The night before my wedding my husband and I had a fight. The kind of fight that changes you and your relationship. It was the kind of fight that made me question if I was making the right decision and made me consider making a run for it.
It wasn’t our last fight and it wasn’t our ugliest fight and in the years since I have had moments where I wondered if maybe marriage wasn’t the right thing for me.
There have been times in my parenting journey when I sit back, content, feeling as though maybe - just maybe - I’ve got this parenting thing under control. Usually it’s once I start to feel comfortable in my role as a mother that life reminds me that it has other plans.
I layer my warmest clothes, lace up my skates, tighten my scarf, and the last thing I do before I put blade to ice is fasten my helmet.
Skating has quickly become our favourite winter family pastime. A recent afternoon trip to our local outdoor rink left me confused and surprised. In the span of about two hours I watched at least 50 adults skate out onto that rink and I was one of only two who was wearing a helmet.
Christmas shopping causes me an intense amount of stress. I make list after list, crossing off ideas and replacing them with new ones as they pop into my head. After, what feels like, hundreds of anxious runs to the mall I still can't seem to find that one hit of a gift.
Every year I promise myself that I will plan ahead, start shopping in September - yet every year I find myself rushing around, heart pounding, mind racing as I try to find last minute surprises for those I love.
I love Christmas. I love everything about it, including giving gifts.
She stood in front of me - all 30 pounds of her - her face red and contorted in sheer frustration. Tears were flowing freely down her sweet little cheeks. I looked down on her as she stood firm and refused to budge, and I felt angry and embarrassed. Both of us were standing in front of each other wanting the other to make it stop.
I could feel the stares. Their eyes burning a hole right into my back. I tried my best to avoid eye contact, but I could feel their judgment. It stung and brought tears to my eyes.
I’m a little bit of a Christmas nut and a sucker for tradition. Before I had children I wasn’t much of a Christmas card person; yes, I loved receiving cards but I never sent my own. It was kids that pushed me onto the family photo Christmas card bandwagon.
I am perfectly aware of how corny family photo cards are. I’ve heard the whining from some bah humbug scroogey mc scrooges complaining about how much they hate these holiday traditions: annual Christmas letters, carol singing, Christmas sweaters, and yes, family photo cards.
For most parents, the months between November and April are filled with attempts to prevent their little ones from catching colds and the flu. No parent enjoys their kid being sick, nor do they want to deal with the stress that comes with taking days off work to be at home with them.
For parents of premature or immune-compromised babies, the worry runs much deeper.
She was younger than I was when she received her first diagnosis.
She was 35 years old.
By the time she received her diagnosis, the breast cancer had already begun to spread. The ugly cells had multiplied and had started the process of invading her body. They are sneaky, those cancer cells. They don’t stay put. They hide themselves very easily. By the age of 35, those sneaky, ugly cells had already begun to invade the muscles in her back and were trying their best to find their way through the rest of her body. Those ugly cells wanted her dead.
Wouldn’t life be grand if we were surrounded by sunshine and puppy dogs all the time? If we all lived with a soundtrack of positivity memes floating around in our head maybe we would all be in an eternal state of bliss? Maybe?
Life doesn’t work like that.
Sometimes life is shit. Let’s face it. Sometimes, no matter how hard you try to see the rainbow all you can see are the clouds.
In order to appreciate the good parts of life you have to experience the bad.
The rage bubbled up from a dark place deep inside me about three days into the experience. It reared its ugly head as a result of the fear. The fear of learning that my first child had a condition that occurs in only 1 in 5,000 births. It came when I stood over my baby right after he had endured hours and hours of surgery. I looked down, unable to touch him, his face black and blue from the bruising and I screamed inside. The rage became all mixed up with the fear and was boiling over inside, screaming to get out.
When I was pregnant with my son, my gut told me that something wasn’t right. I spent the entire 37 weeks fighting what my intuition already knew; that my son was sick. Seriously sick.
When he was diagnosed with a health issue not long after his birth, it was my first lesson in trusting my instincts when it comes to my kids and their health. In the years since, there have been many incidents when I trusted myself and was right.
The suspicious fever and cough? Not just a regular cold and my trip to the ER was the right move.
If you had met me five years ago, you would have met a very different individual than who you see today.
Five years ago I was expecting my second baby and I was struggling with some very serious symptoms of post-traumatic stress that were a result of my first child’s NICU stay. My first child was born with a congenital abnormality that resulted in surgery to save his life when he wasn’t even three days old and a lengthy stay in the NICU.
When I was a kid I loved going back to school. I couldn’t wait to see my friends, I adored getting new school supplies and back to school shopping was my favourite kind of shopping spree. I put a lot of thought into my first day of school outfit.
It has been years since I have worn shorts. YEARS! I can’t remember exactly when the last time I wore shorts was - maybe high school? They might have been cut off jean shorts. The tangled strings hanging innocently down my teenaged legs. I wore them because I didn’t worry if my body belonged in shorts. I wore them because I was hot. I wore them because cut off jean shorts were cool. I wore them without a second thought.
When I returned to work after my first maternity leave, the guilt ate at me. Those first couple of months I was leaving my little guy with his Dad while I hopped on the train and went to work, but within a few months we were dropping him off at daycare.
Each and every time I dropped him off and drove away I felt as though I had failed. A career felt so unimportant and I felt like a phony sitting in on client meetings and pretending like any of it mattered to me.
I believe in my kids getting out there and learning to work with others. I believe in activities that get them outside, running around and burning energy. I believe in the fact that they have something to practice and focus on. I believe in something that teaches them to lose with dignity and to win with grace.
In all honesty the only thing that I find has the ability to put a damper on team sports is parents.
If you were to walk into my house right this very moment I wonder what you would think. Would you think me a terrible homemaker because the dishes sit drying in the rack on the counter instead of put away neatly inside the cabinets? Would you look at the pile of stuff sitting on the dining room table and wonder why it’s not put away somewhere out of the way? Would you shake your head as you look out my window into the backyard and see the array of outdoor toys scattered across the grass?
We like to celebrate every little thing in our family. I once threw a potty party, complete with pizza, cupcakes, and balloons, when my youngest said goodbye to diapers. The start of Junior Kindergarten was another exciting set of celebrations. First back pack...check...first ride on the school bus...check...first visit to the Optometrist...check.
Our son was already six weeks-old the first time he made his grand entrance into our own home. We had spent six weeks riding the emotional rollercoaster that is the life of a NICU parent yet the moment we set foot in our home the world expected me to – poof – be better.
