Gargantuan

I took an enormous leap yesterday when I sat in a beautiful conference room in Dartmouth that looked across Halifax Harbour and filled out about 30 forms to start my petition for divorce. It was a big step for me. Gargantuan, even.

Divorce. 

It's a word I never wanted to use to describe my actions. I could never have anticipated that I'd be a divorced, single-mum by the time I was 26 but here we are. Congratulations, Universe: you got me good. It knocked the wind out of my sails for the day yesterday, and I'm like a wobbly-legged foal this morning but I'll get there. But I'll admit that I'm a little nervous about what the future holds.

Life probably won't be much different, really. I'll have closure. I'll really be able to move on. I'll be able to be truly happy, and finally put my fears and doubts and "what ifs" to rest. And I hope that it will mean that my ex will be able to move on and have happiness, too.

During this journey, just as I always have I find myself returning to a quote I heard when I was in my early teens. It's a quote that describes my approach to life. It's the quote next to my photo in my yearbook. The quote I share with students who are worried about what will happen after graduation.

You can only see as far as your headlights, but you can make the whole trip that way. -- E.L. Doctorow

But just for fun, every now and again, I like to turn off my headlights and imagine what's out there in the dark.

XO

Corn Flakes

Papa loved Corn Flakes.

As a kid, I never understood their appeal but I would proudly sit next to him at the old kitchen table and dig into my bowl as he did, while he sipped his tea, knowing full well that he'd soon put on his boots and cover-alls and walk up the hill to feed the animals. I can still see his worn plaid shirts and Dickies and hear him singing funny Gaelic songs when I close my eyes.

We ate lobster together. We laughed together. We restored the horse harness he'd built with his father and grandfather together. We daydreamed and picked berries and sat on the step watching lightning together. He was everything a grandfather was supposed to be, and then some. My favourite memory of all is seeing him hold F for the first time. His great-grandson. His Dandy Boy.

I'd lost people I loved before, but nothing compared to the loss I felt when Mom woke me on May 3, 2010. I knew before she spoke and the pain and emptiness has stayed in my heart since then. To know Papa was to love him, and his funeral proved that: it was standing room only. He was buried on the Saturday before Mother's Day, and so it's a holiday that brings mixed emotions each year. I spent my first Mother's Day with a broken heart. 

While picking up groceries last night, I spied Corn Flakes - the Family Size box - and memories of Papa flooded my memory. F was too young to remember him, but it's never too late for him to know the man that shaped our lives and loved us so much. I couldn't help but smile as I put the box of bland cereal into my cart and pushed on.

And after eating my breakfast this morning, I can safely say that I share Papa's love for lobster, coconut cream pie and Corn Flakes. 

Cookie Dough and Merlot

You may already know this, but F and I have recently had an enormous change in our lives.

A few, actually, such as Mr Hockey Coach finally meeting him and my new job throwing a real curveball into our schedules. But the biggest adjustment we've recently made comes in the form of a sweet little boy from preschool. And lemme tell you, it's an adventure.

Little and F became fast friends when we switched preschools in November 2013 and, as they say, the rest is history. It didn't take long before we had "double dates" to the Discovery Centre and dinners out, and the friendship and support that I've found in Little's dad has been great. He picked F up from school for a few days while I was navigating through rush hour traffic. F spent the night one night so I could go out with Mr Hockey Coach. You get the drift. So it was a no-brainer for me when Little's dad was in a pickle for child care.

We're on day five of 18 right now, and I'd be telling you the biggest lie if I said it's been easy. It hasn't. The boys - though friends - are as different as night and day. They've been bickering and tattling and whining. And we already know how I feel about my parenting skills. Little has been (understandably) lonesome without his dad and F has struggled with the change in schedule, too. 

When Little was especially sad last night upon getting home from preschool, I searched for the right words. The right activities. And then it hit me. Like all sadness, the pain of heartache can be cured by chocolate chip cookies and I just so happen to love baking. Slightly frazzled and with a list as long as my arm of things I needed to do, I marched to the kitchen without even changing out of my work clothes and we whipped up a batch of chocolate chip cookies as a team: Little, F and I.

And then, after the cookies were eaten and I'd finished my yoga practice, and (almost) all of the tears were wiped, little teeth were brushed and pajamas put on, I found myself standing alone in my kitchen with a glass of red wine eating the ball of cookie dough I'd saved in the fridge.

Because that is parenting. It's Cookie Dough and Merlot. 

Christmastime

It's supposed to be the happiest time of the year, and in a lot of ways it still is.

Two short - and yet very long - years ago, J and I were gearing up to spend our first night in our new home. Young newlyweds with a toddler, we were the picture of a happy little family. As we put the finishing touches on the walls and swept up the last of the dust leftover from construction, we discussed all the extra space in F's room for a crib - if we were lucky enough to have a second. We couldn't wait to host our family and friends for a Christmas celebration in the upcoming evening. I never imagined then that it just be F and I from there on out, but so it is. 

Christmas is so heavily wrapped in tradition for many families that it brings a sense of loss and sadness when the holiday rolls around. Five years ago, there would be as many as 20 people sitting around my Nanny's dining room table for Christmas Day dinner. This year, there will be 10. The emptiness fills the room, and there's a precarious mixture of reminiscing and avoiding mention of loved ones now gone. 

