An open letter to Premier Ford

Dear Premier Ford,

Almost exactly a year ago, I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy in beautiful Toronto, Ontario-- the city and province my partner and I have called home for most of our lives.

It was a different Ontario then. It wasn't perfect-- not by a long stretch-- but with the help of our government, we had come a long way in making it a kinder and more compassionate place for its inhabitants. Prescription drugs were free for kids, childcare was about to become (almost, sort of) free and we were placing value on taking care of the environment, taking care of our bodies, taking care of each other. It was a province that I was proud to raise my perfect, innocent son in. I felt that he was in good hands.

But then, you got elected and I don't think that anymore. Many nights I have sat up in bed wide-eyed, wondering where it all went wrong, wondering why our gentle home had suddenly become somewhere that I don't even recognize. Becoming a mother changed me in a lot of ways, and fear and anxiety about the future have been a big part of the package. You don't know me, but you're the reason I can't sleep when I read the news.

Before you start hurling insults and calling me names, let me first say that this isn't about politics. True, I did not vote for you or your brother, and I have never supported your party. You might write me off as one of those "downtown elites" you scorn, but you'd be wrong. Sure, I'm a leftie, but I work in the private sector, I drive a car and I use that same car to frequent my local Tim Horton's drive-thru almost daily. I grew up in Etobicoke, the heart of Ford Nation, and my parents still own a house there.

And yes, I understand that there was a growing appetite for fiscal restraint and that the previous government was seen as tired and out of touch. People like fresh ideas sometimes, and I don't begrudge you and your supporters your lower gas prices or even your buck-a-beer. As the young people say, you do you.

What I don't understand though is why my son, before he even takes his first steps, has been thrust into a world that has, almost overnight, become a petty, vindictive, mean place. I don't understand why you couldn't just ignore our municipal representatives who rejected you, you had to cut them off at the knees. I don't understand why your disdain for making the planet safer and healthier for our children and grandchildren is so strong you're willing to wage a costly legal battle to get your way. I don't understand why anyone who disagrees with you isn't just different, they're wrong or stupid or they don't get it. These are not lessons I want to teach my son.

In two short months, you and your government have told people who are less fortunate to just go out and get a job. You've told families that schools are not important to you, because the environment is not important to you and now there's no way to pay to maintain the places where our children learn and grow. You've told those same children that they don't need to learn that no means no or that not everyone has a mommy and a daddy or that being bullied is not normal and it is not okay.

In time, I will teach my son how to stand up to bullies. I will teach him to walk away when he can and to defend himself fairly and with conviction when he cannot. I will teach him that he should be true to himself and loyal to his friends, that it's more important to be kind than it is to be the best, and that when you do the right thing, the bullies don't win.

However, there's a little problem with that now. You, sir, are a bully. And worse, you're not a bully on the playground that my son can walk away from, you're a bully with power and you're a bully that wins. I'll tell my son to be thoughtful and take his time making decisions, but you'll tell him to act now, think later. Instead of respect, you'll teach anger. While I will advocate for fairness and compromise, you will favour revenge. Again, these are not the lessons I wanted. This is not the world I wanted.

I'd like to remind you that you ran, and won, on a campaign of being "For the People." You have always said that you stand up for the Average Joe, the little guy. Taken at face value this is admirable, but respectfully, Mr. Ford, I ask you this: What about our littlest citizens, the ones who haven't yet been given a chance to make sense of their existence and who didn't get a choice in the hands they were dealt? In this harsh, nasty world you have created, where bullies do indeed win, who is going to stand up for them?

Everybody's working on the weekend: On (not) having it all

Okay, so it's been a while. We had Mother's Day, and then we had a really short spring and now we're into the thick of summer. In a few days, Ethan will be 11 months and then the countdown begins to his first birthday.

We've had a wild ride and more twists and turns are on the horizon. September not only marks the end of Ethan's first year of life, but the beginning of a new adventure: Daycare.

I could write a whole post about everything that's wrong with the child care system in Ontario, and in particular in Toronto. I could go on for days and days about the painful process of getting on lists almost as soon as you pee on a stick, only to still find yourself 20th on the list when your preferred date rolls around. I could complain about how centres will offer you a space two months early, assuming that anyone and everyone can just plunk down a few grand for a daycare space they don't even need.

But, this blog isn't about politics or flawed management or social justice, it's about me and my son and our journey together, and for that reason I am going to share our story.

I spent most of my pregnancy at a fantastic company where I was able to do interesting work with great colleagues without burning the candle at both ends and putting unnecessary stress on my mind and my body. However, as luck would have it, this role was a fixed contract, and once I went on my maternity leave in September, my job ended. I told myself at the time that I would figure it out when I was ready, that I would decide "later" whether I would look for a job when my year of EI was up or if I would take some extra time off to be a stay at home mom.

I realized pretty early on that I was not going to be ready to resume a full-time downtown PR job once the year wrapped up. My career has seen its fair share of ups and downs, and taking on a new job with new pressures and responsibilities while also managing drop-offs, pickups and daycare bugs wasn't going to start me off on the greatest foot. I wanted to be home for Ethan, to have his meals on the table at a reasonable hour and to not be constantly rushing or going through the motions. He's only little for so long, I thought. I should take this time while I can!

