52 Faces

Mess Mama!

February 23, 2012 By Laura O'Rourke 13 Comments

“Mama! Mama! MESS! Mess Mama!”

You were frantic, pointing down at the filthy floor and examining your now soiled sock.

You, my sweet boy, are so much like me. I keep seeing this. You like the feeling of multiple blankets on top of you when you go to sleep and you prefer them to be smooth. You line up your toy cars perfectly even in the midst of playing, because even if they are not where they belong (which they rarely are), they need to be orderly. And you hate getting your socks dirty.

And so, you’ve taken to pointing out all the messy spots in our house, perhaps to avoid the feeling of crumbs underneath your nimble little toddler toes.

“Mama! MESS Mama!”

Sigh.

Oh, Baby. That mess that you are so concerned about? It wasn’t there five minutes ago. Five minutes ago there was a clean floor. Today I swept and even spot scrubbed that floor that you are standing on. I did that because I know how quickly crumbs and dust begin to pile up with an almost-two year old running and eating in this house (and shh, don’t tell Daddy, but the floor always needs a good sweeping after he cooks too!) So, even though I am 30ish weeks pregnant, even though my back aches and my stomach feels like it couldn’t get any heavier, I sweep and sit, sweep and sit until the floor is spotless. Because, Cameron, I love you. And I want your world to be safe and clean.

Five minutes ago, this floor was clean.

And then you had lunch. And after lunch, you threw your plate on the floor because you were ALL DONE! and Mama wasn’t able to get up out of her seat fast enough to take your plate from you. So instead, like the reasonable almost-two year old that you are, you threw your plate full of chicken nuggets and plum sauce and fries and ketchup onto the floor.

And I looked at you and tried to remember why I even bother.

Because five minutes ago? This floor was clean. A cleanliness that lasted pretty much as long as lunch did.

And now? “MESS Mama!” You’re insistent. Pointing out how I have failed you.

Sometimes, being your mother, the mother of a toddler, feels like an act in futility. I clean up your toys each time you go to bed, and you wake up, thrilled to find your cars and trains so orderly. But then you play. You play and you mess. And I trip over balls and big plastic trains and blocks. I give you food and the floor I just cleaned is just as dirty. I set up an activity that you ask for only to have you walk away, uninterested. Sometimes I feel like I am trying so hard and getting absolutely no where.

But I love you. So I make your food. I give you crayons to colour with. I clean up your toys and I sweep up the floor underneath your feet.

Still, our life is messy.

I cook. And I feed. And I clean up. And I pick up. And I sweep. And then, I sit down and take a breath,

And you come over. And you hand me a hockey stick. “GOAL!” Or you start driving a toy car over my legs, my belly. Or you climb up on top of me and snuggle into that spot between my belly and the armrest where you fit so perfectly, and you rest your head against my shoulder, and you just sit.

And the mess fades away. Our dirty socks and our imperfect nature no longer matter. It is just you and me. Mommy and son. Messy and imperfect and loved.

*Some of the photos in this post were meant to be part of my Faces of a Family project. But this weekend, as I was sitting down, feeling utterly overwhelmed and exhausted, I decided to stop the project. I knew I should be picking up my camera and snapping some photos, but I just didn’t have it in me. I think as the year progresses, as my pregnancy progresses and as a newborn enters our life, I am going to have more of these moments. So, for now, the project is on hold.*

13 Comments

Make-Down: Faces of a Family

February 15, 2012 By Laura O'Rourke 17 Comments

Since I was a little girl, I have always had a stash of make-up for when I really needed it. It started with a simple play set which included lipgloss, blush, and probably loads of lead. As I matured, so too did my make-up materials. I started using eye-shadow, foundation, mascara, and in time eyelash curlers and eye-liner. But really, these were only ever used for special occasions. When I looked in the mirror, I didn’t really see a need for make-up. Sure, as a teenager I saw lots of reflection imperfections, but none of these were fixable with a simple sweep of a make-up brush.

I didn’t really start wearing make-up regularly until a year or two into my relationship with a big-city boy (who ended up becoming my husband). One afternoon, as I was getting ready for a shift at the coffee shop I worked at, my boyfriend made a comment. It was meant to be an innocent, contemplative comment – one that commented on the difference between the giant city he grew up in and the small-town mentality that I had. But it changed me.

“Girls never leave the house without make-up on where I am from, let alone go to work that way!”*

And there I was. Stuck in that place where I wasn’t quite sure if I had just been criticized. I didn’t know whether the man that I loved wished I was something more.

Insecure.

Of course, I wore make-up on our first date and every subsequent date after that. Sure, I wore make-up when I handed out resumes and attended job interviews. But to me, make-up was an addition, a “something special” that wasn’t always needed.

But after that comment, I grabbed my make-up bag and started applying. And, instead of resenting my boyfriend for making me feel unpretty, I started to find confidence every time I left the house. I painted that confidence on every morning and hoped it wouldn’t smudge during the day.

Underneath it all was someone who had lost her natural confidence.

Since becoming a mother, I now go through phases with make-up. Sometimes I wear it every day. Sometime just to work. Sometimes it gets applied whenever I leave the house. And sometimes, I ignore it altogether.

