Mom Break - Do It!

I’m on a mom break. How luxurious! And how desperately needed!!! I am sitting blissfully alone (except for the other cafe-goers) at a lovely little vegetarian and vegan cafe, The Clever Rabbit, that I had no idea existed and only discovered as I was walking to check out a different new and promising-looking destination in Edmonton, Barking Buffalo Cafe.

Unfortunately, the Barking Buffalo, awesome-writer's-hangout though its name implies, turns out really to be much more clothing store than cafe, and after waiting a few minutes at the counter listening to a clothing peruser wax long on the buxomness of his wife and his concern for the fit of the article he was considering, and observing the only employee first paw leisurely through shirts then stroll to the back, presumably to look for other sizes, and eyeing the few tiny tables nested between displays of shirts and pillows, I decided this might not be quite the atmosphere I was looking for to enjoy my long-anticipated mom break. I may return at some point to the Barking Buffalo. They had some interesting textiles, and I'm intrigued by the idea of locally produced clothing. But today I'm looking for coffee and food and a peaceful place to blog for the first time in eight months.

And it turns out The Clever Rabbit is just what I was looking for. The lights are a little glaring, but the Winter Soy Latte is lovely, the music has been soothing and enjoyable so far, the very friendly co-owner (I presume) is heartwarming to watch as he walks his two-month-old baby in and out of the kitchen while delivering food and managing the cash one-handed, and the salt and pepper shakers are ceramic rabbits! Perfect!

I am eagerly anticipating carrot ginger soup and red lentil curry . . . to be eaten leisurely, thoughtfully, and alone. This hasn't happened for me since early July. That's four straight months of uninterrupted mom time, meaning that in the last four months, I have not enjoyed one single daytime hour without at least one child present with me.

Awesome guys! But in all good things, a level of moderation is required.

Okay, I'm exaggerating a tiny bit: Last week I did have a fifteen-minute stretch alone as I entrusted the little boys to their big brother and raced down the street to the grocery store for basil so that I could make pesto pasta for dinner. But, you know, I'm going to go out on a limb here and suggest that running in and out of the grocery store that's two-minutes down the street, worrying the whole time that perhaps you made the wrong parenting call by leaving the four and five year olds in the hands of their ten-and-a-half year old brother rather than pack them all in the car and trek them down the street and through the store for basil, does not exactly qualify as a "mom break" or "time to yourself."

But since I opened the topic, I will also go out on a limb and acknowledge that perhaps this was indeed a poor parenting decision. Chris definitely did not support this action of rogue parenting and was horrified to hear I left the children alone for fifteen minutes. For anyone else who is worried, if it helps, I returned home to find the house still standing, no one fighting, no one injured, and Owen helpfully wiping his smallest brother's bum and leading his middle brother in cleaning up the little pee accident that occurred when an extra-tricky pants fastener couldn't be negotiated quite in time. I had told Owen on my way out the door that he wouldn't get paid for this short "babysitting" stint (an expectation that may have been set when we discussed recently that, once he's a little bit older, he can take a babysitting course and make money babysitting), but I reneged on that as soon as I walked in the door and discovered him managing such heavy lifting as poo and pee clean up with both dedication and good humour. I felt a little guilty for leaving him in charge, gave him a toonie, and told him how proud I was of how responsibly he'd handled the situation.

. . . And the pesto pasta was enjoyed and enthusiastically devoured by all. . . except Christopher, who was out having an after-work beer with colleagues, and therefore unavailable to, you know, run to the store to grab basil.

But, anyway, back to the topic of mom break and my claim that I've had a child chained to me every waking moment for the last four months. Full disclosure again: In early October, we took a week-long vacation to the Okanagan, western Canada's wine country (I know; something sounds wrong about that phrase, but it is an amazing place and worth the trip). In the middle of the week, Chris took the boys out on his own for a whole afternoon. Unfortunately, I was so sick with morning sickness (totally a topic for a different post) that I spent the entire time sleeping. So there. Doesn't count. I wasn't awake.

And of course, there's the one-to-two hours each evening that Chris and I spend in the family room together once the children are all in bed. But, come on, really? The evening hours, when your totally exhausted, and the only thing standing between you and your bed is the knowledge that this is the ONLY time you've had all day without a child present and once you lay your head to your pillow the next thing you will see upon opening your eyes is a child standing beside your bed asking, "Mom, is it morning time yet?" and, looking at your clock, you will be forced to admit that yes, indeed, it is morning time and everyone has to get up: That doesn't count either.

