Father's Day

Tomorrow is Father's Day.

Yaaaaaaaaaaaay. Not.

I'm not a huge fan of the parent-themed holidays, to be honest.  Mother's Day makes me feel almost as miserable as Father's Day and misery isn't exactly a fun state to find oneself in. 

This will be the third Father's Day that F's father hasn't been around. He's missed seventy five per cent of Father's Days in his son's life. It's a thought that should make me furious, but it doesn't. It makes me really, really sad. F doesn't deserve that.

This will be the third Father's Day in F's little life that I've worried about my son not having a man to look up to. I worry that he doesn't have a man to walk with him through the ups and downs of life, and while I try my best I know I can't replace that male influence. 

He once asked me to show him how to stand up to pee and that just ain't gonna happen.

As F and Little play out in the living room, I hear Little talk about how his Dad will be back in a few days and F says "Well, *my* Dad will be back in a few days, too!" and I know that we'll have to have that conversation again.

The one where F asks when his Dad is coming home.

The one where I explain that he might never come back. The one where I have to tell F that I just don't know. The one that leaves us both in tears, with an aching heart. The one I never wanted to have, and yet the one that I have regularly now. The one that I will have more and more as he grows up and realizes that our family doesn't look like his friends' families. 

And for all the sadness I feel, I feel so much love and joy and appreciation that both F and I have my Dad. We have Uncle Allan and Uncle Buddy. There's Uncle Nelson and Uncle Johnny, Uncle Gordon and Uncle George. We have Uncle David and Uncle Edwin. We have my brother, Devin, and my friend Evan. 

Although we lost F's Dad, we have many strong, wonderful men in our lives and I hope they all feel a little bit of our love tomorrow. XO

Words

I lost my words for the past few weeks.

I'm not really sure what happened - perhaps I was just too tired, or maybe it was all the stress I've been feeling lately. Whatever the cause, I think it's finally gone. And that makes me really, really happy.

Know what else makes me really, really happy? This guy.

Last night, after a great walk and play date with new friends and after I had finished writing the first blog post I've written in weeks, F and I curled up together with a soft blanket well past our bedtime to chat. The nights of just F and I are on hold for a while, you see, as Little is coming to stay with us once again. 

F suddenly sat up, very concerned, and asked if we had remembered to put the chocolate milk back in the fridge and I couldn't help but laugh out. It was so unusual.

F is rarely concerned about issues like whether the milk is in the fridge or the light was turned off before we walked out the door. He probably couldn't care less most of the time. So, after reassuring him that the chocolate milk was, in fact, safely stored away in the refrigerator, I snuggled him a little closer and told him I loved him.

But why, Mama?

And then it hit me: I tell him all the time how smart he is. I tell him I love him. I tell F all kinds of nice things, but I never back it up - which is pretty silly, because there are millions upon millions of reasons why I love him, why he's smart and how he's a great guy. So I started telling him.

And it turned into a little game.

"I love you because you are thoughtful and funny. I like the way you think about things and ask questions so you can learn. That's why I think you're so smart."

"Mama, I love you because you do fun things with me and take care of me. And I like that you play with me a lot and we go for walks and you buy me toys all the time!"

I got a little teary-eyed hearing F say some of the things he said, and it made me realize how grown up my little boy has become. In a lot of ways, he's much older than four - he regularly helps me get dinner ready (as in, he MAKES the salad) and we have grown up conversations more often than not. It was the perfect end to a day that had gotten off to a poor start.

And the next time he's acting his own age, throwing a toy at me or trying to pull the cat by the tail, I'll savour that moment and try to wrestle him into the pants he doesn't want to put on, just the same.

Little Change

Although I wasn't totally sure we would, Little, F and I survived our three-week sleepover and I'm confident in saying that none of us were too much worse for the wear. It was a long three weeks at best, but between hiccups and tears I think we had a pretty great time. But something strange happened - F really changed.

Even when F's sperm donor father was in the picture, it was usually just F and I. Even when we lived at Mom and Dad's, it was F and I. Just the two of us and our own whacky, little dynamic. You probably didn't know this, but F and I can be home for hours at a time and not even notice one and other. We can also spend hours snuggling and so focused on one and other that we miss everything around us. It's pretty special - and while our dynamic is unique, I think it's safe to say most parents share a similar bond with their kids. They're the centre of our universe while simultaneously being an enormous pain in our asses. Amazing, no?

