This morning was a little stressful. Mike flew back to Canada for a couple of weeks, and thus woke the boys up slightly earlier than usual to say goodbye. True to form, B boy hardly budged from his curled up position, hidden from view by a massive blanket.
Christopher cried.
Christopher has a very difficult time saying goodbye. He will agonize over an upcoming farewell for weeks (which is why we rarely tell him in advance), and he'll fall apart as the moment finally arrives. There'll be tears and long hugs. It's hard and I know Mike hates saying goodbye to him. Benjamin, meanwhile, takes everything in stride. He'll give you a hug, and then he's off playing. Seemingly without a care in the world.
But the funny thing is -- once you're gone, Christopher is fine. Almost immediately, he's back to chattering about this and that, totally focused on everything around him, apparently oblivious to the fact that anyone's missing. He may mention it at bedtime, but only occasionally. And when you're back, while he's happy to see you, there's no big reunion hugs of affection. It's almost like you never left.
Benjamin, meanwhile, suffers pangs of loneliness if someone's missing from his little world. He'll recreate the moment of farewell - the one you thought he wasn't paying any attention to - and he'll agonize over the fact that he didn't tell you he loves you, or that he didn't hug or kiss you. He'll count the days until your return, the hours, and even the minutes. And once back, he's on you like a moth to a flame. Making up for all those hugs and kisses.
It amazes me that my two boys came from the same gene pool, the same womb. They barely have anything in common. Except for their incessant chattiness, I can only think of one trait they share:
A total lack of organizational skills.
I couldn't tell you how many mitts or hats B boy has lost over the years. Certainly enough to clothe of all Luxembourg's preschoolers. And maybe Iceland's too. Last year, he lost two pairs of snow pants within the first winter week, and by the end of the season, that number was in the double digits. I was just amazed that he managed to keep his jacket all season long.
Christopher isn't too bad when it comes to outerwear, but he's a mess with respect to his school books. To illustrate, allow me to recount our adventures just today...
This morning, while I was attaching his lunch bag to his bag, I noticed a piece of paper sticking out of the school bag's side pocket:
Me: Christopher, is this something you need?
C (taking the paper): Oh no, this is a song I need to memorize for Santa Lucia. We're doing the rehearsals today.
Me: When did you get this?
C: Last Wednesday.
Me (deep breaths - remember, child just said goodbye to father): Christopher, do you need to know this for today, or can it wait until the 13th?
C: The rehearsals are today, and we have to know it by today.
Me: Well, practice now then. Practice, practice, practice. That's all you can do. You have 30 minutes.
After school, Christopher always calls on his fancy-smancy cell phone on his loooong (4 minute) walk home:
C: Hi Mamma!
Me: Hi 'Stopher! Did you have a good day?
C: Yep.
Me: Do you have everything you need to do your homework?
C: Yes, I brought Norwegian and English today.
Me: Okay good, I'll see you soon then.
2 minutes later:
C (opening the door): Hi Mamma!
Me: Hi sweetie - how did it go with the rehearsals?
C: Fine, she just said I have to know the song by tomorrow. I didn't lose my part.
Me: That's great. Did you bring the sheet home to practice?
C (getting his books and his lunch out of his bag): Yes. But I didn't have time to eat my lunch today, so I'm going to eat it now.
Me (looking through his books):...mmm...okay. Where's your weekly homework plan?
C: I put it in my bag - it's the folded sheet.
Me (taking a deep breath, sensing what's coming next): The folded sheet is the song you need to practice. I can't see the homework plan.
C (now looking frantically in his bag): Oh...no...I thought it was the folded sheet.
Me (calm, lecturing voice): Next time maybe you could *look* at the sheet before you leave?
C (getting his jacket and toque on to go back to school, while being a bit emotional): I always have to go back to school!
Me: Christopher, you really have to learn to take responsibility for your things. It's like forgetting to practice that song this morning -- only you know what you need to do, so you have to organize and plan for it.
C (in a huff, not feeling like a lecture): OKAY. 'bye.
10 minutes later:
C (opening the door): Here's the sheet.
Me: Excellent! But...where's your toque?
C: I wasn't wearing a toque, was I?
Me (breathing deeply...again): Yes, you were, Christopher. Did you leave it at school?
C (getting emotional...again): Oh no...!
Muffled sound as he slams the door. I watch him walking dejectedly back up the road.
4 minutes later, phone rings:
C (happy now): It was in my pocket! I got to the classroom, and I realized that I'd taken off my toque because I was hot and I put it in my jacket pocket.
Me: All righty, then. I'll see you at home.
