The Best

You only accept the love you think you deserve.

I read this line over and over and realized how true those words have been in my own life, and in the lives of some of those closest to me. It's been a journey of learning and understanding for me to be able to recognize that I have often deserved more than I demanded from myself and others. I spent years as the pushover. I gave up on myself again and again, and I have nothing but a lot of wasted time to show for that. I've accomplished more in the last year than I did in the four preceding it. Why? Because I demanded it of myself.

While there are certainly times that I'm sorry things didn't turn out the way I had expected, first with J and then with Red, the truth is that I'm totally OK without them. Better than OK, actually. Much better. Talking about the issues with J is much like flogging a dead horse at this point, and things with Red are as complicated as they are raw. But, there comes a time when you must accept that you cannot change things and there is so much healing in just letting go. 

I won't pretend to have it all figured out - I don't. I don't even have half of it figured out, and I won't pretend that my life is always in harmony. There are days when I wish I had something I don't, or I feel a pang of jealousy towards someone else's fortunes. I won't dare admit the number of days I begrudge J and his carefree existence. But is it carefree? I don't know. I do know he's not helping raise his child in any way, shape or form, and sometimes that hurts. But mostly, it doesn't. I decided a long time ago that he was no longer my problem.

Giving ourselves what we deserve can be difficult. Recognizing our worth is often impossible, as we are so clouded by our own harsh criticisms that we cannot see past them. We must learn to give ourselves credit where credit is due, and perhaps most importantly, we have to give ourselves a break every now and again. We can only accept the love we think we deserve. 

What if we all decided we deserve the best?

Making the Change

Sometimes the happiest endings come from beginnings filled with sadness.

It's hard to believe that two years ago, I was relishing in the glow of newlyweddom (it's my new word; deal with it). It's harder still for me to wrap my head around the fact that just one short year ago I was in the preliminary process of the whole back-to-school-mama business. I'm not even sure I was truly convinced I'd do it. And here I am, about to graduate.

I'm incredibly fortunate to have had this opportunity and I know that. Many don't. I'm blessed with great friends, wonderful parents and a community who stood behind me to offer support, words of kindness and consolation, cups of coffee to wake me up and shoulders to cry on when needed. It hasn't been easy, but we did it.

When my plans to move to Ottawa came crashing down on my head and I found myself, clutching Kleenex and sobbing in my supervisor's office, asking for my job back I felt like my whole world was about to implode. It was like I was perched precariously on the verge of total devastation, and unable to get away. It was a bad feeling. And then one day, I came home from work and got in the shower and let all of the sadness and bad feeling go down the drain with the suds from my shampoo.

Less than a year after totally uprooting my life and challenging myself in ways I didn't think I could (and would rather not ever do again), I'm working in a field that I love and have been for nine months. I won't stay here forever, but it's a perfect fit for me right now. I made the decision to be happy, and though there will always be bumps in the road and obstacles to overcome, I've made it to a place where happiness really is my reality.

But it's easy to get lost in sadness.

I know this because I've done it, and it was a long, hard battle to get out of the rut I had settled into. It's easy to stay there. It's easy to mistake comfort for contentment, or happiness. We settle for what we have, rather than dare to dream. Change is scary. It's hard, it's the unknown but it's almost always worth the journey. 

Unwanted

I spent some 18 years of my life feeling like I had done something wrong.

As if I, as an infant, had been so awful that I'd been unwanted. In spite of growing up in a home filled with love and support I struggled with the whys and hows and the questions I hadn't dared ask surrounding my adoption. So, as a coping mechanism, I worked towards perfection. I would be so great that everyone would want me on their team, as their friend, in their life. But, that back fired and I'm really glad.

That's how I learned it's OK that we don't all want the same thing.

For as much as I wanted to unearth the answers about my biological family, my half brother didn't. For as much as I wanted to speak with my biological father, he didn't. For all the answers I wanted, some people chose not to share. For all the things I wanted to say, some people didn't have the desire to listen or to know me and they chose to pretend I didn't exist. And so, bit-by-bit, that nagging sense of being unwanted started creeping back into my heart.

I tip my hat to the women who voluntarily put their children up for adoption in the hope of a better life. I tip my hat to the men and women who work tirelessly and often thanklessly to make sure the rights and best interests of young mothers, newborn babies and families who'd given up hope are represented. I tip my hat to people like my parents, who could have a lot more money and fewer grey hairs (or more hairs, in Dad's case) had they not gone through the process of adopting two children.