Needless to say, the addition of Little to our routine was a real switcheroo.

And it was hard. On all of us.

Because he wanted any attention at all, F misbehaved to make sure he got it. Because he was lonesome, Little often came into the middle of the few stolen moments F and I tried to share. Because I work 40 hours a week in an office, plus write my Frenzied Fashionista posts, plus I work out every evening, plus I try to have a social life and see Mr. Hockey Coach, I found myself getting short with both boys and my patience was pretty thin at the end.

But then, F just changed. His temperament was different - he listened better. He got himself ready for bed. He asked to go to bed at a reasonable hour. He ate his dinner at the table, put his plate in the sink and he was more helpful than ever. I said thank you more, I was angry and frustrated less... wait, did I change?

The differences between Little and F were stark, and I found myself appreciating some of F's quirks more than ever before. Perhaps my appreciation sparked the change. But more on that later. I've got one last night of child-free bliss to thoroughly enjoy...

Saturdate

A few weeks ago I picked F up from preschool as always and we drove home.

It's exactly a six-minute drive from preschool/work to home. We usually listen to the same 2 songs during that drive. We were waiting to make a left-hand turn when F piped up in the backseat with a simple - yet strong - question.

How was your day, Mama?

It's a question we expect of our colleagues and spouses, friends and acquaintances but I would never expect those words to come from the mouth of my preschooler. It's so... grown up. And so, it became a thing. Every day from that day on, F would ask how my day was and I would ask him about his. During our six-minute drive, he would tell me about his favourite and least favourBite parts of the day and I would generally just tell him my day was good or bad because there's only so much you can say to a four-year-old. 

We have a lot of little things we do, like our weekly Starbucks date (every Friday), and F's bath schedule. One night a week we have pizza and one night a week we have nachos. We watch Octonauts every night before bed. I realized not so long ago that F and I spend a lot of time together without really spending anything actually together and I vowed to change that. 

Tonight, we had our weekly Saturdate - aka our "Saturday date". We do something different every Saturday, whether it's going to the park or going for a walk, grabbing "coffee" together, seeing a movie at the theatres, baking cookies, whatever. We always do something, just the two of us. Sometimes, we don't even leave the house. 

Busy with 10,000 things to do, I bunked down with my laptop to try to get ahead of my list when F came over - smiling as wide as can be - and asked what my "best part" of our date had been. It was a pretty easy answer - the best part of my date was hanging out with him, without anything else to do. But what was his? 

I got to go to McDonald's and have a nice supper, with nice chicken nuggets, and fries and yoooooooooooooogurt and there was a drink and a straw and I got to see Grampy! And then we watched a movie and remember how funny The Croods were?

He said all of this in about 11 seconds, not taking a breath from start to finish and it was pretty much the cutest thing I've ever heard.

It's easy to get completely wrapped up in work and writing and chores and trying to maintain something resembling a social life and squeeze in time for the handsome Hockey Coach, but hearing how much F enjoyed a simple, 30-minute trip to McDonald's is more than enough proof that Saturdate is the most important day of the week. 

Tough Questions

Finding the right words is hard.

Yes, that's a pretty big, generalized statement but I think it rings true to most situations we find ourselves in. It's easy to say the wrong thing, isn't it? Being diplomatic, professional, kind, understanding, whatever can be difficult and when you add emotions and a toddler to the mix, it becomes nearly impossible. I know this because F has a tendency to ask questions about things that I can't always find the words to answer with. At least not totally truthfully. 

But I can't lie to him.

A couple of months ago, F overheard me speaking to someone over the phone about the passing of my great-uncle. It piqued his interest. Who died, Mommy? he asked, innocently. Death is a big thing for a little guy to grasp. I explained who had died and asked if he remembered the man whom my family will miss so much. He didn't, and I wasn't totally surprised. Has he gone to be with my fishies? F asked a few minutes later. I figured telling him that no, we won't be flushing great-uncle AJ down the toilet might not be the right response, so I said yes. He's with the 4 fish we successfully managed to keep alive for a very short time. The idea of Heaven was much easier for him to understand. Heaven is so magical. Death is so final. So big.

