Dial M for: Marriage, Motherhood, Memoir

On today's date 22 years ago I didn't know it was Mother's Day weekend.

Serbia doesn't do Mother's Day, or Father's Day for that matter.

1994

Twenty two years ago May 7th was "Djurdjevdan" - a big day in Serbian Christian-Orthodox Calendar represented by St.George on the White horse slaying a dragon. It's a patron saint day of many families in Belgrade, though not mine. On Saturday, May 7, 1994 my family was celebrating something completely different: their daughter's wedding. 

That daughter happened to be me. 

The decision to marry my boyfriend, once I had dated him for a few years, while diligently completing all the checkmarks my parents had insisted on (graduate from university, license as a pharmacist, find a good job, not get pregnant etc.) - well, the talented Bruno Mars perfectly sums it all up in the very first verse of  "Marry You" : "It's a beautiful night, We're looking for something dumb to do, hey baby, I think I wanna marry you!"

The initial wedding date was supposed to be in early April since my sister was emigrating to Canada in mid May and I wanted to give my parents a breather between these two monumental events in our family life. However, my pharmacy technician Mira, who was much older and wiser and also hypnotically persuasive - all that gypsy blood flowing through her veins - told me as we were manning a heavy afternoon shift in the pharmacy wholesale warehouse: "Never marry in April. April marriage--April joke." May 7th seemed like a perfect and safe day. 

Mother's Day 1996 was on May 12th. I wish I knew Mother's Day existed, not because by then I was a mom for the whole 110 days. I wish I knew because by then I learned how much I needed a mom, how much my mom meant to me and how at peace I was with everything that happened as if I wasn't doing my motherhood all by myself. If there is anything that touches the essence of my mom's motherhood it is the first few months of me being a mom - in my case, a single mom. 

My mom welcomed me home after a failed marriage. 

My mom went with me for ultrasounds and doctor's appointments.

My mom was at the hospital the night I gave birth to my son. 

My mom assembled (having our friends and neighbours pass down baby items) the most magical nursery for me to enjoy and heal in.

My mom woke up every night to keep me company while I breastfed. 

My mom cooked delicious home-made soups and baked pies.

My mom ironed mountains of cloth diapers each and every day. 

Bajce the Best!

My mom cleaned projectile vomits, soothed the crying baby and readily managed diaper explosions.

My mom patiently fed him his first solid foods. 

My mom assured me there is no rush to potty train. 

My mom...

My mom followed us to Canada at age 60.

My mom was my son's day-care. And a tutor. And a bestie. And a confidant.

My mom saved my sanity. And taught me everything I know about motherhood. 

And if I had to choose between that husband or this mom - I would've gone for this mom every single time!

2016

I'm aware of my incredible good luck to have this mom be my mom. 

I measure my great luck for being a mother of three boys myself, while still having my mom around - fun and wise and full of life. 

And to make sure my boys will know how to carry our good fortune and extraordinary parenting forward, I'm researching, interviewing and capturing it all in a memoir. 

Here is an excerpt of an early draft:

        It was January. There was no baby formula. No glider chair. No dryer. Only lukewarm radiators. 

I am sitting on a sturdy orange kitchen chair in what used to be the bedroom my sister and I shared as teenagers. My leg is propped on a ledge, my whole body coiled uncomfortably on one side trying to avoid—sitting. 

The newborn in my arms is crying. His mouth gaping open, like in cartoons. Red toothless gums framing a miniature paper-thin tongue. It’s a hungry, frustrated cry. 

1996

I’m crying. Mine is an exhausted, desperate cry. Manual for new moms was clear about breastfeeding. “Offer the breast whenever the baby cries. Mother’s milk is perfectly nutritious, served at the ideal temperature and always bacteriologically safe.” 

Mother’s breasts, the book failed to mention, were swollen and tender, chestnuts tightly packed into a balloon, hard from the milk that started pouring out all at once through the utterly unprepared ducts. The yellowish, greasy colostrum was everywhere, soaking and staining my bra and my PJs, spraying baby’s eyelashes, getting into his nostrils, sticking in his tiny soft golden hairs. It went everywhere but into his mouth. 

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” Crying, chanting, I rocked myself front and back then stopped jolted by the sharp pain. The tiny mouth managed to latch and started sucking, sounding big gulps, almost choking at times, gnawing the nipple until it bled, yet never letting it go. I was nursing a wolf, not a boy. 

