5. Help!

 

There's No Life Like It (Part 5) – Help!

Before we left Victoria in 1990, my friend Marcia held a baby shower for me. Although the twins would be born in Ottawa, Victoria was the place of my pregnancy. All the ladies from the neighborhood came to swap stories and fete my growing young family. There were reminiscences and advice and lovely packable gifts and more advice. Some of which I listened to avidly, some not so much.

I loved listening to Marilyn’s stories because she was my key to sanity. When we found out that my fifth pregnancy was actually the super-efficient two-for-one deal otherwise known as twins, I have to admit I could not imagine how we would manage. But then, in my mind, I thought of Marilyn. Happy laughing Marilyn, who had twelve children. They were a half generation older than mine and the only one I knew was her youngest, our amazing babysitter. But if Marilyn could manage twelve children, in my mind, six would be easy.

 So, when Marilyn said, “I really admire you Liz,” I was a little confused.

“But Marilyn, you had twelve children,” I returned the compliment. “I really admire you!”

“Ah, but back home in Jamaica, I had help, I had servants!”

Oh no. All hope of my coping disappeared in that instant.

What would it have been like to have had help?

Well for starters I would not have lost Simon and Tim way back when we only had the two little ones. They had been playing in the back and I popped inside. When I came out, they were gone. The yard opened to a footpath, so I ran outside. I looked up and down. They were not there. I ran to a house at the end of the street which had a day care, they were not there. I ran to the other end which led to the shopping mall. They were not there. I ran back down the street, shouting for them and at myself. Should I call the police? Should I do nothing and wait? Richard was at sea. I couldn’t ask him. I ran into the house and, picking up the phone I thought I heard something outside. I did. It was the children. Holding an old man’s hand on the footpath. I grabbed them and the man shouted at my back that I should take better care of my kids. Oh, I did, I did.

If I had help, I probably wouldn’t have tried negotiating the steps up to the door of the secondhand bookstore with six-week-old twins. Other parents could easily manage with a baby in a Snuggli so surely, I could too. Becky was in the front carrier; Peter was in my arms. They were a little floppy. Peter threw himself back, so I bent over to catch him, and Becky almost fell out of the carrier. Didn’t do that again.

 

There's No Life Like It (Part 5) – Help!

Before we left Victoria in 1990, my friend Marcia held a baby shower for me. Although the twins would be born in Ottawa, Victoria was the place of my pregnancy. All the ladies from the neighborhood came to swap stories and fete my growing young family. There were reminiscences and advice and lovely packable gifts and more advice. Some of which I listened to avidly, some not so much.

I loved listening to Marilyn’s stories because she was my key to sanity. When we found out that my fifth pregnancy was actually the super-efficient two-for-one deal otherwise known as twins, I have to admit I could not imagine how we would manage. But then, in my mind, I thought of Marilyn. Happy laughing Marilyn, who had twelve children. They were a half generation older than mine and the only one I knew was her youngest, our amazing babysitter. But if Marilyn could manage twelve children, in my mind, six would be easy.

 So, when Marilyn said, “I really admire you Liz,” I was a little confused.

“But Marilyn, you had twelve children,” I returned the compliment. “I really admire you!”

“Ah, but back home in Jamaica, I had help, I had servants!”

Oh no. All hope of my coping disappeared in that instant.

What would it have been like to have had help?

Well for starters I would not have lost Simon and Tim way back when we only had the two little ones. They had been playing in the back and I popped inside. When I came out, they were gone. The yard opened to a footpath, so I ran outside. I looked up and down. They were not there. I ran to a house at the end of the street which had a day care, they were not there. I ran to the other end which led to the shopping mall. They were not there. I ran back down the street, shouting for them and at myself. Should I call the police? Should I do nothing and wait? Richard was at sea. I couldn’t ask him. I ran into the house and, picking up the phone I thought I heard something outside. I did. It was the children. Holding an old man’s hand on the footpath. I grabbed them and the man shouted at my back that I should take better care of my kids. Oh, I did, I did.

If I had help, I probably wouldn’t have tried negotiating the steps up to the door of the secondhand bookstore with six-week-old twins. Other parents could easily manage with a baby in a Snuggli so surely, I could too. Becky was in the front carrier; Peter was in my arms. They were a little floppy. Peter threw himself back, so I bent over to catch him, and Becky almost fell out of the carrier. Didn’t do that again.

 There's No Life Like It (Part 5) – Help!

Before we left Victoria in 1990, my friend Marcia held a baby shower for me. Although the twins would be born in Ottawa, Victoria was the place of my pregnancy. All the ladies from the neighborhood came to swap stories and fete my growing young family. There were reminiscences and advice and lovely packable gifts and more advice. Some of which I listened to avidly, some not so much.

