Boys are gross.

So my preteen (from hell) decided to lose his shit the other day.  It was awful. Hours of screaming, crying, threatening to run away. His hormones are raging and he’s struggling.  

Luckily, or unluckily for him, he has two parents who are in this field. So, he gets a mix of conversation and problem solving possible strategies for helping to manage his anger. Not in those words exactly but let’s just call it what it is.

One of the things we tell him to do sometimes when he starts to escalate is to go take a bath. Cool down. Relax. Enjoy some quiet time in a private space. Process your thoughts before reacting. Take the damn time out.  Take it before I throw you out the window!!!!  But I don’t tell him that last part, that’s an inside voice. 

This was one of the options presented to him the other day. He thought it might be a good idea, which made me happy. His time out also helps me get MY time out!  It’s a double bonus. 

We decided to go for a mommy/son run first.  I love those times. We have some pretty serious conversations while walking. He tries to talk when we are running but that’s not my thing.  Normally, I run with music but I’m on momma bear high alert when I run with my kids, so listening to music is not an option.  To not have music is already annoying enough but when he tries to talk, I’m not having it. Our mommy/son runs involve intervals because of this; jog, walk, sprint, walk, jog, etc.  

We jog next to each other during our jog periods.  

We have serious conversations about serious issues while walking.  

We full out race during the sprints (I still kill him in the races).  

This is what we do. It’s our thing. One of our many things.  I love it. 

So, we choose to do that on this night, which brings me back to the original reason for this blog…

BOYS

ARE

GROSS 

The bath was an option that was on the table for cooling down.  We had already established that before going for a run.  Going for a run meant he would be taking one anyway. So, when we got home, I asked him if he was going to take his bath now.  

He looked at me and said “I’m just going to take a bath to relax, I’m not going to use soap or anything.”

Really?

You’re already doing EVERYTHING else, why not take a couple minutes and wash the preteen/just went for a run stink off your body?  

Gross!  Gross!  Gross!

It got me thinking about the million times this, or something like this has happened. At home. At work. Everywhere.  People “fake” clean themselves ALL the time!!!!  I see it everywhere. 

I see it at home all the time with my disgusting boys.  I see them wet their hands with water and run as far away in the other direction in hopes I don’t notice. I’ve seen them sprinkle water on the soap to make it look like they used it. I’ve seen them put just enough soap on their hands to make them smell good in case I ask to smell them when they leave. Gross!  

I see it in public washrooms from the door cracks. I watch people turn on the water and stand in front of it and play with their hair until the water has been running long enough to make whoever is in there believe that they washed their hands.  Then they ruffle some paper towels, throw it out and call it a day!  Gross! 

That shit takes thought and effort.  You could have actually washed your hands more easily and quickly then in the time it took you to pretend. 

If you’re already making all that effort anyway, why not just do it?  Or not do it. Pretending just seems like a waste of time. Own your grossness or clean yourself properly.

I don’t get it.

After all that, my son and I decided to make smoothies before the bath. Chocolate peanut butter banana strawberry almond milk hemp hearts and chia seeds smoothie, to be exact. Yum!!!  Somehow we got to talking while enjoying our smoothies.  Then it was bedtime and he kissed me goodnight and went to bed.  

About 20 minutes later, I realized there was no bath.  He got me!  Punk!!!!  

He IS gross but at least he owns his grossness.

“You’ll understand when you’re older!”

“You’ll understand when you’re older!”

Go fuck yourself. Well, that’s a natural response for a child/teenager whose experiences are minimized with that one stupid line, “you’ll understand when you’re older.”

I heard it all the time. It did nothing for the pain. Nothing. The only thing it taught me was that adults don’t understand. What I felt was real. It hurt. Adults didn’t understand how difficult it was to grow up.

So, fast forward…here I am, 33 years old. I catch myself looking into the eyes of my 12 year old son and I say, “You’ll understand when you’re older!”

HOLY SHIT! They were right!

He was upset. He was being selfish. He was trying to make me upset. Actually, he was trying to avoid going to bed at bedtime by engaging me in a conversation that he knew I wouldn’t be able to ignore. Smart move, it worked! I got upset. I was beyond upset. I was so upset, I actually considered sitting him down and telling him about all the sacrifices I had made in my life for HIM! I thought about crying. I thought about yelling. I thought maybe he deserved a slap in the face for being so hurtful. So many thoughts ran through my mind in such a short period and in the end, the only thing that made sense to say was, “You’ll understand when you’re older!”