But I didn't always.

What parents of adopted children don't always realize is that, no matter how hard you try or how much love you shower on your child, the questions are still there. No matter how many pieces of paper or documents or reports they read or social workers who tell them "it was for the best", the questions will never be answered. What my biological family doesn't know is that many of my questions are still unanswered, and I'm finally able to live with that.
  Not knowing is sometimes hard, but I learned that knowing can be harder still. Knowing that my biological mother faced some of the horrors she did hurt my heart. Knowing that my biological father refuses to acknowledge my existence hurts my heart. Knowing that he married a woman and adopted her children hurts. Seeing how the unease and unresolved questions from our various adoptions has taken a toll on my siblings hurts, too. But like so many things in life blame lays nowhere. Laying blame doesn't help. Harbouring anger and resentment and sadness only makes the pain greater, like rubbing salt in a wound.

Coming to terms with the facts surrounding my adoption hasn't been easy, and perhaps it never will be - maybe I never will. While the facts are hard and fast, the emotions are slow and they stick to you, flaring up unexpectedly and intermittently. The things I want and don't want are sometimes within arm's reach, but sometimes they are totally out of my control. And that's OK.

I wouldn't want it any other way.

Big Girl Bed

In under three hours, I'll be saying those little big words that break my heart and kissing F goodbye. Just the though of saying those words so soon after arriving home makes my heart ache and my nose tingle in the way only noses can tingle before you cry. I'll see him again in a few days - a week at most - but I'll miss him dearly until I see that big smile and bounds of energy running towards me for a hug.

I can still remember the first time I held F - he was twelve minutes old before he was laid in my arms. I held him for less than ten minutes before he was whisked away to the nursery for his first bath, J and both of our mothers in tow. It had been a long day, spent walking around the hospital and anxiously waiting to become parents and grandparents. My own wellbeing was in question, and so I spent over an hour hooked up to monitors waiting [im]patiently for my blood pressure to return to normal. I wasn't even allowed to stand up, much less walk to my room so I sat anxiously in the wheelchair as a nurse pushed me through the hallways to the Mother-Baby unit.

I can still see him wrapped in soft, white flannel looking absolutely perfect and knowing he was mine. I sat on my hospital bed, still hooked up to this monitor and that monitor, watching everyone else hold my baby. We took photos, I ate my first meal of the day, and we laughed and cried together while my heart burst with love and pride. Within a day or two of my return home, after J had gone back to work in the city, I gave up on F's bassinet: he hated it. We set up his crib, and he hated that too. Finally, after making several trips between my bed and his crib and bassinet, I stripped my bed of pillows and blankets and I laid him next to me. He was asleep within minutes, and our co-sleeping arrangement was born.

I was on the receiving end of a lot of flak over my decision to co-sleep. I had never realized the way my sleeping habits affected those of others (nor did I or do I care). F rarely has nightmares, and has never been afraid of the dark. When he turned two and we had our own home, I bought him a toddler bed and hoped he would sleep in his own room. Sometimes he did, sometimes he didn't. While I enjoyed having the bed to myself, I always missed him and from time to time I slept in the toddler bed with him. Sharing my bed with him this weekend, after a week of sleeping my my new queen-sized bed alone, was wonderful. My own "big girl" bed will be extra lonely tonight.

The moment of "good-bye" is anxiety-ridden and downright frightening. My heart will break into a million pieces when I put my car in drive and knowing that doesn't make it any easier. But, it's not just leaving that scares me. It's coming home, too. Two weeks ago, F saw his father for the first time in months and referred to him first as "man" and then as "guy". He eventually settled on calling him Smokey, the nickname all of J's friends and family members refer to him by. My son didn't even know his father. What if I come home one day and he doesn't know me? I don't think I could possibly cope.

What if the hurtful words slung at me earlier this year are right: what if I'm a bad mom for going back to school? As much as I've missed F, I've also enjoyed time on my own. I've enjoyed meeting new people and - dare I say it - going out and having fun. For the first time in 4 years, I have been able to explore myself and grow as a person. In spite of missing F every minute of every day, I'm enjoying myself: I love my class, my apartment and my new friends. Even though I miss him, I'm the happiest I have been in years, and as much as I decided to go back to school for me, I'm back in school for him.

When all is said and done, I hope F realizes that I had to go to make his life better and I hope that one day, he will be half as proud of me as I am of him.

