Advise me

Kids give great advice.

Some of the best advice I've ever received and the most important life lessons I've ever been taught have come from children, especially my own. It's the little things that as grown ups, we forget or we're too busy for, and it's the things that make all the difference in the world.



Stop. Appreciate your surroundings. Doddle sometimes.

While hanging out with a friend not so very long ago, we got into a discussion about relationships. Her nine-year-old was apparently listening in, and when I said that I often thought about getting back together a little voice piped up with, "isn't it called a break up because it's broken?". And it's true. While I won't pretend to know what the future holds or how things may play out, I've learned the hard way that if it didn't work the first time, a relationship doesn't tend to work the second or the third time around, either. 

So, if it ain't broke don't fix it and it's called a break-up because it's broken. Apply those simple principles to  your relationship and you may find that you created problems where there were none, or you tried to fix something that wasn't fixable.

As we were rushing to get ready one morning, I barked at asked F to put on his jacket, perhaps little more sharply than I should have and he stood there looking at me as I continued to rush about. When I asked him why he wasn't listening, he told me I hadn't said please and he was right. Being late doesn't excuse poor manners, and who better to remind me than the child whom I'm teaching this simple rule. 

And then, I started thinking (dangerous, I know) and I came up with this little list of things that F has taught me recently, and I'd like to share it with you...

1. Hugs do not need an occasion. Hug people you love for no reason, other than that you simply love them. Receiving an unexpected, love-filled hug is the best thing in the world. I know this because it happens to me every. single. day.

2. "I love you" also doesn't need an occasion? Love someone? TELL THEM. Don't put it on Facebook. Don't tweet it. Don't beat around the bush - just say the words. And don't not say it because "they already know". Tell them anyway.

3. Celebrate the little things. F told me I had done a good job when I flushed the toilet this morning. and while it sounds a little bit silly to a grown up, it was important to F to tell me that I had done a good job. I also get "Great job!" or, my personal favourite, "You're the best!" when I make meals, put on our boots or sometimes just run a bath. Thank people for doing the things they do each day, even if it's just emptying the dishwasher.

4. Say what you feel. F tells me when he's upset. In fact, I encourage him to. He says he's happy, or he's sad or he's angry and he says when he doesn't understand or doesn't like something. Can you imagine how much easier life would be if people told one another how they actually felt? My stars! 

5. Be silly. Laughing makes you feel instantly better. If it doesn't, you need a soul because you obviously don't have one. Don't take yourself too seriously all the time. Sure, there's a time and a place for everything but don't forget to take a few minutes to watch a funny cat video or share a joke with a friend or colleague. 

6. If you have nothing nice to say, don't say anything at all. The words of Thumper's mum are repeated over and over at my house, and I'm as guilty as anyone of breaking this rule. It's extra hard when I preach "say how you feel", but you can say how you feel without making someone else feel badly. And if you don't think you can, that's one time you can keep your feelings to yourself.

7. Slow down sometimes. I often get frustrated when we're walking somewhere and F stops to look at leaves or some other random, inconsequential thing and hurry him along. But it's good to stop and smell the roses coffee. I tell him to hurry up when he's eating, as he takes a bite and then "mmmmmmmmmmmmmmm's" his satisfaction. How often do we shovel food in without appreciating the great flavours? I know I do. I've eaten entire meals without tasting them. Life moves fast enough without us hurrying it along.

Mommy Fear

Earlier this week, I had a big heart-to-heart with F.

It went something like he was eating a bag of pretzels and staring at me while I poured my heart out to him and essentially apologized for being a sub-par Mommy these past few weeks. (I'd get into the whole past, um, his entire toddlerdom but we'd still be in that conversation and I'd feel even worse and he'd have fallen asleep on me anyway.) Whether he understood it or not, we had a hug and a kiss and exchanged a couple of I love yous before he went back to whatever he'd been doing and I stayed exactly where I was just watching him.

I'd always imagined that Mommy was something that just came to you.

The first day of the hardest job I've ever had.

I was wrong. Being Mommy is as much a learning experience as anything else I've ever done in my life, if not more. It's a combination of skills, understanding and a relationship to boot. It requires cultivation, and you are bound to make a million mistakes along the way. I know I have. I made at least one hundred in the past month. I love F, but being a Mom hasn't always been easy for me. Sometimes, I fear that I'm doing it all wrong. I don't want to screw him up.

My impatience combined with my anxiety and Type-A personality made for a tough couple of weeks while F and I were settling into the changes that had happened in our lives. In an effort to do what I thought was best for him, I sent us both reeling backwards - hurt and sad and afraid. I found myself raising my voice and losing my temper when he did that thing toddles do sometimes, defy me. I found myself getting angry and frustrated when I should have been asking him what was wrong. I argued back, instead of explaining why my decision was final.

And even knowing I've done it, I can assure you I will do it again.