But Christmas is a time of new beginnings, right at its core: the arrival of the baby Jesus. It's a celebration of the magic of love. While I enjoyed seeing F's eyes widen at the sight of what Santa brought him and the smiles of family members as they unwrapped their gifts, I'm mostly relishing in the opportunity to just be. Just sit with F and watch snow fall. Laying on the couch watching movies with Dad. Laughing at YouTube videos with Mom. Sitting around the table with food and drink and just feeling the warmth of family, friendship and love.

In spite of the pangs of sadness that have an amazing ability to sneak up on me, I'm filled with the joy and magic of the Christmas spirit, not because it's easy but because it's the decision I have made. Wherever you are, I pray you have a safe and happy holiday. Hug your loved ones, call a friend, spread some Christmas cheer!

And if you still feel sad, watch this video. 

Merry Christmas! 

best, love and smiles, ashley & family

Unbroken Family

Last week, someone "kindly" forwarded a link to my email.
(catch that? it's called sarcasm and i am dripping with it today)

The name of the article that the link was for was "How to Survive the Holidays as a Broken Family". I have an issue with the term "broken family" - though, admittedly, not nearly as big an issue as I have with the fact that someone felt it was necessary to send me that bullshit link. In case you're wondering, a "broken family" is defined as a family where parents are separated or divorced, but I'm still not really feelin' it. A "broken home" essentially mirrors that statement, except it's a house with a broken family living inside of it.

My family is not broken. It is not defective. It might not look like yours, but it's made of the exact. same. stuff. 

I had a broken family when I had a husband who didn't help me raise our child. I had a broken home when a truck meant more than a marriage, and when fun with friends was more important than family. I had a broken life when my heart ached because my relationship was empty and my dreams were in the dark. I don't have those things any more, and my son does not come from a "broken home". He comes from a home that's filled with love and support and he has a family that loves and cares about him more than anything else in the world. He might not have someone in the house who he calls "Dad", but he's got a group of great men to look up to, each of whom is more than willing to lend a hand along the way.

Terms like "broken" serves only to tell our kids that there's something wrong with their home. Their family is "bad", it's not right. It's broken, like a toy that needs to be thrown away. Isn't being a kid in a situation with only one parent hard enough, without society telling him or her that their family is wrong? Isn't being a kid in the society we're in hard enough? I know as an adult that hearing terms like "broken family" or "broken home" make me feel badly about my life, and it's bullshit because my life is pretty awesome, and perfectly imperfect in its one-piecedness.

Does it suck that my family falls into the category of "broken"? No. Sure, I didn't plan on being a single parent but I'd way rather raise F alone than be miserable in a relationship where I felt just that - alone. My kid is a Hell of a lot better off having a parent who is genuinely happy than he would have been with two parents who weren't.

Families, like the people they are made up of, are unique. I explain this to F all the time. Some families have brothers or sisters, some have brothers and sisters. Some have no children, some have one child and others have all kinds of children. Sometimes they're different colours. Some families have one mom or two moms, two dads, one dad or a mom and a dad. But for all the differences, families are the exact same because they're made of love, whether they are nuclear, blended, upside down, purple, green, single-parented and triple-childed. 

And every family has hiccups and crazy Holiday stuff to deal with.

THE END.

Operation: Gratitude, part 2

First, I have to admit to something: I cheated.

BUT I didn't buy the two pairs of boots on Beyond The Rack that I was totally in love with and instead, went out and got all of my Operation Christmas Child goodies during my (three hours behind schedule) lunch without F. I have to admit... I chickened out on bringing him anywhere near a toy section. And I will also admit that I bought him a small treat to make sure that he's not feeling badly about this whole giving toys away thing... which he will get after everything else is finished. In case you're interested, it's a box of crayons. From Dollarama.

It hadn't really occurred to me that a 2-4 year old boy wouldn't be the easiest to shop for, and considering I only have a shoe box worth of stuff to choose from, I had to really put on my thinking cap. I picked up some socks, a storybook, crayons, a notebook, a t-shirt, and a canvas bag which this little boy can decorate and carry his things in. I also got him toothbrushes, soap and a stuffed animal. I tried to find candy that was individually wrapped, but then I realized that when F was two years old I wouldn't have given him any candy at all, so I decided to give up. I may change my mind yet.

Finley with our OCC box!

Now that the present itself is taken care of, it's time to start writing a letter so I asked F to tell me what he'd like to say to a little boy at Christmas. We started working on our letter but didn't finish it, so you'll have to wait until tonight or tomorrow for the final draft.

Christmas is such a commercial holiday for us here in North America that even the best of us get wrapped up in the excitement of shopping for and wrapping and opening gifts that we forget what Christmas is supposed to be about. Even a family who doesn't observe Christmas as a religious occasion can agree that Christmas is about love and family.  