Trembling

Do you remember your very first day of school?

I'm sure I don't, but I'm equally certain that it was not a big deal to me. My teacher was my next door neighbour and I knew my five grade-primary classmates already. The bus would have picked me up at 8:30AM, and dropped me off at home by 2:30PM. Twenty-odd kids from ages five to twelve, split between two classrooms attended that little school and I knew them all.

It wasn't until grade five when I switched schools that things got scary. New people, cliques, popular kids. These were the things of fairy tale, not my reality. On the hour long bus ride to and from school I learned about the hierarchy of bus seats, how to write neatly going over bumps and the importance of flopping your backpack on the seat next to you if you wanted to be alone. I was twelve years old before I knew what a bully really was, but I survived it with plenty of tears and broken hearts, laughter and friendships along the way.

Yesterday, I had my first day of school (again). It's the third time I've had a first day at a new school since the terrifying experience as a twelve-year-old. The only thing that's changed is my pants size and my age, really. And my major, from journalism to disabilites and back to public relations. It might even be more terrifying than it was then. I planned my outfit for two days, touched up my makeup in the parking lot, popped a mint in my mouth in the hallway and plastered that fake-confident smile we all have when we feel like we're going to puke but need to look cool. My dad came in to check it out too, which was a delectable cross between mortifying and wonderful. At least if I had passed out, someone would have been there. Besides, no one saw us.

Nine other women sat in the Student Lounge awaiting the commencement of Orientation. Some looked to be about my age, two were a fair bit older, and some looked to be a fair but younger than I. Nobody said anything. I smiled and said hello, but no one responded. So there we sat in silence, ten grown women awkwardly looking around at one another, casually picking up our class schedule from time to time and looking at it with little interest. Finally, we were rescued by the Co-President of the college. She was perky and funny and talked to us like we were little kids. It was great. We were given a tour of the campus (which, by the way, is GORGEOUS) and handed a "free" backpack. When I jokingly pointed out that it was the most expensive backpack I'd ever owned, one girl frowned at me either because she thought I was an idiot or she didn't get the joke.

I loved the faculty and while I'd really like to make friends, it's not about making friends as much as about making myself. I'm happily pursuing a long-term relationship with me, my education, talents, dreams and every other aspect of what's yet to come. So far, I've been hitting it off pretty well. I might be bashful and trembling now, but pretty soon I'll be galloping through the paces.

Sketches

I am terrible at puzzles.

I always have been. Growing up, I opted for a notebook and pencils over things that needed to be assembled. Blank paper is my friend: I can move the pencil across it and draw my image or use words to paint a story for my reader. Anything that involves following directions or precise shapes and sizes is just no good for me. Besides, if it falls apart there's only one way to put it back together. I like to mold it a little, switch it up... make it mine and make it fit. There no way you can fit a square into a circle, and I hate that.

It's devastating when something we love falls apart - whether it was the puzzle you spent hours putting together, a model airplane or your life, it all hurts. The time and energy is gone, you can't get it back. Pieces get lost, broken beyond repair and then what? Your puzzle is incomplete, model is flawed and life is empty. That's when grabbing that blank piece of paper comes in handy. Start over. Sketch it out yourself, make it your own. If it's not what you want, you can always erase or add to it. The possibilities are endless.

It doesn't have to be perfect, just yours.

Enough

I woke up this morning feeling pretty pleased with myself.

Two big suitcases sat jam-packed with my stuff against the wall, a third set on top of a rubbermaid container (mainly to hold said rubbermaid container closed), waiting to be filled. In a little under two hours last night, I managed to pack the clothes I like the most need for my first few weeks in the new place. How efficient am I? I thought smugly, and then I looked into my closet.

More clothes. Dresses, jackets, shirts, sweaters, shoes, pants, jeans, skirts... There is an entire wardrobe packed in my suitcases and another full wardrobe hanging in my closet. My bureau drawers aren't empty either. In spite of having not one but four white button-front shirts, last week I looked at one and thought how much I wanted to buy it. I didn't, and was reminded why last night. Given, some of the clothes hanging don't fit quite right but some were expensive items, and you never know when you might put on five or forty pounds, right?

More. It consumes our lives, day in and day out. We want more money, bigger houses, faster cars, better wardrobes, more vacation time. Some of us even lose sleep over it - I know I do. Want keeps me awake, need rarely does. Every now and again, want and need overlap for me. Going back to school is a great example of that. I could have done all of the schoolwork in the upcoming year in the time I spent worrying. All those hours didn't change the outcome though. They don't make tuition less and as far as I can see, worrying isn't going to make leaving any easier.

