friends and family offering help. I felt we would be okay with all the help around. But when our first baby arrived, the offers never materialized due to careers, pregnancies of their own, health (grandma and my godmom had physical ailments and could only be sympathetic on my baby issues) and a general freak-out amongst our friends who had never been around a baby. We were truly on our own.

      And so, I have had to take my girls everywhere – from the hair salon to banks, doctors, lawyers, funerals, Weight Watchers and grocery shopping. I refuse to hermit myself and use them as excuses to not do things. That would be the easy way. This way I show them that you make the best of what you have. They are my life and I need to do things to keep our lives going.

Like when Michael had to leave for two days because of work again. I was scared to be solo parent for the next 48 hours. I prepped as much as I could by making extra bottles and meals. We were not as worried about our baby as she sometimes does not see him in the morning or night because she is a good sleeper. Our three year old is Daddy’s girl. The first day he left, I kept us busy in her usual routine. Thankfully, it was a pre-school day so she had play time and I had a tiny break with just one kid. I made a favorite dinner of macaroni and cheese. They both went down first night at 7:10pm. I was not sure what to do with myself. I had prepped so hard to have the house needs done that I actually had to do something for me. Girl Guides knocked. I turned them away (blame Weight Watchers). I crawled into bed with a book and was out at 9:30.

The second day was much harder. We did not have any plans and no friends were available to play. The girls were cranky therefore trying on my last frayed nerve. That night Alexa, (the three-year-old) was up screaming for daddy for six hours. After he returned and all was well, it perplexes me after all that, I have just as much done when he is home as when he was not at home.

It is hard to forget how her arrival wreaked havoc in our marriage in the early months. I was shell-shocked at the end of the day. He did not get up at night much with us because he is a heavy sleeper and works in construction. I did not want him sleepy up a ladder or roof. It got to me, the power I gave him to continue on the life he knew before and after our baby arrived. It was partly my fault; I encouraged him to have his weekly guys’ nights. I did not take any personal time for myself. He still expected me to be the old me.  One night after I had been awake for thirty-six hours because Alexa was cutting her eyeteeth and would only sleep if I were rocking her. I could not wait until Michael got home. Alexa and I did not make it out of the house all day due to my lack of energy. I walked all three floors of our townhouse at least a hundred times.  There was not one person who could relieve me so I could nap. Too tired to eat or even having a free hand to make anything, I just kept her as comfortable as I could. It amazes me that our neighbor did not complain about the sound. During the dinner hour, I missed Michael’s call because of her vocals; I checked the message and my blood boiled. I almost went to the bar he was stopping for a quick after work drink. I kept my anger in check for Alexa’s sake. I got her ready for bed and miraculously she went to sleep in her crib. I climbed into bed but could not sleep. The only sound was the traffic humming outside. I waited in the dark until I heard the key in the front door exactly one hour after he left his message. When he stepped into the bedroom and closed the door, the land mine that has been charging in me-exploded. He came out in defense. Out came all the anger and frustration that I have held in since getting (a surprise) pregnant  vented out before I could stop it. By one o’clock in the morning, he was on the couch sleeping and I remained in our bed.  I made a decision that I was ready to call it quits on this marriage. I am the sole parent even if he is here or not. In the morning light (after four hours of un-interrupted sleep), we talked and talked. We cleared the air. Both of us promised to try better to help each other. I started to actually feel like I knew what I was doing. That all changed when the stick turned blue with baby number two,

      It is tough to hear moms complaining when their own mothers cannot come watch the kids so they can go to the spa or off somewhere with their husbands. On the Halloween party day at Alexa’s pre-school, it was just Jessie and I representing the cheering squad. I tried to get a seat on the end so I could take pictures for Michael (who was out of town) and keep one hand on Jessie who was cranky because it is past her afternoon naptime. It was so crowded by the time we got there I had to sit on the floor off to the side of the classroom. The room filled with grandmas, grandpas, moms, dads, aunts and uncles of her classmates. Jessie was clingy to me as I tried in vain to find the camera in the diaper bag. Crap. I see it in my head sitting on the coat rack at home. I tried to take pictures with my camera phone. It was hard, given our low view. After the scarecrow song I caught Alexa’s eye-the look of pride she beamed to me dissolved any pity I had.

My heart aches every time I am at the store or mall with my girls and I see my toddler

 watching intently at a grandma with her grandchildren. I give my girls everything I can but I cannot give them family in their daily lives. A sad twist of life that my two daughters only have one grandma who lives afar and passes through town for small visits every few months.

At her tender age, my eldest daughter has known, loved and lost two great-grandmas and a foster grandma.

Now being a mom makes me miss mine so much more. There is so much I would have loved to know about when I was as a baby. My time between my mother dying of cancer when I was ten until I finally moved out at sixteen was a very dark and abusive by my father’s wrath. To say I was bitter at my mom for leaving us would be an understatement.

I had a huge village growing up. During my mom’s multiple stays at the hospital, both sets of grandparents would take turns caring for my younger sister and I. We loved it but it was tough not having our mom to do stuff that other moms did. I remember being over at sleepovers and seeing my friends’ moms doing things my mom could not do. My mom could not bake or stand long in her later years due to the side effects of chemo. She did watch me ice skate every chance she got. My mom told me she loved me every day,many times a day. Her favorite line was that she loved us more than a million oceans which I tell to my girls’ daily.  I did have to fix dinner some nights when my dad worked and no one could help. I got to watch shows with her late if she did not want to be alone. I think that is why I still love Young and The Restless (her favorite soap) I would play dress up with her vast collection of purses.

The weeks passed by after she died,  people stopped coming. Little did I know my mom was the glue that kept her family to us. Her family did not like my dad. My grandparents and aunts had been there to help because they knew that she was on borrowed time. My sister and I were shuttled around for Thanksgivings and Christmas time.

The house seemed very quiet this year at Thanksgiving . Since last Thanksgiving, before our youngest daughter was born, our world lost eight loved ones (four cancers, two heart attacks and two killed). The losses never showed its immense presence until the holidays.

We began the day casually in our pajamas until ten o’clock in the morning. Then it was out for a trip to the park in the gorgeous fall sun. There were no early wake-ups to put the turkey in the oven or no crowded house like the ones we had growing up during the holidays.

I watched Jessie munching away at her peas and carrots in her highchair. Alexa sitting like a big girl, scooping mashed potatoes with her fork into her wide-open mouth. Sitting across from me was my husband of almost seventeen years. Only four dinner settings on our table. I know I should be thankful on our youngest daughter’s first Thanksgiving but I am not. All there is this Thanksgiving are burnt pots on the stove showing evidence of my attempts to make my first Thanksgiving dinner for the four of us.

Our baby (who turns one in eight days) starts to convulse in giggles-the kind that starts from her toes- because her three-year-old sister is making faces. I break out of my pity party and say a silent prayer of thanks for my babies and marriage. Our family is smaller but healthy and happy.

As much as I am the primary care giver from 6:30 am until 5pm and nightshifts, I still need the village that I have. This is what it is like to be a single parent. I do not like it or want it. My village may be small and messy but I will take it. We end up parenting our way with no outside influences. Our village is our home that has no back door.