The dance.

I’ve missed this space, and I’ve missed using it as a vessel to place the hard parts of me. The parts of me that are mine to own, mine to wrestle with, mine to keep, and mine to decide if I place in another’s hands.

I booked a series of counselling appointments today. Doing so felt like admitting (again) that a part of me was broken. I didn’t know what to do with those feelings other than taking a deep breath, pressing the confirm button, and watching the banners atop my phone pop-up as the appointment confirmations came into my email, one by one.

Life has been a dance as of late. Several of these dances started just this past June, and they are steps I am still learning (and fumbling my way through).

The dance of parenting schedules. Figuring out who is “on”, who is “off”, and trying to make sense of it all among the thousand other things on our calendars. Seeing my kids, not seeing my kids, worrying over my kids among the transition, wondering about my kids when I’m gone, wondering about my kids when I’m there, the joy of reconnecting, and the sadness of goodbyes (a sadness that hits me in different depths and different, unpredictable ways every damn time).

The dance of co-parenting. The back-and-forth texting of asks, needs, and wants. The wearing of different shoes, reading of changing rooms, and the navigation of respect (and sometimes failing) around a relationship that has changed so much from its original dynamic. Nonetheless, forging on among such dynamics, undertaking a shared enterprise of care and upbringing for the tiny humans you created together with this person you once loved.

The dance of a tenuous living arrangement. Spaces that should have long since separated (like the relationship that bound it) but remain still unchanged (for too many reasons to name). The dance of respect (and sometimes failing) among choices made in those spaces, the feelings of frustration (on both our ends), and the need for space and distance. The continuation on “as is” because change isn’t going to be soon to come, and how to reckon and be and dance in that period of waiting.

A culminating dance of all these factors, and the effects they’re having on my mental health. My desperate bids for control among a world in which I feel I now desperately lack. Losing myself in the coping mechanisms/dances of doing and busy and cleaning and organizing and obsessions and compulsions in a frenzied bid to find a single iota of control in this life I’m leading. To still have a face and a house and a life to present in this dance of life even if all the parts inside of it are on fire.  

As I’ve danced these steps these past three months, I haven’t always made it past another’s toes. At times, and I’m not proud to admit it, I’ve purposely stepped on toes I’ve deemed in my way. I’ve fumbled and I’ve flailed, I’ve tried to see what works and I’ve had some epic fails. I’ve stubbed my own toes, I’ve caused bruises (both internal and external), and I am still very much on a journey of learning how to step, how to be and become, and how to find happiness in such a gigantic realm of change and transition.

It hasn’t been a pretty dance.

Arguably, this was perhaps the worst time ever for me to have gone off my meds. Tell two months ago me that. I’ll tell my counsellor that.  

Yet, among these dances (and these stumbles), there has been love.

A love of who I am, even if I frustrate the ever living fuck out of myself sometimes. A love of how I’ve changed (physically and mentally). Watching me actively choose now to live/dance the life I want as opposed to the life I was given. A seeing of a girl in the mirror who put in the fucking work, and who is learning to love the person looking back at her (however slow and broken that process may be). She still has a long way to go, but she’s trying, and god damn, she is *dancing*. It is breathtaking to behold. Also, she weirdly goes on hikes now and enjoys it? But, I digress.

A love of my children. These are trying times for all of us, and they have been doing their best to navigate this dance in ways that make sense to them. There have been big emotions, big questions asked, and learning experiences for us all. But god, they’ve grown. And their love for me, no matter my length of absence, has been unwavering. To see their excitement when they realize I’m home or I’m there to pick up at child care or whatever, it’s nourishing. It is giving. It is joy.  

A love of friends. Reconnecting physically and dancing with people that I have long believed because of parenthood, I couldn’t. But I can do hard things. I do them every damn day. I am able, and I can. The exploring of those in-person friendships and how they grow and become among the realities of parenting schedules, offering new dynamics and new ways of existing. New ways of dancing. New ways of rekindling sources of joy.  

And a romantic love (he knows who he is). A love that means a profound amount to me and has helped shape my pathways and journeys in these dances towards goodness and wholeness. A love that I admittedly have pulled into dances that wasn’t his responsibility to lead, and a love that I should have protected better when there was too much of my becoming, unravelling, finding, fumbling, grasping, and flailing among such dances. A love I want desperately to keep, but I love that I will respect if he feels he can no longer be a part of this dance with me.