Wanting more this and more that has really only given me more stress, more headaches and less happiness. Worrying about things I can't have or can't change has only dulled my own life and taken away from all of the wonderful things I do have. What if, just for one day, I could swap wanting more with being happy with enough. I have enough. 

I have a roof over my head when thousands of others are freezing in the street. I have food in my cupboards, and electricity keeping my fridge running. I have an amazing support system of family and friends. I have a beautiful, bright and loving little boy and I have our health. New jeans or a shiny car won't make any of that better or worse.

When it's all stripped away, I really have it all - I have more than enough.

Good Families

You've probably read Good Families Don't by Robert Munsch.

This post really has very little to do with that book, outside of this line: "Good families like ours don't have farts. What would the neighbours say?" 

I can remember my mom reading it to me as a kid, and then to my brother. He thought it was hilarious, naturally: what little boy or girl isn't sent into a fit of giggles over the word fart? I can't remember if I found it hilarious, but the line above really haunts me today. The truth is that good families DO. Good families have all manner of "farts", those little bits we don't want the whole world to know. They have arguments, disagreements and full-blown fights. Pretty well every family has the weird aunt, uncle or cousin that they absolutely dread at holiday parties. Good families have bad things happen to them, they have a member or two who they don't necessarily get along with. Good families have mental illness and addiction, too.

I know mine does as sure as I'm sitting here. I've been diagnosed with mental illness. *Looks around* Wow - the ceiling didn't just collapse, and the sky is still up there. Mental illness doesn't make a family "bad" or make a person "crazy", and yet we all avoid discussing it like it's some form of contagion that's going to tear apart our perfect little world. Can we get over that already?

I'm tired of the way my own depression has been swept under the rug. "It's normal to feel down" or "You could never let things go" are the two comments I hear most often. Yes, it is normal to feel down. It is normal and healthy and only to be expected that you experience feelings of sadness, loneliness and anxiety from time to time. It is not normal when you can't cope with them. It is unhealthy to bury them underneath everything else so you can get up and get moving every day. And, letting things go isn't as easy as dropping a hot potato - sometimes, things eat away at you inspite of your best efforts to move on.

We've all seen that person standing in the "Self Help" aisle at Chapters, trying their best to be inconspicuous and feigning surprise at their being there should someone they know comes along and see them reading the inserts. There's nothing wrong with self help. But sometimes, self help doesn't help. I know that first hand. When I was overwhelmed with the negative feelings that came from the breakdown of my relationship, I didn't cope. I got busy. I volunteered and exercised and tried to rebound. My irritable bowel syndrome became so unmanageable that I had to mircromanage my diet. I went back to work and I buried myself in the responsibilies of managing a dining room. I threw myself into making friends, making a healthy lifestyle and putting on a brave face until it all came crumbling down around me, the fascade of a happy person.

I found myself sitting in the doctor's office waiting room, fearful that someone would recognize me. I sat shaking on the inside, tapping my foot and forcing myself to hold back the tears that were threatening to start up again at any moment. After spending 24 hours completely hysterical, I felt like the only thing keeping me from bursting was my skin. I sat in his office feeling out of control but worse than that, I felt embarassed. I'm almost mad at myself for feeling embarassed. I know better. I went to school to work with people who feel out of control. I pride myself on open-mindedness and my desire to help people. But there I was, eyes red and swollen from crying, feeling absolutely crazy. My family doctor walked in and hit the nail on the head within minutes. He's been there - he survived divorce.

"You need someone to talk to. You need to work on your coping skills. You're going to get through this, but it's obvious you're dealing with depression here."

He was right and I felt instantaneous relief - someone understood, finally. Someone realized that I wasn't feeling sorry for myself, I wasn't trying to dwell on the negative. I haven't had the opportunity to meet with my therapist yet, but I've made progress already - I've found better coping skills. This blog itself is a coping mechanism. I've been able to pinpoint both the negative feelings and the cause of them. I love being a mom, but I also felt burdened. I had been tired, sad, angry and resentful because John was free to do as he wished and I was home raising our child. I have felt worthless and undeserving of happiness. I have felt things I don't even understand - and that's a part of my depression. Some days are really great and some days are really not, but I try every day to put on a brave face for Finley and my family.