Oh . . . and then I guess there were those two Sundays in early September when I went to UU church by myself. Hmmm . . . I can't really think of a reason why those outings wouldn't count as a legitimate mom break . . .

But regardless! With all those disclosures made, I will declare that these last four months have been the longest stretch of (nearly) uninterrupted mom duty I have perhaps ever endured.

So, what the hell happened? Why, when we currently have no breastfed baby in the house, do I have a child chained to me seemingly every waking moment? Is Chris laid up in traction from a horrible accident? Is a child terribly ill and requiring round-the-clock care? No. It seems to be the simple reality of stay-at-home mom life with a kindergarten and a pre-school age child.

For the bulk of July and August, the kids and I were packed, with Charles the dog, in the Hyundai Elantra on a giant cross-country road trip. Over the course of 6+ weeks we covered over 5000 miles trekking from Edmonton to Green Bay, Green Bay to Muskoka, Muskoka to Ottawa, and back again. This trip, with highlights like Bay Beach, Lake Michigan, Grandma and Grandpa's cottage, underground caves, Parliament Hill, the Canadian War Museum, and more was great for everyone, but after a few weeks, I have to admit the constant togetherness and close quarters of the Elantra and shared bedrooms was starting to get to me.

The Road Trip Crew

Then we returned home, and soon school began. Now, every weekday, Owen and Peter head off to school while David stays with me. Then, since Edmonton still operates on half-day kindergarten, David and I trek off to the school (which is on the other side of the city) and do a switch-a-roo; we fetch Peter from kindergarten, hang around and have our lunch, and then drop David at afternoon preschool. Peter and I pass the hours together until pick-up time, and then fetch David and Owen. The four of us trek back home again, and homework, viola lessons, and general chaos ensue while I make dinner.

With a sixth grader, a morning kindergartener, and an afternoon preschooler,
we are making this journey back and fourth three times a day. Ugh.

This (rather humdrum) routine leaves me always with at least one child . . . always. And, for the last few months, weekends haven't been any better. All week long, while I'm stuck in the car driving back and forth to the school, nothing at the house is getting done. By the time the weekend rolls around, I feel there's no other choice but to spend the entire weekend triaging our domestic situation . . . children present of course.

After a couple months of this, I can tell you, unequivocally, that constant close proximity to your children is a bad idea. I know I'm revealing something really earth shattering here: parents need a break.

I know this because, over the last few weeks, something very troubling has develop. I cannot enjoy my children. Funny antics that should make me laugh, chaos that should make the house feel full of life, questions that deserve an answer, conversations that should be a joy to have -- it's all annoying the hell out of me. I don't want to talk. I don't want to listen. I don't want to be touched. I have no patience. I feel constantly tense, crowded, frustrated, and annoyed. I'm an unpleasant person with no emotional resilience. And, frankly, in such a state, I'm a pretty rotten parent.

And it's my fault. I haven't prioritized being alone. I haven't made the time. I haven't asked for help. There are lots of legitimate reasons, from dirty dishes to piles of laundry to gloomy days to total exhaustion to not wanting to further burden an equally exhausted partner. But those reasons don't change the fact that I'm becoming less and less able to cope as a parent, and it's not fair to the people I'm parenting.

Who can decide to leave the house when the living room looks like this?

But, great news!!! How often do you have a situation where, in order to do the best thing and the right thing for someone else, you have to do something nice for yourself??? Pretty awesome! So I'm going to enjoy the rest of this latte, eat this beautiful, healthy food that has arrived at my table (without me having to cook it), and, instead of feeling guilty and selfish for spending this time alone and away, I'm going to feel a sense of accomplishment for taking the time to do something for myself that, in the long run, is in the best interest of us all.

Worth Waking Up For

Right now, I'm doing something I haven't done in months: starting my day at 4 a.m.

By 10 a.m., I'm going to feel this. And by the 3 p.m., it's really going to hurt. But right now, it's luxuriously peaceful:

Nothing is stirring out there.