In frustration or anger, in tiredness or a rush, my patience and my better judgment will escape me and I'll be that sub-par Mom again - if only for a few moments. Friday morning alone was a test. An hour of trying to wake F up meant we were a whole hour late for his daycare drop off. It meant cutting the things I had hoped to do out of the picture in spite of the mile-long list of things needing doing before 5pm today. It meant that F had a less than awesome breakfast, which he ate in the car, and that I went for a run on an empty stomach and to work with undone hair. We got home with a week behind us, but with no energy left. I snuggled up next to him in bed last night at 8:30 pm, and we didn't get up until after 9am.

For every stressful time, there's a moment like this to wash it away.

 

Today, I vowed I'd be a good Mom. I made homemade buttermilk pancakes and didn't freak out over the toys all over the floor. I made it until about noon before I found my patience beginning to disappear. By the time we'd finished running our Saturday afternoon errands, I was frazzled to the ends of the earth and had the frizzy hair to show for it. Protip: AVOID BAYER'S LAKE ON SATURDAYS. Don't even ask, just listen (see what I did there - momism).

Today was a day when I sat in the driver's seat of my car with that sinking feeling that I'm doing it all wrong, until I glanced in my rear view mirror. Smiling at me, F patted his new (big boy booster seat style) car seat and said "Thank-you for buying me this car seat, Mommy".

Maybe I'm not doing it all wrong.

Thumbs Up for Thursdays! (August 15)

I can't even believe it's the middle of August. Summer is almost gone, you guys!

This Thursday, I have a pile of clothes on my floor like you wouldn't believe and I haven't even begun cleaning or packing for our weekend in CB! Gah! As always, life with a toddler is busy and occasionally crazifying but we're plugging on through! Woohoo. With little progress being made on the job front, it's been hard to keep a positive outlook but your day is only as good as you let it be so...

Without further ado, here are some things that earned a Thumbs Up this week!

1. Cool evenings. Although I'm bummed I didn't get to wear some of my new shorts (warm weather, come back!!), I can't complain about cool weather at bedtime. The cooler air makes for a comfortable sleep - and after a week of not sleeping well, I'll take whatever zeds I can get.

2. I still have my job (kind of)! Yay! After giving notice a couple of weeks ago, I definitely wasn't expecting to be glad to still have my part-time position, but when plans changed I was pretty thankful to be able to stay a little bit longer. In the meantime, I'm glad that I have half of my day to spend job hunting.

3. F started taking himself to the potty, which means Mommy is off the hook for quick runs to pee. As a parent, there's nothing better than seeing your child find their confidence and independence and this is a huge feat for F! Only a couple of months ago, I was seriously afraid the kid would never give up his pull-ups and now he's too cool to have his Mom in the bathroom with him. #Winning.

Mom-Shaming

If you've ever been a Mom, you've experienced that incomprehensible combination of joy and absolute terror as the fact that someone is now completely dependent on you sinks in. There's really no greater honour than becoming a parent - whether through birth or adoption. It's a wonderful journey filled with love, bumps in the road and lessons to be learned. 

I was disgusted last night to stumble across tweets, blog posts and articles pointing out things like Kate Middleton's figure post baby (heaven forbid she have a bump LESS THAN 24 HOURS AFTER HAVING A BABY), and attacks on the new family for not securing the baby into the car seat properly.

Really, you guys? You other moms knew how to do everything perfectly? You all left the hospital with flat stomachs, looking better than the Duchess? Gimmeabreak. But this isn't about Kate Middleton. It's about a world-wide community of mothers who fail eachother and themselves. It makes me sad that as a community of moms we're not being that: a community. We're leaving one another to drown, throwing eachother to the wolves.

Where's the support, gals? I'd wager there's not a single mama reading this post right now who hasn't been made to feel inadequate as a parent at one time or another. And if you haven't, maybe it's a sign that you are the problem. 

I'd like to meet the mother who, on her first try, managed to do everything perfect 24 hours after giving birth. And then, after shaking her hand, I'd like to punch her in the throat and call her a liar. Because nobody is perfect. Nobody.

I've been called a bad mom, and I've called myself a bad mom. I'm not. I'm normal. I make mistakes, lose my temper, forget my manners and let F have popsicles for breakfast sometimes. SUE ME. When he was a few months old, I turned my back for a split-second and he fell off the bed. I felt terrible, but guess what? It never happened again. I learned that lesson.

And do you know what? I've done it. I've judged another Mom, as she lost her temper with her kid in the grocery store aisle. When I was pregnant, I swore I'd never do some of the things I saw other parents do. I did. We all did. But after being on the receiving end of it, I'm a little more forgiving and a lot more understanding. 

I understand that all the seasoned parents of the world feel that the Duke and Duchess could stand to learn a thing or two from their awesomeness, but how about getting down off your high horse and trying this whacky new concept: just be happy for them.

I could write about Mom-on-Mom shaming until I'm blue in the face, but I'll leave you with this:

Don't judge that mom. You have no idea what's going on in her day. Instead of judging her for looking tired and thrown together and maybe completely out of her mind a little bit stressed, congratulate her on her beautiful kid(s). Tell her how cute they are. Point out how well mannered or smart and articulate they are. She's doing her best, just as you are. We all have things to learn, mistakes we need to make and obstacles to face. It's a hell of a lot easier when we have a community of supportive people behind us. 
 