Mental illness is more than feeling sad. Everyone with depression doesn't sit around crying all day. Everyone who suffers from an anxiety disorder doesn't sit behind drawn curtains biting their nails all day. Mental illness hits all over, regardless of age, wealth, occupation, race or gender. Mental health is important - it's as important as your regular physical or pap smear. You shouldn't feel dirty or ashamed if you feel like you need to reach out to someone, so don't.

Be strong and stay postive.

Fairies Are Real

At 1:07PM on Thursday afternoon, I was running around like a headless chicken. F and I were to get to town, run some errands and get back in time to pick up my brother's girlfriend. For the umpteenth time in the past few months, my cell phone lit up with BLOCKED dancing across the screen. I used to answer every call, sometimes no one was there, sometimes someone would be breathing into the phone. One call included a "You're a terrible mother" comment before the caller hung up, so I started ignoring them. I was about to throw my phone into my bag and let it go when I decided to answer it.

"This is Karen from Adoption Disclosure Services." I stood in the driveway staring at my car realizing that a phone call I've worked towards for two years is in progress.

HOLY COW!

"We have found your birth Mother. I wanted to let you know I got to speak with her. I read her your letter and it was very well received. It was emotional, but she is very happy and is preparing a letter for you now..." She's real. I was happy and sad, scared and excited all at once, along with a million other emotions I still haven't identified. She's really out there. I didn't come from the fairies - I'm not a fake kid!

In what was just another great example of how life throws things at you when you least expect it, the timing of this phone call was incredible. Just the night before, I posted The Fake Kid. A post about my adoption, about the uncertainties. One day later, I had the answer to my biggest question: Did she even want to meet me? She does.

I ran into the house to tell my Mom that the call had come. After sharing what details I had with her, I left for town. I sent about forty texts to friends telling them the call had finally come. I imagined our meeting, what would I say? What would she look like? Would I get to meet my two brothers, my dad? I let my mind wander with possibilities until I heard my phone ringing.

It was my Mom. "I was thinking about what you said. About that call."

I've always been afraid that Mom and Dad would feel bad about my decision to look for my birth parents. I hope they know that no one will ever replace them. I hope that they believe me when I tell them that. Biology doesn't make a Mom and Dad - love does. They have given me so much love that it's spilled over and we've all burst at the seams more than once. We have laughed and cried, fought and apologized a million times over and that is what makes us a family.

My attitude has changed a lot in the last number of years, particularly since becoming a mother myself. I used to refer to Mom and Dad as my "adoptive parents", and my birth mom and birth dad as my "real parents". I know now that this was wrong. Mom and Dad are my "real parents". Birth Mom and Birth Dad are just that - birth parents.

And Fairies are real.

XO :-)

Standing Still

Ever since my disaster date with B, I have been feeling a little off.

I'm disappointed. Let down. Bummed out. I'm a lot of things, actually. The only thing I'm not is standing still. Letting it all sink in.

This date, unfortunately, isn't the only let down I've felt since John and I split up. What's that thing called when you try to avoid the loss you feel after a break up? Oh, yeah. Rebounding. Yeah... I did that. BIG mistake. I later found out that the rebound was dating my old friend from high school. I looked like an idiot, and I felt a million times worse.

After that, I swore I was going to be more selective... be more careful. That's when I met P. He was adorable, and I had an immediate crush on him. We met, rather embarassingly, at the restaurant I was employed as Dining Room Manager at for most of the tourist season when I served he and his friend. He kept coming back. I kept being the waitress. Finally, I gave him my number and then was overcome with the same foolishness and giddiness I recall from agreeing to sit with a boy at lunchtime when I was 14.

As I got to know more about him, I felt like I had met someone with whom I could have a great connection. There was just one thing I had to deal with: He didn't know I was a single mom. That was a big enough topic for me to approach. Next, I was going to have to tell him about that thing where I was married, and then separated, and headed for divorce. Oh, boy.

I was having an amazing day with P. My girlfriends from work (Thanks Liz and Shelbs!) helped me pick out my outfit, and Liz even let me stay at her place the night before to cut down on the drive time. We drove around together, talked about our plans, our work and hit the beach. We laid talking about our lives, and I decided to let it out.

"I'm a single Mom". Pretty simple statement, right? It was so loaded with emotion and anxiety I thought I was going to puke. The words hung on the salty air for what felt like forever before I got a response I really didn't expect.

"Interesting."