Getting up at 4 is something I started when I was still working for Yahoo. At 4 a.m. (mountain time), even the NY office wasn't online yet, and I'd have some quiet time to catch up. But better yet, it was a chance for some solitude before the BHE. That stands for Boy-Household Eruption -- it's an explosive event that begins daily anywhere between 6:45 and 7:30 a.m. and enters it's cool-down phase 12 hours later.

I've now had the little boys out of daycare and been on full-time mom duty for two months. I had designs on being "the best mom ever," but I have to admit, it's hard to maintain one's sanity with the BHE going on all day long. Getting them out of the house to the library, or to rec centre activities, or even just to the grocery store, definitely helps. But right outside our front door, there's a giant barrier that sucks a big percentage of the joy from every out-of-the-house, should-be-fun activity, leaving that activity just a withered husk of we-have-to-do-this-because-it's-good-for-us.

That barrier is called bitter Alberta winter. It requires every inch of child skin be covered, preferably with something big and bulky, before they walk out the door, every kilometre of snow-covered, ice-slicked road be traversed via prayers that you may arrive at your destination without getting stuck or rear-ended, and that a huge portion of daily activities be conducted in the dark.

So, this time of year, especially if you have little kids, virtually every aspect of life outside the house begins to feel like one long, exhausting, unpleasant, and potentially dangerous chore. Many days, we just stay home. And on the positive side, there has been some great industriousness at home:

Mom's Industriousness: 

Building decorative trim for all the downstairs windows.

Peter's Industriousness: 

Sanding under his mother's supervision.

David's Industriousness: 

Waiting until Mom is out of the room, then finding a sharpie he stashed somewhere.

Mom's Industriousness:

Turning spent barley from Chris's brewing into bread.

Peter's Industriousness: 

"Let me help! Let me help!"

David's Industriousness:

"Mom, Peter, look. I'm a zombie."

But, even with opportunities for industry all over this renovation zone, it's hard to keep the boys cooped up all day long. Doing so causes the BHE to become louder, and more violent, and more insanity inducing, as the day progresses.

So over these last two months, adapting to stay-at-home-mom life, there has been no solitude. And no writing. Of course, I've had the intention of writing many times. Blog posts like, "Discovery!!! Good Sushi Exists in Alberta!!!" and "Sooooo . . . They're Actually Picky Because of Me" have begun in the draft folder, and then stayed there.

But, in truth, my lack of writing isn't because I'm too busy or because life with the boys at home is too crazy (although it is pretty crazy!). It's because (in case you couldn't tell from the above) I'm depressed.

Since it's February, I figure many of you can relate. Chris jokes that I'm solar powered, and it's true! Since about December 10th, entering into the truly darkest days of the year, I've had energy and enthusiasm for virtually nothing.

Thankfully, today, the sun will rise at 7:48 a.m. and set at 5:47 p.m. I say "thankfully" because that's a huge improvement from two months ago. On December 21st, the sunrise/sunset times looked like this:

That's a grand total of 7 hours 27 minutes of daylight.

And there are other positive signs on the horizon, too. Today, the temperature is supposed to go above freezing!!! Thank goodness, because in these, the darkest of winter dark days, I've found myself, on almost a daily basis, standing in the kitchen declaring (usually just in my head), "I can't do this again. I can't take another winter. This has to be the last."

Perhaps the lengthening days and promise of warmer temperatures are why, last night, I was finally able to steel my resolve and set my alarm for 4 a.m. Because, I told myself, sometimes you need to take action. You need to do something to break the cycle, to start the day off differently, to force the change you need.

Dear Happy Light,
It's not you; it's me. You've been great.
I just feel unfulfilled somehow -- like I need something more.

I can't force the sun to rise any earlier. I can't force the temperature to climb so I can kick my wild little kids outside, and I can't force those wild little kids to spend two hours drawing peacefully and silently so that I can find some sanity. But I can force myself to get out of bed and create my own space for solitude.

So 4 a.m. . . . yes, it is crazy. But it is also so wonderfully peaceful. And not only am I doing something I haven't done in weeks -- writing -- I'm also enjoying this:

A really great cup of coffee . . . completely by myself. It turns out, that was worth waking up for.

The Importance of the Vessel

Here's something no one knows about me. Chris, if he is very, very observant of my daily patterns might know it . . . but I don't think he does.