I see you, counselling.

I’ve changed since I was last in your realm, and there is much for us to reconcile in our re-acquaintance.

I hold my hand out to you now to join me in this dance.

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Dreams.

When I was young, I dreamed of the future. I dreamed of marriage and motherhood. I dreamed of who I would one day love. I dreamed of how many kids I’d one day have. I dreamed of the profession I’d one day do (geologist? interior decorator? teacher?). I dreamed of the house I’d one day live in. I dreamed of the future.

Later, my dreams were with worry. I dreamed of parents that loved each other. I dreamed of a world in which my mom was happy and whole. I dreamed of my father’s laughter and lightness returning. I dreamed of no more yelling, no more anger. I dreamed of different answers than those I was seeing – violence and harm. I dreamed of what should have already been given.  

In high school, I dreamed of difference. I dreamed of escaping the mountain. I dreamed of being a part of the busy, fast, moving world. I dreamed of a changed family dynamic that I could understand. I dreamed of meeting the standards of beauty. I dreamed of being liked and being wanted. I dreamed of that which I didn’t have – difference.

In college, I was in a dream itself – one albeit finding and fumbling. I dreamed of getting my life together (it took a few tries). I dreamed of being someone that my parents could be proud of. I dreamed of accepting myself. I dreamed of getting the grades for which I’d be found worthy. I dreamed of friendships kept, relationships lasting, and me not fucking it all up. I stayed in said dreams for many a year.

These days, I dream of peace. I spoke of this peace recently. It is peace within myself. Peace within my living arrangements. Peace within the chaos that is raising children. Peace within my professional landscape. Peace with my parents. Peace with my brother. Peace with my changing friendship circles. Peace with my ex. Peace within my love life (or at times lack thereof). Peace within my body. Peace within this world. I dream of peace.

Future me, what will you dream of? And will you find it?

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Who?

I’ve been attempting to re-write my (now deleted, burned, and ashes blown to the wind) about me section for this website as of late. In the wake of all that’s happened this past six months, it rang of a girl I no longer am. 

Separation (and divorce, once we get around to it), co-parenting while living together, being single again, my significantly changed role at work, and an inevitable move that will help further cement these necessary and changed dynamics. 

These are times of upheaval. Growth, becoming, relief – and upheaval.

I find myself standing among these pieces and grasping at where I belong. What shoe now fits. What identity rings true. What and who I now am.

For years too many, I identified myself by who I was to someone else. Mother, wife, sister, and daughter. 

In this time of now — a clawing back of independence and identity, listening to my own needs, and speaking of truths — who is Sarah

And so, I’ll write it out.

For what should become as a surprise to no one, I know not how to begin at anywhere else other than my faults.

Socially anxious and awkward. Shy. Unsure, self-doubting, and eternally self-deprecating. Often overwhelmed, terrible at asking for help, and demands of herself a level of work/”doing all the things” ethic that is often to her own detriment. Doesn’t know when to stop in those regards, and also doesn’t exercise enough or get outdoors as much as she should. Conflict avoidant (to the point of numbing out), repressor of feelings, and perpetually worried about “rocking the boat”. Has difficulties asserting herself and would love more than anything to just melt into the background – much like her slippery and evading sense of self-identity. Painfully perfectionist and introverted beyond measure.

Yet, at the same time, there is goodness.

Caring, kind, and thoughtful. Supportive, reliable, and helpful. Stable, peaceful, and patient. Careful, yet hopeful. Organized, meticulous, and detailed. Conscientious, observant, and a defender of the vulnerable. Respectful, progressive, and loving. Joyful and humble (perhaps to a fault).    

(Admittedly, not quite as good as talking about her good bits as she is her “bad”.)

And then there is that which is simply that.

The comforts she finds in the definable. Cozy in the exacts. Beauty and stability in data. Her eye for specifics. A love of words, reading, and stories. An appreciation for wit and intellect. A (100% untrained) connoisseur of tacos, thrift shopping, and Reese’s peanut butter cups. Liberal and atheist, and at one with nature. Nerdy. Give her video games with housing systems and give her board games with friends – she will be content. A complete, utter, and well-meaning doomsponge… but, also, a troll of the most loving proportions.  

And at the end of it all, a survivor of childhood trauma and postpartum mental health reckonings – keenly aware of how they have made her who she is to this day.

