Where Is the Love?

Sometimes, parenting makes you do crazy things.

It robs you of sleep, sanity, and silence.

It brings you joy, agony, and pride.

But often we don't have the time - or the energy - to really evaluate the toll that parenting takes on our personhood.

Or perhaps, we choose to be less than honest with ourselves about the effects parenting has on us.

I'm not sure if this is more of an issue for primary caregivers, or if partners also feel this way. I don't know because I haven't had time in the past seven years to ask my husband if he's feeling this way, too.

Lately, I have been taking time to reevaluate my life: my career choice (high school English teacher), my procreation choices (late in life), even my spousal choice (more on that in another blog).

I have to say that if I'm being honest with myself, I really don't like any of my choices.

Now, before you dismiss me as ungrateful, or gasp in horror at my audacity, or shake your head at my candour, hear me out:

I love my students. Most of the time, I even love what I do every day in my classroom.

I love my daughters. They are funny and creative and inspiring.

I love my husband. He is and always has been the perfect fit for me. After our first date, I called my mom and told her I was going to marry him.

But I really hate being a teacher.

I hate parenting.

I hate being tied to one partner for life.

*        *       *

This dichotomy has slowly eroded the fabric of my psyche. At first, I thought my feelings were silly, selfish, or just plain psychotic. I dismissed them rather than confront them and sort them out and make peace with them.

As a woman, I feel this is my mid-life crisis.

Here I am, forty-one years old. I have a home that is nearly mortgage-free. I'm halfway to retirement in a secure, government job that pays me nearly enough to be on the bottom of the Sunshine List. I get twelve weeks of holidays. I have an amazing pension plan and my benefits are unparalleled. I have a loving husband who doesn't beat or berate me, who helps with raising our smart and beautiful daughters, and whom I still, for the most part, enjoy spending time with every day. My kids are well-behaved and above average intellectually. My extended family all live within an hour's drive (give or take), and I have excellent relationships with both my mother and my mother-in-law.

It's the perfect life - on paper.

So why am I restless, unhappy, overweight, somnambulant?

I think I've come to a place where I can look back on my life and there's something of significance upon which to reflect. No longer am I a student or a new teacher or a newlywed or a new mother. I am in the trenches. I have history. I have experience. The number of new or exciting experiences or "firsts" in my life are becoming fewer - I have crested the wave, so to speak.

But does this mean I've jumped the shark?

I hope the answer is "no."

Do I dream of exciting new adventures? Travelling without children? Meeting a handsome, intriguing new love interest who notices me? Having time to work out, eat right, look my best?

Of course.

I know this is just a time in my life. I have hope that I will soon once again have a life - mothers with children older than mine assure me of this religiously. "Enjoy them now, this time goes so quickly," they chastise me.

Do they remember?

Do they recall the sheer exhaustion of a two-year-old who wakes EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT...? Who screams and strips down and pees the bed twice a week just because?

Do they forget about feeling so disconnected from their partners that the somewhat balding nerdy guy at the photocopier who notices my new hairdo suddenly seems Herculean?

Did they delete all the photos of themselves with baggy eyes, dishevelled hair, and lumpy thighs?

Or do mothers somehow find a "reset" button that eliminates all memory of the daily grind, replacing it with a rose-coloured lens through which they filter their retrospection?


I don't know the answer. I'm still in this trench. I still long for days of sleeping in, having coffee dates, seeing every new film in theatres, and maintaining an impeccably clean house.

I love teaching.
I love my kids.
I love my husband.

I just don't always love my life.

What hath night to do with sleep?

“What hath night to do with sleep?” 
― John Milton, Paradise Lost

In my former life, I was a student of English literature. I slept very little in university: my friends marvelled at my ability to stay up every night until 2am, yet miraculously never miss my compulsory 8am first year bio classes a few hours later.

Sleep and I have had an unusual co-existence. From a young age, I would awake at 6am and entertain myself with colouring, watching Saturday morning cartoons, or inventing new worlds and imaginary friends for myself (Mary, Gail and Dee-Dee are for another post).

