Category: The Mom Files

Posted on

Exactly What I Wanted

There are times when I feel like I’m failing, or not “good enough”. But lately, I have really come to the realization that I am doing exactly what I wanted to do.

Sometimes I would get frustrated with myself and think “If I’m so determined, diligent and hardworking, why don’t I have more clients or why am I not making more money?” for example. Or, not so much now, (not since I had my West Nile experience), I used to think, “I wanted to be a mom for as long as I can remember and now that I am, I feel like I’m not good at it or I feel guilty for not enjoying it more?” More than what? What was I comparing it to?

When I was making money in a career, I was wishing to be a full-time mom. When I became a full-time mom and caretaker of my home, I felt guilty for not being more career focused and bringing in more money. What was going on here? The common denominator was my mindset and thinking I needed to be something more.

A dear friend of mine from my middle school years helped me realize a couple years ago that I am already doing exactly what I set out to do since I was young. He said “Look at everything you’ve done, you went to school, you got your education, you’ve had your career, you’re raising a beautiful family as an awesome wife and mother. You are exactly the way I knew you would be since we were kids!” I had to take a step back and realize he was right.

The thing is, I was so focused on the family I had lost (when my parents split up and my world came crashing down), and how I had always “messed everything up” and “gotten it all wrong”. I was just thinking about how I always had to be better and do better, I was so focused on fixing that I hadn’t even stopped to realize that I, along with my husband and God’s guidance, I had built the very thing I set out to––a family; a strong, beautiful family.

Then, yesterday, my husband took the day off work so we could take some time to celebrate my birthday together. We didn’t do anything extraordinarily special, we went grocery shopping together (something we used to do when we first married but hadn’t done in years just for practicality), and we had a long lunch together. I was telling him that I used to feel guilty for not “working harder” at something that brings in money, but that I have now realized that we have the life we have because I have deliberately created margin in our lives for peace. He has the ability to focus on his career and how it can bless us because he does not need to worry about what’s going on at home or the well-being of his children and the state of our family because I have the time and space to do that. And we were able to take this day off to do simple things with no pressure, just peace, because we have been deliberate about creating it in our lives.

And then, I remembered what I had in my heart, close to 5 years ago after our youngest was born––I was on the cusp of a career change because destiny was calling me. I told myself that I was going to spend the next 5 years learning everything I could about natural healing, and seeing whatever clients I had space for, while raising the kids so that when they were all in school full time, I’d be ready to step into this new career as a natural healer. And I realized I’m doing it.

Those moments when I feel like I’m not doing enough or not getting it right come when I compare myself to other people’s journeys. I remembered that promise in my heart and it looks and feels like success to me because I realized I am doing exactly what I said I was going to do, and I’m doing it well.

Posted on

A Gift at My Expense

No sooner do I write a post about how much I hate hypocrisy than do I catch myself in it. Perhaps this is why I hate it so much. It is a sneaky, slippery slope, and easy to fall into.

My sister was coming to visit yesterday, which the kids always get really excited about, and I found myself making a secret phone call to her ahead of time asking her to smuggle in some Sour Patch Kids candies to replace the ones that I told the kids I’d share with them. I did share with them when we first opened the bag, but then over the course of the next week or so, I polished off the rest. (Insert *eek face*. I rarely buy sour gummies and this is why!)

The kids have probably forgotten about those candies already, but rather than face the prospect of telling them that I’d eaten the rest without them, I was trying to pull of a scam. I could hear my inner voice accusing me, pointing a finger and demanding me to remember what I had just posted about. I could feel the familiar grasp of shame starting to creep in, so I looked at that. What was I worried about? What was I trying to avoid? It was more than likely that the kids wouldn’t even ask about those candies and I wouldn’t have to face it. But more importantly, what lessons was I robbing them of if I just pulled off my scam and replaced the candies? What would I be doing to myself by bringing yet another bag of those delicious temptations into the house again?

Wouldn’t it be better to be honest with them? I know, as a kid, it didn’t help me at all to try and believe that my parents were perfect when I could clearly see they weren’t––nobody is.

I didn’t go through with the candy smuggling. And if the kids ask about the candies at some point, I will tell them they got eaten and that one day we can buy more. And it will probably be a good opportunity to talk with them about self-control, and even some strategies to help us with our self-control.; like not buying a lot of candy and keeping it in the house.

Rather than save my pride, I decided to give my kids the gift of this opportunity to learn about how not perfect their mother is, so that they too can be relieved of that incredible pressure to be perfect.

Posted on

The Gift on the Other Side

When my youngest was a baby, in her first year of life, she was dealing with severe eczema. No big deal, you might say, if you know nothing about eczema–– before this trial, I knew nothing of eczema. I heard eczema and I thought dry skin on your knees and elbows, maybe a little itchy, whatever.