New and old truths, new and old shoes. Here lies my journey fourth.

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I see you.

In the way she navigates life. Taking those purposeful turns and back alleys, expertly maneuvering and avoiding any possible problem or issue. Even at her own peril – her own peril.

In the way she exhaustingly strives to see everyone happy, living in harmony and at peace. Even if it means she’s not there – she’s not there.

In the chronic people pleaser in her. An insistent persistence to please. Even to her own detriment – her own detriment.   

In her biggest want in life: peace. To be with and at peace among all. Even if that peace is beyond her, and there lies a battle within her — battle within her.

In her core fear: conflict. Her fallbacks and coping mechanisms of avoidance and silence. A purposeful hiding of her being – hiding of her being.   

In how she expresses herself only when there is little to no chance of discord. Absolute necessity being the only moments in which she dare gives voice – dare gives voice.   

In her obsession with safeguarding peace. Frozen still I find her. Acting or speaking her truths, she is found unable – found unable 

In her need for perfectionism. A perfectionism born rooted in a frantic need to not disappoint. To be found worthy. To be loved like you should have been – like you should have been. 

And in the very path that guides her as a mother and early childhood educator. Children — those of her own and the lives of others she touches — giving them the peace you didn’t have.

The peace you didn’t have. 

I see her.

I see you.  

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Still learning.

“Mama, why wasn’t [insert so and so] listening at child care today?”
“Mama, why did that person stop their car in the middle of the road?”
“Mama, why didn’t you remember to [such and such that my fried brain continually forgets to do]?”

“Because people are still learning, my sweet boy. Still learning how to control their bodies, how to obey the rules of the road, and/or how to remember to do things when functioning on not enough sleep. Life is always teaching us, and we’re always learning.”

A semblance of the above conversation (though for varying reasons) takes place between my son and I a few times a week. So much so that he now chimes in with me in answer, “yeah! They’re still learning!”

It’s a bit of an overly positive take on shitty drivers, I’ll give it that. But, there are nuggets of truth to be found in these conversations nonetheless.

With that said, we’ve recently had a helluva reminder that D and I are still learning.

But first, some backstory.

Six months ago, after having given birth to M, it became rapidly apparent that my mental health needed my son in full time child care while I stayed at home to look after my newborn. I simply wasn’t able to sanely meet both his and M’s needs on the days D was working. It was beyond me, and I feel no shame in admitting that.

Thankfully, we were quickly able to secure full time placement, and it has been the absolute best decision for us all. O adores his “school”, loves the time he can spend there with friends (as he can hardly do that anywhere else these days), and it gives him a place during the day to get out all of his energy and exploratory needs. Furthermore, when he’s at “school”, it leaves me with the sanity I need to care for his sister (now an infant), care for our home, and find some pockets of time during the day to care for myself.

This is not a decision I regret. That being said, I fully get that such an option simply would not be possible or available for some families for a multitude of reasons. Furthermore, some may have chosen differently. I respect that. My anxiety, however, had other plans in store.

Fast forward to now.

After having O at home recently (for reasons that can be found here), I realized something, and it was a something that I had started to clue in on during his week at home this past winter break.

We don’t yet truly, truly know what it means to have two kids.

(It is here I struggle in putting what I mean by that into words. A part of me feels that what I have to say next is not a valid “problem” as it is one born of first world privileges. The other part of me dismisses that notion, and says a struggle is a struggle, and giving words to problems has always helped me better make sense of it all. So, fuck it. I forge ahead.)

We don’t yet know how to fully balance the juggling act of forever meeting the needs of two children while trying to meet our own.

We don’t yet know how to deny the sigh of exhaustion that comes with forever needing to be the type of “on task” that two children require of you.

We don’t yet know how to best give each other breaks (even if that just means one of us being with the “easier” kid in that moment) so that the other can feel the briefest moment of reprieve before having to dive right back in (and how to be accepting of that fact).

We don’t yet know how to quiet the loud sighs of relief come after Sunday evening bedtimes and Monday morning child care drop offs.

How to be at peace in the mess of preschooler + infant “all-day-no time to clean” living… How to give up the illusion that our sore bodies won’t forever be laying or sitting on the floor for YEARS to come… How to not blessedly (and guilty) SAVOUR the daily TV time aka “mom and dad break” that we’ve been having from 4:30-6PM…. These and so much more are things we are very much still learning.