Whirlwind Wednesday

The past 24 hours have been a whirlwind adventure. We got a kitty, and gave up our beloved Beagle, Daisy. My eyes are swollen from crying, while I chuckle at the expression on Duncan (our new kitten) as he watches me type away at my keyboard.

The decision to re-home Daisy was heavy-laden with pros, cons, facts and raw emotions. I've had my floppy-eared baby since she was 6-weeks-old. Daisy was, and is, a great dog. Had I known then what I know now, however, Daisy would never have been a part of my life. I didn't know this apartment was in my future. I had no idea that Red, or public relations or any of what has happened was in the cards for me. It's been a journey filled with surprises, heartache and joy, but tonight was especially heart-wrenching.

The idea of re-homing my girl came way back in October, when I knew I was coming back to school. The question of where I would live with a dog in the city was blaring at me. It meant living in a more expensive apartment, further from town, but I love my place. It was worth the price. Without those big eyes and floppy ears, I'm not sure I could have survived November-January here. Things got easier when Red came into my life, but being away from F was hard. Too hard.

The only thing harder was making it work here, alone, with F and Daisy.

I hit my breaking point when, on one of our walks, F got his sweaty hand free from my own, equally sweaty hand and bolted away from me - towards traffic. Panicking, I dropped Daisy's leash to chase him. Unsurprisingly, she chased me.

We got lucky. The car saw F get away. It stopped. I grabbed him, furious and terrified and relieved all at once. I picked up Daisy's leash. I went home, sick to my stomach with worry. I couldn't do it any more. What if it happened again? What if the car didn't see him? What if I didn't catch him on time? What if. What if. What if.

With a heavy heart, I let Daisy go to a lovely family of four who live in a beautiful area outside of the city. She'll live out her days with two young boys, a stay-at-home Mom and all the love in the world. She'll be loved and well-cared for and that's all I could ever hope for her, for someone to love her as much as we do.

It was knowing that Daisy would need to find a new home, it was knowing that it was going to take a toll on us, it was knowing that I'd need a furry friend to snuggle with from time to time that Duncan became a part of our life. I've always had a cat. Cats are independent. They can live happily in an apartment, inside and safe from the noise and bustle. They can climb on your lap when you need a friend, or curl up on the chair across from you when you need your space.

F's tears have been dried in the fur of our little friend, too. Nothing will replace our Daisy,  but Duncan will be our furever friend to help us heal after saying goodbye to our favourite, floppy-eared gal.

Disposed

Pro tip: Never wash a disposable diaper or pull-up.

Groan.

Bless Red's heart, he often does the laundry for all of us and this weekend is no exception. Since he just got back from another week at training camp, he had a bag-full and though I had done a mid-week load, I had a handful of F's things and a few of my own to throw in the load also. Like the awesome guy he is, Red made the trek downstairs and through the hall to the laundry room in the basement and threw the clothes that I'd given him into the laundry basket.

It wasn't until he came back from switching everything from washer to dryer that I realized what a dumbass I am.

"Do you think there was something in F's pockets?" he asked me, holding out his hand full of white weirdness. "There's this weird gel stuff all over our clothes."

DING. I knew. I knew right away. IDIOT.

I googled what to do while Red went to clean out the wash. Not knowing what the culprit was, he threw the entire wash load into the dryer - hidden diaper and all. Down the stairs I ran to stop the dryer and remove the diaper which, might I add, took forever to find.

We shook out the clothes, took out GOBS of goo, and wiped down both the washer and the dryer. Might I add that we have a shared laundry room? Efffffffffffffff.

Just in case you ever have a slip of the mind and forget to make sure that there's no pull-ups or diapers hidden amongst the clothes, here are a few tips for dealing with the disaster.

1. Use swear words. Seriously. The same way muttering a profanity helps reduce the amount of pain you feel when you stub your toe (I'm not kidding. Read about it here and swear away), it also helps you curb stress and generally makes you feel better. So, drop an F-bomb or thirty and get your rear in gear. You've got work to do, sister.

2. Shake it off. You may choose to have a dance party to further reduce stress. Do it up, just make sure you grab some of those gel pellet-covered clothes and shake the bejeezus out of them. Shake, shake, shake. Shake out the frustration of your own stupidity! You go girl! The more you get off the clothes, the happier you'll be. Sweep that shit up and discard it all. Marvel at how one little pull-up/disposable diaper can hold so much hateful gel-pellet goo.

3. The dryer is your friend. My Google-search told me to throw my clothes in the dryer and let it work its magic. Apparently the gel just dries up and falls off. Don't be surprised if you require a good lint brush after the clothes come out though. The good news: Your clothes are not ruined.

4. Clean out your washing machine. The washing machines in our laundry room are front loading, so it was easier on the back than reaching over but harder to actually clean because it was stuck all over. Use your hands to scoop as much out as possible, then an old cloth to get the remnants. Wipe down well to remove all trace of the gel pellets.