His tough questions are coming more frequently as he grows up, and while I'm glad to see that he's taking things in and he's curious, I'm not always happy with the line of questioning. And I can only use "God made it that way," or "God put that there" so often, and even then he tends to follow up with the number-one toddler favourite: WHY?

The toughest question hasn't come flat out yet, but F dances around it regularly. Dad. 

Is Grampie my dad? he'll sometimes ask, hearing me refer to my father that way. He's your grand-dad, we all respond. No, F often responds, He's my fah-ver and in a lot of ways, Dad has been. It was doubly hard when Red left, after telling F that he would be his dad and it will continue to be hard because kids sometimes don't know better but often are mean. Explaining that Red loved him, but wasn't his dad was excruciating. How do I tell him that the man who should have been there wasn't? That he won't be? 

My parents never lied to me about my adoption. I always knew I was adopted, but I always lived with the pain of not really knowing. It pains me to think that F might feel that way forever, because even knowing hasn't helped. Even holding them hasn't helped - the hurt remains. And, in the time between now and the day F asks me the question I dread, I'll work on how to tell him the truth in a way that a little boy can understand.

So, if you need me, I'll be drinking coffee and contemplating that. 

Bedding

In my last post, I referenced co-sleeping.

I started co-sleeping with F when he was about two weeks old. There was a multitude of reasons behind this decision, the least of which being that I was too lazy to get up and walk across the room when he cried. Then there was the fact that my child absolutely despised his bassinet. And, of course, the decision maker: I had no partner to help me with things like taking the baby from the bassinet or crib to the bed, changing those middle-of-the-night, breastfed-baby-diapers or anything else. Although J and I were "together", he was away working and studying towards his welding diploma, so it was just me. And both F and I got way more sleep. To this day, I don't think I would have survived if I had to get up and deal with formula through the night.

When people started finding out about my co-sleeping arrangement, I got more backlash than I ever expected. It was around that moment that I realized how important what I do in my bed seems to be to other people, and I reckon that was the time I said "fuck it" and gave up on caring what people think about what I do in my bed or anywhere else. Parenting isn't a "one size fits all" arrangement. It's trial and error with some alterations and a lot of sleepless nights as you try to figure out what that alteration needs to be. I can still hear the "don't start that habit..." warnings, and perhaps I should have listened but I'm pretty sure most kids don't go off to university still sleeping in their mom's bed, so...

But, here we are, about to turn four and F still sleeps with me almost every night. When I say almost every night, I'm talking 29 out of 30 nights a month - unless of course he's not with me for a day or two at which point I'll get another night to myself. Sometimes that happens. He usually ends up sleeping with Grammie and Grampie in those cases. He has his own bed, and he was pretty into it back in the days when Red was part of our little family. Sure, it took a long time for him to settle and I lost the ability to fall asleep before he did but it was nice to have a sleep without a toddler beside me. Now, I rarely get him into that bed and when I do, it's often not a full night's sleep.

Sleeping with Mommy brings F a lot of comfort, and I expect I'm not the only parent to give in to that. He's had a lot of upheaval in his little life and if he's more secure sleeping with me most nights, so be it. I'll soon be begging him for a snuggle, why let it go to waste now? 

Raising Boys

Perhaps it's related to the fact that there are a couple of slightly older boys in F's preschool class, but my darling boy has officially decided that he can no longer sit down to pee. I'd be completely unbothered by the whole thing, but F has also decided that he needs me to show him how and without giving you a mental picture of what that attempt at a teachable moment looked like, I can tell you it's not going to happen.

It's moments like these that I find myself especially frustrated with our situation. As if being a single parent isn't hard enough by itself, the simple fact is that boys and girls sometimes need an older member of the same sex to show them things. I can't imagine how awkward it would have been to ask my father feminine questions growing up. Actually, I can but I think it would have led ol' Papa Bear to a stroke so I'm especially glad I didn't have to get into bras and tampons and all that jazz. Standing up to pee is pretty small on the list of things that F will need help with in his life, but it felt as big as a mountain when he asked me to do it.

By gently explaining that boys and girls are built differently, I managed to help him understand that I cannot show him but I said I'd be there if he needed some help. I asked what he thought he should do, and he managed OK except that he missed the toilet and somehow managed to pee on everything else in my bathroom. But, we celebrate the small victories here, too, so with a change of his clothes and a quick trip to the laundry room with my bath mats, we were ready to try again. And try again we did, with much more success and better aim. (Hooray!)