(Truth be told, these are things that we may never learn, or may not HAVE to learn. But, I digress.)

When O is at childcare during the week, I can re-replicate the ease of what it once was to just have one kid. I can breathe. It is a blessing, but, it is also a curse. It’s inadvertently made us be able to deny and delay the demanding, draining reality that comes with having more than one child.

There’s no choice.

Much like winter break, we’ve recently been given no choice but to face this reality head on.

There is much I could say about how it went, but I’ll simply say this: it’s been exhausting, bonding, raw-rubbing, relationship building, HARD-yet-meaningful work.

And while before all of this I may have quite rudely guffawed at the following positivity that I am going to type, I’ll do it anyway. We have been made all the better as a family for it. Yawning, laughing, grumbling, smiling, still learning and all.

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Until now.

I’ve been managing. Despite being always at home while on mat leave, juggling an infant, and my daily adult in-person interaction since early November being limited to just D and my son’s educators during child care pickup (you’d be proud, Dr. Bonnie Henry, with how well I’ve listened), I’ve managed. Until now.

Then this week happened.

Something snapped, and I let the loneliness and isolation “grief” finally creep in through the cracks. Despair set in, acutely and deeply.

I give up, Covid. You win.

As a deeply introverted, shy, homebody (who married someone that is the same exact way), I am profoundly lucky and privileged it took me this long to get here. I admit to that fully.

Yet, here I am now missing things I have *never* missed before in my entire life. Super busy play cafes, shopping in packed malls, full to the brim drop-in programs, over flowing movie theatres, and grocery stores with isles that have so many people in them you can hardly move. All things I would have non-jokingly told you I was allergic to a year and a half ago.

And when I remember back to the slow and simple days of park get togethers, play dates, and meeting up with mom friends to chat while our kids were being kids — it physically hurts now.

This was not the postpartum experience that I thought it would be. This is not mat leave I wanted it to be. The summer ahead of us, the first with our completed family of four, it will likely not be the experience I wish for it to be (at the rate Canada is going with the vaccinations). I hate all of this.

Perhaps next week I’ll be able to start seeing again the other things to look forward to, the silver linings in our time outside, and the positives in the small joys to keep celebrating.

But, right now? I am in mourning.

There is so much more I wanted to do this time around while I was off work. I had plans. M’s an easy enough baby that it would have worked this time, too, unlike with O. Yet, when I pulled out her diaper bag the other day prior to leaving for her sixth month vaccinations, upon it was a layer of dust. I was at a loss.

There are no thought provoking words or inspirational wisdom to end this piece, and it feels weird without it. Yet, I’m not sorry for it, for all I want and need to say is this:

This really, really sucks.

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The “if only”s.

My sweet boy.

As I’ve built this website, I’ve unintentionally had to remember and relive the “trenches” that were the first six months of your life.

I had realizations that came five years late.

Fraught discoveries at all that I didn’t know.

Wishes and hopes for the should-have could-have would-have but never-had.

I got stuck in the if onlys.

If only I could have better known your sleepy cues.

If only I could have better known your hunger cues.

If only I could have better known your signs of teething.

If only I could have better known the million things you were undoubtedly trying to tell me.

If only, if only, if only.

Instead, you were my bundle of hot, angry, and frustrated tears. Exhaustion, worn edges, and frayed emotions became you (and me, if we’re being honest). We lived, cried and grieved as one in the cavernous hallways of colic.

I tried.

To hear you, to see you, and to truss out from the misery of everything the need you were trying to communicate.

But that everything became one, and more often than not, I failed.

Yet here in the now, this is where I stop myself.

For in those failures – failures of first time mothering, failures of laughable pre-birth expectations, and failures of selflessness I wasn’t yet ready to let go of – I grew.

Those were the days that defined me.

If I had those if onlys, would I have learned to say fuck it and let go? To laugh at my utter lack of intuition, and just go for it on a wing and a prayer? To wade deeply into the murky Nile of motherhood, and still be able to find it’s soggy, muddy, messy beauty?

I don’t think so.

I intend not to write these soliloquies through rose coloured glasses, my mental health would have frankly moved mountains for those if onlys. My marriage with your father would have breathed sighs of reliefs in their reprieves.