5. Caffeinate. It's necessary. Just accept it.

Hopefully you'll catch the goo/gel-pellets before throwing it in the dryer. I had to wash the dryer out too. Sigh.

Happy Saturday!

Painted

Ten.

That's how old I was when I first discovered stretch marks all over my inner thighs. Angry-looking and purple, I didn't know what they were. I hated them. For years, I refused to wear shorts. Even in the heat of summer, I wore jeans or Capri pants. By the time I was a pre-teen, stretch marks covered my thighs and the first few faint ones made their appearances on my butt and hips.

As I got older, though, they faded and around the time I hit junior high they were less-visible. I let myself wear shorts again. Dresses. Skirts. Bathing suits. For about eight months of the year, you can barely spot them - even if I am bare-legged - because they fade into the pale milkiness of my skin. During the summer, they stand out silvery against my tanned skin but it doesn't bother me any more.

When the first stretch marks from pregnancy appeared on my stomach and sides, I collapsed into tears. I was only two weeks away from my due date. From the bottom of my bellybutton to the top of a pair of bikini-cut underpants, my tummy is soft, a little stretchy, and painted with a few dozen stretch marks. I hated them for a while too, but they don't bother me either.

I wouldn't have F without them.

Sure, I'd love to have been one of the women who gets off easy and doesn't get a single stretch mark throughout her pregnancy - or, if you're my cousin, through multiple pregnancies - but I wasn't. For the first year after F was born, I donned a one-piece bathing suit. But now I wear bikinis.

Today, at the beach, one of the few mums who spoke with me exclaimed that she'd never wear a bikini or show her "mummy tummy" in public the way I do. She said she was too self-conscious. In her retro-inspired one-piece, this girl could have been on the front of a magazine. But, with a sarong around her waist to cover her "dimply thighs" (her words, not mine), she barely had the confidence to take off the layers she'd previously worn.

I busted my ass off (literally) to lose weight and get in shape. My stomach may never be tight and firm like it used to be, but I'm strong and I'm healthy and I've got something better than six-pack abs to show for it.

Happy "Mather's" Day

"Here's the Father's Day craft F made today," she said, smiling and holding a colourful, hand-painted card out to me. "I can tell you since you're not his father!"

I felt my heart sink into my stomach as the daycare teacher's teenage daughter showed me the masterpiece F had spent his day working on. It was the week before Father's Day weekend, and I guess I should have seen it coming. 

She gushed about how much F's dad would love it and how it wasn't the only piece of artwork the kids would be working on this week, completely oblivious to my (apparently well-hidden) pain. F's Dad hasn't been around for Father's Day in a while.

Both F and I are lucky to have other great men in our lives, like my Dad (Grampie) and Red, but my heart ached when the daycare teacher told me that F had announced that Grampie was his Daddy. Another kid's reply: Grampie can't be your daddy.

I recently saw a Facebook post by a friend exclaiming how crazy it is to not allow Mother's Day and Father's Day crafts in schools. She's entitled to that feeling as much as the next person is entitled to theirs, as much as I am to mine but I think it's a touchy subject for many people.

For the kids who have two Mommies or two Daddies, for the kids who don't have a Mommy or don't have a Daddy or are orphaned, and for the caregivers who have to deal with explaining that to their children. 

It's not easy to explain to a kid, especially with society and popular media portraying the "perfect little family": Mommy, Daddy and Kid(s). Throw in a pet and a picket fence, and by George, it's the North American Dream ... except when it's, um, not.

I'm a Dother. Or perhaps a Fom. Mather? MomDad? A hybrid, to say the least. 

Dad is a hat I've worn, right next to Nurse, Teacher, Friend, Horse, Punching Bag, Snot Wiping Station and Queen Snuggler. I didn't plan to, and maybe it doesn't suit me as well as I'd like it to but it's one of my hats now. Maybe one day I'll pass it on to someone else, but I'm not sure. For now, I'm just trying to hold my heart in one piece and help F understand what no three-year-old should have to try to figure out.

Switcheroo

A very dear friend of mine recently announced that she's going back to work after two and a half years spent raising her beautiful daughters, and her joy made my heart smile.

Her Facebook wall was overcome with congratulatory well-wishes, and "you go girl" boosters. It especially touched me because I've known her since we were just kids ourselves, lucky enough to have mothers who could be home with us... and now, we're fortunate enough to be mothers ourselves.

Being a young mom comes with a different set of rules and a pile of extra perks that, in the midst of all the chaos, can be kind of hard to see clearly.

In the wake of everything that happened since I hit my 20's, I've become an entirely new person and it's exciting, liberating and absolutely terrifying at the same time. But I love it.

I ran into another old friend not too long ago and he told me that it was nice to see I'd "reclaimed the old me".

Hardly.

The old me is gone. Long gone, and I'd be willing to be she's never coming back. The old me thought that she was just a Mom now. She thought that her tomorrows were filled with ho-humness, but luckily for the new me there was still some spark in there. It's that little spark that helped me find my way to the spot I'm in today.