Ummm... not what I was expecting. I was ready for "Oh, that's too much for me" or "That's OK". "Interesting", not so much.

"Yeah... he's two and a half. His name's Finley..." I laid on my towel feeling even more like I was going to puke.

"Did you marry the guy?"

 And there you had it.... it was all out in the open, and we'd only gotten ninety minutes into our day. Unfortunately, it kind of ruined the day. Our day wrapped up with the most awkward goodbye kiss of the century. We met for breakfast at a cafe up the road a week later, and again the following week. On the third "date" he asked me to accompany him to a party he was going to in a neighbouring community. I declined. He then asked where I saw things going, and I had to be honest... I didn't. All because of his reaction to my being a mom. That awkward kiss. *Sigh*

Am I dating now because I want a relationship? Do I want a relationship? I don't know. I survived the last eight months as a single mom and I've even been happy. Happy and alone? I can do that? Maybe I should just dial it down a little bit. Stand still for a while. I don't need to wear a pedometer and take X number of steps every day. I can just be, at least for a little while. 

Maybe instead of trying to walk into some one else's path, I'll let someone walk into mine.

Keeping Up

Do you ever feel like you're trying to live up to something you can't possibly match?

I do. Every. Single. Day.

My best friend and I were discussing the way we compare our lives to others'. It's stupid and does nothing but leave us all with a bad taste in our mouths and a sense of failure. Keeping up with the Joneses is useless - Keeping up the with the Kardhasians, on the other hand... get on that shit (kidding, I promise!).

I always though that I'd have my whole life figured out by now. HA! Not bloody likely. I don't even know what I'm doing on Friday, for crying out loud. Do I have a plan? Yes. Thank God plans don't always work out. I say this with a hint of sarcasm, because my plans haven't always worked out and while my life sometimes feels like a tornado, it's pretty awesome.

For the record, at 25 I was planning on being famous, beautiful, married and living in a big house. The good news is I'm halfway there, except the married part was kind of a bust. But, for the first time in my life... I feel beautiful. I've finally given up on micromanaging every aspect of myself and my life. I've got stretchmarks like it's nobody's business. I'm not tall and thin like I planned on being - yes, I planned on growing taller. Well, I wanted to be. I wouldn't say I'm famous, but I know at least one person who thinks I'm a rockstar. Hopefully more than one person feels that way. NOTE: I am not the one person.

Why did I feel like I needed to have my shit together at 25? I've got less than two months to get it sorted out if I'm going to, and that's highly unlikely. Are there people who have their lives together at 25? Yup, and they're really lucky. Am I envious? Maybe a little - I'd like to feel stable right now, but more than that, I want to explore every aspect of me. I want to figure out exactly what I want to do - I don't want to be guessing it.

I'm only just stomping out my little path. It's crossed loads of other paths, and there's still a lot of paths for me to cross. It will go uphill, down hill and around the hill. I will get stuck, and probably lose a shoe here and there, but I'm going to rock every single minute of it!

Fifty years ago, I wouldn't have had the opportunities I have today. My path would have been a lot smoother and would probably have rails along the side to make sure I didn't fall off. But guess what?

I like my path. I like a little mud on my shoes. That's why they invented rubber boots, duh!

Ten

TEN DAYS.

Ten. I move in ten days.

If you didn't already know, I am flipping nervous. I have been preparing for this since mid-June. I'm torn between totally unprepared and chomping at the bit. Depends on the day time of day. In the line for cash at Wal-Mart today, the lady behind me commented on how cute the Thomas the Tank Engine plate set I had picked for Finley was. When I told her I had bought it as a special treat for when he visits me in Halifax, she stopped unloading her cart.

"That is going to be so hard on you, but good for you!"

Excuse me while I pat myself on the back and simultaenously throw up. It is going to be hard. It's also going to be pretty liberating.

A really good friend of mine also felt the need to tell me that, after reading my blog, I needed to remember that I'm more than a single mom. He's right, and I know it.

I've been using my single momdom as a security blanket. I've made it my identity. I've forgotten all of the other bits of me. I've put my hobbies on the back burner since those little feet hit the ground running. I'm going to miss him a lot, but there are a handful of things I'm going to really enjoy.

 -- The opportunity to do yoga whenever I want. This goes another step further in that I can enjoy my yoga practice for ten minutes or two hours, if I so choose.

 -- Running, sans stroller. Yes, I will have to bring the dog. She is a terrible running partner, but it's easier than the stroller, the constant stops to make sure he's not bored.