But, I had a nagging feeling that I had some unfinished business when it came to my career and I began feeling anxious about leaving it all behind. I'm only 31, and I work in an industry that's always changing, so I was nervous about walking away for a few years and potentially finding myself past the point of no return. I also enjoy the intellectual stimulation and creativity of my line of work, and once I came up for air a bit on the mom front, I realized that this was something I had been missing a bit.

So, through a friend who gave me a great opportunity, I started freelancing. It was a few hours here and there at first, and then became more and more and more. Now, I spend time with Ethan during the day, and when he's sleeping I take calls and read briefs and I work. I have a full-time job as a mom and a part-time job as a communications professional. I'm exhausted and I can't remember the last time I watched a TV show from start to finish. I eat a lot of takeout. And, I'm also the most focused, most driven and most fulfilled I've ever been.

However, as my freelance work has grown, I've also realized that self-care is super important, and this is an area I haven't been paying much attention to. I do try to make time to read and get manicures here and there, but without a lot of downtime I don't have much of an opportunity to decompress. This, I have come to realize, is not sustainable long-term.

Enter daycare. After leaping through some of the hoops I mentioned above, we were lucky to get a call from a local centre with a great reputation saying they had a space for Ethan in September. We had 24 hours to decide and after hours of emotional agonizing and writing out a pros and cons list (me) and five minutes of using logical reason (Dave), we decided to go for it.

Ethan will start in the second week of September. He'll transition slowly and once we're all ready, he'll go full-ish days, Monday to Friday, to give me time to focus on my freelance work and also have a few minutes for some "me time." Essentially, I'll be a stay at home mom, a working mom and on the whole, probably a happier person.

My curious creature-- he will RULE daycare!

I want to acknowledge that I am incredibly, incredibly fortunate. Fortunate that I work in a business where home-based freelance projects are possible. Fortunate that our family can afford a little uncertainty and that having food in the fridge isn't dependent on me being downtown 5 days a week. Fortunate that I live in a neighbourhood with good quality daycares and that one of them was able to accept my sweet little boy. They are going to be so lucky to have him!

But, like most moms, I have incredibly mixed feelings. While I am very pro-daycare as a rule, I am so nervous about leaving Ethan in someone else's care and I know for the first few weeks I will miss him terribly. Ethan isn't just a baby to me, he's been an incredible dining, shopping and exploring companion and I will feel rather naked going through my day-to-day without him. I worry that he'll be sad, and then I also worry that he'll forget about me or won't feel as bonded. At times, I also feel guilty that I didn't just plan to continue working in the evenings as I have been, even though I know intellectually this is what's best.

As mothers, we talk about having it all. This is a myth. Even with a balance that most people would describe as ideal, we are still always making tough choices and dealing with the emotions and stresses associated with those decisions. Polished Instagram stories and witty TV shows about #MomLife won't tell you that, but it is real and it is hard and sometimes it hurts so, so bad.

Ending on a positive note, one of the items on my list once daycare starts is getting this blog going again, so you should be hearing more from me in the coming months!

A letter to my son on Mother's Day

Dear Ethan,

Today is May 13, 2018. You are exactly eight months and one week old. You love the elephant song, Goodnight Moon, sucking your toes, holding hands with daddy, trying new foods and of course, like most babies your age, you love to nurse and be cuddled by me, your mommy. This is who you are, today.

Today is also Mother's Day-- my first as your mother, your first as my son. It hit me a few days ago that Mother's Day, the gifts and the flowers and the cards, that's for me now too. I get to have Mother's Day, because I'm lucky enough to be your mommy. I was lucky enough to grow you in my tummy when you were the size of a tiny poppyseed, I was lucky enough to bring you into this world, I have been lucky enough to see you develop and grow and I'll be lucky enough to watch you become the amazing person I already know you are.

We'll have a lot more Mother's Days, and they won't be exactly like this one. You'll like different things, new things. You'll test limits and you'll set your own boundaries and there will be times we won't agree. There will be days we won't understand each other. There might even be moments where our tempers are frayed and we need to walk away and calm down. Over time, you might not need me as much, and that will make me sad, but proud, because I will know that I've raised you to be your own person, who knows and loves who he is.

We'll also forget. As the years pass, we won't remember every single song or book or game you loved. We'll remember the big picture, but the little moments will fade, just like how some of the moments from when you were one or two or six months old have already started to fade, even though I wish I could hang on to every single one.

But even though time will pass and our worlds will change, one thing will always stay the same: Love. I'll remember how I loved you when I made you, how I loved you as you grew inside of me, how I loved you when I met you and kissed you and held you in my arms. And, I'll love you as you become a toddler and a little boy and a teenager and a man, maybe with a family of your own. I'll love you because even though who you are today won't be who you are next week or next year, I'll always be your mommy and the most absolute part of a mother's life is to love her child.

Happy Mother's Day, my sweet boy. Thank you, today and every day, for giving me the gift of being your mommy. I love you.

The science of worry

Every night, I wake up in a cold sweat thinking Ethan is in our bed, tangled amongst the covers. He never is, of course-- in fact, Ethan hasn't even slept in our room since Christmas and never shared our bed. But night after night after night, I have almost a phantom feeling of his presence. Usually what I think is Ethan is actually the dog (though a few times I could have sworn my pillow had a heartbeat), but what remains constant is the worry.