Being a Mom is great, but I'm more than that and realizing this simple fact has been incredibly liberating. It's been a long process - the better part of this year. It started way back here, when I decided I was ready to take the first few tentative steps. It has taken me to heartache, and to emptiness, to a heart so full I thought it might burst.

But now, I'm ready to just be a 25-year-old woman, and it's about time that my blog reflects the new Ashley.

My life has petered out to normalcy (HA!) as I've fallen completely in love and gotten my feet beneath me - in fabulous heels, no less - but I have some hilariously blog-worthy moments that I felt could never be shared on my "Single Mommy Blog".

Not any more. :)

Full

I am lucky enough to live in a big, bright apartment in a fairly quiet neighbourhood just outside the city. My neighbours are mostly quiet, my building superintendent is lovely and I feel safe and secure inside the unit that I call home. But it’s huge.

Daisy, my loveable Beagle, and I cohabit a spacious two-bedroom apartment. In the run of an average week, I might pop my head into the second bedroom once (twice if I’m cleaning or need something), and I rarely use my 8-seater dining room table at mealtimes, but sit for an hour or two working at my laptop. I park my ass in the exact same spot on my couch every time I sit down to watch television or read. While I love my apartment and the neighbourhood, and even though Daisy is surprisingly good company for a dog who chews expensive shoes and pees on the floor, I often felt so incredibly alone within the walls of my place. Even with all of my furniture set up, paintings on the walls, music turned on and candles lit my apartment never felt cozy. It was just too big. Empty, even.

But, for the last 24 hours, my heart and my home have never felt so full.

After a fantastic weekend with our families in Cape Breton, Red and I packed my car – complete with F, lots of toys and that big-eared thing I call the dog – and we started the trek for Halifax. After arriving at my apartment, the process of settling in began: suitcases unpacked, beds made, laundry put away, groceries bought. Within an hour, my living room floor was peppered with toy cars and trains, crayons and colouring books were strewn across my dining room table and giggles could be heard from one end of the hallway to the other.

My apartment has never felt so small and cozy. 

As I made my coffee this morning, I could hear the gentle breaths from F’s bed, the occasional snort from the dog and the sound of Red rolling over, the sheets rustling around him. Standing alone in the dark I realized that my coffee has never tasted so good and being tired has never felt so rejuvenating. As always, the smallest things have the greatest impact in our day-to-day life.

I know that when F goes back to Chateau Grammy after a week with me, my apartment will feel big and hollow again but my heart will still be overflowing…

…and that crayon may never come off the chairs.

Deadbeat

Sometimes I happen across an image that makes me laugh. Or furious. Or both.

 

This image just so happens to be one of them. The minute I saw it, I saw J in my mind's eye holding up his new phone and talking about how fantastic it was. Anyone who knows him knows exactly what I'm talking about. J went through phones the way that most people go through socks. One year, he had five phones. Five. 5. That's almost one every two months. Meanwhile, we could barely afford the rent at our apartment. I should have clued in sooner, right? (Don't answer that)

After everything else has been said and done, the only thing that really bothers me is that J still doesn't support F - or make any effort to be in his life. That's beyond my realm of comprehension, because F is the best thing in my life by far.

 



I remember the day F was born so vividly I can almost feel the contractions to this day. At (barely) 22, I was just a kid myself – a first timer, terrified of what lay ahead. Labour was frightening enough, but to raise a child is a horse of another colour. I remember feeling such a sense of relief at J holding my hand in the delivery room, promising me that I was doing just fine. I can still see my mom’s eyes – filled with tears – as she told me how beautiful her new grandson was. J and I barely slept that first night in the hospital as we watched our newborn sleeping quietly, fighting back the urge to hold our son in our arms all night. We talked about all we would do as new parents and our future together, as a family.

That was over three years ago, and as it stands right now, J hasn’t seen our son since before New Year’s 2013.

Nobody tells you how hard parenting is – and if they do, they never manage to include the part that your heart will never belong to you again. When F is sad, I’m sad and his laughter ignites my own. I never imagined that I would be in the position I’m in today – the good, the bad and the hilarious. Sometimes, it’s all I can do to NOT pinch myself when it occurs to me that I’m living what I believed would be my biggest nightmare and that, in spite of all the hurt, I’m the happiest I’ve ever been.

Except for the part where my son’s Dad turned into a deadbeat.

You see, I’m a big girl. I’m not perfect. I’ve done things that I shouldn’t have done, some things I’m not always proud of. I’ve said bad words, hurtful words and I’ve told a few lies over the years. I can pick up the pieces when I need to, let things roll off my back and I can truck on. I don’t necessarily think that I’ve done anything to deserve some of the things that J put me through, but I’m old enough to deal with it. F hasn’t done anything to anyone. He deserves all of the love and care in the world, especially from his own father.

There is nothing that J could ever do that would possibly hurt more than neglecting our little boy. Every week that passes where I don’t hear from him, every month that he “forgets” to send child support, every weekend F spends here in the city – a five minute drive from J – that we don’t get a text breaks my heart a little more.

