Gifts and gifts and gifts, Oh My!

My son, who’s four, came home from Junior Kindergarten last Thursday afternoon with a backpack full of loot bags.  Halloween loot bags.  Halloween loot bags from friends that he has known for eight weeks that were passed out to the entire 18-kid class, labelled ‘To My Friend’, and stuffed with Halloween pencils and erasers, balloons, glow-in-the-dark sticks, and spider rings.  I received a note from his teacher the week prior, reminding parents that if they wanted to “send something in for Halloween” it had to be non-food-related due to allergy concerns.  I chose not to send anything in, and here’s why:

When did this never-ending cycle of gift-giving start?  There’s the obvious biggies- Christmas and birthdays.  But when did it become commonplace to shower our children with ‘stuff’ every month of the year?  There’s back-to-school gifts in September, Halloween gifts in October, and New Year’s gifts in January.  Don’t forget the Valentine’s hoop-la in February, Dr. Seuss Day in March, and Easter baskets in April.  Oh, and Thanksgiving and Canada Day and the first day of Spring. What about June?  Ah yes, the “passing present” when they finish school.  Yes, you read that right: a passing present- that is, buying them a present for “passing” to the next grade level.

Please don’t get me wrong.  I am all about celebrations.  I am the first one to give a hug, a congratulatory phone call, or mail a card when a big event happens.  I put out lit-up pumpkin lights for Halloween, I hang Christmas lights in November, and I serve my kids red and pink food all day on Valentine’s Day.  But I’m not about stuff.  Gifts, gifts, and more gifts are not my style.

So, back to the note from my son’s teacher.  Halloween is already a big event at school when you’re in Junior Kindergarten, and my son was beyond excited that he got to wear his costume to school.  They also had a dance-a-thon in the gym, a movie in the classroom, and a costume parade through the halls.  It was a big deal.  It IS a big deal.  But I didn’t buy him, or his classmates, a gift.  Because the joy we had leading up to Halloween, the laughs we had trick-or-treating, and the memories we made on our neighbourhood streets were worth far more than a $5 loot bag could hold.

Call me a killjoy, call me cheap, call me a poor sport.  I will call me low-key.  I’m for jeans and a ponytail over dress pants and up-dos.  I’m for experiences over things.  I’m for earning over deserving.  I’m for opportunities over entitlement.

Happy Halloween!

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148 hours per week

I work part-time, about 20 hours per week.  Right now, at this stage in my life, that’s about all I can handle.  But what do I do with the other 148 hours per week?

I am a parent.

I wipe children’s faces and noses and bums.  I’ve caught spit-up with my hand and pee with my t-shirt.

I don’t go to the bathroom alone or shower in peace.  If little hands are not reaching to be picked up, they are wiggling fingers underneath the door or rattling the knob to get in.

I rarely sit down, and when I do, it’s usually to make a grocery list or fold laundry or do some online banking.  I wake up at 5:30 to have some gym time and I go to bed late so that I can have some couch time.

I prepare three meals and many snacks every day.  I rarely get to enjoy my food hot.  I dole out vitamins and prunes and fish oil.  I clean up the table, I wipe down the highchair, and my dishwasher is always full.

I put shoes on six feet in the morning, hats on three heads, and sunscreen on twelve limbs.  I can pack a diaper bag in two minutes flat while carrying a baby in my arms.  I can leash the dog, open the garage door, and unfold the stroller while simultaneously tracking down keys and bringing in the newspaper.

I take my kids to swimming lessons and skating lessons, playgrounds and playgroups, library programs and parks.  I get their teeth checked, their eyes checked, their spines checked, and I get them weighed and measured.  I teach them about manners and sharing and taking turns.  I teach them to play gently with the dog.

I make sure they’re hydrated, fed, and rested.  I make sure they’re getting enough exercise and fresh air, and not too much screen time.  I keep their 20 fingernails trimmed and their 20 toenails clean.  I brush their hair and their teeth and help tidy their rooms.

I read countless books and play countless hours in the playroom.  I walk miles through wood-chipped trails and point out the birds and the trees and the squirrels.  I smile when my daughter points out every airplane that flies overhead and my son gets excited at every big truck that we see.

I practice the alphabet and numbers, I sing songs and make up rhymes, and I tell more stories than you can imagine.  I take pictures often and videos sporadically, and I write down their milestones in a baby book.

I am also a wife, a daughter, a daughter-in-law, a sister, a niece, a cousin, and a friend.  I’m a chiropractor, a runner, a Crossfitter, and a foodie.  I love travelling and reading and coffee and chocolate.  I love being outside, getting up early, and taking naps.  I’m organized and loyal, a perfectionist, and a to-do-lister.  But to my kids, I am a mom. 

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On an adventure at Bronte Park.


How Come She Seems So Little?

***This post was originally written as a Guest Blog post for Momstown.ca.

Every child is different, aren’t they?  Every parenting experience unique.  Every milestone individual.  So why am I surprised that being a parent the second time around is so different than the first?

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My kids are just over three years apart; thirty-seven months to be exact.  My son is now four-and-a-half, my daughter sixteen months.  You would think I’d be getting used to this motherhood gig.  And yet every stage along the way makes me stop and think.

How come she seems so little when he seemed so big at this age?  

I was always looking ahead with him- to a time when he could roll over, then sit up, then crawl, then walk.  I was excited to see what the next stage brought, while trying to appreciate the present one.  It’s the opposite with her.  I want her to stay my baby forever.

How come I don’t feel like I know her as well as I do him?

Is it simply that he’s older, and therefore his personality has had more time to develop?  Or is it that I haven’t spent as much one-on-one time with her?  But what the second-born lacks in individual time, they gain in sibling interaction.

How come things aren’t such a big deal this time around?

The big stuff is still a big deal- her accomplishments, her growth, her celebrations.  But the small stuff is not a big deal- she gets woken up from naps if we need to be somewhere, she wears dirty clothes on occasion, and she’s eaten lots of sand.

She’s likely my last baby, and I’m soaking her up.  My experience has grown, my haste has shrunk, and my perception has changed.