The challenges in raising a little boy as a bit of a girlie girl are just beginning, and I know that. I feel especially fortunate that F's preschool class has a male teacher - a positive male role model who he can learn from and hopefully turn to. I'm lucky to have a group of male friends who I can turn to for advice when needed, and I'm lucky in that the boy stuff is less gruesome than the girl stuff as things move forward from here.

But, challenges lie in being a single mum with a boy in other ways. It's the moments when I need a few moments to do chick stuff that F is convinced that he desperately needs to be beside me. It's as I change my clothes or put on a bra or he asks why girls have to sit down to pee that I realize we might be hitting the age where F and I just can't do those things together, and it's tricky. I can't lock the bathroom door when I head into the shower. I can't tell him to wait outside the stall as I use a public washroom. I also have to gently explain that no, he cannot paint his nails when Mommy does. It's a learning curve. (And sometimes I let him have non-shiny clear polish on his toes, just because.)

Yesterday's pee-splosion all over my bathroom taught me that, although it might get messy, letting F take the reins and taking a step or two back is the only way we can make it through some things. It's really hard to accept that F and I might be coming to the end of our baths together. Pretty soon, I'll even have to put my foot down over the whole co-sleeping thing, too. But there are some things we can't avoid, so we'll have to learn how to make them work.

And make them work, we will.

The Truth About Toddlers (hint: they suck)

I love F.

At the end of the day, with all the screaming and the whining and the pleading and the spitting and the potty mouth and all of the other less-than-glamorous stuff, there's nothing I love more than wrapping him up in my arms and snuggling. In a lot of ways, he really is the best but the cold, hard truth is that toddlers are the worst in a whole lot of ways. Have you ever seen a toddler meltdown? Yeah. Exactly.

convincing, no? don't let him fool you.

So, I guess what I'm saying is that even though I really, really, REALLY love him, sometimes he's pretty hard to like (which, as far as I'm concerned is a part of the human condition). I remember his second birthday vividly - especially the part where everyone made jokes like "now it begins" "here come the terrible twos".

BULLSHIT.

Two was a walk in the park. Three? Now that's where it gets interesting. Three was like dragging a screaming toddler across a park because it's time to leave and he doesn't want to. Oh, wait. No that was yesterday. Funny that. 

My favourite thing about toddlerhood is that kids are coming into themselves. They're figuring out what they like and what they don't like, and they are adamant about these two extremes with very little in the way of "middle ground". Tolerance and toddlers just don't go together, unless you're a parent trying very hard to tolerate your child at which point I recommend wine, or coffee or both in excess. Especially the wine.

Toddlers are impossible to predict - no matter how well you think you may know them. F often likes his sandwich cut in half, but every now and again he doesn't so WATCH YOURSELF if you cut it without asking. Mercy. Think Hulk only less green and instead of ripping his shirt off he pulls it over his head and gets stuck, thus actually needs my help (but would never admit to it).

They also seem to know words that they shouldn't know, and I'll take it one step further by pointing out that the little buggers darlings know the exact friggin' context in which to use them. Merde. Have you ever heard a 3-year-old sling a four-letter-word, while holding a sippy cup? Tis a sight to behold, lemme tell ya. In F's defense, he probably learned them from me. In my defense, I have nothing to say for myself. Fisherman's daughter, yo.

Toddlers are experts at embarrassing the hoozy-whatzit out of you at the most inopportune moments. No really, take your kid to that public washroom with you. It's a great idea, until they open the door and expose you, squatting precariously over the toilet and cursing yourself for not having stronger legs (while simultaneously telling yourself that this quick trip to the loo constitutes a workout). Then you can just wait until they tell everyone you see about whatever other private business didn't want advertised the exact second your kid sees a person. "D'ya know what my Mom did? She pooped in the toilet this morning."

Thanks, kid.

And finally, much like the teenagers they are all-too-soon to become, toddlers have mood swings that would give a person whiplash. One minute it's all lovey-dovey, and the next minute you're the monster that lives under the bed and they don't want to be your friend anymore. While I regularly lament that my toddler thinks he's a teenager, I *almost* look forward to when he's a teenager so I can just leave him to his brooding and go to Starbucks and drink the largest caffeinated beverage I can find WITH WHIPPED CREAM and possibly even enjoy it while it's still hot. Something tells me people might get upset if I tried this with my occasionally angst-ridden toddler.