I’m luckier than most in that I have the greatest support system anyone could ever hope for. My mother and father have bent over backwards to help me get back on my own two feet – steadying my wobbly legs and whispering words of encouragement as I go. F is blessed to have loving grandparents who would do anything for him, and I’m proud to say that I have friends who keep a smile on my face when I can’t be with my little boy. Even with all of that, the hurt remains... all because of one, simple truth:

J had every opportunity to be a great Dad, and he pissed every one of them away because having fun was more important than having his family.

Nothing hurts your Mommy heart more than watching the father of your child turn his back on them. Regardless of the state of your own relationship, the feelings you harbour towards him, the history you share or the future you're facing, every time he lets your child down he's really letting you down... because when you're a real parent your child is an extension of you - not just someone you see when it's easy or convenient.

And for the record, F is way cooler than the iPhone 5.


Good Enough

I've already said that I'm skipping the whole New Year's Resolution this year, but I still have high hopes and many goals to accomplish in 2013. Some of these goals will come to fruition mostly on their own, and some will take work and I know many more will take shape as the days, weeks and months come along. Even though I have no idea what lies in store for F and I, I know that after 2012 he and I can take on just about anything.

Like F turning three, for example. It seems like it was only yesterday that I was laying in the maternity ward of the hospital, flipping through my What to Expect When You're Expecting book and wondering what the Hell I was about to get myself into. The book prepared me for a lot of things, but there were many more "surprises" I was totally unprepared for. I'm not sure if anyone or anything could have prepared me for the sense that I'm never going to be good enough as a Mom.

I know I'm not alone in this. Mommy guilt takes over our lives before we've even given birth. It's the matter of whether or not we followed a certain diet and exercise plan while we were pregnant, if we had an all-natural, drug-free labour or a Caesarian, to the decision (or necessity) of formula vs. breastfeeding. It only gets worse as time goes on, from the music we play for our children, whether they co-sleep (GUILTY!) and what we feed them.

I'm sure there's a large community of mothers who would say I'm an awful Mom and I'm equally sure that there's a large community of mothers who would say that I'm a great Mom. Meanwhile, I'm on the fence.

I breastfed F until he was 18 months old and would have continued to do so only that he lost interest, but I supplemented with formula for eight months because it was too hard to pump while I was in class. I fed him the baby food from the supermarket because he didn't care much for my homemade variety, and quite frankly, a lot of the time I didn't feel up to making it for him. He slept with me from the get-go, and continues to enjoy sleeping in Mommy's bed. He stays up too late, sleeps in and eats junk food every once and a while. Sometimes, to avoid a fight, I'll even let him go to bed without brushing his teeth.

But he's happy and he's loved.

If I don't accomplish anything else in 2013, I want to overcome the feeling that I'm never getting it right. I don't have time to listen to that nagging voice in my head any more. I'm tired of comparing F and I to the mother and child pairs we see at the grocery store or the park. It's useless, and the truth is that she's probably thinking the exact same thing.

Little Words

I love words.

Big words, little words, strong words and dirty words.

I just love them all. I love writing them and speaking them, learning them and teaching them - well, some of them. I consider words to be my playground, my medium with which to create. Like many people, I've been both empowered by and crushed beneath a word. As a parent, I've spent the last two and a half years choosing words carefully, waiting anxiously to hear a certain four words that every Mother can't wait to hear: I love you, Mommy.

I remember the first time I heard it. F was in the bathtub, and I had been sitting on the floor of the bathroom while he played. I had told him I loved him, and a moment or two later he looked at me and said it back. I was so excited I started to cry and laugh all at once. I even managed to get it on video with my iPhone. Since that day back in April, F has learned many words, some of which I wish he would unlearn. He has learned how to use his words to convey his feelings, his wants and create play stories for himself and his toys. Since that first "I love you, Mommy", there have been thousands of those perfect moments, from the impromtu hugs to the tearful learning of lessons.

There are two words that I dread hearing now, two words I never thought could possibly hold so much heartache: Good-bye. No amout of "I love you" or hugs can dull the pain my Mommy heart feels when F leaves and we have to say "good-bye". I always try to tell him I'll see him soon, or "Peace Out" to lighten my heavy heart, but it's impossible to lie to yourself in that moment. I stood outside in the cold today watching my parents driving away with F, and I felt tears drip off my cheeks and onto my jacket. I could still hear his cries for Mommy broken by his sobbing as the truck pulled out of the parking spot. In all my life, I've never felt so helpless.

The rest of my evening will be spent inside with the dog. I finally have couches and I can catch up on some reading and TV. We'll go for a walk at bedtime, and I'll climb into a big empty bed and think of him. He'll have forgotten about his sadness when we said goodbye and be excited to see his toys and be back in his home with Grammy and Grampy.  I'll ride out my week away puttering at odd jobs at the apartment, hanging out with my classmates and friends new and old, and I'll anxiously wait for Friday night when I get home and hear "Mommy, I'm happy to see you!".

Those little words will make every heartache and tear worth it.

Meltdown: Accomplished

Unless your kid is perfect - which I highly friggin' doubt - you've had to deal with your fair share of the dreaded middle-of-store-meltdown.