I am guilty of making Christmas about Santa Claus for F, and while I don't think that's a crime in itself, I believe that I'm robbing F of the true meaning of Christmas by letting Santa and his elves have all the glory. As we get closer and closer to the most wonderful time of the year, I look forward to reading The Christmas Story as much as The Night Before Christmas. I'll look forward to telling F about Baby Jesus and the miracle of love, and you better believe I'll love using "the elves are watching!" as a method of modifying his behavior. In addition to the toys and the movies and the fun that F will be getting this Christmas, I want to give him more.

I'm giving him the gift of gratitude. Of love. Of sharing. And, most of all, of giving.

Defensive Parenting

"People are telling me I'm selfish because Rori is going to be my only child."

This was the beginning of a conversation between my friend and I last night. Not only does she have the best name ever (three guesses what it is), she's an outstanding person and a wonderful new mom. The road to getting pregnant and the pregnancy itself wasn't a walk in the park for Ashley and her partner. She's had to face more health issues than any 20-something should have to. It's changed her life, her career and her person, but she's a strong person and she's made it work. (In case you're wondering, that is why she's one of my best friends)

And I sit her defending her, which is almost as crazy as the fact that she has to defend herself and her decision to anyone else. What the what?! Why do we have to defend every.single.decision we make as parents? Why does the rest of the world feel they need to weigh in on that? Ack!

It's infuriating to think that another person would feel they had the right to tell a mother - especially a new mother, in Ashley's circumstances - what's best for her family. Selfish for only having one child? It should be some kind of bad joke, but the unfortunate truth is that shaming has become such a big part of our society that I don't think folks even realize they're hurting one another any more.

In the world of Pinterest and My Sweet Sixteen, it's never been harder to be a Mom. The bar has never been set so high. I was damn happy as a kid to get a homemade pizza and store-bought birthday cake, with a handful of friends to play with. My Mom didn't wear designer clothes to pick me up from school or gymnastics. And it was great. I often wonder if she worried about how she looked when she went to the playground, not because of how her clothes made her feel but how she felt in front of the eyes of other parents.

We've got slut-shaming, fat-shaming, and mom-shaming. At least it's not racism though, right? (See that? That's called sarcasm.)

 I've been accused of being selfish and a bad mom because I went back to school. Clearly we can all see how selfish I was to want to work towards a better future for my family. It's ridiculous and unfair and it totally disrupts our lives as mothers, women, friends, people. And I guess I'm selfish, too, for only having one child. Gosh, what was I thinking? *eye roll*

Is it just me, or does that make about as much sense as wearing a raincoat in the shower or drinking decaf coffee on a Monday morning?

Why do we feel like we have the right to tell another mother how to raise her family? When did it become OK to project our values onto everyone else? I would have loved to have had another child, I'd have loved for F to have a playmate - a little brother or sister to share with and teach and learn from, but I didn't. And do you know what? I'm not a bit unselfish in being glad for that. Selfish would have been having another child that I would struggle to support financially and emotionally. Selfish would be Ashley having another baby and risking her health, wellness and happiness just to make all of those mom-shaming bullies happy.

Selfish is not considering the welfare of your family first.

Last year, I vowed to stop apologizing as a mother, woman, friend. I won't apologize for going back to school. I won't apologize for being a single mom, for not lending my clothes to someone, for not driving people around. I won't apologize for turning down opportunities that didn't fit into my plan, or accepting the ones that do. I won't apologize for putting my son before anyone else. I won't apologize for making my happiness a priority.  I won't apologize for standing up for myself or a loved one. Don't apologize for things that aren't worthy of an apology.

We shouldn't have to.

Spitting Images

"He looks just like his father," the man said, smiling at F.

I guess it's a part of our vanity as parents that we long to hear how much our child looks like us, and depending on who you ask, F either looks just like me or just like the sperm donor (which, for the record, is what I choose to call my ex since he doesn't deserve the D or the F word, unless the  D word is douchebag or deadbeat and the F word we're talking about is fucktard - but I digress). I always flutter a bit of pride and happiness when I hear how much he looks like me - lucky kid, right? - but for once I didn't feel a pang of anger when this strange, kind man exclaimed how much F looks like his Dad.

Because this man thought Red was F's Dad. I don't think you could have smacked the smile off of Red's face.

It's funny how people see similarities in the appearances of others. I'm told all the time how much I look like the Carmichaels, and my brother is "the spitting image of his grandfather, Allister" but the truth is that I'm no more related to the Royal Baby than I am to the Carmichaels or the MacInnis clan. Which brings me to thinking, how lucky would the Royal Baby be to look like me? I'm kidding, you guys.

Kind of.

But, I can see how people would say I look like my Mom (the Petersons), or my Carmichael cousins and I can even see how one might liken my brother's thin frame and small face to my late-Papa. I can also see how it might lie in our mannerisms, the way we laugh, the way I tell stories the exact same way every other MacInnis does... with a lot of wind and hopefully a beer or two.

I spent a lot of time believing that family meant something very different than what it does - a surprising thing, given my own family. I believed firmly that F needed his biological dad. Maybe because I didn't have mine. Maybe not. What I've learned is that family is what you make of it. Pets become your children and friends become your sisters and brothers. You love people, and that is what family is.

Finally

I imagined the day I would meet my birth mother for a long time.

Months. Years. Decades. Forever, it would seem, to my twenty-five year old self.