Now, I do have to point out that F is a pretty good little guy most of the time. I'd like to think that this is indicative of me doing something right, but perhaps he was born with it? In the middle of his biggest meltdowns, I try to remind myself that he's had a lot to cope with and overcome and then sometimes I join him. But when we're both tired and overwhelmed or there was something he wanted and couldn't have, you might say SHIT HITS THE FAN. Wear gloves.

It's a special age, and the truth is that it is flying by faster than F can race me up the stairs (which, might I add, is very fast). It's hard when he's his super pleasant self, but it's pretty well impossible when he's not. While I wouldn't trade him in for all the pumpkin spice lattes in the world, I can honestly tell you that I look forward to embarrassing the shit out of that kid when he gets a little older. I wonder what his first date will think of me making her privy to his bathroom schedule? ;)

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.

Four Letter Words

I have a terrible potty mouth.

Anyone who knows me at all can attest to this. I do my best to keep it under wraps as well as I can, but every now and again I let a handful of four-letter words fly. In my house, there are a number of other "four-letter words" - the bad ones, the ones I don't like to hear. Monday, for example, is a four letter word. My toddler might tell you that bedtime and toothbrush also fall into this category, though we aren't quite seeing eye-to-eye on that.

Dad is also on my list of four-letter words.

Last week, I was filling out the registration forms for F's new daycare teacher and chatting with her about his favourite foods, his routine and his personality (I probably should have prepared a book). After signing my name for the umpteenth time, I scanned through all of the paperwork again to make sure I hadn't missed anything. "It's all there, we'll see you on Monday!" I said as I handed her the booklet. She asked me to wait until she signed it, and told me she had something else to send with me. She flipped through the pages and then stopped, looked at me and told me I "must have forgotten" to fill out the Father's Information.

So I told her about my list of four-letter words. I don't think she liked it much.

For all intents and purposes, in spite of a pretty diamond ring and a fancy wedding ceremony, I have always been a single mom. F's dad was never totally involved, though I can give some credit for the times he made an effort (which is wasted on the almost year that's gone by since he last saw his own child). It might not have been my dream, certainly raising a child alone wasn't the future I had envisioned for myself but I own it and I love it and we do just fine, F and I. But I definitely don't forget about the Father's Information on anything.

I don't forget about the fact that F's dad has nothing to do with us. I don't forget that I pay every bill, every childcare hour and every last expense from socks to car payments without a single penny in child support. I don't forget about the awful hurt that I feel when another kid asks F why his Daddy doesn't pick him up.

And F won't ever forget that he had a Mom who did it because she loved him that much.

Confession: I'm a complainer

I have a confession to make:

I complain about my child.

There. I said it. It's out. I'll just wait here while you reread that, shake your head and call me a bad parent.

Done? OK, good.

When I decided to go back to school, I had to make a lot of tough decisions. I had to leave the comfort zone that I was pretty happy in, give up the home that I loved so much and hardest of all I had to swallow my pride and ask for some help by leaving F with my parents. If you can imagine tearing your heart out and leaving it behind over and over again over the course of six months, you know what I'm talking about.

When I finally - and I mean finally - got to bring him to Halifax to start daycare and live with me, it was a challenge. I had a routine, a schedule, a little life that involved a lot of missing him but not a lot of including him. I had to rethink my approach to my days, my weeks - to every minute of down time. I had to toddler-proof my life, and I was so happy to do it but so exasperated when it didn't go smoothly.

A certain celebrity was quoted as saying that he didn't understand why parents referred to things they've done as "sacrifices" because in his mind there's nothing more important than your child, and that's true... but you do still sacrifice other things to be a better parent. It doesn't mean that those other things were more important or less important than the role as parent, just that they had to be put on the backburner or forgotten altogether.

I had to sacrifice the better part of F's 3-year-old life in order to do what it would take to be a better parent, but then in the same breath I lamented how tired I was, how poorly he was behaving and how tiresome he could be sometimes... but I wouldn't change a second of it.
I wouldn't trade a single meltdown, time-out, temper tantrum, spilled drink or fingerprint on my newly cleaned windows because I know how many people would do anything to have that.

