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. :)

Found

Lately, I’ve been thinking about making a cape for myself.

It would have one of those cheesy MOM in a heart tattoo images and the word Super Ashley written in fancy, schmany cursive. I would wear it with my brown,  4 ½” heeled Steve Madden ankle boots and a mini dress. Or maybe with my brand new, size 0 jeans and a backless top. Either way, I’d feel hawt.

When I found out I was pregnant, I foresaw running shoes and high-waisted tapered jeans. It was pretty bleak, in my opinion. It was exasperated by the extra thirty pounds that settled between my upper thighs and collar bone, squishy arms and roll-y tummy post-baby. I’d given up the idea of being more than wife and Mom, and while it was a hard pill for me to swallow, I did it and I made the most of it. I had a beautiful son, a wonderful family and my husband was going to provide for us. From an outsider’s perspective, I was living in my perfect little world.

Imagine my shock when my world shattered.

I worked my ass off, quite literally, and shed over forty pounds of emotional and physical weight. I bought high heels, dyed my hair, put on some mascara and hit the town. I decided to go back to school. After spending three years focusing on being a parent, almost five years spent focusing on my relationship it was time for me to have my time and so far it’s been the time of my life.

It hasn’t been easy, but then no one ever said it would be. They just promised it would be worth it, and even in the moments when I felt that I couldn’t take another step, pressing on led me to beautiful places. I’ve found love. I love myself. I’ve never felt that way before. How could I have ever expected to have a successful relationship when I didn’t even love myself?

I’ve found friendship. I’ve found my passion, my creativity and strengths I didn’t know I had.

It’s amazing what you find when you take the time to look.

Resolve

What will you do differently in 2013?

As 2012 wraps up, I find this question wiggling out of the woodworks and tripping me as I walk down my little path of life. What will I vow to work on in the upcoming year? Healthier eating? More meditating? Better work ethic? Less stress?

The answer is nothing, and yet it's also everything.

I'm not going to have a new year's resolution for the first time in as long as I can remember. In this past year I've realised that I don't need a new year to start fresh, just a new attitude and a little fuel in my tank. The rest of your life starts whenever you want it to, so why put a date on it?

If you are planning a resolution for your new year, whatever it may be, remember to factor in room for error. Everything in life has a learning curve, and we all start at a different place. If it's losing twenty pounds, don't expect to see them gone before January 31. Start small, be positive and enjoy the ride.

Happy New Year!

Step on a Crack...

I try very hard not to let superstition creep into my life.

Lately, it's not working.

Leading up to my wedding, everything went wrong. It started with the date - we didn't get the date we wanted, but we got into the venue on the Labour Day weekend. Next was the dress - my Mom hated the first one I liked, and the dress that I absolutely would have killed for had to be bought "as is", and would have taken a lot of stress and work to make ready for a real wedding. Then, the invitations were wrong not once, but five times. They were even sent out with the incorrect RSVP date because there was just no time to have them fixed again. We wrote the correct date in pen.

There was the ex-roommate who turned into an ex-bridesmaid when she informed me she planned on driving five hours to the church the day of my wedding - meaning she wouldn't be present for photos, hair/makeup, the meet-and-greet or anything else to do with the wedding but the actual wedding itself. Then there was the fact that my in-laws dictated everything. The day of the wedding, I looked at my best friend and my Mom and asked, "Am I making a mistake? Were they signs?"

Maybe they were, maybe they weren't. The only thing I do know is our one year anniversary should have been two months ago, and I haven't seen my husband since July. Aside from a handful of texts this week, I hadn't even heard from him in four weeks - which is usually the case, just a text to say he's sent something for F. I've dwelled on not listening to my gut and reading the signs that were blatantly flashing before my eyes, and have wondered if I would be happier, if hearts would have been spared had I called off the wedding when it first crossed my mind - around the time shit started hitting the fan.

Yesterday, I felt that strange sense of "Is this an omen?" when I went to my apartment to find the door to my unit UNLOCKED. WITH MY STUFF INSIDE. I could feel my heart breaking - I have never felt so assaulted, so violated in all my life. All of my things were where I'd left them, but the building managers cared that little about my belongings that they didn't even lock the door that separated them from the world. I was furious. This was only exasperated by the fact that the apartment hadn't been cleaned, a jug of paint sat in the middle of my floor and there were still cigarettes and old coffee cups on my counter. What did I get myself into?, I asked myself walking down the stairs shaking with anger.

We had no choice but to my move my things into the apartment. I looked at my Dad and said, "I'm looking for a new place. I will not stay here." He agreed, wholeheartedly and within a few hours, I had found a few spots to look at on Sunday when I return to town. It was sickening feeling. All of my doubts about going back to school were blown up on the projection screen for me this last week. An apartment that wasn't ready, twice. Since telling a few people where the apartment was, I've heard everything from "I saw a car on fire in the parking lot there once" to "the cops are there every day".

Needless to say, I'm moving and trying to stay positive that this isn't a sign from some greater force that I'm not supposed to go to school right now but that's not going to happen. Shit happens, but always for a reason. Maybe the perfect apartment is just waiting for me to move in!

Trembling

Do you remember your very first day of school?

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

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

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

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

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

Ripples

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

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

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

The presents, the tree/ You and Me

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

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

 

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

 

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

 

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

 

They were right: I got over him.



7:55





This moment played through my mind a million times last night. I can still see the lights of the delivery room, feel my mom's anticipation and J's tension. I can feel the fear I had when the whisked my son away from me without even letting me see him, and the relief that washed over me when I heard his first cry. Overdue, I had spent ten months feeling him grow, three days waiting to deliver, and one full day walking around the hospital trying to get things moving and ease the pain of the contractions. When my water (hilariously) broke in the hallway, I laughed so hard it's a wonder I didn't deliver then and there. At 7:30, my Mom went to find a nurse. At 7:40 I announced that I was delivering that baby. At 7:55, I was a Mommy.

 

 

 

It was the happiest and the scariest day of my life all at the same time. Everything changed in a minute. My life had new meaning, a new purpose. I had purpose. I felt the type of love that only a mother can feel, and it filled my heart so much I could feel it bursting. It now breaks about five times a day as I watch that little baby running around like a bull in a China shop. From small and helpless to the three-year-old teenager, I've cried when he cried, felt his pain when he fell, laughed at his smile and laid silently with him for hours. He is my greatest accomplishment, the wind beneath my wings and the roots that keep me grounded all at once. He makes me want to be a better person. It's almost 7:55PM on Thursday night - F was born on a Thursday night. Every time I catch the clock at 7:55PM, my hear skips a beat. It's my absolute favourite time.

 

My last full week with him has come to an end. Tomorrow morning will be a busy one, getting ready and hitting the road. In a week's time, I'll be alone in the new apartment. How do you prepare your heart for that hurt? How do you talk yourself through it? I am terrified and I'm not sure if I can, although I also thought I couldn't possibly raise a child at all, much less be doing it alone.

 

But, maybe I'll surprise myself. I do that a lot.