A short while later, at the house:
C (opening the front door again): OK, I have everything now, right?
Me (coming to the hall from the kitchen): I don't know, I assume you have all your books?
C: Yes, I do.
Me (waving the supposed homework plan he walked back to pick up from school): So this is the new format for the homework plan?
C (looking at the paper, groans): Oh no! I took the wrong sheet. This is the work plan for what I'm supposed to do at school. Not the homework plan.
Me: Bye, bye...
And as I watch him walk back to school for the third time that afternoon, I realize it is going to be a very long two weeks of solo parenting.
Bloggy friends -- make me feel better by telling me I'm not the only parent with this problem?
Showing posts with label Parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Parenting. Show all posts
3 Dec 2007
1 Nov 2007
Dear Christopher,
My blue-eyed, golden-haired boy. My first baby. How can you be possibly be 10 already? Almost 11?
Last I looked, you were such a teeny, tiny little thing, on that day, your birthday, when you decided to come out and meet the world - three weeks early. I suppose you just couldn't wait anymore, and had to come out and see for yourself what the world was like.
You were in such a hurry, you even made labour seem easy. Just the night before, I had been warned about 20 hour marathon deliveries, and how firstborns often took longer. But you had other plans, and 3.5 hours after we had arrived at the hospital, fully expecting to be sent home again, there you were!
It was a beautiful January day, and through the hospital window, I saw sunshine and glittering snow. You fit perfectly in my arms, with your oh-so-little hands and those scrawny legs. You opened your eyes almost immediately, and looked into mine. So seriously. Curiously. Perhaps you were wondering if I was really ready for this. And, you know, on that day I thought I was. Everything felt right.
But only three weeks later, after sleepless nights and countless tears shed over your inability to gain weight, nothing felt right anymore, and we had to bring you back to the hospital for surgery. Pyloric stenosis was the official diagnosis, but as one doctor explained, you were slowly starving while any food you tried to eat was projectile vomited across the room, splattered all over furniture and walls.
We were so anxious, worried, and traumatized, and though the surgery was over quickly, it took us months to recover. Every meal was torturous. It didn't help that you continued to throw up. Your gulping was probably within the range of what is considered normal for babies, but for us, any spit up had to be analyzed, measured and agonized over. Discussions would ensue over what constituted 'projectile'.
You continued to grow, however, and although you were never a chubby baby, you became happy, responsive and smiley. Finally, we were able to pack our bags and return to Costa Rica, our home at the time. I had made the decision not to give birth to you in Costa Rica, and in hindsight, I am so glad I didn't. I don't know how I would have been able to handle the subsequent medical problems in a country so different from my own. I was barely able to keep it together in Norway.
For the first few months of your life, your pappa was your primary caregiver. We were in the midst of transitioning to Canada, and I was working hard at establishing my online company. But the truth is, although busy, I was also still filled with fear. I was afraid that you would start losing weight again, or perhaps stop eating altogether. I dealt with my concerns by running away from them. I let pappa feed you for the most part, and I never asked him if you had thrown up.
I didn't realize what I was doing at the time, but I see it now. I wish I could say I was braver, Christopher, for you! You deserved better.
Fortunately, pappa did an amazing job. I remember seeing you in your baby bjorn looking on intently as he was moving around in the kitchen sterilizing bottles. All the while carrying on a continuous conversation with you. That picture of pure contentment is frozen in my mind.
Our move to Canada brought more stability to our family life, as pappa went back to do his Ph.D., and I continued working. We were able to find a fantastic day care centre, with wonderful ladies who loved and nurtured you from the beginning. In fact, you had them so wrapped around your finger, one even offered to pick you up on her way to daycare every day, and drop you off in the afternoon. Occasionally, I think Lisa imagined you as her own.
Ten years later, and you still haven't filled out - you often seem impossibly skinny to me, but they say you are following your own trajectory on the chart. I try not to worry too much about that, and for the most part it works.
What I do worry about is the speed with which you seem to be growing up. I wonder if I am appreciating you enough, and if I am 'in the moment' with you.
You have always been a chatterbox, the one who never grew out of the 'why' stage. An answer inevitably leads to another question. You have questions about everything, and they can go on, and on, and on. Somewhere along the way, I had to tune you out in order to get things done.
But there are times when I wonder if I remembered to tune you back in again. If you think about it, Christopher, would you say that I am really there for you?
Or am I still running away when things get a little difficult?
Because truthfully, apart from a little attention, you don't ask for much from anyone. You love watching Animal Planet and National Geographic, and if someone would only sit and watch with you, nothing could be better. Too often, things gets in the way, the laundry, the cleaning, the cooking. But these 10 years have gone by so quickly, and I must find time to sit and enjoy. With you. Before it's too late.