I was a worrier before I had Ethan, too. I worried about my career, my appearance, my friends, my family, you name it. I've never been what anyone would describe as "laid back." But what I've realized in the last 7 and a half months is that any worry I thought I had before was nothing compared to what I feel for Ethan.

This is because those worries were almost superficial-- not that they weren't valid or important, but they weren't so ingrained in me the way my Ethan worries are. My Ethan worries are part of me, they are part of my existence and sometimes, they consume me in a way I had never thought possible.

I am always, always worried about Ethan. I am concerned about his weight, his milestones, even his bowel movements. If he's not nursing enough, I worry. If he's nursing too much, I worry. If he doesn't get iron or calcium or drink his water, I worry. All day, every day, worry, worry, worry.

But if I'm being honest, the deeper worries are the ones that reflect my own insecurities. I wrote in an earlier blog post about my issues with food, but something else I've been obsessing about lately is the state of our apartment. Considering we have a baby and a dog, we do okay(ish). The laundry and dishes are always done and we have a woman come in every two weeks to do the bigger cleaning jobs. Still, because I've never been the tidiest person, I am very worried that Ethan will grow up with messy habits and maybe he'll be bullied for this and maybe girls won't want to date him...in truth, I'm a relatively well-adjusted 31 year old with friends and a relationship history and money in the bank who just happens to be a bit of slob, but I get it into my mind that if Ethan is messy like me I will have screwed him up completely, and down and down and down the rabbit hole I go. To start him on the right foot early, I started singing a little cleaning song when we put away his toys and we dust together and I let him watch me fold laundry. Are these activities ingraining positive cleaning habits? Probably not, but for a little while, it alleviates the worry.

Not pictured: Worry about the sun.

I want him to have lots of friends, to be good at sports, to do well in school, to be kind, curious, open-minded and adventurous. Unfortunately what I sometimes (falsely) lead myself to believe is that babies are born as a blank canvas and any deviation from perfection is the sole responsibility of the parents. Intellectually I know this isn't true and I certainly don't blame my own parents for my faults, but herein lies the key worry.

*Deep breath.* I worry about being the perfect mother.

I know perfect mothers don't exist. I know Instagram is just for show-- I myself have posted beautiful coordinated photos of me with my little guy that are just the tiniest slice of an otherwise hectic, very uncoordinated day. I also know that Ethan is healthy and happy and has two parents who love him, and I know that this is more important than any of the other stuff. But, that doesn't stop me from using my measuring stick and comparing myself to people who I perceive to be doing a better job. So, when he naps, I puree fruit and fold towels and read every article I can find about safe sunscreen, organic recipes, sensory exploration and what it means when a baby touches his head. I plan his outfits. I reorganize the toys. And-- surprise, surprise-- at the end of the day, I'm exhausted.

Maybe I'm neurotic and a little bit crazy. However, I think the root of all of this is that mothers, from the moment their babies are born, are thrust into an all-consuming, 24/7 job that we have no training for. There's no test to study for, no exam, no instruction manual. To be blunt-- those pregnancy books don't teach you shit, so we have to learn as we go, make mistakes along the way, and without a blueprint or a template to follow, we look inward and everything we see inside ourselves is the guidepost by which we judge what we do or do not want for our babies. When we don't hit those markers 100 per cent of the time, well, that's when the worry sets in.

I don't mean to be so self-deprecating. I hope that Ethan shares my love of books, my ability to manage money well, my loyalty towards my friends and my capacity for forgiveness and finding the good in people. These are qualities I'm proud of and ones that I believe can make me a good, if not perfect, mother. And, and as for my characteristics I don't love-- I'm messy, I can't iron, I bite my nails, I hate cooking and I worry A LOT-- well, Ethan is just the best motivation to strive to be a better, but still not perfect, version of myself.

One kid, two kids...

Yesterday was National Siblings Day, and it got me thinking about the possibility of adding another little munchkin to our clan. It's not something I'm considering anytime soon (more on this later), but in my mom circle and even with other friends and family, it's a pretty regular topic of conversation.

Me and my three sibs

The funny thing is, though, I'm still on the fence about having a second at all. It always shocks people when I say this, in part because I'm the oldest of four, so siblings have played a pretty significant role in my life. However, my brother Jacob is six years younger than me, so even though we "grew up" together, we were always at different stages, never overlapped in high school and didn't really have anything to compete over. I was an adult when the younger two were born, and they are amazing and were such a formative part of my twenties, but again-- not exactly your typical sibling relationship.

The six-year age gap was in many ways great because I still had a little brother but didn't have to worry about him dating my friends or taking all my parents' attention. That said, my mom started younger than I did and even though men can seemingly procreate forever, Dave and I have some years between us which could make waiting too long a challenge. I also think in a lot of cases, too big of an age gap creates an emotional distance that is difficult for parents and children alike, particularly when it comes to finding common ground and being able to play and have fun together.

On the other end of the spectrum, two under two absolutely does not work for me. I found pregnancy to be, on the whole, exhausting. I can't imagine doing it with a toddler who is just learning to communicate properly and is still in diapers. I also really want to be able to enjoy these early years with Ethan and give him my full attention. I'm tired enough as it is, I do not feel a burning desire to add morning sickness and swollen ankles to the mix.