Anyone who knows me, does know that coffee is extremely, perhaps unreasonably, important to me. They may know, too, that since Chris became an avid home brewer and undeniable beer expert, beer has become, if not deeply important to me, at least highly respected and greatly enjoyed. A few of you likely also know that I love bowls and treasure a small collection. But here's what perhaps no one but me knows:

If I am kicking off my morning coffee routine with drip coffee, I always drink it from this. This is the only suitable vessel for my cup of drip coffee:

A set of four, given to me by my mother, made at Mud & Fire Studio in Little Meadows, PA, my hometown.

If, instead of drip coffee, I decide (as has been the habit of late) on coffee made in my Italian stovetop espresso maker, then I always drink it from this:

One of two Denby mugs given to us as a wedding gift by friends who now, like us, have three kids, live far away, and who we never get to see.

If Nespresso with cream, this is my cup of choice:

Mass produced somewhere; purchased at a mall in a "mom needs some work clothes and some alone time" outing. It's actually a set of measuring cups, but I thought they deserved to have something wonderful savoured from them rather than just dumping their measured contents and being tossed aside.

But if I'm frothing or foaming milk to turn that Nespresso into a latte or cappuccino, then I will always choose this:

Purchased from Ikea because it was the perfect size for a cappuccino and the perfect simplicity to let something wonderful just be what it is.

Just about every evening, when the kids are all finally in bed, I make myself a hot chocolate--not one of those sicky-sweet-yet-terribly-thin instant mixes. No. Mine is cocoa, milk, and honey warmed on the stovetop, and I always, always, always drink it from this:

Also mass produced and purchased at a mall (the same "mom needs clothes and alone time" outing referenced above). What can I say? The design strikes me as a little bit Russian, a little bit Asian, a little bit 70s Retro, a little futuristic. I love it!

When I paw through cupboards, I can't believe the amount of tea piled in my home. I don't drink it very often, but when I do, I sip it from here:

Two mugs that came to us when Grandma Kay was moved out of her house and downsized to an apartment. Origin unknown, but I love the understated beauty of these and imagine them to be some unappreciated masterpiece that I alone see the greatness in.

Wine is another rarity, but when I do pour myself a glass, it's always in one of these:

Actually, this is sort of a lie. I always drank wine from another set of wine glasses, but the last one broke in a sink full of dishes right before Christmas. This new, equally wonderful set, was one of Chris's Christmas presents to me, and this is now the new wine vessel.

Beer is not a rarity at all, and most frequently, I pour that beer into one of these:

When Chris really got into craft beer and homebrewing, the search for good tulip glasses (that would not cost us $100 for a set of four from The Bay) went on and on . . . and on. And then I happened to walk by a specialty kitchen store on the last day of their going-out-of-business sale. Practically the only things left on the shelves were these tulip glasses. "Chris! Look what I found!" I called as I walked in the door. I was a hero!!!

But if it's a Hefeweisen or a west coast pale or something very crisp and clean. Then I'll pour it into this:

From the first set of beer glasses I bought for Chris in the great beer glass search; it's the soul survivor now, so must never be left to languish in a sink full of dishes.

But this . . . particularity?. . . peculiarity?. . . of mine doesn't just apply to beverages. Even on a busy weeknight, it at all possible, I serve dinner, not from the pans it was cooked in, but from something like this:

From an antique store in Wisconsin.

or this:

From a tree somewhere.

or this:

A wedding gift from another close friend we now rarely get to see.

or this:

Another antique, purchased in Wisconsin.

And even our compost convalesces, and then journeys to its final resting place, in this:

From Lindgren Pottery near Huntsville, Ontario and a decision Chris and I made to prioritize art and beauty in our lives.

I seem to be somewhat OCD about the above (and perhaps a few other things in life, too). It's really not that I just prefer to have drip coffee in a Mud & Fire mug or my hot chocolate in my Russian/Asian/Retro mug. If these things are dirty, I won't just say "Oh well," and grab another mug. I will locate the missing object, wash it, and then proceed with the treasured routine. Even when I am visiting family or traveling, and these chosen objects are not available, I seek out the "right" vessel from what they have available . . . and if there is nothing "right," well, it kind of bothers me. I'll still drink my coffee or beer or whatever, of course, but the experience is just not . . . whole. 