So tonight, as I wandered down the hall in the dark I found myself thanking the universe that I hadn't tripped over anything but longing to step on the dinky cars I normally curse, or to feel a few cracker crumbs under my bare feet because it would mean that F was sleeping soundly a room away.

And I hope that next week after washing the living room window 32 times, pleading with him to put his pants back on, tripping over stuffed animals and finding boogers in my hair that I remember just how empty this apartment feels without him.

September 3

Two years ago today I got married.

Two years ago today, at this exact time, I was running around like a headless chicken, with a tear-stained face trying to be excited while fear gripped at me. Was I about to make a big mistake?

Then, with F.

You know that thing where they tell you to listen to your gut? Yeah. I didn't.

We had a beautiful ceremony and an equally beautiful reception which I spent separated from my new husband, as he was busy "consoling" his mother. I danced to S Club 7 with my best friend, drank a lot of wine and I mingled with family and friends until it was time to pack it all in. I remember vividly the moment we got back to our rental house for the weekend - some of our bridal party opted to stay up and keep the party going. I went to bed, exhausted.

When we separated six months later, I was devastated but things immediately felt right.

I don't even remember what I did last year. But today I'll go to school and I'll go to work. I'll drink about five cups of coffee. I'll call my parents. I'll talk to friends. I'm hoping to get to Home Depot to pick up a couple of little things. Just for the Hell of it, though, I'm going to reflect on the milestones of the last two years.

Such as:

J has seen our son 0 times in 2013. In 2012, the grand total was 6.

I haven't heard from J in more than six months. He hasn't contacted our son since he texted me ON F'S BIRTHDAY to say he was drinking and couldn't come over. He didn't even send a card.

Classy, right?

I'm also going to pick up a bottle of wine tonight and I'm going to toast myself for not going completely crazy. I'm going to raise a glass to F, because he's the driving force behind every single thing I do. I'm going to toast my amazing parents and friends who have supported me, held my hand, offered a shoulder to cry on and given me a healthy dose of reality when needed.

Now (in matching shirts, no less!)

And then, I'm going to climb into my big, beautiful queen size bed with my stuffed sheep and the terrorist kitten and I'm going to sleep.

Alone.

And totally happy.

Racing

I try hard to be patient.

Really. I do. I take deep breaths and count to ten and I've been known to even do it backwards (someone once told me that helped). But I'm not. It's just not my nature. It always shocks me when someone tells me I'm patient, because I'm as impatient as they come. Seriously. Ask my mother about the time I learned to skate.

I defied my own impatience tonight when I realized exactly how ridiculous it was that I was holding my hair dryer in front of the canvas I'd been painting. I put the heat styling tool down and started to laugh. And then cry. And then that awful hybrid of laughing and crying where your face contorts and any beauty you have is totally hidden by your ugly-cry/laugh and you're suddenly incredibly thankful that you're totally alone.

I was in such a hurry to finish that painting that I couldn't wait for the paint to dry.

But it got me thinking: what else am I rushing through? I was in such a hurry to get my career started that I missed more than half of my diploma program. I was in such a hurry to be a grown-up that I left my childhood behind. I drive so fast I miss the scenery, eat so quickly I miss the flavours and I sometimes fill my days with so much that I don't even have a chance to enjoy them.

I'm racing my own life away.

I have no time for a learning curve. I expect myself to start out at expert-level in every skill I try my hand at. When I don't, I tend to give up because it's easier than taking the time to cultivate it. I half-ass things because I don't have the time - read: patience - to do it to the best of my ability. (Unfortunately for my floors and luckily for everything else in my life this generally applies to cleaning more than anything else. Oh, and folding my clothes.)

I put F's hat on his head and carry his stuff because it's more time-efficient than letting him have that bit of independence that he so needs. I rush him through the moments that he's savouring because I'm too busy racing towards the next moment instead of just letting it be.

Have you done it? What's your secret? How do you become more patient? Can you recommend a quick fix (kidding... kind of)?

In the past month, a lot has changed for F and I and I've been rushing to fix it, scrambling to rebuild and replace and rewhatever I can. But why? He's happy. I'm happy. Things are different but they're good. Maybe I should just let them be good instead of stressing that they're not perfect. Maybe I should be patient and let myself figure shit out.

Life takes time, and it takes it as quickly or as slowly as it so chooses. We can't control even half of it. Why not enjoy it, learn from it?

