My Son Is One! (A love letter)

Well, technically, he's just shy of 53 weeks. Forgive me, it's been a busy week.

Fifty-three weeks ago, Jon and I went to the hospital after a night of what I thought was peeing my pants. "Great," I remember thinking while eating Thanksgiving turkey perched on a towel in my brother's old jogging pants. "This is the last humiliation that is my pregnancy."

Turns out, I had a slow leak. While my water was ready to break, Marshall sure wasn't. So, I was admitted and induced. And I waited. And waited. And waited. Don't ask me what was going on that night: the delivery rooms were full. All around me, I heard new mother after new mother grunt and groan and scream until her baby's cries pierced through. You know that feeling of frustration, desperation--almost loneliness--you get when you wait at a bus stop and countless buses packed with people zoom past you? Maybe I'll get the next one.

"Anything yet?" Jon would ask.

"Nope," I'd reply with a sigh.

A handful of bags of Pitocin and 21 hours later, our beautiful boy made his first appearance.

***

It was while rocking the baby in my increasingly creaky chair the other night that I got to thinking, "How many hours have I spent rocking Marshall in this chair in one year? How many lullabies? How many shared cries?"

It has been a very trying year, as most mothers would admit. It has also been one of the fastest years I've ever lived through. It is for that reason that I would voluntarily turn back time and live through it all over again, fussy nursing, toxic pooping, sleepless nights and all. So quickly do I forget what truly qualifies as a difficult night. Those first nights of living on adrenaline, where days and nights were one tiresome blur, where I'd catch Jay Leno, Conan O'Brien, Jimmy Fallon AND Carson Daly bleary-eyed; those were the toughest. So quickly do I forget how tiny, how unsqirmy he was. He is still my little baby boy, but comparing him to images of his freshly newborn cousin, he is bordering on "toddler." Already.

I told Jon the other night that I almost bought him a little gift on Marshall's birthday. That day is almost like a second anniversary for us, when a happily married couple turned into two sleep-deprived parents literally overnight. As most mothers would admit, the first year is equally trying on a marriage as it is on raising a baby. The two go hand-in-hand, after all. I am relieved to announce that we've survived our initiation. We have the gray hairs and wrinkles to prove it. Yes, we had a few rough patches along the way, but it definitely strengthened us in the long run.

I am afraid to brag too much for fear that I break the habit, but it seems as though Marshall is FINALLY sleeping through the night, to boot. That means that I, too, get a full night's sleep. Besides savouring a heavy glass of wine, I had been craving a solid seven hours of sleep for so long. So, so long. In a way, I think these full nights may be Marshall's little gift to us. "You've made it through the year, Mama and Daddy. You deserve a little sleep. And here, have a glass of wine while you're at it."

Happy birthday, Dear Marshall. Thank you for a year of tender moments, goofy times, many many milestones, and poop. God, there was so much poop. We love you more than you will ever know and we can't wait to get to know our little boy more and more.

Mama loves you, and that will never change.

xox









(Then and now: John Marshall Wayne Dukeshire)

A Day Care for Marshall

When Marshall was born, we were given a book called Une garderie pour Mateo. The cute picture book described the challenges that Mateo and his mother faced to find him a day care.

Well, that little work of fiction became our big reality over the summer when we scrambled to find appropriate day care for Marshall. My days on maternity leave were numbered. My return to the work force was looming. Baby needed a happy, safe environment to stay in while I worked. It broke my heart to leave Marshall in the care of someone else--a stranger, of all people. Up until then he had only been babysat three times by trusted family members. He and I were normally stuck like glue.

My father took the news of Marshall's unavoidable entry into day care especially hard. "Did you see that news report about that babysitter in Florida who threw a ball at full force right in the baby's face?" he asked.

"We thought the babysitter was dragging a doll by the arm until we realized that doll was really a child," my mother chimed in.

This wasn't going to be easy. For anybody.

I had heard that finding a decent day-care spot was as easy as finding a last-minute gift at a gas station on Christmas Day. Put differently, it was not easy at all. When I learned that a home day care was opening three kilometres away from my house at $25 a day, I jumped on that opportunity fearing that I wouldn't find anything else. Marshall and I visited and noted that the woman seemed very enthusiastic and sweet, the toys were new and the yard was equipped with swings and slides. Upon our second visit to seal the deal, Jon came along and we met the educator's husband.