So, in theory, if we were to go for Number 2, I'd be looking to land somewhere in between these extremes. I'll be 32 in August, so I could have another at 34 or 35 and still be considered relatively low risk, pregnancy-wise. Ethan would be close to starting kindergarten, which would free up a little more time to devote to a baby.

But, let's backpedal for a second. As I mentioned, I've never been sure about having two kids. I wanted one so, so badly, but had always felt that I would be content with having an only child. Since Ethan was born I've been more inclined to consider another, but I'm still not completely sold. It's a bit of an awkward topic for me because since I'm relatively young with minimal health issues, people tend to assume that of course I would want more kids. In fact, some will even suggest that stopping at one is selfish or lazy or unfair to poor unsuspecting Ethan.

The selfish comment is my favourite, because by definition, choosing to become a parent (and I would argue specifically a mother) is one of the most selfless things a person can do. Also, part of the reason I'm uncertain about another kid is that I want to be able to give Ethan the absolute best life I can-- not just materially, but emotionally as well. If I feel that I'm best able to do that by raising him as an only child, it's not selfish, it's trusting my instincts as a mother.

When it comes to laziness, I just laugh at that one. If Ethan remains an only child, believe me, he will know every drop-in centre and playgroup in the west end and beyond. He will have enough playdates to make his head spin because I will be extra, extra diligent in making sure he learns how to interact with other kids. I'm also a lot more likely to eventually resume my career at full speed in this scenario because I won't be as stretched with responsibilities at home and I won't have to be crunching numbers on how on earth we can afford to put two kids in daycare.

And, with fairness, well, it depends on who you ask. I know a lot of only children-- some of them always wanted siblings and others had super awesome childhoods that they wouldn't trade for the Brady Bunch. I also know people who hate their siblings, so you never know exactly how the cookie is going to crumble, and I don't believe that having brothers and sisters inherently makes you a better or worse person, or a happier or sadder child. So many factors go into making a life great and the family composition is just one small piece of the puzzle.

I do want to go back to the selfishness piece, though. Despite what the mom-shamers will say, it is actually okay to be a little bit selfish sometimes. Even though having Ethan has changed my very existence completely, I do take some comfort in the fact that to-date, it hasn't led to a absolute and total overhaul of my "old life." For example, I love my tiny car-- it's the first big thing I've ever really owned, and in the city it's awesome for getting into those itty bitty parking spaces. But, while it's relatively practical with one child, it would not be so easy with two-- I wouldn't be able to fit a double stroller in my hatch! Similarly, a few years ago, Dave and I bought a condo in our neighbourhood that will finally be ready next winter, and we had so much fun picking out finishes and colours and appliances for a brand new place that will be really and truly ours. The catch? It's not a ton of space, so we could make it work but after a few years it might feel like a tight squeeze for a growing family. And of course, two kids means more expenses in general, stretching everything a little thinner. In other words, I'm not sure I'm ready to sacrifice some of the comforts and familiarities that I've been able to hang on to with only having one kid so far.

On the flip side, though, having a baby is amazing and as I alluded to above, it's only been since Ethan arrived that I realized how incredibly special it is to hold a tiny person you created in your arms. When I think about the possibility of never having these moments again, my stomach flips a bit and suddenly I'm thinking that maybe moving to more space in the suburbs would actually be quite nice, and double strollers make moms look really bad ass and having a few hours to myself in the evenings and during naps is kind of overrated...Anyway, we have time to think about it, but until then, Happy (belated) Siblings Day!

The better way?

Wow, fresh off a blog sabbatical, here I am with two posts in one week. Someone give this mama a medal!

All kidding aside, I was inspired to write this post after this morning's brunch date with a few members of my #momsquad. Briefly diverging from our regular topics of teething, feeding and holy fuck will we ever not feel tired again, we got to chatting about accessibility-- or lack thereof-- in our fair city.

I've only taken the subway with Ethan a few times, and to be blunt, it sucked. I live basically equidistant between two stops-- neither of which have elevators or ramps. To get to an accessible station, I either have to walk one kilometre west or two kilometres east, and I of course have to plan a route that gets me to a stroller-friendly stop on the other end. Even in the accessible stations, to get from the street to the train (and vice versa), I usually have to take at least two different elevators, which are often poorly marked and always seem to be on the verge of collapsing. Also, I am no germaphobe but there's something quite unsettling about wheeling my infant into a dark, rickety contraption that looks like it hasn't been cleaned since people traveled by horse and buggy. A lot of "Ethan, don't touch ANYTHING" happens on these trips.

But, let's get back to the barriers. Today, in 2018, in one of the most progressive, most diverse cities in North America (if not the world), there are 28 subway stations that do not have elevators, with full accessibility not expected until 2025 at the earliest. Readers (all 4 of you): This is shameful. For all the whining and moaning politicians and laypeople alike do about the TTC, this seems to be fairly low down on the list of complaints. Yes, crowds are awful, fare collectors are rude, delays are unfortunate and I don't really understand the point of Presto, but the fact that there are still barriers that prevent a significant percentage of the population from even using public transit at all is problematic on a whole other level. Yet, no one seems to want to make this an issue because who cares about accessiblity when signal problems on Line 2 made you late for work again.