But in those days, weeks and months — I became. In that battleground of exasperation, love, annoyance, and adoration (and the bravery to admit I felt all those ways), you taught me. You pushed me beyond myself. You gave me the greatest lesson I ever learned.

You made me a momma. ❤️

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This time around.

I recently sat down and did a bit of reflection on this piece I wrote a few years ago, but from my now second time mother perspective. Here’s what came of it..

Girl, I love you, but oh my goodness such DRAMATICS. Then again, I remember. Those days would be impossible to ever forget. First time motherhood was quite the significant headfuck for you. ⁣

⁣After your second birth, for the sake of sanity you realize you are historically close to loosing at that point, you choose a different dish. It is one that asks of you way less cooking and close to no prep — a delightfully easy meal of perogies, sausages and corn. Not the healthiest, but it was needed. ⁣

⁣I won’t fool you, things weren’t perfect while you made those perogies, and nor will they likely ever be, frankly. You were anxious and scrambling, but the results were about twenty million times less of a hectic gong show. And not only do you amazingly get to eat that meal together as a family (newborn sleeping in your lap and all), you manage it at two weeks postpartum, too. Perfection be damned. ⁣

⁣You could thank the gods that decided to listen that time around, but truth be told, just thank yourself. Second-time motherhood will instill in you the ability to handle (like a hot, graceful mess) 458634884 *more* things all at once. It is also quite the headfuck, just a slightly more manageable one. We even come to love it. ⁣

💚⁣ ⁣⁣

⁣P.S. I’d be remiss to finish this with out letting you know that here in the future you haven’t cooked this chicken dish in years. O, now a preschooler, has long since refused to eat it. Something about all the items touching (how dare us) and him being seemingly allergic to any and all cooked vegetables. We’re having LOTS of fun with that one.

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My brain is broken.

Any bookish types out there? If so, help!⁣

Off and on, and throughout the course of much of my life, I have gone through periods of heavy reading and then NOTHING.⁣

During the year and half prior to giving birth to my daughter I was averaging about two books a week. How many have I fished since she was born? Not a ONE.⁣

It’s not because of lack of sleep (she lets me sleep quite well — for now, at least). It’s not because I don’t have time (if I committed the same amount of effort to it as I do looking at irrelevant meaninglessness on my phone, I’d be golden).⁣

And it’s not because I don’t have anything I want to read, either. There are books by the hundreds on my “to-read” list. Gorgeous, fantasy books with intricate storytelling, fascinating world building, and strong, female protagonists.⁣

But, my brain keeps insisting on being this fried, dumb thing that refuses to cooperate. I’ll load GOOD books on my Kobo, attempt to dive in and am only able to read about a page before my attention wanders. Snap back, I try again. Over and over. Eventually, out of annoyance and frustration, I give up. My ability to focus is G.O.N.E. This is all similar to how it’s been in the past when I’ve gone through others of these “no-read” periods.⁣

I gave birth five months ago and I should give myself more time maybe, I hear you. But, I’d really like it to change sooner rather than later. ⁣Reading became this huge part of me, more so than ever before, and now it kind of feels as if I’ve lost a limb. It’s also the one, guaranteed thing I can get lost in during COVID when I need to pretend everything is normal… :(⁣

So, how do I fix this? Do I need a different approach? Should I work to better understand (somehow?) why I go through these no-reading phases? Should I consider a different mindset? Different books? A different life? lol.⁣

Help!

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She’s got this.

A milestone happened in our house on Tuesday night. M rolled over for the first time! ⁣

All babies eventually turn over, and milestones are meaningful for every single one of them. I get that. This moment holds something more to me, though.⁣

O has had gross and fine motor delays for much of his life, starting from when he was very young. PT and OT have been a part of his journey (and mine — there have been many, many, many appointments). On paper, he’s still quite a bit “behind” for his age based on what other kids of a similar age can “typically” do. In time, he’ll get there.⁣

I have long felt mom guilt over his delays, however. Many a time I have wondered if my well intentioned parenting choices caused them. We didn’t really do tummy time as I didn’t believe in pushing him to be in positions he couldn’t get into himself. I let him be the lead, and I continue to do so to this day. Eventually, we found out he had low muscle tone, and that it was likely the culprit.⁣

But, despite knowing that, my anxiety doesn’t let me hear it.⁣

I don’t want that same journey for M. I don’t want those same struggles. So, I keep doing with her all that I hardly did with O… as if in some kind of hail mary attempt to avoid it. But, as hard as I try (and try do I ever), her tolerance for it is achingly minimal. Many a day she makes it happily on her tummy for less minutes that I can count on one hand.⁣

This, of course, has lead my worries to be convinced we are again on the same trajectory.⁣

And then on Tuesday she just rolled over out of the blue, as if it was the world telling me to calm the hell down.⁣

I hear you, world. I hear you.⁣

She’s got this.⁣

Happy five months, sweet girl. 💚⁣ ⁣

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Thank you, easier.