It was January. There was no maternity-leave pay for a retail pharmacy manager. Equal opportunity anything hadn't arrived in Serbia. No food in the supermarkets. No gas at the stations. Pampers for newborns sourced on the black market, too big for the skinny 6-pound body. One diaper, one Deutsch mark. 

“You WILL grow to hate me. You will look at me one day and ask ‘how could someone fail so profoundly at basically everything? At motherhood. At breastfeeding. At providing you with a warm room to sleep in. A clean diaper. A safe childhood. A normal family. A country with no war.’” 

The father-to-be handed me an envelope with neatly signed, stacked and stapled divorce papers ten days before the baby was born. “In case the child is born alive (for still birth please see below), the mother has the right to give the name and make sole decisions regarding medical, religious, educational and all other needs.” Then he disappeared. 

Twenty years later, I am sitting on a chair watching a 6’4”, broad-shouldered man with a hipster beard pack the last few items he’ll need in his sophomore year. Laptop—check. Guitar—check.

“Filip, how was it growing up with just me… never meeting your biological father?” 

“Oh, mama!” He turns around and gently taps the top of my head. Then he smiles. “It was magical!”

Happy Mother's Day!

A Series of Fortunate Events

Not even the mighty YouTube can help me find a Woody Woodpecker cartoon episode that used to be one of my childhood favourites.

Walter Lantz Animation studio - Universal Pictures

In it, with each hasty step he takes, Woody gets into more and more trouble, being chased by a "bad guy" vulture, while the narrator calmly chimes in, after each scene: “None of this would have happened if only Woody reported this to the police”. 

The Belgrade kids I grew up with will remember the magical time of 7:15 PM when a single cartoon aired each day on the first of the two TV channels, right before the evening news. You read that right -- two. Welcome to the ’70’s in Serbia. 

TV Belgrade cartoon announcement - channel 1

 The narrator’s line in Serbian goes: “Svega ovoga ne bi bilo, da je Pera odmah otišao u policiju”. All throughout my childhood, this line was something we used while playing, getting into more trouble, trying to sound as calm as the cartoon narrator. Little did I know, that the same line would become one of the best metaphors of my life.

Here is how: I am here. Now. It is safe to say I am ridiculously happy. As in: some days it gets a bit ridiculous, but most days I am happy. Very happy. 

How did it happen? How does one get to claim happiness? 

One of the go-to wisdom souls I look up to when I have a matter to resolve is Martha Beck, a life coach. She might not yet be aware of it, but she sits on my invisible Board of Directors, often advising me on how to interpret certain life events (Martha, you rock!). In her book “Stirring by Starlight” she describes the technique called Telling Your Life Story Backward (click for work-book).

Technically, it’s what Woody Woodpecker cartoon kept suggesting @7:15 PM.

At the time of this writing, I'm 45 and living the life I have always wished for: crazy proud of my oldest son - an engineering student, totally smitten with my husband and daily entertained/exhausted by the two little “LEGO” & “Thomas the Tank Engine” obsessed boys. I have incredible friends. My close family - we're really close. My far-away family in Serbia - we're really close too! People I work with - the best. Even my in-laws rock! We share our time between bustling Toronto and Florida sunshine. #LOVEIT

But, how did I get here? If last week's post sounded too easy (it's because it really IS easy), here is the Martha Beck's/Woody Woodpecker's way in deciphering life's landmark moments. It is fun, empowering and very revealing. You should give it a try!

My TOP 10 seemingly unfortunate events and how they channeled this Happily Ever RIGHT NOW:

10. Western Medicine failed me, dictating that: “For the rest of your life you will live with debilitating muscle weakness and fainting spells.”

I had to un-learn what I learned in pharmacy school, seek alternate help and put my trust in a Chinese Medicine man. He healed my symptoms in a jiffy and cleared the way for two fabulously easy, late-in-life pregnancies, suggesting to me that ‘ticking biological clock’ might not exist after all. I am a mother of three!

9. West Nile Virus which left me sick and in bed for 6 months.

Instead of the typical dating scenario of 'who called who first' & exploring city’s shee-shee-foo-foo restaurants, I truly got to know my Mr.Right Now (and husband-to-be) as he continued to visit me at home. He would sit by my bedside and bring his dog for my son to play with. We fell in love in between my 40+ C spikes of fever. His wooing me with watermelon instead of flowers, became one of our favourite 'dating' stories! #CHEAPDATE

8. My mother battled breast cancer (and she is a survivor!)

My mom is my bestie - this was the scariest thing I have ever encountered. When her oncologist confirmed the diagnosis, I excused myself and fainted in the hallway of the Princess Margaret Hospital. This led to my “trial by fire” initiation to Life Coaching - many years, courses and clients later, I remain fulfilled and inspired by how much a little extraordinary work can do for me and everyone around me.