In university, I perfected the art of the power nap. It was nothing for me to finish a class at 1:50pm, nap from 2-2:45pm, and wake without an alarm to make it for my 3pm class. I slept whenever and wherever I could catch my requisite forty winks.

Fast forward to mothering two young children, full time teaching of high school English, and trying to run a household, and sleep seems to be a new beast in my world. There are times when I can easily sleep 12 hours - something I never did in all my years as a teen or university student.

Then there are the rest of those sleepless nights.

At times, it's simply survival mode: my two-and-a-half-year-old insists that she does not need sleep. She screams. She kicks. She slams her crib against the wall. She throws everything out of her crib: gagou (her soother), Clubby (her seal stuffy - don't judge), pillow, bedsheets, blankie. She strips her pajamas and diaper and throws them out as well. Then, in her (repeat) Oscar-winning moment, she pees the bed. Followed by wailing to the point of throwing up.

Sometimes this happens more than once a week. It's exhausting. It's annoying. It's a cycle we seem unable to break with her. She wants her pound of flesh, and the flesh is Momma... if she doesn't get her requisite three hours of my undivided attention a day, this is her payback.

At times, lack of sleep is an evil necessity of my job. I mark papers at all hours - sometimes I'm up past midnight. Sometimes I wake at 2am and decide I might as well mark for an hour. Other times, I set my alarm for 4am and mark until the kids get up at 7am.

Then there are the nightmares. Both of my girls suffer from them, and usually I am the one they want for comfort, cuddles, and reassurances. They return to sleep. Me - not so much.

Recently, my older daughter awoke screaming in pain at 4:30am. It turns out, she was about to rupture her ear drum. I had to take the day off from work to stay home with her, but there wasn't any power napping for Momma that day.

Finally, there are the inexplicable and infuriating nights when I simply wake from an uninterrupted sleep for no apparent reason.

Last night, I had three hours of parent teacher interviews. I met with eighteen sets of parents to discuss how wonderful their kids are and how well they're all doing. I'm not making this up - I didn't have a single complaint from or for any parents last night. It was likely a first in 17 years of teaching.

So why was my brain determined to rob me of much needed rest last night?

I can tell you, I certainly didn't WANT to be awake from 2am until well after 5:30am. I desperately needed sleep. (see: survival mode and ear drum rupture, above)

My brain has a mind of its own. It dictates when I can rest, when I can create, when I can dream. It controls every fibre of my body and my being, but for some reason, it will not let me sleep.

It makes for exhausting days.

It allows me to read 50+ novels a year.

It gives me (far too many) witty comebacks (what else can do I when I'm laying awake at night, mind spinning like a hamster's wheel?)

I solve math problems. I invent sewing patterns. I have long conversations with my dad, wishing he was still here to tell me how to fix things, both literally and metaphysically.

I often joke that I will build a cubby under my desk at work and sleep away the afternoon like George Costanza.

I really need a nap.

To sleep: perchance to dream

So yes… we’ve had a pretty rough month in the Rowan-Campbell household when it comes to sleeping.  Our darling daughter Gwyneth went through quite a transition when she threw that Sousy away, and we are still trying to help her self-soothe and get some sleep.

I must say, the past two weeks HAVE been better.  Little did I know that our method of “sleep training” would stir up such controversy!

I really had no idea that there were such varying opinions on the matter of infant sleep.  Many of my friends were astonished that I would actually PUBLISH on Facebook that I was using the Ferber Method of sleep training.  “You’re brave to admit to that publicly,” one friend wrote, “but I’m in your corner.”

Another confessed that she and her husband used a sleep training method with all four kids, but didn’t tell any of their friends.

So what gives?  I had to learn more.

And learn I did.  Wow.  It just so happens that at the same time we were starting our sleep training with Gwyneth, the Moby Wrap Facebook page posted an interesting graphic – with interesting response!

Now honestly, I thought most of the conversation would centre around not using diapers – there ARE people who don’t, but that’s a discussion for another day – but no.  The overwhelming discussion surrounded the first bullet – having baby sleep in your bed.

Wow.  There are some NASTY people online who apparently like Moby Wrap, but still behave like they’re on the playground in grade one.  I couldn’t believe the comments flying between both camps – the co-sleepers and the non-co-sleepers (for lack of a better term).