 -- Going to the ATM, alone. 'Nuff said.

 -- Not hitting the toy section of every. single. store.

Mostly... Rediscovering me. I'd be willing to bet that I've changed a little bit in the past two years. Actually, in the past six months. Definitely in the past six months. I can't wait to just be Ashley for a little while.

Leaps and Bounds

In only two short weeks, I am embarking on a whole new journey in my life.

I'm going back to school, as a single mom. Leaving my son with my parents.

And guess what? I am scared shitless.

If you haven't read Standing Up, you might want to do so to fully understand my situation. I shared my displeasure at being called a bad mom for trying to make my life, and in turn my son's life, a Hell of a lot better, but I also gave some insight into the fear I hold in my heart as I stare into the unknown. It's daunting, to say the least.

If it was simply a matter of leaving Finn with my parents, it would be a simple matter. I'd see him on weekends, he'd come visit me every couple of weeks and all would be well. But, there's a lot more to the picture than just that.

You see, I actually have a life here. I'm involved in my community, and I love this community. If I was willing to give up my dreams and settle, I'd never leave here... and sometimes, that's really tempting. This community is one in a million. A year ago, we were celebrated by the Lieutenant Governor for the province's Community Spirit Award. As an active member of the community and also several of the community's organizations, I received this award. It was the third time I received an award of this honour.

When I accepted my seat in school, I also had to accept that this meant a lot of sacrifices, beginning with being separated from Finn for 5 days a week. I also had to give up my position as Secretary and elected member of the St. Ann's Bay Health Group Society - but not just that. In addition to my position as secretary, I also cooked lunch for seniors every Wednesday. I founded and ran a youth group. I also created a wellness program focusing on easy ways to make your life healthier and happier. All of that went into the box of things I had to leave behind.

Devin and I, testing out our new turnouts!

Next, my position as Medical First Responder on the North Shore & District Fire Department, where I am a third generation member (AND I get to drive a firetruck - how cool is that?) along with my kid brother. We gear up next to my dad, uncle, cousins and neighbours. I'm the head of the Ways and Means committee, aka fundraiser, and a member of the Fire Department executive committee. I also took care of renting the fire hall.






After that is my involvement with the church - which, sadly, was the easiest for me to give up as my minister just retired. This woman shaped my faith and watched and helped me grow.

A lot of my identity is engrained in my involvement here in the community. I'm a volunteer, a fundraiser, a role model... am I really ready to give it all up? It's a hard question for me to face, and even harder for me to answer. Why? Because the answer is yes... and no.

I'm not ready to give up my identity. Even if I move away, I'm still a volunteer fire fighter. I'm still a Medical First Responder - I have Health Care Professional training that I will carry with me everywhere, up and down the highway, across the province. I might not be Secretary of the SABHGS any more, but I'm still involved - I'm turning that wellness program I spent hours on into a blog and newsletter for the winter. These things make me, well, me!

There are times when taking baby steps was all I could do to get by, but right now I need to throw myself into my future. Get out there and make things happen, because the truth is... no one else can do that for me. So here I go, with my Big Girl Shoes on!

Dating, for Two!

WARNING: THIS POST HAS ABSOLUTELY NOTHING (REALLY) TO DO WITH FOOD.

A far better writer and way cooler Mom than me (Cat Poland - check her out at http://momontherange.com/) recently pointed out that one of the things she missed about being pregnant was the food. I'm with her there, sometimes!

I have always, always, ALWAYS worried about my weight - and mostly for no good reason. I've never been overweight, and while my weight has fluctuated to a top of 157 and to under 100 pounds in my adult life, I've almost always been generally healthy. Like most first time moms living in the age of stick-thin actresses, thinspo and eating disorders, I put an inordinate amount of pressure on myself to stay thin throughout my pregnancy. (What a joke - and I didn't stay thin. I stayed healthy.)

Somewhere around month seven when I actually started to look pregnant - prior to that no one really believed my little bump was anything more than a big lunch - people started throwing the "Oh, here... you're eating for two, now!" comments out as they scooped a second helping of whatever was being served onto my plate. So, for the first time in my life, I shamelessly stuffed my face with whatever was handy. I kept this up throughout breastfeeding, throughout most of my life as a Mom to be honest.

Since I got pregnant, I've spent a lot of time "doing" for two - I've shopped for two, thought for two, planned for two, Lord knows I've eaten for two (even when I should have only been eating for one), bathed for two, cried for two... the list is really pretty endless. Lately, I've been dating for two.