"I don't like the look of that husband," Jon grumbled. "Never trust a chiropractor. They crack bones for a living."

So, I kept an eye out for other options. In August, a friend referred me to a woman she had met in the park who ran a home day care within walking distance of our house. Marshall and I went to check it out.

The basement play area was packed with colourful toys. For the moment, the educator cared for a two-year-old girl who got a kick out of styling Marshall's fine hair with a play brush and hairdryer. "She's Asian, you know," she told me. Staring at the sweet little girl with the jet-black hair, I thought that was obvious.

I was sold based on the arts-and-crafts activities that the educator liked to do with her kids. They decorated plates for Mother's Day. They made centerpieces for Christmas. And to kick off the summer season, she invited the mothers over for cosmos and a pool party.

When I phoned her to confirm a place in her day care, I was surprised when she haughtily replied, "Well, it seems as though I have some thinking to do. The little Asian girl's mother (why did she always insist on throwing in the girl's heritage?) has asked me to be her full-time nanny. But come to the park. I'll introduce you to another educator who lives nearby."

Feeling a little desperate to snag a day-care spot for Marshall, I agreed to meet her in the park. By then, my level of respect for the creative educator was plummeting. The frequent comments she made about the little girl ("She's so smart for her age. It's because she's Asian"), among other things, were turning me off. When she saw Marshall in the park, she exclaimed, "Blue eyes, blond hair... what a remarkable race you've created with that baby!" Wait, what was that?

I breathed a sigh of relief when she pointed me to the door of the other day care facility in the neighbourhood. I swooped Marshall out of his swing and into his stroller and we rolled our way to the house. Along the way, I worried over how I was going to approach the day-care worker. As if on cue, a dog ran out from the house and she popped her head out to call him back in. We introduced ourselves and the rest is history.

Marshall's educator is a no-nonsense woman, about five years younger than my mother. She has more than twenty years' experience in the business. Her toy-filled play area is bright and clean and tidy. The children are sweet. They immediately shared their toys with Marshall. Now, I don't think she goes out of her way to make the day-care experience an amazing one. But she keeps my baby safe. She cuddles him when he cries. She feeds him when he's hungry. And he naps for her like a champ, that little booger. (Marshall is notorious for skipping out on naps at our house.)

Knowing that he is safe in his educator's care three days a week while I'm at work reassures me. I'll take that over ambitious art projects any day. Leave the holiday centerpieces to me.

I'm Out of the House!

So, the boy will be one on Tuesday. A whole twelve months. That means that my mat leave has run out and Mama’s bank account is looking pretty pitiful.

I’m back in the office after a long hiatus. I left about three years ago to give self-employment a try. I rode that wave as long as I could, but years—YEARS—away from an environment with other adults can take its toll. I was becoming a recluse. Outdoor tasks like doing the groceries had become monstrous challenges. I don’t remember the last time I pumped gas in my car.

I got in touch with my former employer. Luckily, I had left on good terms. Miraculously, he offered me part-time work. It was the perfect solution for a near-reclusive mother of a one-year-old. I can make my financial contribution to the household. I can talk with other grown-ups. Best of all, I can still raise my son the majority of the week.

I am well into my second week at my new (old) job. I write children’s books for a publishing house in the city. I have an entire hour to eat my lunch. Since Marshall’s birth, I had gotten used to scarfing down my meals and rinsing my dishes in ten minutes flat. Needless to say, I have some time to kill on my lunch breaks.

I hope to use this newfound FREE TIME (yippee!) to get back into blogging mode. You can look forward to reading my take on the following topics:

* Marshall’s increasing mobility (He crawls! He stands on his own! He’s… playing in the toilet?! Oh, God, no!)
* Day care woes (What snotty, poopy virus does Marshall have this weekend?)
* Office life (How did I end up with the crappy cubicle?! The boss has a direct view of my oversized computer screen… Sigh.)
* Jon’s afternoons with the baby (The photo below speaks for itself. The boys found my balloon stash. Hahaha.)

OK, back to work :)