I had it all planned out, you see. It would be a beautiful day (obviously I planned for the weather), and we would have some sort of cheesy picnic or other reunion of sorts and we'd laugh and cry and recognize all the things that were similar in ourselves - my siblings, my mother and I. From the time I knew she was out there. from the moment I heard her voice I knew we would meet and it would be wonderful. And in many ways it was, except for one...

We met because her father is dying.

I woke to a text from my biological mother informing me that her father was in hospital, and the family had been called. She, her husband, brother and kids were driving from Ontario to Nova Scotia, in a race against time to be with her dad. I felt sick.

I didn't sleep much last night. My mind raced: how was I going to do this? Was I ready? Are you ever ready? I prepared myself for what I knew would be hard. I got dressed, did my hair and got in the car.

The drive was stressful - three hours in length. I drove in silence for a long time. Then with music blaring. F slept. I called Red. My mom called. I listened to my GPS and navigated an old highway I'd never driven before. I saw the sign to the hospital, I took a deep breath and I pulled in. Here it was.

I saw a group standing together outdoors, and I knew. I knew it was my family - even without seeing a face. Then I saw her. My mother. She turned and watched as my car pulled in. They all turned. I composed myself, and got out of the car. As she walked towards me we both began to cry. 25 years. A quarter century. Emotions and memories and so many things passed in the next seconds that the earth stood still as we hugged and cried, while family I didn't know looked on. We just cried.

Hugs. Introductions. Names. New faces. It was a lot to take in, and yet nothing at all, as I took it in stride and F did too. Strangers, and yet family. Strangers and yet familiar. Mine. Ours.

Just over two hours I spent with them, during their saddest time, as someone they loved and I would love to know is slipping away from them. It was bittersweet. I felt my heart break as Grandad looked at me and said "All the years we've missed..."

All the years.

25 years of memories and chances we've missed, so I did what I could to make up for them in that short time. As I said my good-bye, my heart shattered. I'll never get to know him. F will never get to know him. But I got to see him, and that's more than I might have had. I got to hold him and kiss him goodbye. Someone I don't even know, but care about in a way I can't explain. I can't explain any of it.

Darlene (birth Mom), Granddad Bill, Myself and F - Together, 25 years later.

I took the chance today, and I couldn't be more glad that I did. They slip away, you know. Chances. People. Loved ones. Memories. In a heartbeat, they're gone. Don't let them. Today, I saw where I came from. Who I am. Where I began and I finally found the closure I've wanted all my life.

I couldn't have done it without the love and support of my amazing parents, Debbie and David or without Red. Thank you. Without my friends, I might have lost the courage. Thank you.

Girlfriend

Apparently, I do my best thinking in the bathroom - particularly in the bathtub, but I'm sure I've hit a stroke of genius while sitting on the throne in the past too.

Today, my stroke of genius hit me as I was rubbing coconut oil into my skin and trying to remember what I was going to do after I got dressed (I still don't remember). As I was frantically rushing around, Red ran in with F to help him use the potty, and then the two made their way to the kitchen where Red prepared F's breakfast.

Standing there, I realized why I've had so many crap relationships. I realized why I'm so happy, so in love.

I used to want a boyfriend. I had boyfriends. I was their girlfriend.

I didn't have real relationships. Real relationships aren't husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends. They're made up of partners - and for the first time, I can honestly say that I've got one.

But, every now and again I'll slum it and refer to myself as his girlfriend.

Unchanged

It's amazing how quickly things can change.

Back in October, I wrote about my feelings on being adopted. Just a few days later I shared the excitement of knowing my birth mom had happily received my letter. When I first wrote my letter, I didn't really know what to expect. It was emotional, to say the least, and terrifying every step of the way. I anxiously prepared for the worst, and I am thrilled at the way things have turned out.

It's been two weeks now that I've been in constant contact with my Birth Mom (BM), my siblings and one of my uncles and I've never felt so at ease - though the fact that I'm on anti-anxiety medication may play a role in that. It's weird to go from feeling unsure of who you are to feeling complete so suddenly. Learning about the quirks I share with people I've never met has somehow given me and understanding of who I am and the power to become who I really want to be.

It's even more amazing how, in spite of everything that goes on in our lives, that any of us can remain the same.

A few friends have expressed concern that I might suddenly change - or have a total meltdown, which admittedly could happen - as my world begins to catch up to speed in the aftermath of finding my birth mom. By my own admission, I've been hiding in the woodworks for the past week or so just trying to catch my breath and steady myself. But I'm still me. I'm still all of the things I was before.

I'm still a MacInnis - unless I plan to have that expensive, ghastly-scar-leaving tattoo removal - and I will always be a MacInnis. It's kind of like a gang. There's no getting out! (Just kidding - we're so awesome, people keep trying to get into the clan)

In spite of wearing high heels and living in the city, I'm still a rubber-boot wearing girl who snorts when she laughs and prefers beer and lobster over pasta and wine. Well, unless the pasta includes lobster. And I've never turned down wine before.

Although I've been lucky enough to gain a whole new family, I like my old family just fine and they are irreplaceable. People like Mom and Dad, my grandparents, aunts, uncles and some (alright, all) of my cousins are few and far between in this world.