It’s easier this time, this maternity leave. It’s easier because, well, she’s easier. And yet, it’s so much more than that.⁣

It’s easier because “I know” now the knowledge that first time motherhood denies of you. It’s easier because second children are blessedly unfair in the understandings they afford; understandings that your first (be it you or them) would have never dared relent.⁣

It’s easier because I’m here, but FULLY here. I’ve stopped listening to the bullshit of everything outside of this, of us, and am embracing a motherly instinct and intuition. Pieces of me that I feel I only just met, but have known all along.⁣

(And for reasons I won’t elaborate on, out of not wanting this to be about it, and my hurts, it is remarkably easier because my mother is purposefully no longer in our lives.)⁣

In strange, unexplainable, and starkly tangible ways, it’s easier because of what our world has come to in the grips of this pandemic. The pressure to take the “new baby” out to socialize and to be there for happenings (despite my every inner voice of anxiety screaming in consternation and uncertainty) — it is blissfully absent. Weeks on end we stay at home, only ever leaving for long walks or to pick up O in the afternoons, and it is a peaceful balm to the introversion rooted deeply in my soul. These things didn’t require a pandemic to occur, but they are things I only (and finally) allowed of myself *because* of the pandemic.⁣

It’s easier because of time. Mothering through anxiety for five years has left me with a hardened knowing. This knowing is not here anymore to impress, or to give a damn about what’s being thought of who she is as a mother. This knowing savours honesty, embraces the mess of it all, and respects and believes in the journey EXACTLY as it is.⁣

And, let’s be real, it’s easier because of the meds.⁣

Thank you, easier.⁣

💚⁣ ⁣

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I promise.

Dear me,⁣

I’m sitting here on our phone looking back at pictures you took. It’s January, 2016. You have just recently become a mom for the first time, and are six weeks postpartum.⁣

The majority of the pictures are of the babe your body created. You aren’t in many, and in those that you are, there is a purposeful effort on your behalf for the photo’s focus to be on anything else but you.⁣

But, I look to you anyways. Your face. Your hair. Your eyes. The layers that tell a story. Faint smiles, tangled curls in sloppy buns, dark circles and sleepy squints, a breast milk stained cardigan on it’s sixth day of wear. The story of a woman trying. Trying and tired, trying and unsure, trying and afraid.⁣

Ah, all that what would come in those months ahead. The countless hours of colic, the incredibly little, little sleep, the exasperation at the useless futility of everything you tried, the heart pounding anxiety at anything “gone wrong” that would envelope you in a bundle of trauma. The culmination of it all breaking you. Chasms laid wide, intrusive thoughts hungrily consuming the darkness now bare. An unspoken guilt that consumed you, perpetuating and furthering the cycle. Rinse, repeat, remorse and regret.⁣

It will be okay, I whisper to you. Gently placing my finger on your shoulder on the screen, as if it could be a hug that transcends time and instils in you the hope you didn’t have. You WILL overcome. The colic goes away, eventually. He sleeps, eventually. You get help from doctors, finally. It starts to work. The pieces come together. You find what he needs. You find what you need. Together, you thrive.⁣

You’re even crazy enough in five years to do it all over again, mental health reckonings and all. But, we figure it out that time sooner. ⁣She actually sleeps. She’s happier. She’s easier.⁣

Right now, though.⁣

It feels like you can’t breath.⁣

I know. I hear you.⁣

But, you will.⁣

We will.⁣

I promise.

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We need better books. (You probably do, too.)