We certainly tried several types of co-sleeping.  We started with Gwyneth in a bassinet next to our bed when she first came home from hospital.  But as you might imagine, after three months of sleeping in a busy NICU ward with lights on, bells and beeps and alarms going all night, and nurses bustling about, sleeping next to us in a dark, quiet room was not her cup of tea. 

So, we moved her to the crib and I slept on a twin bed next to her.  This also had mixed results.  She still wanted lights on – and even dim lighting makes it impossible for me to sleep – and we actually played the radio or music all night long for her, as she couldn’t handle the silence of small-town Fergus (where were the crazy kids who annoy us at the school next door on those nights?!?!?).

I have also tried having her in my bed, never for the night, but for naps.  She really doesn’t enjoy this too much. 

So I found the mudslinging amusing.  There were lots of good points on both sides of the argument.  One mom wrote, “All four of my brothers and sisters and I co-slept and we’re fine.”  Others posted links to various arguments in favour of both crib-sleeping and co-sleeping.  Some were over the top – one mom wrote, “This article basically tells you why it’s cruel to put your child in a crib.”  Which is funny, because I read the article, and it didn’t really say that… well, unless you're a cave woman and worried about wild dingoes eating your baby.

I think this mom summed it up nicely:  “There are few groups of people as judgy as moms. Read up on what you want to do, use your own judgement, make YOUR decision and let everyone else do the same.”

And so, that’s what we’re doing.  Gwyneth still takes at least twenty minutes to settle at night.  And last night, I admit I gave in and rocked her to sleep.  Honestly… I kinda like rocking her to sleep.  Because at the end of the day, I realize that soon enough she’ll be thirteen and telling me she doesn’t need a mom.

Might as well enjoy being needed while it lasts.

What charm can soothe her melancholy?

This month’s issue of Reader’s Digest Magazine (September 2012) is devoted to motherhood.  It was both entertaining and sobering to read through the different articles therein – I could relate to many of the truths, and laughed out loud at some of the anecdotes.

One aspect in particular caught my eye, as it relates to several blog topics I have tucked away for future writing.  It was a chart entitled “Parenthood’s hot-button topics,” written by Anita Lahey.

The chart is arranged to analyse the pros and cons of alternate theories in parenting – things like co-sleeping vs. crib sleeping, cloth vs. disposable diapers, and thumb-sucking vs. soothers.

This week our household has been gripped by the latter topic: the soother.

To say my daughter Gwyneth is headstrong is an understatement.  She is a streamlined conversion of her mother’s forthright, blunt, take-no-prisoners approach and her father’s quiet, unassailable stubbornness.  Lucky us.

She emerged from the womb against her will at 27 weeks gestation.  She was all of one pound, seven ounces, but had the voice of a full-term baby.  As one of the neonatal nurses said to me on day five, “This one’s got personality, and that’s all I’m going to say about that.”  Yeah.  Can’t wait until she’s thirteen.

Gwyneth’s safe and healthy birth was miraculous, and because of her strength, we gave her the middle name Maude, which means “battle might.”  We might have regretted that a few times.  Just last week I overhead the hubs say, “Now Gwyneth, it’s time to put Maude away.”

Gwyneth has done everything her way.  Her physiotherapist likes to say, “She’s the boss, applesauce!”  And truly she is.  She has met all her one-year adjusted milestones, but on her terms, no one else’s.  She still has never rolled over, because she thinks being on her tummy is pointless.  She gave up breastfeeding the day after her first birthday with a flourish – she stuck her soother in her mouth and kicked me.

So back to the soother – also known as a pacifier or a dummy to my friends in other parts of the world.  There is great debate amongst parents, parenting experts, and medical personnel about whether a baby should use a soother or not.  Many argue that a soother can cause dental issues, but of course, so can sucking one’s thumb.  I’ve read copious accounts of soothers interfering with breastfeeding.  And of course, there’s always that dreaded future task of getting your child to STOP using a soother.

I have relatives who had a burial for the soother and a short service to say good-bye.  Their son went around saying “Bye-bye paci” for a week after that.  Others I know have thrown it in the garbage.  I have one friend whose daughter was constantly losing her pacifier, and Mom or Dad was regularly heading to the local Target to buy another for her. 