Four months ago, I was offered and accepted a new position. A position that I had worked my entire life for. A position that allowed me to advance in my career without losing the connection to the front line and one that provided the ability to continue doing my international work, which is very important to me. A position I felt truly passionate about that also offered a big increase in salary and benefits. A position like this is hard to find in my line of work. It was my absolute dream job and the timing couldn’t be better. I knew when I accepted this position that the hours would be long; the position is demanding and I have to be available on-call. I sat down with my husband and weighed the pros and cons before making the decision, but the pros outweighed the cons. This was a decision that would change my home life, I knew that, my family knew that. Although I knew all this, this decision, I made it for me and I have no regrets.

So my son looks me in the eye and says, “since you got your new job, you don’t spend any time with me anymore”.

OUCH!

This is his perception of our reality. It’s not at all true. Despite the long hours, I ensure that I’m home for a few hours before bedtime and that I don’t work very much, if at all, on the weekends. I am at sporting events, parent/teacher interviews, I help with homework, I take them to the doctor, I enjoy quality time with them when THEY want to and even when I have to force them to. I have 3 children and a husband, who all need me in different ways and my family always comes first.

Still I know his pain is real.

His life has changed so much in the last two years and it can’t be easy for him. My ex, his biological father, has had two children in that time. After being the center of attention for 10 years, he has to divide his time with his father with two babies that require a lot more attention. He played competitive sports for most of his life, before moving back to house league two years ago. For years, his 7 and 6 year old brothers have been dragged to his games and out of town tournaments. Now, he gets dragged to their games and tournaments and he hates it. Too bad. Family is important and we all support each other. He’s always struggled with school and now that he’s in grade 7, a lot of “quality time” with his mom and dad is spent making sure he’s doing his homework and assignments. Sure, he would rather not do any of that and go out and have all this one on one time doing really fun and exciting things. Who wouldn’t love that?!?! But, life happens. I can’t expect him to understand that, not yet anyway.

Still, although I understand that his comment is not really about me, I can’t help but reflect on it. It’s been a week now and I keep going back to it. As a mother, it hurt.

Women are under constant pressure to find the perfect life/family/work balance. I got pregnant with him at 20, and was a single mom by the time he was 6 months old. I’ve had to modify every career/life choice to fit into his life, our life. I have decided that I cannot feel guilt about wanting to have a successful and happy career. I cannot regret the choices I’ve made, especially the ones that make me happy. When I’m 45 years old, he will be 24. My other children will be 19 and 18 years old. I will likely have another 20 years of my career ahead of me and they will be making their own career choices, without any concern for my existence. I will accept that I’ve had to make different choices because I had children so young. I won’t accept feeling guilty or upset because life doesn’t feel perfect for my children.

So, to all the adults who sat me down to say “You’ll understand when you’re older”, you were right. I get it.

I’ll continue to love and support my children. I’ll continue to listen to their concerns and give them a safe place for them to express their feelings. I’ll continue to do my best to ensure they grow up to be happy individuals who contribute positively to the world. I’ll try to teach them that choices can be difficult, but necessary.

And when they don’t get it, I’ll simply give them a hug and a kiss and say, “You’ll understand when you’re older!”

How many is to many?

At 33, I find myself surrounded by friends who are just beginning their families.  Some are planning their first child, some are thinking about a second, some are considering parenting nothing but animals for the rest of their life.  Personally, I’d say animals are the way to go.  Much less attitude and they are always happy to see you.  However, this is not about discouraging you from having a million babies, it’s about answering a question that I often get asked by my family wanting/planning friends:  What is it like having 3 kids?

