Thursday, June 16, 2016


We went on a family bike ride the other night. It was really lovely, to get out in the fresh air and stretch our legs. We biked down Queens Avenue, across on Butts Road, down Pasture Road South, across the level crossing, and into Water's Edge. It had rained earlier that day, and the kids had fun splashing through all the puddles. We took in the view of the Humber Bridge, and tried to spot Hull landmarks across the estuary. The sun was blazing, the breeze was cool, and all of us were together.

Times like those, my whole world seems perfect. In reality, it's not. At all. But those rare moments of perfection are sweet, and make the daily grind seem much more bearable.

Life with very young children is physically demanding. Meeting their every need quite literally wears you out. My babies are growing up now, and they pretty much take care of themselves physically. I don't have to wipe bottoms or spoon feed any more. But parenting is still challenging. My greatest difficulty at the moment seems to be not getting irritated by the little darlings. Edith isn't so bad, but Dylan is going through a stag --what I hope is a stage and not just his personality-- that is hard to deal with. Basically, he is a loud, arrogant, annoying little, um, child. He still has moments of sweetness and he just wants a kiss and a cuddle at the end of the day, but he seriously drives me nuts most of the time. I totally love my son, but I sometimes struggle to like him.

Man, did I just commit that sentiment to public record? Let me explain...

Dylan is gorgeous. Seriously, a really good looking kid. He is incredibly bright--like genius level in school. He has a great vocabulary and is wonderfully sensitive. He is passionate about his hobbies. But what this means irl is that he constantly yammers on about football and whatever computer/playstation game he is currently interested in. Minecraft is the worst! He can speak to you like an adult, so you forget he is only eight years old. And emotionally, a very young eight years old. He cries and sulks (though not as much as he did up until about six weeks ago) at the drop of a hat. He is sneaky, constantly trying to play me and Martin against each other. He thinks he knows everything, and constantly butts in with his unsolicited advice or opinions. He tries to take over every single social situation. Oh, and did I mention that he has no concept of personal space or an inside voice?

Makes me wonder what I was like as a child. Though I suspect my nose was buried in a book too often for me to be pushy and loud.

It's probably only a matter of time before Edith starts to annoy me as well. In fact, she already does. Just not as much.

But at night, when I am tucking him in to bed, and he gives me a sleepy smile and a kiss, I remember how much I love him. How he was my miracle baby, and the sweetest little toddler around. How he was my sanity and my constant companion after Edith was born. How I would do absolutely anything for him. And the slate is wiped clean. I love him perfectly again. At least until morning, when he sneaks downstairs to go on Minecraft, poops with the bathroom door open, hangs all over everybody, bosses everyone around, screams the walls down while talking to people who are sitting right next to him, and speaks to me (or Martin) like we are stupid.

Ah, the circle of love with an eight year old boy