I can hear my mom's voice in my head, so I'd like to check my privilege for a minute and acknowledge that for me personally, I have a few luxuries in my life that prevent this issue from impeding my day-to-day. First, I live in an affluent neighbourhood where most of my needs and wants can be satisfied within a 15 minute walk. Between my apartment and my closest accessible subway station, there is a No Frills, a Shoppers Drug Mart, an LCBO, several small grocers and fruit markets, all major banks and a multitude of restaurants and coffee shops. I can eat, buy diapers, get my hair cut and even see a movie without even having to think about boarding a train. Also, we are a two-car household and I can afford the many expenses that accompany car ownership, so when I need to go somewhere I can't walk to, such as the doctor, I am never dependent on public transit to get there.

More importantly, however, is the fact that for me, the restrictions presented by the TTC's lack of accessibility are not insurmountable. I do not actually have to take Ethan out in the stroller-- I have a carrier that I can wear him in, making it possible for me to get on any subway train or bus without worrying about elevators. I can-- theoretically-- ask another rider to help me with the stroller because I do not have language barriers that prevent me from doing so and I do not have to worry about someone being afraid to help me because of my accent or the colour of my skin. What I'm trying to say is that I have options, and those options are luxuries not afforded to all mothers.

Finally, my need for barrier-free access is temporary. In the not-so-distant future, Ethan will be able to walk on his own and we won't need a stroller to get places, which means I'll be able to board the subway two minutes from my apartment again. For people who depend on wheelchairs or who have other permanent mobility challenges, this isn't the case and they are forced to constantly plan accessible routes within a fundamentally restrictive transit network and a political ecosystem that doesn't recognize accessibility as a crucial, urgent priority.

Ethan in transit

But, part of the reason I wanted to write this was to recognize that until Ethan came along, I too was pretty ignorant about how incredibly difficult just getting from point A to point B can be if you don't have the means, the resources or the abilities that most of us take for granted. Motherhood has given me the tiniest glimpse-- through an undeniably privileged lens-- into what so many people have to deal with all day, every day, and I think beyond just criticizing the TTC, we all (myself included) have to be more aware about how we can make lives a bit easier for those who need a little extra help. I've compiled a list below and I welcome any suggestions!

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Creating a barrier-free Toronto (or, Good Karma 101)

1. Hold the door for people who are in wheelchairs, using canes, pushing strollers or for anyone who looks like they just might need a hand.
2. Always offer to help parents with strollers up and down stairs. Don't wait for us to ask-- we might not say yes but we appreciate the offer!
3. Move out of the way for people who need a little extra space. Believe me, I don't take up half the sidewalk or subway platform just to be annoying, but it's important for me to have the space away from cars and trains to push my baby safely.
4. If you can, be flexible about your seat in a restaurant or on transit. If you're settled down in a spot that would be a good option for someone with mobility challenges, please give it up just this once. I can't express how frustrating it is to be crammed into a tiny booth where I can't fit my stroller when others are seated at round tables surrounded by tons of open space.
5. This should be obvious, but please don't park in handicapped spots or designated areas for pregnant women or families with small children. There's a special place in hell for people who do that!

Food for thought

Well, this blog has been on a bit of a hiatus. I would love to say I have some really cool reason for this, but in reality, once Ethan goes to bed I usually lose myself in a vortex of watching basketball, surfing Instagram and reading 20 pages of a book just to say I did. I just yawned reading that back to myself, but yeah-- mama's boring (and tired).

So here's a quick update on the last 2 and a half months: Ethan rolls around everywhere, laughs all the time, loves his Ergobaby, has been on vacation and even cut two teeth. And...*drumroll please* he eats actual, solid, big people food!

I was dreading starting solids to the point where I'm pretty sure I was annoying Dave even more than usual with all my musings on what to start with, and when, and what high chair to get, and did we get the right high chair, and oh our high chair was broken when it shipped so we have to get a different one, and am I bad mother because I bought some of those baby food pouches? I could continue, but in short, it was stressful.

A lot of moms get really excited about starting solids, but let me list a few reasons why I am not one of them. First of all, I don't cook a ton (read: hardly ever). No, I do not eat cheeseburgers every day (and thus you do not have permission to hate me for being thin), but we do enjoy a reasonable amount of takeout and a lot of nights I just heat up a bowl of soup so as not to waste valuable Instagram time. We have a small kitchen with no dishwasher and I honestly just find cooking so tiring-- you know, on top of looking after an active baby all day, doing the things that don't even leave me with enough gusto to regularly satisfy this blog's vast readership (ha ha).  However, I would at least like to make an attempt to feed my child homemade(ish) meals and not let him think that Swiss Chalet is one of the major food groups, and therefore I have had to shift my mindset (and my priorities). Life changes are a handful!

Eggy Ethan

Here's another thing. I am legitimately the world's pickiest eater, so giving Ethan a variety of foods does not come naturally to me. I could name all the foods I don't like but that would take all day, so here's a summary: Eggs, pork, most seafood (except shrimp and expensive scallops), dark meat of any kind, most root vegetables, brie, avocado, and so on and so on. I am also a little weird about how meals are made and the circumstances in which I eat them-- I am absolutely that asshole that asks a lot of questions in restaurants, as well as that even bigger asshole who holds up the Tim Horton's line by making sure they don't cut my sandwich with a dirty knife. Irritated yet? I also will never give you a bite of anything because I don't like other people's saliva on my food. Ick.