I learned that there are different types of eczema, that had varying symptoms of varying degrees caused by many different things. G had weeping eczema with an insatiable itch. This meant that she could scratch herself till she bled and still, scratching the itch would be the only thing that would satisfy it, even if she was cutting through her skin and bleeding, which she did.

I rarely slept as all of my waking hours were spent caring for her, being attentive, carrying her almost non-stop and watching her like a hawk when I couldn’t so she wouldn’t start scratching, because I knew she couldn’t stop once she started. I could barely sleep even when she slept because I was listening for any little stirring that would indicate she had woken up and would start scratching. I swaddled her, tightly, for longer than you would swaddle most babies, in attempts to keep her from scratching in the night. I kept her little nails trimmed at all times. I would put little mittens on her but she quickly learned how to remove them. More than once I would awake to find her sheets bloodied and her cheeks scratched raw. Her siblings all had to be more patient and settle for less attention. Our marriage required a lot of patience. Diets and activities were restricted. Everything revolved around trying to keep her safe and give her some sort of relief. Needless to say it was a trying time for all of us.

The 3:00 am feedings were spent researching everything I possibly could. One night I came across mitten sleeves! I couldn’t seem to find any stores that carried them in my city, but thankfully that week my dad happened to be in Chicago. I found a store there that carried them and asked him to bring me some. They were exactly what they sound like, a sleeve with mittens, made of silky satin, on either end. Because it was a sleeve, she couldn’t get them off; they did have openings that could be folded back during the day for play time or eating when I could be right there with her. Hallelujah!! I could finally take a shower that lasted longer than two seconds or put her down to cook dinner without worrying if her face would survive. My dad had brought me two pairs of mitten sleeves; it was what he could find, and they got non-stop use. It didn’t take long before they began to form holes from the constant use––she would still rub her face, which would give her some relief but also save her cheeks; they had to be washed and kept clean all the time. Thankfully, one of our wonderful neighbors made her two more pairs and a friend of mine was able to repair the originals. I can still remember how it felt, the relief of getting back some semblance of “normal” life when those sleeves came on the scene. I had already forgotten what it felt like to not live on edge, concerned all the time.

It hadn’t always been like that. Her first three months were amazing. She was the happiest little smiliest baby I’d ever seen. Always laughing and giggling. A very good sleeper, at about 8 weeks or so I could get a good 5-6 hours of sleep each night, but that didn’t last long. Right around her third month she began to develop eczema––I’ll talk about the whys and hows of this in another post; including why I believe those first 2-3 months were so great. From there, it was about 9 months before we would finally be able to start unravelling our tightly wound nerves from being on constant edge and alert.

I spent so much time with her, but I feel like I missed a lot of it––measuring progress on her recovery rather than growth milestones. (Thank goodness for the first-year baby calendar I kept for her, as well as a little journal; at least we can go back and read about the life we were living as opposed to the disease we were experiencing.)

One of the things that added to the difficulty of the whole situation, was that it was so visible, you could see it all over her face. All kinds of well-meaning people would approach me telling me the things they tried when their kid or grandkid had eczema. Others, would stare, some of them probably judging me with whatever reason they needed to tell themselves for why a parent would dare to leave the house with their kid suffering like that, wondering what I was doing wrong . Others I could see the pity in their eyes, and I just felt even more pitiful, because I felt there was nothing I could do and that I had already tried a million and one things.

I remember one time, while making supper, after having obtained the mitten sleeves, looking over at G in the Exersaucer where I had placed her, and my once jolly, smiley baby looked forlorn and depressed. I had never before seen a “depressed” baby. She just looked so sad and hopeless. It broke my heart. It was such a contrast from the happy, smiley baby she was in her first three months. Now, a few years later, G has beautiful skin. And, as the baby of the family is always goofing off and doing stuff to get a laugh out of us. She is a very happy, healthy little girl. (I will talk about the natural healing side of that journey in another post.) But I wondered at that moment, if I would ever see her smile again.

That’s how it is, isn’t it? When you’re in the eye of the storm, it can be very hard to see anything beyond. While I would never, ever wish to repeat this experience, nor wish it on anybody, I am grateful for the lessons I learned. Coming through this trial, and many others, has taught me to have faith in the gift on the other side.

Posted on

I Don’t Get It

I just can’t reconcile it in my mind. I can’t get the logic to line up: Why do so many people seem to be okay with the incredible violations to their rights and freedoms right now?

Why do so many people seem to think it’s ok to force another person to wear a mask over their face, when just a few years ago here in Canada, they were trying to ban burkas and other religious face coverings. Now suddenly everyone is supposed to wear them and just be okay with that? Why aren’t more women questioning this? I honestly wonder. So many women here in the Western world used to be appalled at the lack of freedom and rights of women in the muslim world––having to always be covered in public and yet here they are just willingly submitting to the same thing now.