Christopher, I hope you know that your birth, almost 11 years ago, was the best thing that had ever happened to me! And if anyone asks me today, I can honestly say that you and your brother are my perfect children. But your mother, well, I'm still a work in progress. Bear with me, and please don't grow up while I'm getting there!
Love,
Mamma
Last I looked, you were such a teeny, tiny little thing, on that day, your birthday, when you decided to come out and meet the world - three weeks early. I suppose you just couldn't wait anymore, and had to come out and see for yourself what the world was like.
You were in such a hurry, you even made labour seem easy. Just the night before, I had been warned about 20 hour marathon deliveries, and how firstborns often took longer. But you had other plans, and 3.5 hours after we had arrived at the hospital, fully expecting to be sent home again, there you were!
It was a beautiful January day, and through the hospital window, I saw sunshine and glittering snow. You fit perfectly in my arms, with your oh-so-little hands and those scrawny legs. You opened your eyes almost immediately, and looked into mine. So seriously. Curiously. Perhaps you were wondering if I was really ready for this. And, you know, on that day I thought I was. Everything felt right.
But only three weeks later, after sleepless nights and countless tears shed over your inability to gain weight, nothing felt right anymore, and we had to bring you back to the hospital for surgery. Pyloric stenosis was the official diagnosis, but as one doctor explained, you were slowly starving while any food you tried to eat was projectile vomited across the room, splattered all over furniture and walls.
We were so anxious, worried, and traumatized, and though the surgery was over quickly, it took us months to recover. Every meal was torturous. It didn't help that you continued to throw up. Your gulping was probably within the range of what is considered normal for babies, but for us, any spit up had to be analyzed, measured and agonized over. Discussions would ensue over what constituted 'projectile'.
You continued to grow, however, and although you were never a chubby baby, you became happy, responsive and smiley. Finally, we were able to pack our bags and return to Costa Rica, our home at the time. I had made the decision not to give birth to you in Costa Rica, and in hindsight, I am so glad I didn't. I don't know how I would have been able to handle the subsequent medical problems in a country so different from my own. I was barely able to keep it together in Norway.
For the first few months of your life, your pappa was your primary caregiver. We were in the midst of transitioning to Canada, and I was working hard at establishing my online company. But the truth is, although busy, I was also still filled with fear. I was afraid that you would start losing weight again, or perhaps stop eating altogether. I dealt with my concerns by running away from them. I let pappa feed you for the most part, and I never asked him if you had thrown up.
I didn't realize what I was doing at the time, but I see it now. I wish I could say I was braver, Christopher, for you! You deserved better.
Fortunately, pappa did an amazing job. I remember seeing you in your baby bjorn looking on intently as he was moving around in the kitchen sterilizing bottles. All the while carrying on a continuous conversation with you. That picture of pure contentment is frozen in my mind.
Our move to Canada brought more stability to our family life, as pappa went back to do his Ph.D., and I continued working. We were able to find a fantastic day care centre, with wonderful ladies who loved and nurtured you from the beginning. In fact, you had them so wrapped around your finger, one even offered to pick you up on her way to daycare every day, and drop you off in the afternoon. Occasionally, I think Lisa imagined you as her own.
Ten years later, and you still haven't filled out - you often seem impossibly skinny to me, but they say you are following your own trajectory on the chart. I try not to worry too much about that, and for the most part it works.
What I do worry about is the speed with which you seem to be growing up. I wonder if I am appreciating you enough, and if I am 'in the moment' with you.
You have always been a chatterbox, the one who never grew out of the 'why' stage. An answer inevitably leads to another question. You have questions about everything, and they can go on, and on, and on. Somewhere along the way, I had to tune you out in order to get things done.
But there are times when I wonder if I remembered to tune you back in again. If you think about it, Christopher, would you say that I am really there for you?
Or am I still running away when things get a little difficult?
Because truthfully, apart from a little attention, you don't ask for much from anyone. You love watching Animal Planet and National Geographic, and if someone would only sit and watch with you, nothing could be better. Too often, things gets in the way, the laundry, the cleaning, the cooking. But these 10 years have gone by so quickly, and I must find time to sit and enjoy. With you. Before it's too late.
Christopher, I hope you know that your birth, almost 11 years ago, was the best thing that had ever happened to me! And if anyone asks me today, I can honestly say that you and your brother are my perfect children. But your mother, well, I'm still a work in progress. Bear with me, and please don't grow up while I'm getting there!
Love,
Mamma
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