here we go…
A couple years ago and then a few years before that, I took up the NaBloPoMo challenge and both times, I vowed never to do it again. You see, the thing about posting every day (or doing anything each day for 30 days) is that it’s a bit like giving up smoking. The first few days you’re so gung ho that you can’t feel the pangs of withdrawal. You are pumped. Cigarettes? Ew! Never again! By Friday night, however, at the pub, after a few ales, you’d just about lick the pavement for a smoke. It would be so easy, in that instant, to give up. And that’s what generally happens to me around day 12 of NaBloPoMo.
But here I am, like some masochist, doing it all over again. All it took was a nudge from my pushers friends Xanthe, Karen and Andrea, and this condition: that we can post anything we want… words, videos, even a single photo. I think maybe this is the kind of challenge I can take on. I don’t know, ask me again on day 12.
Honestly though, when you’re a new mom, it’s so easy to put creativity on the back burner. Right there with reading a good book and taking a hot bath, and exercising and brushing your hair. But I’ve realised that if I don’t make time for at least a little creativity in my days, I start to feel stagnant. The office space in the old right hemisphere has been gathering dust for the past couple of years, there are cobwebs everywhere and papers spilling out of the filing cabinets. Perhaps this NaBloPoMo thing is just what I need to start using that space again; a good excuse to take a creative time-out every day. I have months’ worth of untold stories and random scribblings in half-finished journals and loads of 35mm scans and a shit-ton of video footage just sitting on my computer so there should be plenty to post for the next 30 days.
Are you pumped, people? Because I’m pumped!
Here we go.
there’s a new bird in town
So, this happened since I last wrote — I made a tiny human, y’all! Meet the Stewart clan’s newest addition — Wren Skye Claire Stewart.
It’s old news to most of you by now, I know. There have been a trillion photos on Instagram and Facebook and she’s met almost everyone we know on this side of the pond, but few words have been written about the little bird that hatched into this world on a hot summer night in June, changing our lives forever. Mainly because I generally walk around in a sleep-deprived haze, in which I can hardly string together a coherent sentence. And also, as any mother knows, there simply are no words to do motherhood justice. It’s a total mind fuck in the most amazing and most challenging way. One minute you fantasise about leaving your baby in a basket on someone else’s doorstep and the next you are a mama bear and this thing is your cub and you would do anything to keep her safe, so deep is your love for her.
She turned 17 weeks on Saturday, which means I’ve essentially been hung-over for 120 days, 10 hours and 32 minutes. Most days are spent in this fuzzy-around-the-edges-twilight-zone state, the kind I used to feel after bingeing on one too many double whiskeys (Oh! Double whiskey. How I miss you.) No word of a lie, I left the house a couple of months ago and forgot my shoes. Let me clarify. I was outside the door, on the steps, when I realised I wasn’t wearing any shoes. This is how I roll these days. And usually with spit-up down my shirt. And that thing I just did, where I totally switched topics in the same paragraph? I do that a lot too because I often forget what I am talking about halfway through a sentence. Conversational skills? Nil.
Still, however apprehensive and incoherent as I may be, it’s time for me to re-enter the blogging world. I don’t really want to become a mommy blogger but there’s a chance I might be, at least for a short time, until I find my bearings again (apologies to all the single and child-free ladies out there).
Being a mom is all-consuming. Nobody tells you how harrowing the first few months will be. You’ll never have been so tired in your entire life. They tell you to enjoy your sleep while you can, but they don’t say “There is a reason sleep deprivation is a form of torture. Also, your shift never ends. Forget 9 to 5. This is 24/7. You never punch out.”
No one tells you about the witching hour, when nothing you do will console your baby and the very thing that pissed her off in the beginning will soothe her in the end. Also, the witching hour is actually hours, plural, many hours, the hours of many. During which time you will seriously wonder whether she is bipolar and you’ll spend hours on Google searching for “What is wrong with my baby?” This, by the way, is a recipe for disaster and will only serve to fuel your worries.
You will sometimes look at women without children and envy their free time and fresh faces and the tell-tale signs of a good night’s sleep (as in, they don’t have bags the size of golf balls under their eyes… while yours look like the flap of skin under a turkey’s neck).
Also, you will be bored often. And then you’ll feel guilty for being bored. And then you’ll compensate by over-stimulating your kid. And then she’ll get knackered and by the time you try to put her down for a nap, she’ll be overtired and this is when shit really hits the fan and you’ll never be so grateful for a green exercise ball – the go-to bouncing tool for the sleepless baby.