I'm looking forward to the weekend. A long weekend. And I'm looking forward to taking off my watch, wiping my schedule clean and letting each moment linger or race as it will while I enjoy every. single. one.

Patiently.

Kidcation

I am kid-free for two weeks.

There is a bittersweetness about my apartment without F. On the one hand, it is so nice to come home and turn on a grown-up movie and lay on the couch filling out job applications and writing in peace and quiet. I'm tired. In the morning, there is just me. At bedtime, there is just me. It's so easy. There are no toys to pick up, no crumbs scattered across the floor, and I haven't tripped over a rogue shoe yet. But, in the silence and cleanliness of my apartment there is such an absence that it feels unnatural. It's a flashback to when F and I were apart over the winter.

Last night, I left work tired. I'd had a monumental wake up, and I was looking forward to getting home and making a light dinner. Maybe a cup of tea. I sat in my car and turned on the radio. I turned onto the street, and made my way for about 3 minutes before it dawned on me.

I was on my way to F's daycare.

I did a U-turn on the quiet, residential street and pulled over. I could blame it on tiredness, or I can blame it on the way the sun was hitting my eyes but they filled with tears. I miss him... and that's a blessing. I am fortunate to be given the opportunity to miss him. I'm lucky to have parents who are so happy to hang out with their grandchild that they've given me two weeks to be a "free" agent.

And as much as I miss him, I know I'm going to enjoy a quiet week.

Unless of course the cat wakes me up at 5:05 am with a monumental crash again. #notokay

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.

A Case of the Mondays

I'm sure it will come as no surprise that Monday isn't my favourite day of the week.

Who likes the end of the weekend right? How can anyone be excited for another week in the office, especially with temperatures expected to reach 30*C? Hellooooo, that's beach weather and this beach bum hates missing out on all the fun in the sun. But, they're unavoidable. I come face to face with Monday morning every week, so today (after sleeping in a half hour), I decided to make the most of it.

Instead of dreading my day, I realized it's a blank slate. This whole week is really a blank slate. I can either enjoy it, or not. It's a simple concept, but it's not an easy thing to do.

I easily get caught up in all the things that make Mondays suck.

Red left yesterday.

I have five 10-hour days ahead of me.

I'm tired.

The list goes on, and on, and on...





Never underestimate the power of a Google search to make you smile.

But, I have five days of work ahead of me. I can get a lot done this week. I can make a difference - no matter how small - at each of my jobs.

I woke up today in a big, comfortable bed inside a big, comfortable apartment. More importantly, I woke up today. Healthy. Alive.

I have another week of breakfast at the dining room table with F, in our PJ's. It's also another week of our drive to and from day care, looking for big trucks, "ambliances", and city street sweepers. Another week of reading books before bed.

It's going to be a hot, sunshine-y week and I'll be in an air-conditioned office during the brunt of the heat, and out walking with F and the dog when the sun is setting. Beautiful.

They may be small blessings, but they are blessings nonetheless.

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.

Chapters

Today was the first day in a new chapter for F and I.

The good news is we survived it. The bad news is my baby is all gone.

When I got up at 5:00am this morning, two things crossed my mind, the first relating to how sore my legs were, the second relating to the fact that the boy in my bed was a lot smaller than usual. Red's been away over a week, and while I miss him dearly I'm pretty glad to have my numero uno to snuggle with. Last night marked the first solo night for F and I in a very long time.

A year ago, I was slowly settling into work again after spending my winter as a single, stay-at-home-mommy. If chapter one was my marriage, and chapter two was singlemomdom, I think we're at about chapter 5 right now and I love it!

F was up an hour later, at 6:00am and ate the breakfast I'd set out for him, brushed his teeth and got ready for his first day at daycare. After spending some time at home with him, I can honestly say that I miss it a little, but the whole SAHM thing just wasn't cutting it for me. I love having a career. That said, I still felt a twinge of Mommy guilt leaving him at daycare.

We were 15 minutes ahead of schedule this morning, and I stood in the porch watching him pacing with his backpack on. "Come on, Mommy!" he'd say with one hand on the doorknob and the other holding Ellie, his stuffed elephant. Where did my baby go? Did I miss him while I was trying to sort out being a grown-up?