But alas, I'm not exactly setting out to raise a neurotic child, which means my weird preferences will take a backseat to his needs and his appetite and I'll have to accept that mealtimes will just be kind of gross for the foreseeable future. So, for past month or so I have been giving Ethan different types of food, pretending I think it's all delicious. Yes, I do feed him those bad mom pouches sometimes, but I also attended a workshop, I check labels to make sure there is no added salt or sugar and I went shopping specifically for organic produce. I even made my own hummus, which basically means I'm Martha Stewart and probably grants me a lifetime exemption from all future shaming from the Momiverse (ha ha again). 

And, guess what? So far, Ethan loves everything. I'm not saying he's perfect (except that he is), but the fact that a kid that grew in my body eats whatever I put in front of him-- with unparalleled enthusiasm--is nothing short of a miracle. I won't lie-- avocado stains are no picnic and picking pieces of egg out of his neck folds is revolting, but I'm playing a long game here and I am super proud that my little guy has an amazing attitude towards food. Who knows, maybe it will even encourage me to add a few more meals to my own rotation and expand my horizons. Or maybe Ethan will love food and cooking so much that he'll make my meals too? Here's hoping!

Oh, what a year

With just a few days to go before 2018 hits, I'm also marking another anniversary-- one year ago yesterday, I found out I was pregnant.

This was the earliest I could get the news, and ever the planner, I was bursting with anticipation. The app I had downloaded to help me track had cheerfully notified me that I could take a pregnancy test-- hurray! But despite the build up, I actually didn't have that strong of a reaction and now look back on it as one of my final days of calm.

There are a few reasons for this. First, I think it was the time of year. The period between Christmas and New Year's is always a nice little placid stretch and though I was working that week, the office was quiet, the TTC was quiet, and as such, so were my feelings about a tiny human sprouting inside of me.

It was also a secret. That's a big one. Over the weeks that followed, I had a lot of fun telling friends, family members and colleagues (my favourite trick was dressing Winston up in a Big Brother t-shirt), but for the first few days we told no one. This meant I couldn't really 'act' pregnant, so in a sense, it wasn't a real thing yet. We even stayed home on New Year's Eve just because I didn't want anyone to notice I wasn't drinking-- sneaky!

I also feel the calm in hindsight. On December 28, 2016, my life was exactly the same as it was one day earlier when I didn't know if I was pregnant or not. I was obviously worried about how having a baby would alter my life, but I thought I had nine months to figure that out. However, by the end of my first trimester, everything had been thrown off balance and into complete chaos. I dealt with a shift in my professional life and I started to experience symptoms like morning sickness and heartburn, but the biggest shock of all was that my pregnancy revealed cracks in the foundation of several relationships I held dear, including one in particular that I had previously believed to be indestructible.

The first sign of Ethan

What I've realized over the past year is that no matter how much you plan or how lucky you think you are-- I'll share that it only took us two months to conceive, which makes me feel so grateful to this day-- you never truly know what kind of person you'll be or what kind of life you'll have once you become a mom. I learned this the hard way even before Ethan arrived, but my 'glass half full' view of this is that because of what I went through, I was prepared to brace myself for the curveballs motherhood has thrown at me.

And, having perspective and seeing the big picture are important. I would love to say that the challenges I experienced during my pregnancy resolved themselves or that I have at least been able to put them out of my head. Unfortunately, neither is the case and I still feel very hurt by a lot of what transpired. What is the absolute 100% truth, however, is that Ethan was worth every hurdle, every blow and every single tear.

 So 2017 is nearly behind us, and it was without a doubt the hardest year yet. But, it was also the best year because it gave me our little man and I know 2018 is going to bring us so much laughter and love-- and yes, a few challenges too. Bring it on!

Sharing the love

I know when parents have second or third children, they often have the challenge of making sure older siblings still feel loved and included. I can relate.

"But Emily, Ethan is your only child. What on earth do you mean?!"

Well, if you know me, you know the answer to that question. I'm referring, of course, to my my fur-son, Winston the Puggle.

Winston will always be first baby. I had never been one for dogs before, but I chose him-- after finding him by chance through a random Google search-- and after making the trip to Kentucky (yup) to pick him up, I fell in love with him instantly.

Yes, we loved him so much, but he was difficult puppy-- actually, in a lot of ways, the newborn Ethan phase has been easier than the early days of Winston. He did not come to us house trained. He pulled on his leash during walks (still does) and he nipped constantly. One time, I thought we were having a perfectly nice snuggle until he bit me on the armpit and then peed on the floor. Good times.

However, Winston is two and a half now, and while he's still spirited and stubborn, he's a sweet, cuddly little guy and we couldn't imagine life without him. He's taught us so much about compromise and family and pure, unconditional love. And, it probably goes without saying that he's also really, really spoiled.