Usually toy-related, but not always, the MOSM is loud, ugly and makes you wish you could evaporate or pretend the child belongs to someone else. Neither of which really works, believe me I've tried. Evaporation is just physically impossible, no matter how much you pray to the temper-tantrum gods and kids have this nasty habit of swinging at you or latching onto your legs screaming "NO, MOMMY!!" and it kind of spoils the "who's kid is that?" act, does it not?

I love F to pieces. 99.7 per cent of the time he is the sweetest little boy any Mommy could ever wish for. He's full to the brim with unexpected bursts of love, surprise kisses and snuggles, not to mention he's so damn cute it hurts. He is shockingly caring, unbelievably smart and he never shuts up (which I take full responsibility for). But then there's the 0.3 per cent of the time that I wish I could pretend he's not mine, and he decided to use all of that today. One melt-down was bad enough, but he didn't stop there. That would be too easy. No, we laid on the floor in three different locations and kicked, screamed and acted generally nasty. Super duper.

I hate seeing the MOSM. I can usually sense it coming and try to escape to higher ground before the tears drown me, kind of like when you see rats right before a major disaster. I'm the rat, only less germy and hopefully more attractive, but I have been known to wiggle my nose and give stink-eyes. Sometimes, we escape to a less populous spot, but mostly not. Today, I managed to miss the signs altogether.

It all started with the fact that we're living in a hotel room and F hasn't seen his own toys, slept in his own bed or been in his routine for the past four days. We've been eating in restaurants or ordering in at weird hours, and spending a lot of time in malls and stores because you can only sit in a hotel room for so long. He hadn't eaten a proper lunch, mostly because it's generally frowned upon to stuff food down an unwilling child's throat and I was tired of arguing with him to eat his sandwich. Finally, it was the three-year-old "everything is mine" mentality that did us in.

We went into Chapters partially because I wanted a Caramel Macchiato at Starbs and Mom wanted to get some books for the little monster himself. In we went, walking hand-in-hand (F and I, not Mom and I - although that would have been significantly less embarassing), through the Best Sellers and into the Kid's Section. Four other kids happily played around the Thomas and Friends train table. F tried to fit in with their dynamic, but they were not having it: I'm talking absolutely no sharing. He was hurt, but he handled it pretty well (read: no tears) and we decided to go look for books he might like and check out the different toys. When the mean kids had finally left, I let him go back to the train table and he was stoked.

He played there alone for about five minutes before the next kid came along. F asked him to play with him, and they drove little Edwards along the track and flew Harold over the Island of Sodor. Then, kid number three came along and it all went to shit.

"Get Mater off the track. You must put him back on the road" F said, getting increasingly emotional. He reached over and put his hand on the other kid's hand. I semi-intervened, knowing that F was just trying to maintain control over his game. "We don't put our hands on other people, sweetie", I said gently. Realizing we were about to open a can of worms, I suggested we go get a treat. F got agitated, spit at me, and then started screaming. I picked him up and started carrying him out of the store. Having skipped breakfast and lunch, I was absolutely starving and desperately in need of caffeine. "Let me take him, he's just angry with you right now" my Mom suggested.

She's pretty well always right, so I left him sobbing onto her shoulder. I figured by the time I got him a juice and myself a large, hot, caffeinated, delicious soy caramel macchiato (excuse me while I drool on myself) he would be totally calm. SO WRONG. He was worse than when I had left him. He was screaming, hitting, kicking, flailing on the floor, spitting and screaming some more. Aaaaaaaaaaand, MORTIFIED. He eventually calmed down, but we had two repeats of this before the day was out.

The reality is that toddlers have meltdowns. Every parent or caregiver has dealt with it, and we all feel like shit when it happens. The looks of pity, disgust and utter fear we get from the other shoppers don't help, and that sense of "how can my kid be acting this way?" just seals the FML deal. Learning that you can't always have what you want is a hard lesson - especially for a spoiled kid like F. I know he's spoiled - he's my only child and I want him to have the things he wants whenever I can make that possible. My parents absolutely dote on him. But F has also had a little life filled with unease and change - he's been shuffled around with me for the past three years, from my return to school when he was an infant, into our new home, back to my mom's and now on this new journey. He's not old enough to process it and he's not old enough to understand that wanting something doesn't make it his, and we both survived the meltdowns - even if just barely.

And I love him too much to really pretend he's not mine anyway.

Awesome

Parenting.

There's a job that's full of surprises, mostly good but let's be real: There's a few doozies in there, too.

Like the explosive poo's that come from a breastfed baby. No amount of What to Expect literature can prepare you for that one. I learned pretty quickly that two changes of clothes for baby and at least one extra, clean shirt for me was a necessity. I won't go into detail on how that lesson was learned, but honey, it ain't pretty.

Another thing I wasn't entirely prepared for was how grating a baby crying can be on your nerves, especially when you don't understand what the problem is. It takes time, practice and a lot of patience (and, OK... some Mommy time-outs) to figure out what every cry means. I was lucky in that F usually only cried because he was hungry, and if he had a dirty diaper I could usually smell him from the next county over anyway. It is heart-breaking and mind-boggling that a parent or caregiver could hurt an inccocent, helpless child but if you've ever spent three hours listening to a screaming baby, you can almost see how it gets to that point.

