Today I wrote thank you notes to all the folks who got Haggis something for his birthday. I had him use crayons to add his thoughts, as well. Afterward, we put on our finest rain gear and puddle-stomped our way to the local post box. Haggis’ right rainboot flew off no less than three times. Don’t worry; he didn’t let the lack of boot stop him from stomp, stomp, stomping his way down the street. Sock be damned.
Today I vacuumed the common areas of the apartment and mopped the kitchen. I also made dinner, did a load of dishes, washed the stove, taught Haggis where to put the recycling, folded some towels, and remembered to take my allergy pill.
Oh! And I started to crochet a pair of mittens for Haggis that he promptly frogged (undoing knitting/crochet is called frogging because you “rip it, rip it”).
I’ll be honest, I was only seven rows into the cuff, but the frogging irritated me more than the puddle soaked sock did.
Instead of yelling – which I am trying to stop doing – I sighed, moved the project, and went back to making dinner. Because I can always restart the mitten, the world won’t stop turning because a two-year-old disrespected my WIP. I also thought about my Great Grandma. She and I weren’t all that close, but since having Haggis, I’ve gained a respect for her that I never had when she was alive.
Towards the end of my pregnancy, my kinsman did a rune reading for me. According to the runes, I would turn to my female ancestors to help me through the birthing process. I didn’t.
I did, however, ask them for strength a few hours after Haggis was born when a nurse came into my room to tell me that Haggis was in the NICU. I turned to them when I had to schlep, three days post c-section, to the Upper East Side of Manhattan (from fucking Bed-Stuy) to see my baby who was still in the NICU.
I remember holding him in the NICU and thinking about my Great Grandmother bring my Uncle Rudy home from the hospital. He was so small when he was born that they told her he would die. Instead of accepting that fate, she turned on the oven and kept him in a box on the open oven door until he was healthy enough to move to a proper bed. My Uncle, who is a fucking riot, by the way, didn’t die. He lived, and because I was told that story about him when I was a kid, I was able to push through the fear and worry I had for Haggis so I could be the Mama he needed.
I think about my Great Grandmother a lot now that I’m a parent. When I leave offerings for my Ancestors, she is my main focus. I get the impression that she is the loudest voice that guides the runes I pull, and sometimes I think I can hear her telling me to take better care of myself. I’m trying to listen. I’m trying to be as gentle with myself as I am with Haggis. I don’t know a lot about my Great Grandma’s upbringing, and I’m not here to talk about what may or may not have been her reality back then. All I know is this: Great Grandma wanted good things for the three generations of grandkids she was able to meet in her life. And I know, in my heart of hearts, that she wants good things for Haggis too.
Parenting is difficult, but I figure that between Ian, my family and friends, and Great Grandma, I can do this.
The picture below is Grandma and Uncle Rudy, by the way. See, told you he grew up just fine.
Also, if you haven’t done so recently – or ever – maybe leave a bit of food or drink out for your ancestors. They do a lot for you, and it’s important to let them know they are appreciated. If your blood kin were a bunch of assholes, you don’t need to leave them anything. Ancestors are more than blood. Anyone who has passed that influenced your life in a way you appreciate is an Ancestor (even if you never met them). If anyone says different you send them to me. I’ll set em straight.
Hávamál Mama 