So, this is why I was a little nervous during my pregnancy about how exactly we would all handle the new addition. How, with a fresh baby, could I possibly devote as much as my energy and love to Winston? Would he be jealous or skittish or destructive? Or, would he withdraw, feeling left out or forgotten? It felt like the end of an era, and I felt guilty about forcing an adjustment on him when he was so used to being the absolute centre of our universe.

My babies

However, I'm pleased to report that over the past three months, Winston has been the most sane member of this household. Okay, that's a pretty low bar, but he has been one shred of normalcy during what been a pretty hectic time. Other than a few curious sniffs, he basically leaves Ethan alone, but for me, he has been a constant source of love and affection-- often knowing when I need it the most even before I do. In fact, when we got home from the hospital the day after Ethan was born, Winston seemed to sense right away that I was drained and overwhelmed. In response, his first order of business was to climb up on the couch, curl into a ball next to me and heave a huge sigh of contentment. I, exhausted and full of hormones, immediately burst into the happiest of tears.

What I'm getting at is that there's always enough love to go around. People (and dogs) surprise you with how they adapt to change, and I've been lucky to see an amazing new side of Winston since Ethan joined our tribe. True, he's not our only baby anymore, but we love him just as much as we did when he was our whole world-- when Ethan was a mere abstract concept of the future-- and he's been doing just fine with his new role as big brother. It probably doesn't hurt that he still has a place in our bed while Ethan sleeps in the bassinet, a fact I'm sure he secretly gloats about...

100 days of Ethan

Hear ye, hear ye. Ethan's life has hit triple digits!

Excuse me while I get emotional again. This is another one of those 'time flies' moments, but it's also got some more significance because it signals the end of the so-called 100 Days of Darkness.

In an earlier post, I wrote about the fourth trimester and baby's adjustment to life outside the womb. Similar but not quite the same, the 100 days of darkness concept refers to a mom's adjustment to parenthood. This can mean all kinds of things-- sleep deprivation, changes in mom and dad's relationship, hormones, being scared to leave the house, you name it. By the end of this period, in theory, we mothers should be emerging from the fog. 

In some ways, I feel ahead of the curve on this front. I don't mean that I'm doing better than other women-- I try very hard not to be that person-- but more that I've challenged myself in a lot of areas and I'm pretty pleased with the results. For example, Ethan and I have been going to see movies at our local theatre almost every Monday since he was three weeks old. We signed up for a bunch of classes and I make it to most of them more or less on time. He sleeps through the night regularly, I still like Dave more days than not and the majority of my pre-mommyhood friends continue to tolerate me and my excessive Instagramming. I even started a blog!

However, I also kind of resent the implied notion that now that we've hit day 100, I should suddenly feel like my old self. First of all, my old self doesn't exist anymore, because I will never again be able to put myself first. I say that not because I'm trying to sound like some kind of self-sacrificing hero, but because it is actually impossible for me to prioritize anything-- my sleep, my health, my career-- above Ethan's happiness and well being. I have moaned about wanting my pre-preggo body back and missing being able to go places that aren't stroller-friendly, but at the end of the day I don't care because those new realities are all part of life with Ethan, and Ethan, ultimately, is my whole life (Winston is too, but you get my drift).

And-- what if in some ways I'm still feeling blue or a little out of sorts or that the puzzle pieces aren't fitting together just yet? Here's an example: I have a really hard time pumping because Ethan eats so much that I'm rarely full enough to produce more than an ounce or two at the most. What this means is that I've only gone out without him a handful of times, never for longer than a couple of hours, and when I do it requires careful advance planning. I also find it difficult emotionally, which is hard for me to admit to other moms who seem to have it a bit more 'together' and have been able to get out for regular date nights or spa days. These are things that I miss of course, but physically and mentally they just aren't a reality right now. 

What a nap looks like

Another example: Ethan does not like to be put down, and I don't just mean for naps in his crib. He is fussy in his swing, on his playmat on the floor, wherever, if he is left for longer than about five minutes. Essentially, I am his primary source of entertainment and if I am not holding him, he is grumpy. We have had some success with the carrier, but it hasn't gone well enough for me to have any confidence in its usefulness on a day-to-day basis. So, what I'm getting at is that if Dave is not home, I can't tidy my apartment or read a book or cook a meal-- things that a lot of moms are doing at this stage. Maybe I can get a few minutes to fold laundry if we've been out and Ethan has fallen asleep in his stroller, but that's basically it. The rest of the time we're nursing or reading or he's just bouncing his cute little chubby legs on my stomach, all of which are amazing and I'm hashtag blessed and so on, but I have definitely not emerged from the fog of takeout and clutter and yeah...I could continue. I'm gross, let's just leave it at that.

I have a point, I promise. I think this is becoming a bit of a theme, but if I have one Christmas wish it would be for so-called 'experts' to please stop making up cutesy labels or creating false milestones that at the end of the day make a lot of moms (including me) feel like we're failing ourselves. The past 100 days have been filled with so much light, most of which has come from my wondrous baby boy. But, some of the fog lingers and no parenting book is going to be able to guide me out of that on any kind of schedule--I just have to keep reminding myself that a little bit of darkness is okay. 

There's no cheating in childbirth

I'll spare you, dear readers, the intimate details of my labour and delivery (although some of you were there), but here's the short version: Ethan came fast, and without warning. Aside from some minor back pain the night before, I had zero signs of labour until my contractions hit me like a tidal wave, starting at 2 minutes apart.