I'm sure that there are plenty of women who popped out a kid and just knew what to do. I had an alright idea, I knew how to hold a baby and change diapers and F knew how to grab a boob. All good, right? Yes and no. Like any skilled trade, parenthood takes practice. It's a learning experience, and the learning curve is a little different for all of us. Every bone in my body was aching to be a Mom, and while the timing and circumstances weren't exactly what I was dreaming of, I ran with it. Every day has been an experience, to say the least. I was ready for breastfeeding and being tired, but nobody prepared me for the emotional exhaustion. I was prepared to have a baby, but toddlerhood was on us before I knew it.

I imagine taming a lion would be easier than parenting a toddler sometimes. Have you ever seen a three-year-old pitch a fit? Aye-yi-yi. Did you know that just one little indiscretion can undo months of work in less time than it takes to utter the swear-word your kid just picked up? It's not all bad, though, I promise... it's just that I don't feel the need to try to gloss it all over and pretend I have it all figured out. I don't even have 1/1000th of it figured out and I think that's wonderful! I've learned more in the almost three years I've been blessed with the role of Mommy than I did in the twenty-two years that led up to F's arrival. And guess what? I don't ever want to know it all. Some of that shit (literally and figuratively) is too frightening for me.

I have learned patience and perseverance, how to be stand up when I want to lay down and how to ask for help when I need it. I've learned how to enjoy the little things, and how to laugh at the things that make me want to cry. I have learned to appreciate my body, apologize to myself and to stand up for what I want. I've also learned that I have a lot to improve on and how to go about doing so.

Parenting is an awesome thing. The moment you become a parent you are responsible for the health, happiness and care of another human being. You spend every minute of everything shaping that little person into the type of person you want in the world. You are able to sculpt a personality, mold a character and guide an indivual down their path in life. Just make sure you have a strong stomach and access to wine.

Pink Boy

What's your favourite colour?

Remember being a kid and asking your new friend on the playground, or on a date where the conversation hadn't gotten off to the right start? I've asked the colour question about 4.6 million times in my life, if not more. Mine is yellow. I like it's punchy, in-your-faceness and how it's bright and somehow manages to complement my skintone. I had a bright yellow room all through high school - it looked like a toddler's playroom, and I effing loved it.

Does our favourite colour say anything about us as people? Maybe, maybe not. Do you know what says a lot about us as people? Dictating that blue is for boys and pink is for girls. How silly is that? I like blue and green also, purple and pink besides. My adorable little guy - you may have heard mention of him, oh 9.3 billion times, he loves pink and I love that about him.

"Pink is for girls," my Mom tells him when he excitedly jumps up and down and says "No, Grammie! I want the pink one! The pink one!" His favourite cup to drink out of is pink. When I ask him what his favourite colour is, he almost always tells me that it is pink. "Boys should drink from blue cups or green cups," my Dad will tell him, but if my little F wants the pink cup, you can bet your ass no other cup is going to be up to snuff. He likes the pink train, Rosie, from Thomas and Friends and the case on his iPod Touch (Yes, my toddler has one... there's a reason and I'll explain later). At the end of the day, pink is just a colour and it's as great a colour as yellow, blue or orange if you ask me.

If F tells me he doesn't want to play hockey or soccer when he gets a little older, that's cool. Right now, he really loves cars, trucks, trains and tractors but if he decides he wants to play with dolls or dinosaurs, that's awesome. If he wants to do ballet, be a doctor or go to art school instead of college that's super. He has to be who he is, he has to love the things he loves and explore his interests. So, if my little guy decides that his favourite colour is puke green or sky-blue-pink, that's going to be my new favourite colour, too... It will be his colour.

Rerouting

Life has a funny way of throwing unexpected things your way, doesn't it?

For one reason or another it seems sometimes our plans just don't work out. Fall through. Fall apart. Sometimes they land in pieces at our feet. Sometimes you can put them back together, but sometimes you can't. So you take a step back, take a peek at your map and reroute.

I feel like I've been rerouting a lot lately.

A year ago, I wanted to be pregnant or delivering a baby by now. I wanted an October baby, preferably a girl but any healthy child would be perfect. Reroute. New path. I got a dog instead, and truthfully, she's more work than a newborn and signigicantly more expensive, too!

A year ago,  I planned on moving to Halifax now. I didn't have to reroute, just choose a new exit. Different destination. Longer drive.

This will always be my destination.

It's both exasperating and relieving, wonderful and heartbreaking the way our paths can change, crumble beneath our feet or keep on going for miles and miles into the unknown. It's unsettling and unnerving sometimes, but it's almost always worth the worry and the care.

A year ago, I thought I would have someone to share the load of parenting, finances and responsibility along the winding little path of life. I don't, so I carry it alone, holding a little hand along the way.

Sometimes I fall down and get right back up, full of mud and promise... but sometimes I make mudpies while I'm down there.

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.