Eventually, you’ll learn to accept that you don’t have one of those babies, you know, those mythical creatures that sleep through the night? Your baby needs all the tricks in all the books to get her to sleep for 25 minutes. It’s not a good investment on your return.
You’ll also learn to accept that the stork ain’t coming back and your old life is gone. You’re going to smell like sour milk most days and probably won’t bother to change because what’s the point? You will get pooped on, your boobs will leak at the most inconvenient time and you will pass gas in front of strangers shortly after giving birth (and if you don’t, you’ve got one mean pelvic floor, my friend). Motherhood is far from glamorous.
And to top it all off, just when you think you have it all figured out, everything will change again.
But then, they also don’t tell you that you’ll have this adorable little cherub that farts in the middle of the night like some old grand-pa, sending you and your husband into absolute hysterics. And that makes up for half of the above.
You will marvel every day at this tiny human that started off as a speck of star-dust and all the things that had to happen for her to come into this world. That exact sperm and egg, for starters — the very genetic make-up that makes her who she is. And then, there’s me meeting Joe, which never would have happened were it not for my ex-boyfriend, whom I wouldn’t have met had I not studied at McGill University, which I wouldn’t have attended had I been accepted into vet school, which I wouldn’t have applied for had I not, say, been born, which only happened because my parents met and their parents met and so on and so forth, and the same for Joe’s side. It’s all too big to comprehend and it makes you wonder how we even dare to take this life for granted? It’s nothing short of a miracle that we are all on this planet, living and breathing. How can we spend so much time criticising and suppressing who we are when there is nobody like us on the entire planet? Dudes, it’s immense. There is only ONE YOU and you are a miracle!!!
I look into Wren’s eyes in the middle of the night and I wonder “Where did you come from?” and in those moments of quiet, at 3am, I feel like I am getting a tiny glimpse into what this life is all about. It’s all there, in that sparkle. And that gives me the strength to make it through another day.
(Also chubby chipmunk cheeks, like perfect little crab apples, and thigh rolls like a Shar Pei’s. Need I say more?)
Sure, I feel broken, but I also feel whole at the same time. She is teaching me so much about myself and I’m finding patience deep within for the first time in my life, in a place I’ve never been able to tap into before (us Caron’s are not renowned for our patience). I think maybe she makes me a better person.
My life feels so much more important now. I want her to grow up loving every bit of herself, each of those little features that make her unique in this world. I hope I have what it takes to simply witness her growth and guide her gently along her path, without shaping her into what I think she ought to be.
And that old life of mine? Sure, it was good. It was bloody great. But my heart is now bigger than it ever was before and each day, it grows a little more. I sometimes wonder if there is enough room in my chest for this expansion.
And this is just the beginning. There is so much more to look forward to. So much.
dear wren (2 mo)
Dear Wren,
Yesterday, you turned 8 weeks old. How is that possible? I don’t really remember what life was like before you arrived. Every day is like groundhog day, a repeat of the day before. Change nappy, feed, sleep, play, rinse and repeat. But each day is also different in that you show me a new side of your character or a skill you’ve learned. Last week you discovered your hands for the first time. You were wiggling away on your mat and flapping your chubby little arms and suddenly caught sight of your hands, which look like small starfish, and stopped mid-flight to examine them. Then, very slowly, you attempted to bring them to your mouth with the precision of someone who’d had 10 pints and been asked to walk the line. Your success rate at the moment is about 20 percent, but you are fiercely determined and I anticipate a sharp rise in the near future.
With each passing day, I get better at reading you. Your poo face is particularly unmistakable. Your face turns bright red and you sound like an old grand-dad getting out of his rocking chair. There have been times when I’ve had to ask your dad, “Was that you?”, because I simply can’t believe something so small could pass gas with such gusto. We are always a bit terrified to remove your nappy and see what’s in store for us. More often than not, you poo all the way up the back of your nappy, leaving a lovely mustard-coloured stain on your onesie. Thanks for that. How can so much poo come out of such a tiny being?
You’ve been exercising your vocal chords a lot lately. I have a feeling your first word is going to be hello. You have the right pitch – very british – and I can tell there are two distinct syllables somewhere in all that cooing. But the gargle in the back of your throat throws me and you usually end up sounding more like a growling puppy than a baby. It’s terribly sweet. Especially because I’m convinced that you are convinced that you are repeating every word I say perfectly. You are so eager to communicate with us. I can’t wait for you to start talking. If you have half of your father’s imagination, we are in for a treat and a barrel of laughs.