Perhaps I get this from my mother. If you know my mom, really, really know her, you probably know, or have heard someone say, "Well, Joyce is very . . . particular." And its true. She's also very aesthetic and creative and loves beautiful objects and has a close connection with things that are important to her. I love this about her, and I like to think I have some of these tendencies as well.

A few of my mother's more playful things.

It would be easy to think we are this way because we are shallow people, putting far too much value in, and assigning far too much meaning to, goods and products and material things.

Well, maybe. But I really don't think so. Chris and my other family members might laugh at me when they read this, but the truth is, I really don't care that much about things. 

. . . Except for the things I care about. Those things, I care a lot about. And most of them seem to be related to those fundamental pulses that the rest of our daily lives are oriented around: the morning waking ritual, the family sharing of food, the evening relaxation.

Now, I'm not going to go out on a limb and say that the flavor of my coffee or beer or food actually tastes objectively different because it was served in one of these objects I seem to care so much about. But I will say with absolute certainty that my morning coffee, our family meals, my evening hot chocolate are altogether experientially different for the vessels in which they are served.

And this experiential difference is not simply because of the way these objects look, although in all of the above cases, I do think they look very nice and very much enjoy looking at them. Nor is it due to some symbolic value assigned to these objects because of the individual stories of how they came into our possession and the connections to other people in our lives they therefore represent, although that is also certainly important to me and a joy to remember. But (and here you might think I'm a bit on the wacky side--but, hey, I can only drink my coffee out of one particular cup, so maybe so) for me, the experiential difference comes from the objects themselves and something intrinsic, yet mysterious and ultimately unknowable, carried in them from their creation.

Each of these objects--even the mass produced ones--comes from a person, an individual, a creative human. It also comes from a human craft, tradition, history. Someone, somewhere conceived of this object, imagined its design, drawing both on their own creativity and on accumulated knowledge and tradition to do so. In some of these cases, that same person carried out its creation with their own hands, investing, immersing, and expressing themselves in creating the object long before I ever engaged in the experience of using it. I think objects carry something of their creators in them; they are of them, and when using these objects, we are connected in some way to their creators, even though we cannot know those individuals. We are connected, too, to those other creators who contributed to developing that craft, that human tradition, over time.

And for some of these objects, all of the thought and care and tradition of the design is, somewhat amazingly, put forward, not for the object itself, but to pay homage to the creation it will hold and to enhance that creation for the person partaking in it. These are both beautiful in their simplicity and brilliant in their form, form that at once cradles and offers up the beauty and artistry of another. I appreciate this attention to design meant for honoring other crafts every time I look, sniff, sip, and marvel at one of Chris's fermented creations and wonder at his ability to explore, learn, analyze, experiment, and participate in a craft people have been developing for millennia.

I certainly don't consciously think about this every single time I drink my coffee, pass a bowl of food around the table, or lift the lid to drop carrot peelings into the compost. In fact, I'm not sure if I ever really consciously thought about it before writing this post. But I don't think I need to be consciously considering it to be enriched by another human's thumbprint purposefully placed where I will grip my coffee cup, another person's finger tips spun into ridges on the outside of the bowl I grip then pass to my children's waiting hands, another person's consideration and decision on the smoothness of the glaze and the swirling of the pattern across the lid I lift. Whether I'm consciously observing it our not, the experience is better, the pulses of daily life are fuller, connection is deeper, for the human hand that contributed to my small, seemingly mundane, moment of living.

Eating, drinking, breathing, sleeping, gathering our loved ones around us, nourishing them, holding them close, sharing joy with them, and doing our best to secure them: these are the unchanging things that life always has been and always will be. And while there is an impulse to categorize existence into sacred and profane, to view life as important special moments separated by long expanses of mundane, and to assign value to the rare and wonderous but to discount and discard the normal and everyday, this is a limiting and, to my mind, ultimately unfulfilling approach. Life, the sacred, the wonderous, the meaningful, is in the everyday. And those people who put such care and energy, such craft and artistry, into the simple creations we use for the most regular and routine activities, can help us experience something larger than the swallow of that coffee, be connected to something bigger than ourselves and that one routine moment.

So, yes, as my friends and family all know, my morning coffee is extremely, perhaps unreasonably, important to me. And so is the cup I drink it from. The experience, in its entirety, is something I savour every day, day in and day out, and no day would be quite as good, quite as fulfilling, quite as as whole, without it.

The essentials for living.