Final Firsts

Sometimes, without intending to, I seem to torture myself with unnecessary punishment.
 
After surviving Christmas (sans J) without a single tear, I made the impossibly stupid decision to dig out my wedding rings. They've been tucked away for months now, unseen but not forgotten. I looked at them for a moment or two, shiny and pretty in their box before I defied my own sense and pushed the boundaries of my own stupidity by putting them on.
 
Even after months of not wearing them, my left ring finger still feels naked. Before my engagement I had even worn my Claddagh ring on my left hand, always pointed inwards. I looked down at my hand, my engagement ring and wedding band sparkling back at me. It was a weird sensation. The rings suit my hand and yet they looked so wrong. They felt wrong, and not just because my fingers have grown far too small for them. I slid them off, tucked them safely in their box and looked at them one more time before I put them away. What possessed me to do that? I'm not even sure.
 
I hurried around at getting things ready for my big weekend "away" with F. I took him to my apartment in Halifax for the weekend for some quality time and also so he can get comfortable here. When we finally packed the car and hard our coats and boots on, we said good-bye to Breton Cove and started on our drive.
 
It wasn't until I saw the "Not Operating" lights flashing to the ferry until I realized that I had to do something I'd been dreading: I had to drive by my old house. Anxiety gripped my chest tightly, and that sick feeling that comes from pure dread spread over me. It won't be so bad I thought, lying to myself. As we got closer, the sick feeling got stronger. My articial Christmas tree stood in the window, my beautiful red drapes parted wide to show it off. It looked beautiful, perfect even. A perfect little home for a little family. As I rounded the turn, I couldn't bring myself to look in the rear view mirror for one last glance. The tell-tale tingle came to my nose and my lip quivered against my will as tears stung my eyes.

It's not mine any more.

I almost pulled the car over, but I realized that this was just another first: another bridge to cross, another hurtle to overcome and I survived it. There's only one first left: New Years.

2012 was supposed to be a great year, and in a lot of ways it has been. It's been a blessing in disguise, really. I've grown immensely. I found myself, my niche and I'm well on my way to finding happiness. I set goals and surpassed them. I started dreaming again. I've learned who my true friends are, and found the strength to wave farewell to the others. I've made new friends, strengthened the bonds with my family and I've worked on my relationship with myself. My life is still a little messy, but I love it in all it's imperfections.

I don't know exactly what's in store for me in 2013, but I know I will make it big.

Boring Day

We survived Christmas.

In truth, it was highly unlikely that I wouldn't make it through the day but it was a real fear for me nonetheless. After spending the better part of the last two months almost totally alone, being around family was a precarious combination of stressful and relaxing, alternating between the two quicker than you can say "turkey dinner". I won't deny that I spent the entire day waiting for the phone to ring, only to disappointed (and a little bit hurt) by a text message from J that said "Merry Christmas. How did F make out?"

Mom and Dad's living room looked like Toys-R-Us and Walmart's Christmas aisle threw up in it. There were toys, presents, Christmas stockings and ornaments every where. By the time all of the presents were opened (over an hour after the commencement), you could barely tell there was a floor beneath all the torn wrapping paper and empty toy boxes. F was so excited he was, possibly for the first time ever, at a loss for words. He walked around the living room talking to everyone and looking at everyone's gifts.

I was ready for bed by mid-afternoon, and exhausted by the time I'd finished my turkey dinner. F's joy was fading into a sour mood, and my patience was all but gone. When we settled into bed, F with his new toys and me with my new Kobo, it took about ten minutes for us both to conk out. I was more than a little happy to wake up today and to know that Christmas is over, at least for another year.

I laid in bed this morning thinking of all the presents I had found under the tree yesterday, how generous my family had been. I thought of how blessed I am to have the love and support of my parents, and how incredibly blessed I am to have a healthy, happy little boy to spend my days with. In the midst of his meltdown last night, I had lost my temper and reached the end of my rope and I regretted it this morning.

So many mothers were without their children yesterday. So many mothers would have given anything to have a meltdown take place in the middle of Christmas dinner or to have their child stick their tongue out at them and be saucy as she was getting his jacket on him.

The best gift of all was bouncing off the walls yesterday, not wrapped neatly under the tree.

Christmas-y

Christmas is supposed to be the happiest time of year.

It doesn't seem like long ago that it really was the happiest time of the year for me. Excitement and magic filled the air, and the anticipation of Santa's arrival was almost too much to bear. My baby brother and I would sleep in his bedroom on Christmas eve and then wait (albeit impatiently) at the top of the stairs on Christmas morning for Mom to wind up the camera and take a photo of us in our PJs before we rushed in to see what Santa had left for us.

After opening our stockings and having a cup of tea, we'd wait until 7:00am to call Nanny and Papa next door to tell them we were up and ready to open our presents. It was tradition, and I loved it.

Now, though, Christmas just doesn't hold the same wonder. I've filled it with financial stress and worry, rushing through the motions, trying to remember where I stashed the presents for Mom and F, and of course making sure everything is just right. By the time Christmas day arrives, I can't wait for it to be over and that makes me just a little sad.