In our case, my daughter was given a soother by the neonatal staff at Mt. Sinai Hospital in Toronto the day she was born.  As it was explained to me, babies born as prematurely as Gwyneth do not have the innate ability to suck that full-term babies have, and so a soother is used to teach them to suck, which in turn helps them to be more successful with breastfeeding.  Who knew? 

And so, against my better judgement and the advice of every nursing guide on the planet, my daughter used a soother from the beginning. 

I have both cursed and blessed that soother.

For the first few months after we came home from hospital, our daughter would fall asleep with her soother.  Then it would fall out, she’d wake up crying, and we’d be out of bed putting in her soother.  I mean, twenty times a night!   I can remember Ian saying to me, “Wow, I can’t wait until she can put that soother back in herself.”

Of course, once that happened, then the issue was feeding.  She really didn’t want to take it out to eat.  Our running joke was that our daughter was a “chain soother” – she’d take a bite of food, then a few drags on the soother, then another bite of food. 

As I have already stated, she nursed.  Her soother really didn’t seem to interfere with nursing, until that aforementioned day when she looked at me, pulled off the breast, and stuck her soother in her mouth.  It was an act of defiance.  She was planting her flag of independence.  I don’t NEED to nurse anymore, Mommy.  I have my Sousy!

That soother has been everywhere with her.  She would take it into the swimming pool with her, where other babies might try to take it from her, or she’d drop it to the bottom of the pool for Mommy to fetch.  She once lost it on a walk when she threw it on the ground and we didn’t notice.  Until we’d walked 2.5 km and she started crying.  Turns out she’d set Sousy free back at the 0.5 km mark.  That was a tedious walk home, at least until we found Sousy at the side of the road near our house.  About a month ago, she started trying to give Mommy or Daddy the soother, especially if she wanted us to stop talking.  

Personality, right?

And then, nine days ago, something miraculous happened.  Gwyneth just threw her Sousy away.

I have secretly been dreading the end of Sousy.  I really thought it would be a long, teary, drawn-out end to a somewhat unhealthy co-dependent relationship.

But for some reason, she just decided she was done.  Sousy went flying across the crib several times before I realized Gwyneth really didn’t want her soother.

Of course, I didn’t believe that could be possible.  So for the next five or six days, I kept trying to give her the soother.  No way.  I’m a big girl, Mommy.  No soother.  She found it on her change table today and threw it across the room.

Now before you get all miserly about the easy time I’ve had with the end of Sousy, I must tell you: it has come at a price.  You see, Gwyneth still needs Sousy.  She can’t soothe herself WITHOUT Sousy.  But she won’t take that soother even if I were to duct-tape it to her mouth.  Don't think I haven't thought of it.

Instead, she just stays up all night.  Every night.  We’re on night ten tonight.

She claws at her clothes.  She throws her stuffed animals across the crib with enough force to break something.  She pulls at her skin.  She crawls around until midnight saying “Uh-oh” and blowing raspberries.  But no soother.

And so, once again, I’ve reduced this issue to a crapshoot.  What’s a mom to do?

I combed through Reader's Digest, but they didn't have any tips for helping moms cope with babies who are fifteen months going on fifteen.

Seriously. Yogurt?

Yogurt. Who knew it could be so complicated?

Remember being a kid, and the excitement when your mom bought you one of those single-serve yogurts in one of four flavours - strawberry, raspberry, blueberry or peach?

How times have changed.

My daughter fell in love with yogurt after one bite. She is yogurt crazy. There are days where other than tuna salad, all she eats is yogurt. (We'll save her tuna fetish for another post...)

But choosing yogurt is complicated. Honestly, I just didn't realize how many yogurt choices are out there. No-fat, low-fat, 2%.  Sweetened with sugar, or Splenda, or aspartame. Plain. Flavoured. Fruit on the bottom. Stirred or set.  Probiotic. Greek. Mix-ins. Parfaits.  For crying out loud, the yogurt aisle is bigger than the snack food aisle!  Don't even get me going on the organic options.