Why do so many people seem to be willing to subject themselves to a very controversial, experimental injection without even really knowing what’s in it or what are the possible long term effects?

Do people just not understand or realize what they are giving up? Are people too tired to be responsible for themselves and their decisions? Maybe being a virtual robot won’t be so bad? I mean, I don’t want to end my life, but I certainly don’t want to live in a box not being allowed to make any decisions for myself. I want to choose for myself. I want to make my own choices. Why is that even considered a selfish thing? I’m not hurting anyone. I just want to live in peace. I just want to live my life. It seems like these people who are going along with this narrative just want someone else to live their lives.

I don’t have answers this time, I mean, I do, but I don’t. I get it that many people feel too overwhelmed and hopeless and maybe they feel like making decisions for themselves it just too stressful and too much work. Maybe it feels hard because they are scared to make the wrong choice––this to me is more an issue of being out of touch with Self. And yes, I understand that looking at yourself isn’t easy, but it is worth it.

I truly believe if more people were more in touch with their Self; tuned into and listening to the internal wisdom that is innate within all of us; if we could slow down and stop blocking it out with constant distraction and entertainment, we wouldn’t be in this mess right now. I truly believe that, as more people learn who to love and forgive themselves, this world will become a better place.

Until then, I just don’t get it.

Posted on

Calling Down Rain

When my oldest daughter, M, was five, my mom, sister and I decided to take a little road trip down to Missouri to visit my uncle, Stan. It’s about a 2-day drive South from where we live and we decided to stop for couple nights halfway there, in Minneapolis, so we could do a day at Valley Fair as well.

At the time, Stan lived in community living, what some might call a commune. I only visited that farm two or three times, but I always really enjoyed it there. Everything smelled so fresh and earthy. Seventy percent of what they consumed, they grew right there on the farm. Their main crops were mustard and sorghum as well as honey; Stan is a beekeeper. I remember sweetening my coffee with fresh maple syrup right from their trees. They made their own tempeh and sarsaparilla (root beer). Everything was organically grown, all the veggies tasted so good! There was no air conditioner, no tv, just real down to earth living.

It was a sweltering hot summer and shortly after arriving, Stan told us that they were having a drought, that they hadn’t had rain in almost two weeks; we could see that the ground was parched. It was then that I told M about her spirit name for the first time.

Her birth father is indigenous and when she was about three months old I went into a ceremony in a sweat lodge with her paternal grandmother where we were each given names, (I’ll save mine for another post). However, I lost all contact with him and his side of the family when she was not quite two years old so I wasn’t really able to teach her much of those cultural ways.

Nevertheless, when Stan mentioned the drought and we could see how dusty and dry the land was, I asked about the big drum in the corner of the porch and if she could use it. I let her know that she could use that drum and call down some rain because she is Lightning Thunder Girl.

The beauty of five year olds is that they still have imagination and they know how to dream and to believe. I’d had a flash of intuition and she went with it. And wouldn’t you know, within five minutes of her banging on that drum and calling, “I’m Lightning Thunder Girl, I want rain!” we got a nice little shower. Just little sprinkling to make everything green and shiny again. And to let M know the power that lies within her.

Posted on

Haircut

I got my haircut yesterday––yes, I know, I’m a rebel. Or maybe the person who cut my hair is a rebel. Maybe we both are. Personally, I see nothing criminal about getting a haircut, but the way things are going these days, people are being treated like criminals for a heck of a lot less; just for daring to breathe freely while buying groceries, for example.

But anyway, that’s not what this post is about. Because I went and got my bootleg haircut, my eight-year-old daughter wanted one too. And, because you can’t just go out and get a haircut these day, she wanted me to do it.

Aside from the haircut I gave my two-year-old sister when I was four, and maybe the infamous self-directed bangs that seem to be a rite of passage for all teenage girls, I have never cut hair. What I can appreciate here in this situation is my daughters complete confidence in my ability to give her what she wants. I told her I have basically zero experience in cutting hair and that I had to first see if I even still had the pair of old hairstyling shears which, despite the fact that I never cut hair, I do still have. (Ask me where they came from, I couldn’t really tell you; probably my dad because he seems to think it’s important to be prepared for every situation with items that you would rarely use otherwise––thanks Dad!) Nonetheless, none of these minor attempts to discourage the idea that I should be the one to cut her hair deterred my daughter.

I watched a few videos about how to layer hair and how to cut curly hair, etc. I know a thing or two about taking care of curly hair thanks to my own curls, but I never cut my own hair. However, we are in extraordinary circumstances and I’m sure many people have resorted to experimenting with things they never would have otherwise. One of the beautiful things about this is that I am learning that I am capable of so much more than I have given myself credit for.