It's during this season of merriment and cheer that I find myself missing Papa the most. I miss his laugh, his mischevious grin and the way he talked about salt herring (his favourite meal) while sipping his Canadian Club and 7-Up at the Christmas dinner table. I miss my great-aunt Mayme and her husband, Doug, who always chimed in that turkey dinner was his favourite. This year, I'll miss J too. We spent the last four Christmases together, and this is just another "first" to get through without him.

I'm trying hard to get into the Christmas-y spirit and help F get excited. He has some idea about toys under the Christmas tree, but he's not totally into it yet. I have the NORAD Santa Tracker open on the computer, and we'll make some Gingerbread men later today. The Christmas tree in Mom's living room is beautiful, with gifts piled up and around it. Everything is decorated, and there's even a little bit of snow on the ground - just enough for "Santa to rest his runners on". 

Tonight, I'll read in church and we'll come home and share the story of the Night Before Christmas, just like always. We'll open the rum and the wine and we'll all sit around the living room and I'll bask in the joy and love of being close to family, even if it's a little bittersweet.

I'm hoping the candlelit church service and snowflakes in the air can bring the Christmas spirit into my heart tonight, but I'm willing to bet the excitement dancing in F's eyes when he sees all the toys in his stocking tomorrow will inspire nothing shy of a Christmas miracle for this girl.

Breakfast Cake

Yesterday, F and I had birthday cake for breakfast.

I'm not sure who enjoyed it more, to be honest. Probably F, since it's still totally new and exciting to him that you could possibly ever eat something beside Cheerios and eggs at breakfast time. If we're being honest, I've eaten many a non-breakfast food for breakfast (beer included). We ate our breakfast cake in my bedroom, he standing at the nightstand and me laying in bed. Between great-big-honkin' spoonfuls, he looked at me and said "I'm so happy you're home. I love cake for breaksbist."

I'm not sure if that was the exact moment or if it was the ten minutes we spent hugging and looking at eachother the night before that did me in, but I melted. He's just so fantastic. Being away from him has been so hard. Even though he's not quite three, F is showing a level of understanding beyond what I could have ever imagined. He told me that I was away so I could buy him more toys, which is partially true: I'm away so I can give him more everything.If it weren't for my family, I wouldn't have the opportunity to do this for F and I. It's the greatest gift ever.

Down the hall from mine, Mom's room is piled high with gifts, each wrapped perfectly with love and care. I haven't wrapped my gifts to my family yet. Nothing seems big enough or good enough. I can't imagine every finding something big enough or good enough to give to my parents. They've given me everything, and I'm doing my best to one-up my gift from the year before every year. (Spoiler alert: Next year, I'm going to try to buy an Island. Wish me luck!)

As a society, we've forgotten the true meaning of Christmas. It's lost in the stores filled with toys and expensive jewelry. Christmas is a time for family, friends and love. It's a time to share, reflect and be thankful for all we have. I've vowed to spend every moment in positivity and love for the next two days. I'll eat cake for breakfast, pour myself a bigger glass of wine and I'll let the poor manners and occasional snarky comment from F roll. I'm going to enjoy every minute.

And I'm going to savour the look on my Mom's face when she sees what I got her for Christmas!

FaceTimed

My three year old has his very own iPod Touch.

Yep. F's actually shockingly tech savvy, bless his little heart. It was a two-pronged decision, buying the iPod. He calls it his phone and it's a lot like Mommy's, only without the option to call random people and waste my daytime minutes or run up my long distance. The children's apps make everything from grocery shopping to waiting at the doctor's office a little smoother, but I consider my phone an extension of myself and sharing just couldn't be done any longer.

I also imagined hour-long FaceTime conversations with F, like the ones he used to share with J a year ago. I can see him carrying my phone around the house, showing his Dad his toys, the dog, and blabbing away in his own little language. It was going to be great, and the money well spent.

That was a bust.

For the fifth time tonight, F had more interest in using the potty (another battle of ours) than he did in speaking to me.

"I don't want to talk to Mommy," he started, turning his back to the iPod as my Mom held it for him. "I don't want to. Go away, Mommy. I don't want to talk to you!"

Enter broken heartedness here.

Screenshot from a successful call last week.

Both of my parents rushed to create excuses and try to gloss it over. He'd been away from his toys all day, he was hungry. Maybe it was time for a bath and bed but none of it helped my hurting heart. Is he mad at me for being away? Is that even a reasonable thought? Probably not.

I thought about going home this weekend and while I'd really like to, 12 hours of driving for a day and a half with F is a lot. Saying goodbye for another week is just too much. Maybe I'll catch him at a better time tomorrow when I call his "phone".

Apologetic

Christmas: it's right around the corner.

Shit.

Please don't get me wrong, I love the holidays and I love my family even more. I truly enjoy shopping for their gifts, wrapping them with care and seeing their happiness and excitement as they open gifts on Christmas morning. I love feeling near to them, sitting around the table laughing and sharing stories with wine pouring and food in adundance. It's a happy, joyous time and yet it makes me incredibly sad.
 