I brought my giant make-up bag to the hospital with me when I was in labour. I planned to be the perfectly pretty new Mama, all made-up and ready for my prime-time when the cameras started snapping.

But I didn’t touch that make-up bag. Not for months.

I was happy. In love. Busy. Overwhelmed. Exhausted. My life had completely changed.

And I wondered where the pretty girl went. Motherhood gave me so much, but it stole that one, little thing from me.

My skin has since lost its teenage pimples but the bags under my eyes have grown. I skip through profile pictures and notice a distinct difference between pre-baby and post-baby me. I look tired. Older. And typically, less made-up.

Soon, life settled down for me. My boy was older. The pounds had been shed. I was back at work. My days started with a make-up routine again and most days, I looked in the mirror feeling like I was rocking it. I was no frumpy-Mom. I was a hot-Mama!

But now, I’m back in this place. This place that finds me feeling huge, exhausted, and unpretty. My routine has changed and make-up has fallen from my priorities again. The pregnancy, early-wake ups and long days, being both a working and stay-at-home Mom is leaving my time crunched and my energy drained. I forgo my morning make-up routine for a few minutes of extra sleep and haven’t thrown on a pair of heels in weeks.

And without this mask, I am struggling to find the confidence I once had. I’m struggling to feel like the woman my husband married. I am struggling to feel like myself.

But this? This is what motherhood looks like. It is raw and exhausted and overwhelmed and busy. It is unrefined. It is natural. It is beautiful.

*My husband rarely puts his foot in his mouth. Cut him some slack this time around. It was years ago. He is pretty darn incredible.

Previous Weeks

17 Comments

Takes the Cake

February 8, 2012 By Laura O'Rourke 16 Comments

There is a lot to consider when starting a family. So many of the unknowns and the possibilities are exciting. Some are unnerving. Others are downright frightening. But mostly, the idea of starting a family and doing all sorts of family-things together is pretty darn wonderful.

But I have always been worried about one family-related thing in particular: Cake. I knew that as a Mom, I would be in charge of the birthday cakes. When I started dating, I took pride in being able to show my affection by baking my loved one a cake. But as time went on, and as each consecutive cake proved that I had absolutely no cake-baking abilities, I started to rely on specialty bakeries and Dairy Queen more often. When Dan and I were first married, I continued this tradition. I spent good money on gourmet cupcakes and supermarket delicacies.

But I knew things would have to change when I had children.

Unless you are one of those Moms who spend thousands of dollars catering a single birthday party, baking cake for your child’s birthday is just kind of expected of the Mom. And in the world of Pinterest and baking blogs and Martha Stewart, those cakes are expected to look perfect. I managed to do an okay job with Cameron’s first birthday. Thankfully, the Monster theme we chose lent itself to anything but perfection.

Well, we are once again into birthday season in this household. And now that I am a Mom and I proved myself at my son’s first birthday, I have taken on the designated role of birthday cake baker in my family. After spending copious amounts of hours on Pinterest and perusing cake recipes (tricking myself into believing that the instructions are actually as simple in execution as they appear on the screen), I bravely ventured into the unknown and asked my husband what kind of cake he wanted for his birthday.

After a few days of hemming and hawing, he finally came to me with his verdict.

I want a cake that you and Cameron make together. Just a simple boxed cake that you and Cameron pick out and bake, together.

But. … But. … But. …

What about an ice cream cake? What about a caramel banana cake? What about a Nutella swirl cheesecake cake? (What about any number of recipes that make my mouth water but that, I’m sure, will only cause me stress and anguish when I actually try to make it?)

Nope. Just a simple (boring?) cake mix from the grocery store.

So Cameron and I went to the grocery store. Together, we chose a mix (marble), an icing (milk chocolate), a package of decorating icing (red), and sprinkles (stars). And on Saturday, the day before my husband’s birthday, Cameron and I sat around the coffee table in the living room (yes – the LIVING ROOM!) with our box of cake, our mixing bowls, our egg carton, and our measuring cups. With my two big hands, his two little hands, and a lot of mess, Daddy’s cake started to take shape.

The cake turned out. It didn’t look like one of my Pinterest pictures, but it didn’t look completely unappetizing either. The cake itself hadn’t come out of the pan perfectly. The icing was uneven. The lettering wasn’t centred. The star sprinkles were likely covered in toddler slobber and were clustered in one small area where my son was determined to put them all.

But I won’t remember that part of the cake, and neither will my husband. We will remember the fun that filled our house as Cameron and I put the cake together. As he poured in the oil and counted out the eggs. As he took his baby spoon and “swirly, swirly, swirly”ed the chocolate batter in with the white batter. As he stood on a dining room chair in the kitchen and shoved handfull after handful of crunchy sprinkles into his mouth, pausing briefly to place a few on the cake.

And I will remember the proud look on both of my boys’ faces as I cut a piece and handed it to them.

Sometimes as the woman in the family, I try to be everything to every one. Wife and mother and employee are my designated roles. But sometimes, many times, I try to be more than that – entrepreneur, housewife, chef, photographer, nutritionist, event planner, and world class baker. I want to be perfection for my family. But in trying to do so, I come up short, like my pathetic attempts at baking cake often do, messy and crooked and crumbly. Sometimes it is just good to remember that even a simple, cheap, pre-mix can often create a better family experience than anything fancy ever could.