The Extremes of my Heart May 16, 2008

My baby lies on my bed, still smelling of lavender soap, fresh out of the bath. His hair, the colour of a freshly minted copper penny, curls tight atop his head. His blue eyes shine with mirth as we play a game of mirroring our tongues sticking out. I kiss his velvet soft round tummy and he squeals with delight.

I can feel my heart expand with absolute unconditional love. The warmth in my chest radiates throughout my body and I know this feeling of peace and joy is infused with the presence of God—this is bliss.

Three days later, my baby lies on my bed whimpering. His whole body is an angry red and he is so hot I can barely touch him. The thermometer reads 40.4°C. I check, that’s 104.7 ° F. How can that be? I just gave him fever medication an hour ago. Why isn’t it working? The decision is made in a fraction of a second—we are off to the hospital. The night is cool. I thank God for that. Then I continue my conversation with God pleading for my son’s health as I drive to the nearest hospital, speeding through the empty roads, adding another thank you for a clear path. I sling my baby close to my chest as I run through the automatic doors of the emergency room.

My heart has imploded. It is encased in a block of ice and ceases to beat, but I can still feel my pulse roaring in my ears. The fear I have for my son’s safety is physically painful. I have to remind myself to breathe. I still talk to God, begging, pleading. He answers me with a temperature drop of one degree. He is here with me. He is here. I hold my baby to my chest and his heat begins to melt the ice around my heart. Everything is going to be just fine.

Three days later, as I change my son’s diaper he gives me a grin and sticks out his tongue. Complete Utter Bliss.

A mother’s escape March 2, 2008

I lay there enveloped in the enticing aroma of lavender mingled with fig, and the lightest hint of ink drifting from a paperback novel. The bubbles caress my nude body, dying little by little as they are exposed to air and movement. I’ve escaped to a distant world in an unreachable era, taking on the persona of a princess being denied her heart’s desire. I know certain bliss…until a loud rap at the door calls me back to reality.

“MOM! I can’t find my English paper and it’s due tomorrow.”

I try to centre myself. “It’s on the counter beside your agenda. Why are you not in bed?” Silence is my reply. Back to the book. Another knock.

“Hon, your son just threw up on my last clean uniform for work. Tell me you’ve hidden the dry cleaning somewhere.”

Deep breathe. “It’s in the front closet… where I always leave it. Is he okay?”

“Yeah, I just bounced him too much after his bottle. Are you almost done in there? How dirty can you be?”

Very, very dirty. I may never come out of the washroom ever again. “I’m getting out now.”

One more scene, one more moment of peace before I go back and face the world. The last bubble pops, and the water now chilled, I pull the plug.

What’s Next Part Deux January 30, 2008

I’m posting part two today, because I received some great advice last night. I went to a Virtues Project workshop and we practised active listening and validating with virtues. My partner happened to be a counsellor, what luck! I told her my latest life crisis and to make a long story short she reminded me that I am still very young, and I have lots of time to go out there and help humanity once my children have grown. She said she is very busy now that her kids are 26 and 28, and her mother is also a therapist still seeing patients at 85 years old! I guess my potential for living another fifty years doesn’t readily come to mind since my grandparents all died in their sixties, and my mother’s health is so poor in her late fifties, and my father is in a nursing home with dementia at 65. I forget that lots of people live and thrive much longer. I was also reminded that I take much better care of my health, after all health is my vocation.

So today, I’m focusing on being present in the present. My husband and I are going on a date this Sunday and I am going to talk to him about taking home learning courses. I’m still debating over Homoeopathy or doing a master’s in psychology to be a therapist myself. Learning from home and being with my children, and when they are gone all day I’ll have a certificate to build a practise with.

I am, of course, still writing and I’ve promised myself to schedule some writing time into my week, and actually write during the time I’ve set aside. Writing may not bring in cash or save the world, yet, but it keeps me happy and sane so I have to make it a self-care priority. I also ordered Writer Mama. I’d still love to make a couple of bucks while home, writing to my hearts content. (Thanks for the suggestion andreamcmann)

What’s next? January 28, 2008

Now that we have more people in the house than rooms in which to house them, we’ve been contemplating buying a bigger home. That, of course, would involve a bigger mortgage. And now the whole house hunting thing brought up a declaration from my dear husband that he feels the weight on his shoulders from us being a single income family. This, of course, makes me feel like I SHOULD be working outside the home. Hubby also likes to point out every news article about the nursing shortage and every classified add for nurses. But what he doesn’t realize is how much my working as a nurse would completely change our lives. Sure, I’d be making an excellent salary, putting our income well above six figures, but it also means working twelve hour shifts, nights, weekends, and holidays. And nursing is very demanding physically and emotionally. And I find that keeping this house with four kids a full time job as it is, I can’t imagine working as a nurse in addition to all this! Hubby complains about the chores he does now, I’m sure we’d both be completely burnt out if I went back to work as a nurse.

So why do I feel so GUILTY about not having an income when the arguments against working are so many?