Ever since my breakup, I hate being around couples... including my own family. At my Grandma's birthday party in the summer, I stood out like a sore thumb. Not only was I going through a lot emotionally, but I had lost the spark of myself. I hung out along the periphery, weaving in to talk to cousins and aunts for a moment only to weave back out and sit on my own. I didn't eat because I was so anxious around my own family that I was afraid I'd throw up. The occasion reminded me of how sad I was, how alone I felt. Even though I'm very happy with my life right now, it made me miss having someone special in my life. It was magnified again at Thanksgiving, and I know Christmas will be doubly tough. It will be the first Christmas without him.
 
I know I'm not alone in my post-split avoidance of couples, partially because I've been the friend in a happy relationship wondering where my newly single friend is hiding out. We all do it - we keep to ourselves because we don't want the reminder that our relationship just went down the drain. But, it's not a one way street. A lot of my coupled-up friends were unavailable or unwilling (I'm not able to say which) to help me through that time. Some had a lot going on in their own lives, but some of them didn't. They just checked out, and they might be surprised to learn that I have the lock on my door now.
 
When we're in a happy relationship, do we avoid our friends who are coping with a breakup because we're afraid of catching the "break up bug"? FYI, it's not contagious. While your friend might be miserable and devastated at her own relationship coming to an end, she almost definitely doesn't want to see yours crumble too. If she does, you need a new friend. But if you're ignoring her because you don't want to deal with her pain, she needs a new friend.
 
The hurt of losing your relationhip is magnified by the friend who is blissfully in love, finding excuses to pull her significant other into conversations over coffee ("Dan hates pumpkin spice lattes, how cute is that?" *puke*). In the back of your mind, you hope your friend is being lovesick and completely unaware that the mention is a mini-stab to your broken heart. If she's not, you really need to find a new friend. Tell her how you feel, or avoid more hurt feelings and try to change the subject.
 
To all of the friends I avoided: I'm sorry I couldn't be happy for you while I was feeling sorry for myself. To my best friend: the person I couldn't be a friend to because I was too wrapped up in my own sadness to realize that you were having a hard time coping with stress in your life: I'm really, really sorry. I love you, and I hope we never come to that again.
 
To all of the friends who were coping with a breakup while I was falling in love, I'm sorry that I was the girl who couldn't discuss tampons without bringing my new love interest in the conversation. I know I've done it, and I know now how much it hurts. I'm more sorry than you'll ever know. I would also love to shoot tampons at all the guys who've broken our hearts in the past, so call me with your availability for that. I'll bring the wine.
 
To the "friends" who have walked out of my life when I most needed them and waltzed back in when it was convenient: I hope you never experience that kind of cruelty, even if it's no more than you deserve. Friendship isn't about getting together when the sun is shining: it's about making fun of how terrible you both look when your hair is plastered to your face in the rain and snow, while wearing Santa Claus hats and singing Chipmunks songs.

Oh, and forgiving one another for those "nights that don't exist".
 
End Rant.

Bestest

Hiccups.

They happen at the least convenient times, don't they?

Not just the "hic-cup!" ones either, the ones that you can't stifle no matter how hard you try when you're sitting in an exam or church. I mean the kind that throw your entire system out of whack, like when your apartment isn't ready and you can't move in. That kind. You spill coffee on yourself the one time you wore a white top (am I right?), or got mud on your nice, clean pants. The phone cuts out just at the moment you finally got through the 20-minute wait with Bell custome service. It rains and your hair looks like more poodle than volumous the day of your interview or hot date. They happen to us all, some more easily straightened out than others.

My Mom is the ultimate in straightening-out of things. From stained shirts to ripped pants, the woman can fix pretty well anything except a broken heart, but she's pretty good at helping you put the pieces back together. I'm not even half the Mom she is, and I mean that in the least self-depracating way possible. I've got 21 years to go before I can truly compare myself, but if nothing else, I hope F thinks I'm as great as I think my Mom is. She is funny, kind, intelligent, able, and down-to-earth. She has bent over backwards for my brother and I a gazillion times, loved us when we were hard to like and stood up for us when she probably should have knocked us on our asses. She's that kind of Mom. The kind of Mom that every child should have.

We've had some rough times, she and I. I've loved her and been royally pissed at her a million times over growing up, and we still argue. We're really different. She is reserved and neat, and she's almost never on time - early isn't in her vocabulary, but I adore her. I have pushed her patience, let her down, made her angry and probably made her question her own sanity about four hundred times in the past year alone. Throughout every up and down, she's been right next to me. Even though I can't imagine how I've done it, I've somehow managed to make her proud twice that many times in the past year. She listens to me rant and cry and laugh and pretends my (not so funny) jokes are funny. She is my fashion consultant, voice of reason and biggest cheerleader and I sure hope that she knows she's my best friend. If she doesn't, she'll know soon when I approach her with the usual, "Hey, want to hear the blog post I just wrote?".

She's not alone in her awesomeness, though. My Dad is pretty awesome too. The pair of them have bailed me out more times than any of us can remember, and I pretty much owe them an Island or something to that extent. They have moved me to and from the city, into new apartments and back into my bedroom at their house. They've let me sit and feel sorry for myself, dragged me out when I least felt like it and held my hand through the storm. They've changed F's diapers and cleaned up Daisy's messes. I'd be totally lost without them, and the most amazing part?

They didn't have to do a single bit of it. They didn't have to be my parents. They wanted to.