He had a great day, when it was all said and done. We came home and made dinner together, none of which he wanted to eat, and he's playing with his trucks watching Dora the Explorer. He's already talking about going back tomorrow to play with his friends, wondering what toys they will play with and if he can have a Kinder Surprise for dessert.

Meanwhile, I'm still trying to figure out where my baby went.

Dreading

There's a day in my future that I'm absolutely dreading.

I don't know when it will come, or how long I have to prepare for it but it is a day that I think fret about every day. It's going to shake me to my very core, and knowing that certainly won't make it easier. It's coming.

It's the day when F realizes that he doesn't have a Dad. And I have no fucking idea what I'm going to do when that day comes.

F is a smart little guy, and he understands the traditional mold of a family. Mommy, Daddy, Baby. When he plays with his gazillion stuffed animals, there is always a Mommy, a Daddy and a Baby. Even when he hung out with Red and I for the week, I was always the "Mommy Sheep", F was the "Daddy Sheep" and Red was "Shaun the Sheep". Most people would expect a kid to declare himself the "Baby Sheep" - especially since F usually does when it's he and I - but I wonder if F has already felt the loss of a Daddy Sheep, and doesn't want to set himself up for that again.

When J and I first broke up, F would often point to the photos I had left up for far too long and exclaim "Look, it's Daddy and Mommy!" and it would break my heart. As the days turned to weeks and into months, F forgot about J. When J started coming around again, F would call him "guy" or eventually by the same nickname I did, explaining it away as "Mommy's friend". I didn't know whether to let it break my heart or ease my pain. Is it easier that he doesn't know right now?

I know, as a kid who grew up knowing about my adoption, that coping with the unknown is hard. I felt inadequate. Why hadn't I been good enough for my birth family? It was irrational and wrong and knowing the difference doesn't erase 21 years of self-doubt, self-loathing and hurt.What if F feels that way? What if he thinks it's his fault his dad left? How do you undo that kind of thinking? My parents told me better, just as I will assure F, but I believed strongly in what I felt and there was no convincing me otherwise.

What if he blames me? Will he hate me? Will he harbour resentment? Is that going to be a phase in our lives? Even now, the thought brings a tear to my eye and pains my heart.

The day is coming when I have to try to tenderly explain to F that sometimes life isn't fair. Sometimes the people who should love us turn a blind eye, but that everything happens for a reason. I hope that I can promise F that the people who will hold our hand and not let go when things get tough will always be there for us. I hope I can be strong enough to tell him that his Dad just wasn't ready. It's not F's fault. It's not mine. I can't even say it's J's fault. It just wasn't right...

And I hope F can forgive him... but I wouldn't blame him for a second if he can't. I won't.

Introductions

Having a boyfriend is different than it used to be.

Once upon a time, having a boyfriend meant that I would have to go through the (sometimes) awkward process of introducing him to my family and meeting his. It meant mingling with his friends, while I slowly eased him into being around the wing nuts I call my girls. Now, though, there's a real twist to the whole thing.

I have a tiny, absolutely precious, little toddler heart to look out for.

I'm really lucky in that Red and I have known eachother since the beginning of time. In fact, I don't ever remember not knowing him - it's a different, kind of weird dynamic but I like it. In addition to knowing him forever, we've also always known eachothers families. He's sat in the gear shed at the wharf with my Dad drinking beer after a day of fishing.  I'm not sure if it makes it easier or harder to start a relationship with someone when you know each other's families so well (especially since our Dads are pals) but I do know that this relationship has come easier than probably any that I've ever had in my life.

But I still have to "officially" introduce him to F, and there's just no amount of mental preparation to get me ready for that one. Even though Red has seen F around the wharf and around the community, F will have no idea who he's meeting and they've never spent any time together. It's not really something I ever anticipated doing, introducing my child to a boyfriend, but it's a week away. I'm see-sawing between the excitement of seeing F with Red and dreading it, because F is a handful at the best of times.

I knew dating was going to be a horse of a different colour these days, and I feel pretty damn blessed to have found someone who totally accepts me for who I am and how my life looks, all messy and half upside down sometimes.

I wrote in the past that a Mom doesn't introduce her kid to a guy she's dating unless she really likes him, but the truth is that I won't let F meet someone who I'm not genuinely serious about. I've kind of surprised myself in being serious about someone, but it's a great surprise. 

And I have a sneaking suspicion F is going to love him. I know I do.