I loved listening to Marilyn’s stories because she was my key to sanity. When we found out that my fifth pregnancy was actually the super-efficient two-for-one deal otherwise known as twins, I have to admit I could not imagine how we would manage. But then, in my mind, I thought of Marilyn. Happy laughing Marilyn, who had twelve children. They were a half generation older than mine and the only one I knew was her youngest, our amazing babysitter. But if Marilyn could manage twelve children, in my mind, six would be easy.

 So, when Marilyn said, “I really admire you Liz,” I was a little confused.

“But Marilyn, you had twelve children,” I returned the compliment. “I really admire you!”

“Ah, but back home in Jamaica, I had help, I had servants!”

Oh no. All hope of my coping disappeared in that instant.

What would it have been like to have had help?

Well for starters I would not have lost Simon and Tim way back when we only had the two little ones. They had been playing in the back and I popped inside. When I came out, they were gone. The yard opened to a footpath, so I ran outside. I looked up and down. They were not there. I ran to a house at the end of the street which had a day care, they were not there. I ran to the other end which led to the shopping mall. They were not there. I ran back down the street, shouting for them and at myself. Should I call the police? Should I do nothing and wait? Richard was at sea. I couldn’t ask him. I ran into the house and, picking up the phone I thought I heard something outside. I did. It was the children. Holding an old man’s hand on the footpath. I grabbed them and the man shouted at my back that I should take better care of my kids. Oh, I did, I did.

If I had help, I probably wouldn’t have tried negotiating the steps up to the door of the secondhand bookstore with six-week-old twins. Other parents could easily manage with a baby in a Snuggli so surely, I could too. Becky was in the front carrier; Peter was in my arms. They were a little floppy. Peter threw himself back, so I bent over to catch him, and Becky almost fell out of the carrier. Didn’t do that again.

 

If I had help, I definitely would not have got locked out of the house in which had both two-year-old Christian and a birthday cake alone in the kitchen.

But I did do something just as crazy which, if I’d had help, I probably would never have tried.  With the four oldest safely away at school, I had gone for a walk through the park. The three-month old twins were sitting in their stroller, and I had a thought that only a mother of twins could have. I wondered if I could put the babies in the swing back-to-back then they would be supporting each other. It turns out I could! They had a lovely little swing, but when I tried to get them out, I couldn’t. They were like two sacks of potatoes where all the potatoes have shifted to the bottom. I pulled one up and the other came up too but heading in the other direction. I tried shaking one free but the other almost fell through the holes in the swing. I started to panic, grateful that no one was there to witness this but wishing someone was there to help. In the end I brought the stroller under the swing in case they fell and pulled them out, alternating one inch per baby per pull. They didn’t even notice anything was wrong. In fact they might not know until they read this.

 

If I’d had help, I probably would not have known the lovely side of Haligonians. Once at the grocery checkout, Simon sitting in the shopping cart thought he’d help me to load the belt. Starting with the eggs. He missed! Without missing a beat, the lady in line behind me took the baby from my arms, a clerk came with towels to mop up Simon’s pants and someone else replaced the eggs. I don’t think I had time to take two breaths. East Coasters are something else.

 

My favorite Halifax story happened in 1984, in a bank. It was a Friday, one day before the Thanksgiving long weekend and many years before the advent of ATMs. It was payday and the line-up at the bank was long, but there were no other options. Tim was in a stroller; Simon was holding my hand. He was a bit jiggly, and I let go so he could wander a little. He wandered up and back getting everyone’s attention. He smiled, they smiled and then he ran. He ran straight into the bank managers office. It had a glass window so the manager could watch the tellers and the customers. But the manager was not there. I lurched to grab Simon, but he slammed the door shut. I tried to open the door, but it had locked automatically.

Simon sat at the bank manager’s desk and started to draw. We could all see him; he was still smiling. So was everyone else in the lineup. The walls of the office did not go all the way to the ceiling, so I knocked at the window and called to Simon to open the door. He tried but he was too little. Nonchalantly he went back to his drawing.

“Could you get the manager to open the door?” I asked.

The manager had left for the weekend.

The bank staff searched everywhere for a second set of keys to the manager’s office but there were none. Then, from the back of the line, a young lady came forward. She scaled the glass like a mountain goat, flipped herself over the top of the office door, dropped the ten feet to the floor and opened the door. Out they both came.

Maybe I should not wonder what it would have been like if I had help, I did have help!

So much help.

Here’s to the village that helped raise our family. Thank you.

If I had help, I definitely would not have got locked out of the house in which had both two-year-old Christian and a birthday cake alone in the kitchen.