Ripples

If you've ever heard the song Over You by Miranda Lambert - specifically, the first verse and chorus - you have a really good idea of how my year has felt:

"Weather man says it's gonna snow/ By now I should be used to the cold/

Mid-February shouldn't be so scary/ It was only December, I still remember/

The presents, the tree/ You and Me

But you went away, how dare you, I miss you

They say I'll be OK, but I'm not going to ever get over you"

 

And there it is, in less than 60 words. The song goes on to describe the grief of a woman whose husband has died. Truthfully, it would have been easier for me to move on had J died, and that might sound like a terrible thing to say, but at least I would have known that it wasn't his choice to not be with us.

 

Christmas is less than two months away now, and I can remember Christmas shopping with him last year. I can remember rushing to try to get into our new home before Christmas. We moved in December 23. We had my parents and Nanny for Christmas brunch, spent time together as a family. We were trying for Baby number two. Our Christmas family photo was the image of a young, happy family. By mid-February, it was just a memory.

 

I felt like I'd never get past that hurt. It washed over me like a tidal wave, a tsunami of emotion that knocked me flat on my ass every minute of every day. I couldn't sleep and I couldn't eat. Without F, I think I would have disappeared. The hurt is still with me today but it comes in little ripples, like when you drop a pebble into a pool of still water.

 

They were right: I got over him.



Alis Volat Propriis

I have five tattoos.

Five. All different, and all kind of the same. Each is mine, holding meaning and promise. Every now and again someone will ask me if I'm getting a new one, and the answer is usually filled with uncertainty. Maybe, maybe not, probably not, possibly. I think my poor mother will crucify me should I walk through her door with another one. (She's already threatened to disown me.) Sometimes, I'd really like to get another one but right now, I'm pretty happy with what I've got - in more ways than one!
 
I got my first tattoo when I was 18, in the summer between my high school graduation and my first day in university. I drew it out myself: a treble clef, eighth note and music staff for my love of music, and three little stars - blue, pink and yellow signifying my past present and future. It covers the top of my foot and I was fiercly proud of it. I felt that my foot was the perfect spot - I could easily hide or display it, a good trait for a tattoo when you expected to be in the public eye. It is big and my mother nearly threw up her lunch when she saw it, lamenting over and over that she "thought it would be smaller". I planned this tattoo for months, changing the design or placement, but eventually settling on what I have. Seven years later, I love it just as much as I did that first day.
 

My Butterflies

My second tattoo came just a year later, six butterflies down my spine - my own design again. One for each musical accomplishment I head dear to my
heart, from musicals in high school to singing on "real" stages. I hid it for two weeks from my Mom, until the day I forgot to let my hair down and she spotted it nestled between my shoulder blades. "One day, you'll get married in a beautiful gown and you'll have that on your back!" It's true. I did get married in a beautiful gown with it on my back and I'd be willing to bet no one noticed it. It was an impulsive tattoo, and I had decided on it just the day before. I've forgotten about it a million times only to be surprised by it when I caught a glimpse of it in the mirror. In spite of my ability to forget it being there, I always smile when I see it. I love it, too.

My third tattoo was a celebration of F: a birth dove carrying an olive branch, with the words Mo Stoirin (translation: My Treasure), in Irish Gaelic. He was six months old at the time, and I was so excited it was unbelievable. I put my own twist on this image, and wrote out the script by hand. It took almost two hours, and it was a mix between tender and ticklish. It's my biggest tattoo by far, set above my left hip, nestled among my stretch marks. My Mom hated it, naturally, but came to eventually say that it was "pretty" and since it too is usually covered, she's managed to cope. My uncle called me crazy for having another, but it is my favourite of all. No matter where I am, I will always have my baby on my hip.
 
The forth was extra special for me, as I got inked with my baby brother - my half-brother, adopted into the same home as I. It was done just a month before my wedding. We got co-ordinating tattoos, MACINNIS across his shoulder blades and nicaonghais along my ribcage - the Scot's Gaelic feminine MacInnis (Mac - son of/ Nic - daughter of). I will never change my surname. I may not biologically be a MacInnis, but I am as much a MacInnis as anyone else in the family. Both my parents were present for these tattoos, both acting disgusted but secretly pleased that their adopted children take the pride we do in our last name.

 My fifth tattoo is for no one but myself. Alis Volat Propriis - she flies with her own wings. My motto, my reminder that I can do this myself. There is little hiding of this tattoo - set right on my arm, just above my elbow. Only two people in the world have expressed any dislike for it - you guessed it - my parents. Strangers, friends and co-workers have told me they love it for the placement and the dainty font. It was a bold move for me - it means long sleeves in a conservative work place and a tattoo on my arm when I'm a granny. If I ever re-marry, I'll have TWO tattoos visible - what ever will my mother do? I see this tattoo 2.7 million times a day, and I love it a little more every time. 

I like what a lot of people don't like about tattoos. They are permanent: always with you. No matter how tough my day is, I can look down and be reminded that I fly with my own wings and make my own happiness. I am labeled with the name of my family. I will always have my son on my hip, my passion on my foot and my accomplishments on my shoulders. I love that no one else has these five tattoos: they are mine.