So I cut the girls hair. I did it. I decided not to go too short so that we’d have room to get it fixed if I totally botched it. But guess what? It turned out very well! If I had a day-job I wouldn’t be quitting it, as the saying goes. But, my daughter trusted me with her look and I did something new because of it. After I cut it, we washed her hair and I showed her how to properly care for curly hair––because up to this point she would just brush it into a frizz. We washed it with special shampoo to clean it up, then washed it with conditioner to help smooth the frizz. I showed her that a more delicate, smooth towel, or even an old t-shirt to squeeze out the excess water will reduce frizz. We put in a special curl cream and then diffused it. I showed her a whole new routine; it was time just for the two of us. And she gets to go back to school with a “new look” after the Christmas break.

Sometimes, being a mom can feel like a thankless job. But moments like this make me realize how much she values me, my input and the little things I can do to care for her. And that is a gift.

Posted on

It’s Just a Phase

Please tell me it’s just a phase. Logic tells me it’s just a phase, but long days and short years feel otherwise; my kids are bickering all the time! Ok, maybe not all the time, but let’s say 95% of their waking time together in our house. Again, I could have a biased point of view here, (insert eye-roll), but nevertheless, it feels non-stop.

Does anyone else notice this: there’s three of them and when all three of them are together it’s non-stop bickering, but when there’s only two of them it’s quite nice. Is this like an odd-number thing? If there were four of them would it be different? Maybe, but I’m not planning to find out!

How do I make it stop? Can I make it stop? Maybe what’s more important is, what can I learn from this situation? One of the factors that played into wanting lots of kids, (I have four in total, but the oldest does not fall into this bickering squad), was because I am fascinated by learning about people, their personalities, what makes them tick, what they like and dislike, everything. I love getting to know people; I’ll be getting to know these kids all my life.

Life has a way of giving you exactly what you need. A dear friend of mine told me something along the lines of “You either marry or give birth to what you need to work on.” (I think it was something a friend said to her so sorry I’m not quoting the source, kudos to you, Wise Person, whoever you are!) Not to say you have to work on the people in your life, but rather that they reflect back to you your own issues that need attention. Couple that with the very real reality that it’s also your responsibility to help shape the children you choose to raise into conscious adults that can make wise choices for themselves and society, and you can see why most of us are in for an eye-opener when we take on the task of raising children.

We are having lots of talks about kindness lately. Lots of reminders that each day and each argument is an opportunity to practice kindness and patience. Almost constant reminders that each of us is responsible for our own choices, not the choices of others, and that we always have the choice to choose kindness––sometimes I fail at this, too. I’m still a work in progress, and these days I have plenty of opportunities to practice patience!

Posted on

I’m So Proud of Her

As I mentioned in my previous post, my oldest moved out this month, and I’m proud of her. She’s only been gone two weeks and yet it feels like it’s been forever.

She has come to visit both of the Fridays that she has been gone. It was great, the first week, we all got to watch Home Alone together, which is our traditional Christmas movie. And, she and I have continued our friendly rivalry in our games of Canasta, a card game played with 6 decks of cards. She beat me last time, a rare occurrence, so far!

It took some getting used to at first as I had to remind myself that I didn’t need to leave the outside light on for her. But, it’s also not the first time she’s left home; last year, she participated in the Katimavik program and was away for 7 months. That experience was great for her and really helped her grow. It also helped me to realize that she’ll be ok on her own.

She’ll be better than ok, actually. She will thrive. She needed to spread her wings.

She is wise beyond her years. She is insightful. She has strong opinions but is not head-strong or stubborn about them. She is very observant and pays close attention to people and how their words align (or don’t) with their actions; she is not easily influenced. She is really smart and the world is lucky to have her. I’m lucky to have her. I’m blessed.

Posted on

Normal Things

My oldest daughter moved out earlier this month. She was so excited. I’m excited for her.

It may not have been the most ideal time to move out, in the middle of a “pandemic”. But what struck me, what really stood out to me, was that she was doing something completely normal during a not-so-normal time.

It was rather unceremonious, as basically everything else has been this year. But it was momentous for her, for us. She did a happy dance when she found out she got the place. She moved in with someone who needed a new roommate; I’m glad she won’t be alone during this time. Her roommate has cats, too, which is a big bonus for my daughter––she was really wanting to get one.

A bunch of “normal” things and “normal” moments. I remember thinking to myself, as she was prepping and packing, “Wow, look at this kid, moving out on her own during a time like this. People are still doing normal things.” The fear and anxiety that is in the air for so many, seemed to just fade away, and here we were just having a normal moment, doing normal things. It just made it feel like everything is going to be ok.