I was born and raised on Cape Breton Island, in the (former) city of Sydney, now considered only a “population centre” and part of the Cape Breton Regional Municipality. Truth be told, Sydney’s heyday was well before my birth in 1977, when resource-based industries were still a thing and our population didn’t decline year upon year. But growing up, Sydney was the centre of the universe, the capital of my little world, largely thanks to my larger-than-life mother, its unofficial mayor.
My mother, a devoted elementary school teacher, wife and child wrangler of four daughters, didn’t realize it at the time, but she was — in her unassuming everyday way — showing me the ropes of an idyllic, wonderfully Canadian version of parenthood.
We lived in a place large enough to have all the amenities we needed, but still quaint and charming in its own small-town way. My grandparents (all four of them, and even a fifth adopted “Nannie”) lived within walking distance, as did most of my large-by-today’s-standards extended family. Babysitters abounded — and free of charge, no less. Our house was a modest bungalow, cheerfully yellow in colour and built by my paternal “Grampie” with a lot of love. (I didn’t need a key because it was never locked.) Our home featured an open backyard, where many evenings were spent in raucous play with the other neighbourhood kids, who were all expected to return home (no questions asked!) once the sun went down and the air become chilly. I walked to school, unaccompanied by an adult after the age of seven, the scariest obstacle in my daily path being a tiny mutt with “small dog syndrome” who liked to bite tender little ankles. Summers were spent traveling — across the province, the country, and into the Eastern United States, at least when the Canadian dollar was favourable enough. As my parents were both teachers, their goal was to show us our place in the world, to provide some context for our happy, sheltered little life.
My mother orchestrated all of this. She was the architect of my happiness, and that of many people around me, her reach well beyond our immediate family. She embraced her career and motherhood with equal exuberance, and we wanted for nothing. As I was presented with sister after sister (after sister!), there was no question that we were all wanted and that our family, community and finances would support us all.
I always assumed that my version of motherhood would somehow resemble what I had come to know and love, something similar to the tight-knit web of tenderness that my adept mother had spun. I longed for a big family, and when my partner and I moved back to Canada after years living abroad, the dream felt within reach. I could recreate this life and have it all, just as my amazing mother had done.
Little did I know that my version of Canadian parenthood would look so very different from my mother’s experience. When we settled in Toronto, in a small downtown condo, the pace of life was hectic but not unfamiliar; after all, we had just returned from a stint in New York City. We had friends and several family members and were ready to nurture our own little community, just as we had done with each and every new-city move in the past. We had jobs about which we were excited. And, above all, we finally felt ready to become parents. It was time.
But it was not until I became pregnant with our first child, now 4.5-years-old, that I began to understand that I would be forging my own path as a “Canadian” mother. Toronto’s red-hot housing market meant we were going to be staying in “condo land” for years to come; my kids’ backyard would be the big city itself, and patches of grass a little luxury, albeit within walking distance. There would be no grandparents just a short drive away nor armies of ready-made babysitters for our littles. Finances and practically would dictate how many kids we would ultimately have (two, in case you’re curious). When it came time for daycare and, later, school, there would be backpacks with leashes to keep the children out of the way of passing cars, and some very firm grips. Playing outside alone (and where?) wasn’t going to be a thing in our new world; our kids’ freedoms would look somewhat different. And traveling would happen, but often back to Nova Scotia, where the rest of our families still lived (a first-world problem, I’m well aware).
I’ve come to realize that the experience of Canadian parenthood looks very different for all of us, and that’s okay. What, at first blush, seemed like problems for my big-city kiddos now seem like gifts, opportunities for growth and new kinds of development. Instead of spending the weekends looking after the big house we don’t own, we comb the city in search of new experiences, urban wildlife and the ever-popular splash pad. We frequent museums and galleries, and make the very best of this life that is ours. We have created a community within our own building and have weekly play dates on our sixth floor skypark. Our friends act as our adopted family and we treasure the time we spend with our immediate family, whether in person or via technology.
Simply put, there is no one single Canadian parenting experience; we are a country of many people and many paths, all trying to make our way, and hopefully also trying to make one another’s lives a little bit better as we go along. I now know that the centre of my universe isn't a physical place; it's within. And while I’ll never forget my Cape Breton roots, my experience of parenthood is valid and beautiful, and I cannot regret the life we have chosen.
But if you happen to know of a free (and available!) babysitter, I’m all ears.
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