So I go on a hunt for the best yogurt for my daughter. At first I just give her our usual yogurt - a plain, local, organic, full-fat yogurt. This seems okay to me.

But then my family visitor mentions that I should be giving the wee one a higher fat selection. (Yeah. One of my many appointments is a once a week visit from someone at Public Health. I guess they think having a premature baby makes me especially unable to parent.)

So I search high and low. Aha! A Balkan yogurt with 6%. Let's try it.

Nope.  Daughter spits it out.

Then, as I'm standing staring at the yogurt for twenty minutes, a complete stranger asks, "Have you tried this Oikos yogurt?"  No, I say, making conversation. She proceeds to spend the NEXT twenty minutes telling me how great it is, and how the key lime variety is better than dessert, but she can never find it, and she's called every grocery store in Guelph, Kitchener and Cambridge trying to find it.

Seriously. Yogurt?

So next time I hit the grocery store, I take a look and there's the key lime. I decide to buy two packages. And yes... it might actually be better than sex (although considering how infrequent that is for me these days, I wouldn't take my word for it).

I love it so much that I ask the yogurt lady when it's going to be delivered next. Yes. We have a yogurt lady!  For three weeks in a row I buy out all four packages of key lime.

My daughter loves it, but it's only TWO percent fat and has a lot of sugar. So I keep looking.

Next, I find Liberté's Mediteranée yogurt. SEVEN (yup, seven) percent fat. Oh my.

It tastes like eating butter.  I go crazy and buy four packs.  I'm sick of key lime. Mediteranée comes in blackberry, strawberry, citron, vanilla, mocha - they are all incredible.

But I'm really not sure she should have all this sugar. I'd rather add unsweetened apple sauce. So... I keep looking.

And then one day it happens. I find an organic, plain Greek yogurt with TEN percent milk fat.  It looks like condensed sour cream. It sticks to the spoon when I turn it upside down.  My daughter loves it.   I choke back the $6.99 price tag and buy two tubs a week for the next few months.

Then, seemingly at first blush, my new crush vanishes.

I track down my yogurt lady. "What gives?"

It's been discontinued. Who knows why?  She tells me it's been a great seller, but Loblaws won't be carrying it anymore.

I try other stores. I even drive to the next city. No luck. I'm starting to feel like the key lime crazy lady. Soon I'll be calling around!  In my desperation I actually go to Walmart, the final frontier for me in groceries.

And there, nestled in the yogurt cooler, is a brand new yogurt. It's labelled "Best New Product 2012" by Canadian Living magazine. It's Astro Greek Yogurt. Plain.  Unsweetened. Ten percent milk fat.  Only $4.99.

It is everything I have ever wanted in a yogurt. My daughter loves it so much that she finishes the 500mL tub in less than a week. I start making up excuses to drive twenty minutes to Walmart for yogurt.

Then my yogurt stars align.  My local grocery store now sells it, too. I'm ecstatic. I actually dance across the aisle to my husband with two tubs in hand. He walks away quickly and pretends he doesn't know me.

Look out. If I meet you in the yogurt aisle, I'll probably start telling you all about my new crush.

Parenting: It's a crapshoot

The hubs and I have been having an ongoing discussion lately: Does anyone really know ANYTHING about being a parent?

We're new to this job, relatively speaking.  Our daughter is fifteen months old.  Now - we've been through some pretty unusual parenting experiences already.  She was born by emergency c-section when I was 27 weeks pregnant.  We spent our first three months in hospital with her before we brought her home.  It's been a whirlwind of appointments in four different cities across Southern Ontario - oh wait.  They've just added another city for another specialist for yet another slot in my appointment book.  In any case, none of my expectations about my birth plan or my maternity leave or my general ideas of motherhood have been anything close to how life is for us these days.

And so... a blog.  I debated on this for a while.  Why add yet another mommy-blog to the glut?  Well, who knows.  I guess I figured that there are other moms (and dads) out there like us who have realized that no matter how many books you read, or how many people you get advice from (always unsolicited, I might add), nothing goes the way you expect.  That's why there are no experts - just parents who are slogging it out day after day, creating a new normal with each new milestone.

Parenting is a crapshoot.  The stakes are high.  Pony up.