Ok, I make it look easy.  I do.  But I assure you, it’s not.  It’s really not.  It’s hard work regardless of how many you have.  I had my first child at 21 and it was not planned.  (See blog “Gratitude Forgotten…and then remembered” for more details.)  It rocked my core.  Changed everything I knew.  After everything I had experienced in my youth, I decided I needed to start fresh, somewhere else.  My boyfriend, my roomate and I packed up our bags and bought a one way train ticket to Victoria, British Columbia.  I couldn’t wait to be by the water.  I couldn’t wait to get away from all the bad I was leaving behind.  I started my post secondary studies and planned on becoming a doctor.  I was going to work for Doctors Without Borders and surf my way around the world.  It was perfect.  My boyfriend and I were happy, maybe a little to happy.  Enter Pearce, my first born.  The universe has a funny way of telling you that you cannot simply run from your problems.  I heard the universe loud and clear.  Here we were, thousands of miles away from family, about to raise a child, finish our studies, and work full time jobs without any support.  Yup, the universe was not my friend.  Ok, it was, it always is.  But at the time, the universe and I were fighting.  FINE!!!  After three years in BC, we packed up any belongings we could fit into a small uhaul and our Hyundai.  After three years of happiness, my boyfriend, my 7 week old son and I moved back to Toronto.  Back into my parents house, where I had not lived for 6 years.  I swallowed every bit of my pride because it was the right thing to do.  I knew it was.  So, I apologized to the universe.  Now that we were on speaking terms again, the universe challenged my stubborn self in every way imaginable.  I thought I could do everything alone, pffffft, enter post-partum depression.  I thought I could ignore the strain on my relationship with my parents, enter the fighting.  So many thoughts, enter counselling, medication, repression breaking through every wall I had built, a break up, single parenthood, full time school, part time work, a custody battle from hell, crying, tears, wanting to run away.  Thanks universe!  No really, thanks!  It made me realize that I wasn’t ok.  Not yet.  I worked my butt off, repaired relationships, raised my son, excelled in school, worked on my physical/mental/emotional/spiritual health and learned the importance of a supportive network of love.  One child rocked my core.  It was not easy but it was possible.

I met my husband when Pearce was 3.  We worked together, we were friends, we fell in love.  I was a package deal.  It was clear.  I was willing to love and be loved but not to compromise the life I chose.  He wanted the package.  I couldn’t imagine the father he would become, life was wonderful.  I finished school, started my career in social work, I was physically, mentally, emotionally and spiritually healthy again.  THANK YOU UNIVERSE!    When Pearce was 5, I gave birth to my second son, Lincoln.  Child number 2.  This was a perfect addition to our family.  He was a wonderful child and he fit right in.  With two adults and two kids, we were perfectly partnered up.  When one needed to be fed and the other needed to play, hubby and I split up and tackled the tasks.  Hubby could put Lincoln to sleep while I spend some quality time with Pearce on our mommy/son date nights.  Hubby and I could have a monthly date night and my parents were happy to babysit their two favourite people.  It was great.  2 was perfect.  6 months later…Seriously universe?!?!?!

With a 5 year old and a 6 month old, I became pregnant with my third child.  The universe has a great sense of humour.  Really funny.  Hilarious!  At first, I thought about all that I’ve overcome.  Surely, this was no big deal.  I got this!  I had a wonderful husband, great kids and a supportive family.  Alright, here goes nothing!  But wait.  That’s when I realize the world is not built for families of 5.  It’s built for families of 4.  Vacation packages for 4.  The backseat of a car only fits 2 carseats.  3 bedroom homes.  Wait a minute, this isn’t going to work.  I find myself trading in my car for a minivan.  I said I would never drive a minivan.  Our 2 bedroom loft isn’t going to work.  Now, 7 months pregnant, I’m in the middle of a move.  After growing up in downtown Toronto, I have to move to the suburbs to find an affordable place.  Moving away from the support system I’ve built, away from the life I’ve known.  What is happening?!?!?!  Adding a 3rd child changed everything.  Campbell, spent his first couple years in and out of the hospital.  Lincoln was learning to walk and I was feeding a sick infant.  My commute to work was longer.  My monthly daycare bills have helped to rack up a debt that will take years to repay.  My car payments went up.  My housing costs went up.  My visits to the hospital with injured children went WAY up.  My condo is crowded.  I have to recruit more parents because they all play sports.  When the 3 of them run in different directions, hubby and I have to decide which two are worth saving based on their behaviour that day.  My life has changed.  It’s chaotic in ways I couldn’t have imagined it to be.  But I wouldn’t change it for anything.

The universe has a funny way of telling you exactly what you need.  One kid, two kids, three kids, or animal babies.  My answer is simple, stop worrying so much about planning the life you think you want.  Let the life you’re supposed to live find you.