Carey Graffam to the front of the class, please.

When you're pregnant people give you so much advice. "Don't hold the baby too much so as not to spoil", "Put a mitten over their hands so they won't learn to suck their thumbs in infancy", etc...as you know the list goes on and on. Most advice is brainless, some of it is downright ridiculous-see advice quotes above. But all in all we take it in stride with a dash of salt on the side. There are many things, however, people don't tell you. Mostly how labor will be as traumatic as Vietnam flashbacks, and how, once our babies are born, we leave the hospital with our babies, our bags, and our hearts in the tiny little hands of these angels. One of the biggest things, that fails to be mentioned, is that, as they grow and become more of who they are and what they will become the fear and anxiety grows, too. I'm on baby number 4. The scale of this fear and anxiety ranges from a little twitch watching the baby hold on to the couch hoping she doesn't fall backwards and hit her head, to sleepless nights because the oldest child is not adapting in the world he was born into. There was a time when I could hold his hand and know that if I let go the training wheels were still on to protect him. But now, with the training wheels gone, I have to fumble through the mind of a 10 year old boy hoping that I don't stumble as I blindly guide myself through. Sure I can tell him what's fair and unfair, I can tell him what's right and what's wrong, but most importantly I can rest my head at night knowing that this beautiful boy will make a difference to someone in this world. I won't force my hopes and dreams, of what I think he should become, on to him. We all aspire to make these daydreams of our children being presidents, world saving doctors, even superheros come true,  but in reality most of them won't be any of these. It doesn't mean, as parents, we have failed to engrave the book of knowledge and morals in their minds. It simply means that we got out of the daydream knowing fully well, that even if only one life was changed by them, it would certainly be more than enough. But unfortunately we can't always control the world around them. No amount of bubble wrap can cushion some of the blows that lay in waiting for them. So, as a mother, it makes my heart skip a beat when I hear the world is being cruel to this adoring, caring little man. This child of mine who, since the very first second my eyes were laid on him, stole not only my heart, but everything that came with my life. When I felt him in my arms for the first time, it seemed, as though, the galaxies lined up in perfect formation. I have watched this son of mine grow from a beautiful baby, to a respectful and loving child. So then how? How could this world that I chose to bring him into treat him so unfair? Am I really to believe the old story lines that the good finish last? That the ones who are nice lose the race? I refuse. As painful, as it is right now, knowing that while I am here plucking out my heart strings with every click on this keyboard, my beautiful child is walking alone on the playground watching the other kids play, I will not let that change him. If I have to carry him on my shoulders until my spine is twisted and my knees are completely worn out, I will. Over the past few days I have had a hard time dealing with the news that barely a handful of children in his school are nice to him. To have my child tell me that no one will play with him at recess, so he plays basketball alone or just walks around is heart wrenching. I was told, by him, that when he plays basketball and other kids want to play, he is told to "get lost." So what am I to do? I certainly can't go down there and beat up some kids. And as much as I want to call the parents and say "great job raising that one" I can't. Why? Because that would get me nowhere, and would make it twice as worse for him. So instead, when everyone is alseep, I saturate my pillow with all the sorrows that come with my child growing up, and all the joys of remembering how earlier that night my son came up to me and said "It's okay mom. I only let the ones who love me affect my life, and the ones who hurt me I pray for them." And now I realize that we can tell our children that the world is a cruel place. Or, we can simply trust that they know that, even though life knocks you down from time to time, it's the way you hold your head high while picking yourself back up, that matters the most. All this time I have spent trying to teach my child the facts of life when in reality I was the one sitting in front of the chalkboard being instructed, and I never even knew I was there.

A soothing hand can cure all.

My day is full of challenges. In part because I have children, and also in part, because I have a very challenging 3 year old. She challenges herself, she challenges me, and she challenges anyone who comes in contact with her. Don't get me wrong, I'd love this personality trait, if that were the reason. But it's not. Her challenges come with the genetic makeup of her mind, body, and soul. She is fearless, she is strong minded, and she is persistant. This is who she is. With or without the 'A" word.  The "A" word just supersizes it. And at some point everyday it will break me down, alittle. It's stressful, as a mother, to not know what your child is trying to say to you. Her lack of communication skills are even more stressful for her. Imagine being in a world where the people around you, including your own mother, don't know what you're trying to tell them? To watch her behaviour and not know her would certainly, to anyone around, look like that of a bratty 3 year old. Of course, what makes this worse, is that she doesn't even look like a 3 year old. She looks like the 5 year old who ate the 3 year old on the playground. Even close family, for that matter, look at her and think she's just throwing a tantrum. But her mind is woven into this complex bundle of wires that is programmed different from mine, yours, and ours.
Everyday, while trying to get her ready for school, something will trigger her. This makes it impossible to carry on in the process of getting dressed, getting packed, and jetting off to school. So, of course, today was no different. We were on the right track. She got herself dressed, and even went, as far, as to put her snowpants on. Then progress stopped. When it came time to get her boots on she went crazy-for lack of a better word. Here I am for 20 minutes trying to do all I can to get this child to put the other boot on. I wrestled the boot on, and the boot went flying off. Finally it got to the point where my eyes filled up with tears. So I walked away. I let the supermom personna come in to play. How dare us let our children see us cry. It's forbidden, as a parent, to let them see us upset. To bring the uneasiness of weakness into a situation that is already unable to be controlled. We are not everyday mothers. We are in the elite status of supermoms. But today that personna of supermom was ripped away from me. Unintentionally, of course. I walked away into the other room with my fist balled up into my mouth, so that I could scream and break down without my child knowing this. The protection of our children can sometimes be the one thing that unprotects them. After a while of the pity party, the crying, and the questions of "Why? Why everyday?" "Why do we have to go through this everyday?", I decided to compose myself, slip back into my superhuman costume, and forge on. I went back into the room and there was my child still tugging at her boot, until finally I threw my hands up, and gave in. The boot was taken off. I thought Molly would go running and make this into a game of defiance. But I was wrong. Completely. When the boot came off my child grabbed it, put it in my hand, and coaxed it so I could see what was troubling her. The inner sole had shifted causing a huge rift in the bottom. So the problem was fixed. And the child calmed down, and went and sat on my lap, and rested her tiny little head on my shoulder. And as I hid myself behind a curtain of her hair I started to cry. And as I sat there crying, while she was sniffling, and releasing the last few tears she had to offer, she slipped her soft, warm little hand into mine. And in the warmth of this innocent little hand I realized something. She is not like me. She is not afraid to show me that she is sad, or angry, or troubled. Her trust lies completely in me. While I am waving the cape on my back to show that my superhuman abilites can not be faultered, this little babe came to me unarmed with no mask, and no shield. And in that instant I became mom. Not supermom, not the perfect mom, just mom. That guard I put up to shield my child was easily destroyed by the simple warmth of that soothing little hand in mine.