But I did do something just as crazy which, if I’d had help, I probably would never have tried.  With the four oldest safely away at school, I had gone for a walk through the park. The three-month old twins were sitting in their stroller, and I had a thought that only a mother of twins could have. I wondered if I could put the babies in the swing back-to-back then they would be supporting each other. It turns out I could! They had a lovely little swing, but when I tried to get them out, I couldn’t. They were like two sacks of potatoes where all the potatoes have shifted to the bottom. I pulled one up and the other came up too but heading in the other direction. I tried shaking one free but the other almost fell through the holes in the swing. I started to panic, grateful that no one was there to witness this but wishing someone was there to help. In the end I brought the stroller under the swing in case they fell and pulled them out, alternating one inch per baby per pull. They didn’t even notice anything was wrong. In fact they might not know until they read this.

 

If I’d had help, I probably would not have known the lovely side of Haligonians. Once at the grocery checkout, Simon sitting in the shopping cart thought he’d help me to load the belt. Starting with the eggs. He missed! Without missing a beat, the lady in line behind me took the baby from my arms, a clerk came with towels to mop up Simon’s pants and someone else replaced the eggs. I don’t think I had time to take two breaths. East Coasters are something else.

 

My favorite Halifax story happened in 1984, in a bank. It was a Friday, one day before the Thanksgiving long weekend and many years before the advent of ATMs. It was payday and the line-up at the bank was long, but there were no other options. Tim was in a stroller; Simon was holding my hand. He was a bit jiggly, and I let go so he could wander a little. He wandered up and back getting everyone’s attention. He smiled, they smiled and then he ran. He ran straight into the bank managers office. It had a glass window so the manager could watch the tellers and the customers. But the manager was not there. I lurched to grab Simon, but he slammed the door shut. I tried to open the door, but it had locked automatically.

Simon sat at the bank manager’s desk and started to draw. We could all see him; he was still smiling. So was everyone else in the lineup. The walls of the office did not go all the way to the ceiling, so I knocked at the window and called to Simon to open the door. He tried but he was too little. Nonchalantly he went back to his drawing.

“Could you get the manager to open the door?” I asked.

The manager had left for the weekend.

The bank staff searched everywhere for a second set of keys to the manager’s office but there were none. Then, from the back of the line, a young lady came forward. She scaled the glass like a mountain goat, flipped herself over the top of the office door, dropped the ten feet to the floor and opened the door. Out they both came.

Maybe I should not wonder what it would have been like if I had help, I did have help!

So much help.

Here’s to the village that helped raise our family. Thank you.If I had help, I definitely would not have got locked out of the house in which had both two-year-old Christian and a birthday cake alone in the kitchen.

But I did do something just as crazy which, if I’d had help, I probably would never have tried.  With the four oldest safely away at school, I had gone for a walk through the park. The three-month old twins were sitting in their stroller, and I had a thought that only a mother of twins could have. I wondered if I could put the babies in the swing back-to-back then they would be supporting each other. It turns out I could! They had a lovely little swing, but when I tried to get them out, I couldn’t. They were like two sacks of potatoes where all the potatoes have shifted to the bottom. I pulled one up and the other came up too but heading in the other direction. I tried shaking one free but the other almost fell through the holes in the swing. I started to panic, grateful that no one was there to witness this but wishing someone was there to help. In the end I brought the stroller under the swing in case they fell and pulled them out, alternating one inch per baby per pull. They didn’t even notice anything was wrong. In fact they might not know until they read this.

 

If I’d had help, I probably would not have known the lovely side of Haligonians. Once at the grocery checkout, Simon sitting in the shopping cart thought he’d help me to load the belt. Starting with the eggs. He missed! Without missing a beat, the lady in line behind me took the baby from my arms, a clerk came with towels to mop up Simon’s pants and someone else replaced the eggs. I don’t think I had time to take two breaths. East Coasters are something else.

 

My favorite Halifax story happened in 1984, in a bank. It was a Friday, one day before the Thanksgiving long weekend and many years before the advent of ATMs. It was payday and the line-up at the bank was long, but there were no other options. Tim was in a stroller; Simon was holding my hand. He was a bit jiggly, and I let go so he could wander a little. He wandered up and back getting everyone’s attention. He smiled, they smiled and then he ran. He ran straight into the bank managers office. It had a glass window so the manager could watch the tellers and the customers. But the manager was not there. I lurched to grab Simon, but he slammed the door shut. I tried to open the door, but it had locked automatically.

Simon sat at the bank manager’s desk and started to draw. We could all see him; he was still smiling. So was everyone else in the lineup. The walls of the office did not go all the way to the ceiling, so I knocked at the window and called to Simon to open the door. He tried but he was too little. Nonchalantly he went back to his drawing.

“Could you get the manager to open the door?” I asked.

The manager had left for the weekend.

The bank staff searched everywhere for a second set of keys to the manager’s office but there were none. Then, from the back of the line, a young lady came forward. She scaled the glass like a mountain goat, flipped herself over the top of the office door, dropped the ten feet to the floor and opened the door. Out they both came.

Maybe I should not wonder what it would have been like if I had help, I did have help!

So much help.

Here’s to the village that helped raise our family. Thank you.