It was a mad rush to the hospital. There was no birthing tub or exercise ball or leisurely stroll around the maternity ward. I didn't get a nap or even a snack. I showed up at 3:40 a.m., fully dilated, and was pushing within half an hour. If you're familiar with the mechanics and timeline of childbirth, you'll have concluded by now that I was not given the option of an epidural. Yes, folks-- I, who previously cringed at the mere thought of a routine pap smear, had an entirely natural birth.

Let me be clear that a natural birth was not in my plan. I had not practiced breathing or read about hypnobirthing. I went to one prenatal yoga class and concluded it was boring. I scoffed at those who said that childbirth should be treated as a beautiful experience, one to be felt and treasured. Bring on the drugs, I said.

So I was unprepared. Really, really unprepared. But thanks to the support of my Earth Angel (also known as a doula), my mom, Dave and some truly incredible medical staff, I survived, relatively intact, and delivered a healthy baby boy.

Once I emerged from the haze of pushing out a 7 pound being, I joked that that even though there's no medal for foregoing the epidural, there absolutely should be, because some numbing in the lower half of my body sounded really, really nice. But, alas, there are no winners in the Childbirth Olympics, and kidding aside, that's a good thing.

My labour was rough. It was excruciating, in fact, but it was also over quickly. I didn't have time to be rundown or frustrated or anxious. I never had to be worried about a c-section. I couldn't feel self-conscious or shy. Other women have had long and tiring labours, complicated deliveries, emergency c-sections, painful inductions, you name it. I can't feel superior about what I went through because one thing that should bond all us mamas together is our shared achievement, knowing that regardless of the path our bodies went down on that fateful day, we all have a unique badge to wear.

Unfortunately though, there's a lot of mom-shaming out there, and childbirth is just one aspect of that. Too often, c-sections are treated like the easy way out even though the recovery is long and difficult. Women who get an epidural sometimes feel ashamed if they had hoped to have a natural birth. And, with my circumstances, when I tell people I was only in labour for 5 hours, the response I get is usually "oh, lucky you."

The "lucky me" part is that I had tons of support and my son was born safely. There was nothing lucky about a short labour that I was not ready for, just as there's nothing lucky about undergoing major abdominal surgery or having to lie in an uncomfortable hospital bed for 36 hours while your nether-regions are repeatedly prodded. And, when we say to another woman that her labour sounds nice or we ask if she regrets the epidural or feels less powerful because of her c-section, we are effectively suggesting that our worth is higher, that we have achieved greater heights, that our badges have more shine.

In summary, yes, I wear my natural birth badge with a fair bit of pride and it makes a pretty good story for those who know how incredibly pain-intolerant I am, but I also know I'm not the only warrior mama out there. In other words, if you're a new mom or mom-to-be and you want to trade gory details, I'm your girl-- just be prepared for a loooong play-by-play about how much it hurt to push. :)

Three months!

Ethan is officially three months old today, and since this blog is an honest space, I have to admit that I'm having mixed emotions about this particular milestone.

Of course, I love that he's a healthy growing boy and is doing lots of cool things-- smiling, interacting with other babies, trying to stand. I could do without the early teething and spitup, but it's all part of the whole baby package. He's also got some really great 3-6 month outfits, so it's going to be a pretty stylish phase!

My big boy!

But, on the other hand, today marks the 'official' end of the so-called fourth trimester, the stage where Ethan adjusts to life outside the womb, and I'm feeling a little emotional about that. I know he's not off to university yet or anything, but time is rushing by. While I was pregnant I insisted that I would pump daily so I could maintain my independence, that we wouldn't co-sleep, blah blah blah, and now I love our cuddle-naps and our nursing bond and I'm (mostly) totally okay with spending 99.9% of my time with him. Plus, on a practical level, some of the developments on the horizon terrify me a little, namely crawling and starting solids, because a baby that can escape AND destroy the carpet sounds like a lot more work. In other words, Ethan might be ready for these next leaps where he doesn't depend on me so fully, but I'm not quite sure that I'm ready.

On a positive note, the three-month mark is supposedly when moms start to get back to their 'old selves,' which is a pretty loaded term, but I'll try to illustrate. My pregnancy was pretty run-of-the-mill from an aesthetic perspective-- a 35-pound weight gain and a case of acne that lasted the entire nine months. Like many women, I lost 25 of those 35 pounds within two weeks of giving birth, but the pesky extra 10 has hung around-- mostly in weird and unflattering places-- and my skin has remained pretty spotty. Not a big deal, you may say, but when most of your clothes don't fit and you look longingly at makeup-free clear-skin selfies from two years ago and cry, it's not awesome. Anyway, now that December is here, I've noticed a slight dip on the scale AND I've gone almost a whole week without a new blemish, so that is something to feel really good about!

Well, ready or not, here we are-- Ethan is a quarter-year and time is passing. I'll just have to take the good with the scary (not bad!) and to try keep in mind that so many awesome milestones and adventures with Ethan await us. Oh, and writing this has convinced me that I should probably start therapy at least a year before Ethan goes to kindergarten because it's a fairly safe bet that I'm going to be a hot blubbering mess when that day comes.