Then comes into play my own feelings about contributing to society, about what I want to be when I grown up. I have this huge part of me that is not happy if I’m not making a difference in the world. I don’t know where it came from, but I can’t stifle it. That’s who I am, I just have to live with it. I’ve tried my best to convince myself that raising four wonderful socially-minded children is a great gift to humanity, but try as I might it still doesn’t feel like enough. I can be very very hard on myself! Writing is great because I can be inspirational and put out a message of hope, but it takes so long to publish a book and the money takes even longer to come. Besides the fact that it’s not taken completely seriously around here so I have to write in rare moments of downtime, unlike going to work 9 to 5.

I would love to be a motivational speaker, or a teacher, or a counsellor, but all those would require that I do some sort of studying, and invest money and time into myself.

I could go back to practising natural medicine, which involves a lot of teaching and counselling, but it also involves finding patients in the small pocket of the population that believes in what you do– that doesn’t think you are a crook and a quack. And the money is not spectacular there, probably not enough to cover daycare as a girlfriend that I studied with is complaining out. Definitely more of a labour of love. And I would have to take a refresher course as I haven’t been keeping up with the newest research and trends. Again, money and time.

So… I’m stuck folding laundry and mashing homemade baby food, feeling like I should have some sort of game plan for when the kids are in school full time, at the very least, if not sooner. What do I do? Do you ever feel that you need to be more than a mom? Am I totally nuts to want to do more, as if I don’t already do so much?

TV’s Heroes January 18, 2008

Where are the Heroes of Television?

I’m a huge advocate for equality between men and women but that doesn’t mean I think we should demean men to make women look better. Yet, the media is saturated with portrayals of dimwitted men dating, or married to, strong women. I’m referring to sitcoms like “According to Jim” and to commercials like the ones for Diet Pepsi where the man photocopies his butt, or wears a jacket from the 80’s. It seems to me that in the age of political correctness we have gone from making fun of the ethnic, of women and of the handicapped to ribbing the White Man, surely he can take one on the jaw for the sake of comedy.

But what are we teaching our kids? That white men are all morons? I don’t want my son growing up to admire men that dumb down to look cool, and I don’t want my girls to date and marry men with no ambition because they think intelligence is for geeks and losers.

And people wonder why women read romance novels; at least they’re guaranteed to contain a strong, intelligent and caring man with goals.

A Mother’s Journey to the Baha’i Faith November 30, 2007

I have always searched for meaning in my life, always believed in the equality of all of mankind, always knew that I was put on this earth for a purpose—to serve humanity. Becoming a mother didn’t change that, if anything it made the search more crucial.

My mother says that I’ve tried every religion and she is not too far from the truth. I have definitely read-up on just about every faith and loosely practised most of the eastern beliefs in my adulthood—drifting toward Buddhism for its peace-loving qualities in a world where most wars and conflicts are related to religion. But having four children instilled a sense of urgency in me to find something more authentic than meditating sporadically, as I struggle to explain the complex ideas of material detachment and cessation of suffering to young children, yet celebrate all the Christian holidays, and irregularly attend my husband’s childhood church. Not only did I need something to believe, but in the face of the media’s overwhelming influence I needed my children to believe in God and to be with him everyday.

I had heard my Homoeopathy professor talk about the Baha’i faith on several occasions, and his talks always gave me a sense of peace and understanding, so my husband and I went to him for some insider information, which became my first step toward becoming Baha’i. Over the next year I read about the faith—a lot, I helped my oldest daughter do a project on the Baha’i faith for Girl Guides, I enrolled my two older girls in Baha’i children classes and brought my younger kids to virtue based Baha’i playgroup.

While each step was done for the benefit of my children, I began to take much more from the journey than I had anticipated, and soon I was attending Devotional gatherings and taking adult classes. I couldn’t deny that my soul was the soul of a Baha’i.

My husband has remained a follower of the United Church and we still celebrate the Christian holidays in addition to the Baha’i holy days. We teach our children about Jesus and the other manifestations of God including Baha’u’llah, we teach the Virtues, and most of all we teach them by example that we can live united with two faiths in one home.

The countdown to Rodlessness October 29, 2007

This is it. There are exactly seven days left of Rod’s parental leave. He goes back to work next Monday, leaving me alone with the kids for an unthinkable nine hours a day. You’d think that a nurse who can care for ten sickly patients for twelve hour shifts could handle sending two kids off to school and placating two others for the day. Ah, but it is not so simple.

A nurse doesn’t have two of her patients at each other’s throats from the time they open their eyes, playing with Barbie dolls instead of eating their breakfast, or trying to get out of the house in outfits that barely cover the essentials. (Okay, maybe I have had a few patients try to leave the hospital with their bums sticking out of a hospital gown, but that’s besides the point.) All the while, a two year old is stripping down to her birthday suit and creating a mural of peanut butter fit for the Louvre, and the baby decides today is the day to push out a tooth. All my training at multitasking comes into play on such days, and I am quite thankful that a nurse manager isn’t there to comment on my occasional unprofessional way of dealing with the four of them. But, that’s if we’re having a bad day.

On a good day, Sarah actually helps Vicky and tolerates her theatrical nature, Erin sits at the table to eat her breakfast and Anderson gnaws at a chew toy, as his sisters gush at his dimples and curls. The older girls leave for school on time, then we have a play date or go shopping in the morning and the younger ones nap at the same time after lunch so I can write four or five pages. That is a perfect day.

Here’s to hoping for lots of perfect days while Rod is off battling the bad guys. I guess I should be thankful I don’t have to do that too.