I recently joked to my Mom about my (very real) fear that I'll be alone forever and she fired back a comment that has really made me think: "Maybe if you weren't so damn picky, you wouldn't be alone".

Shit. She's right. (Mom, if you're reading this... Well, there you have it. I said it. YOU'RE RIGHT. First time for everything.... Ha!)

I am picky. I think it's great, mainly because there was a time when I really wasn't picky enough. A younger me was easily swayed by well-versed flattery, and flash of a smile and toned biceps. If he was smart that was a bonus, if not... oh well. Did we get along? Well, as long as we did part of the time. Would he be a good dad? Pfft, who cares. Hit that bridge when we get there.

All of those nonchalant ideas of dating went out the window when I became a single mom. It took over two years of motherhood for me to truly be a single mom - in that I was no longer "officially" in a relationship. For all intentive purposes, as I once had pointed out by my amazing best friend, I've always been a single mom. But I digress.

Dating. It sucks. Doing it as a single mom? WHOOOOOOLE different ballgame.

The first big question is how the guy will react to knowing I'm a single mom. Some are good about it, some are weird about it, some make me want to take them and shake the stupid out of them.

I'm a single mom, but I'm still a person boys!

Maybe it's because my past dating practices were so pathetic and poorly worked out, I just didn't realize how difficult dating as a single mom was going to be. I pick guys apart now... just read #DatingFail for proof of that one, even if he did kind of deserve it. A LOT.

Even though I'm not looking to fill the position of Dad for Finley, the fact is that any guy I seriously date is going to be a part of Finley's life, and that is not something I'm taking lightly. If he drinks too much, he's out. If he swears too much, he's out. I've set my standards maybe a little bit too high, but I'm sure there's gotta be someone out there who fits the bill (other than my Dad).

So, future man of my dreams, take note:


I work out.

I am picky.

I like healthy foods that are made with love and shared over laughter and happiness. I like wine, but I don't think much of drinking to excess. I like Twilight - get over it. I would love to go to school at Hogwarts. I don't give a flip-flying-fuck what kind of car you drive, as long as you drive it sober, safely and you didn't steal it. Please cut your hair, pick up your socks and don't ever call me crazy, or woman or especially, crazy woman. It won't be pretty.

Don't lie to me. Don't lie to my parents. You must be willing to laugh at me, dance with me, walk with me and love the little things. I don't care how much money you make, but please have a job. That would be nice.

Don't try to be Finley's Dad, but don't be afraid to fall in love with him too. He's way cooler than I am, anyway. Loving cars, trucks, trains, planes and all manner of things that drive is not required, but it will probably help your case with him. You should probably also like dogs, and not have too many pairs of shoes. There's only so much closet space in this world, and I don't know if I can possibly love you enough to share... but I'll try.

If you need to be inspired as to why to love me... the photo should do the trick.



Alone

Is being alone always lonely?

I am a self-professed relationship addict. The past six months have been a practice of being alone - being single. Since I was 15 years old, I have had 5 serious relationships - the last relationship ending in February after almost five years. Being single is something that is quite new to me. Different. Strange. Liberating.

I think I have always been in relationships because I genuinely feared being alone. When I was pregnant with F, I felt that I couldn't raise him alone, that I needed J. I didn't. I don't. I can raise him alone. I can stand up on my own to feet. I can be alone.

Erasing the fear from the word alone hasn't been easy. Moving past the notion that any relationship was better than no relationship was even harder, but here I am: Alone. Sure, I have my friends and I have my family and I have F, but I'm single. On my own. And guess what? Sometimes, it's really hard.

Am I lonely? A little bit. I miss the intimacy of a relationship, that special bond that only you and your significant other share. Ironically, though, I am realizing I am less lonely now than I was in relationships. A good friend told me months ago that I would soon learn a lesson she too had to learn:

There is no loneliness as great as the loneliness of an unfulfilling, unhappy relationship.

 

Being alone is scary at first, but I didn't know how to be alone. I'm not even sure if I know how to be alone now. I hope I don't, to be honest, because this journey has taught me more about myself than anything else I have experienced in my life. And, moreover, I hope that I'm alone until I really do know how to be on my own, because otherwise, I think I'll be missing out on a really big chunk of happiness.

 

No one can own your happiness, it's all yours - and that is a beautiful thing!