7. My close encounter with the beast called Depression

Many years of the adrenaline-laden life-and-death decision making finally came to claim their due. It's Saturday and I am in bed, unable to get up and wishing the mattress would open up and swallow me. I need the king size feather duvet wrapped tightly on top of me so that no one can hear me sob. Especially not my son. Feelings of guilt and shame are suffocating me. This teaches me how to ask for help and then to humbly receive all the help I could get. This also brought me my life’s BFF. Love you L.! 

6. I divorced for the second time

It simply didn’t work. The marriage. But, boy, did it work on the true life-long friendship side of things! Not only for me, but for my son too. Till this day he calls him dad. They have so much in common. This shattered the last stigma of my life’s unfavourable statistics (aka double divorcee with a child) and introduced the big picture, big time. This whole writing idea is his. Big hug M.! 

Just epic... Beat this Mini Coupe!

5. Immediately after we immigrated to Canada, the biggest snow in 100 years dumped on Toronto. Mel Lastman, then Mayor, called the army to shovel, as the busiest highway had to close down. 

Our 16th anniversary of being 'adopted' is in December.  
Thank You, Canada! 
Day one though, while still jet-lagged, I got a job, a map and a company car. Up to that point, I have never driven a car (other than a Yugo in driving school). My first year I would bank 60k in mileage… the first 30k through the XXL winter of 1999. #KICKASSDRIVER

4. NATO threats bombing Belgrade, Canadian Embassy moves out of Serbia, taking my file somewhere.

This story has a Fairy God-Mother -- my sister, a recent immigrant, a pharmacist, who walked into the HR office of the company she worked for, and ‘sold’ me so well, they decided to interview me and then offer me a job. It gets better: they actually hired a top-notch immigration lawyer, who did the impossible even before I earned for a bottle of water. He dug out our misplaced file from the Embassy in Vienna, refreshed my case and mailed our visa’s, leaving my toddler and me 48h to pack our lives into four suitcases and leave Serbia. You kreyZ M.!

Three months after we left, NATO bombed Belgrade

3. I lost 50% of my salary as a pharmacist, to fellow Bosnian-refugee colleagues, making it impossible to afford more than diapers, one chicken and a dozen eggs per month.

Where do I go with my baby? Stay in the city? Move to the countryside? Immigrate? Cutting roots at age 29 was scary. Leaving my sick parent was guilt-ridden. Gambling my relationship to the long-distance version of it was heart-wrenching. Still, staying in Belgrade became impossible.

2. At the receiving end of hurtful gossip 

My baby was a few months old and I was eager to catch the first rays of spring sunshine, while sporting the stroller my parents bought. As I proudly pushed my boy through our neighbourhood, two middle-aged women observed us sitting on a nearby bench. I didn’t know them. Passing them, I made a little nod as they were still looking at me intently. Thinking I was out of earshot, one said: “That’s the one I was telling you about - her husband left her when she was 9 months pregnant! Can you believe it???” #IGOTTOGETOUTOFHERE became a thought

1. Those women were right: My first husband did leave me when I was 9 months pregnant. 

This month, we will be marking the 19th anniversary with a Texas sized T-bone steak, BBQ'd to perfection and topped up with onions, a great Serbian culinary tradition. None of this wondrous life would have been possible without him ditching us. Thank you I.S.!!!

“None of this would have happened if only Woody reported this to the police”

Photographs, especially the ones prior to the digital era of the 'selfie' capture mostly happy occasions - travels, celebrations, accomplishments. A new car. Looking closely into them, it is not that easy to find out much about your once younger self, besides the company we kept, sense of fashion and perhaps, eating habits.

Instead of photographs, it's better to look at life as a mini-memoir, in order to capture the real transformation. A fine lace made out of hardships and heartbreaks. 
Before we all get caught up again in the New Year's resolution frenzy, let's zoom in on the 'rough times', in retrospect. Tell your own life story backward, but no awfulizing allowed! Honour each item as a badge of honour that it is. If used wisely, they can all lead to recognizing remarkable in life. So, wake up. Rise up. Speak up. Un-learn. Reframe. Grow out of the confines of the 'small & safe' life. Ditch the 'small and safe'! 
Then realize that life is nothing but a series of fortunate events.