I chose to go back in time and write about the day you turned 8 weeks old today because for the past three days, we have been working on sleep training and I can’t say that you are very pleased with the whole transition. Since Sunday, you’ve been waking up every 40-60 minutes, in complete distress. I know you want so badly to nurse but you’ve been guzzling three-quarters of your milk intake in the night since the day you were born and I’m afraid we have to reverse that, my little chicken. So we are gently spacing out your night feeds in order that you drink more during the day. I’m so sorry for the stress I’m causing you. I know you don’t understand what is happening and it breaks my heart to see you so upset. But I promise it will get easier and no matter what, I will always pick you up and hold you until you feel better.
And because I’m on the verge of tears every time you cry, I thought I’d lighten the mood a bit and talk about potty humour. Because it’s always funny, no matter how old you are. Besides, isn’t it every parent’s job to embarrass their kids, just a little bit?
Love,
Mama
lately
I’m fairly certain we just turned the corner into 2014 but the scene outside my window – tall grasses, elderflowers in full bloom, skirts and ice cream cones – suggests otherwise.
Time is tricky that way. It insidiously turns from innocent seconds merrily ticking away on the clock to days to weeks to months and before you know it, the damn elderflowers are in bloom and you must concede that it’s time to push those frosty photos of snow-capped mountains further down the blog page.
You’ll be glad to know that I haven’t evaporated into a puff of crack smoke (reference: I walked past a woman the other morning, 11:00am, shouting into her mobile phone “You got into the crack di’n’t you? I knows you did“, as if she’d caught a small child with their hand in the cookie jar). I’m happy to say that I did not get into the crack but I have been hooked on a whole lot of Instagram lately. Because the thing, you see, is that when you feel like you’ve lost all creativity and you’re not to ever find it again (cue dramatic sigh and hand to brow), Instagram in the perfect bite sized creative tool for the person on the go. Take a shot, post it, carry on, repeat.
The rest of my life has consisted of worrying about, applying for and obtaining my indefinite leave to remain in the UK. Yay me! So then, I decided to celebrate by registering for Tough Mudder. The British Boy and I spent six crazy weeks training for the challenge, which touts itself as the toughest event on the planet but anyone can tell you the toughest event on the planet is renovating a home with three other parties. That, and giving birth (so I’ve been told). So this was small potatoes by comparison. It was definitely muddy though. I can attest to that. And great fun. But so is sitting on the couch with a glass of red wine, eating popcorn and watching bad TV. Given the choice again, I might choose the latter.
Other than that, I’ve taken up meditation in earnest using Headspace (brilliant!) and I also attended my very first Instameet this weekend (equally brilliant) where I met a bunch of other Instagram addicts who don’t think it’s weird to take photos of feet and jump in the air at random places (inside Tate Britain for instance) because we be whack like that, kids!
So, in summary. I’m alive. I’m not on crack. I’m now a permanent resident of the UK. I survived this. We haven’t begun renos on the house. I’m working on being all zen and shit. And, judging by the photos above, life has been pretty damn colourful the past couple months.
What have YOU been up to?
x
P.S. I did recently compile some film photos for the lovely Naomi, which you can view here.
the first and last snow
This was the first and only snow I saw this winter and when I look outside my window, it’s hard to believe snow even exists at all and that it is still several inches deep in certain parts of the world. Here, in London, it continues to rain and I’m thinking perhaps the UK should just give up and rename its seasons “the rainy season” and “the less rainy season”. Because, hey, will you look at that, the sky is spitting on us again.
So yeah. The weather. Also, I joined a Canadian expat group last month. We sit at the Maple Leaf pub in Covent Garden and eat chicken wings and drink Canadian beer and talk about hockey and why we are here (as in, London, not the Universe – it’s beer and chicken wing night, not “drop acid and get existential” night). No, we talk about the simple stuff, like how weird the Brits are and how poutine should never, ever be made with grated cheese (the cheese must squeak between your teeth when you bite into it and that is a fact). We talk about how it takes 3 days to cross Ontario and then someone mentions they come from Belleville and the guy from Ottawa replies “Ah ya! I know Belleville, my car broke down there once” and this is music to my ears. A strange comfort. A land I know.
Canada is a big place and not all Canadians are the same but here, we are fish out of water, and because of this we connect, even if only for a couple hours. We have a few beers, we watch a game, we go home and we come back every month to water our roots before we start to wither.
And on that note, I’m off to spend the weekend studying for my Life in the UK test.
I know. The good times never end around here.
Happy weekend, kids. xo
wonderingsandwanderings.com 