Due to the ongoing/never-ending state of the world and my recent foray into #kidsbookstagram, I’ve been taking a MUCH closer look at the collection of books I have amassed for my children. In that looking, and to my shame, I have noticed something.⁣

The majority of our collection gets a FAILING grade on diversity and inclusion.⁣

I could blame this on the fact that 95% of the books we own are second hand. Furthermore, 90% have come from thrift stores like Value Village and Talize. In those instances, you pretty much get what you get. But, for the other 5% I purchased second-hand online, the same cannot be said.⁣

What it truly boils down to is this, however:⁣

I come to this realization in a position of privilege.⁣

As a white person, I’ve never had to sit down and ponder if there were enough books in our collection that represent us.⁣

I’ve never had to purposefully purchase or borrow books that represent us.⁣

White people hold this position of power.⁣

We are already in every book of nearly every type — to the point of over-saturation.⁣

People of differing colour, beliefs, abilities, sex, gender, sexual orientations – are not.⁣

All of this were things I already knew. But, did knowing it change or effect my children’s book collection? Nope.⁣

‘Cause as a white person, these are all taken for granted luxuries of our hegemonic identity.⁣

My beliefs in a socially justice world may be strong, and I have been strongly educated as such (thanks, @douglascollege and @capilanou) but I still have so so SO much more work to do — both on myself, and in the raising of my children. ⁣Part of this is reexamining the books we own, the books were read, and the conversations that come from these books.⁣

I humbly accept this moment of learning, and am committed to making a change.

Thanks, @nwplibrary, in helping me take a first step forward today.⁣

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Asking the REAL questions.

Here are the questions I asked myself as I attempted to make sense of this gong show of a board book collection:

  • Why do we own this many board books? W H Y?⁣
  • You know you can’t even fit all the ones we own on this shelf and you should probably stop buying them, yeah?⁣
  • Where the hell is our Gruffalo book?! I guess I’ll have to get another. ⁣
  • You know what makes for great photos, Sarah? A black bookshelf in a hallway that has dungeness lighting AND it’s a dark + dreary night. Bravo. ⁣
  • E-readers are so much easier to sort. How old can O be before he starts using one?⁣
  • Wait. No. Never. I have to have a reason to keep buying him and M pretty books for all of eternity. RIGHT?!⁣
  • None of how you’re organizing this makes sense, I hope you know. Do you?⁣
  • Why do we still own Rainbow Fish? Donate that nonsense.⁣
  • You didn’t buy “such and such” when you were out thrifting last. Why? Next time, next time. ⁣
  • WHYYYY DOES NOTHING FIT LIKE I WANT IT TOOOOOO?⁣
  • Have you ever heard of a damn library, woman?!⁣

I am a mess. No lie.

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Today was not our day.

[I’m posting this because among all the perfect Christmas posts/photos you’ve seen these past few days, it can feel very easy to feel inferior or like you haven’t done enough. If this is you, I see you – I hear you – I am you.]

Today was not our day.

My body deciding that 4:30AM was a perfectly acceptable time to be awake. By 2PM I was running on fumes, which made it very hard for me to cope with…

A profoundly fussy, hostile and (slightly) soul sucking baby still feeling after effects from her most recent vaccinations. Literally un-put-downable, could only be with me and had to always be moving or nursing (when she let me) to abate her hysterics.

+

A tired, overstimulated five year not use to all the gifts, the screen time, and the very many “inputs” of the holidays, but trying so hard to hold his own.

D was able to thankfully hold his own, however, despite having been up the majority of the night before with what we strongly suspect is restless leg syndrome related.

But, to top it off, the Chinese dinner we ordered in (we’re either honouring the half Jewish part of D or facing the realities of 2020, you pick) has left me wth a terribly upset tummy.

We were blessed to be able to open gifts with good friends of our’s over Zoom. But, the other stuff? UGH.

For now, I’m off to eat Reece’s in bed (sorry, tummy) and get lost in the most mindless possible drivel I can find on my phone before passing out in a sea of wrappers.

At least we got new sheets for Christmas?

Tomorrow is another day.

Thank freakin’ god.

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Nothing has changed.

I still love board books (and #kidlit in general!).⠀⠀
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Why? Here’s the history.

The first board book in our collection was purchased around five and a half years ago. In a thrift store and pregnant at the time with O, I came across the classic, Where’s Spot, and knew that I HAD to buy it. As an early childhood educator, I had seen first-hand how much joy Eric Hill brought to children in those pages and the magic hidden below the flaps, waiting to be lifted. The hunt and success of finding Spot was always such a celebrated ending, and one that brought smiles to all children alike. ⠀⠀
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As an avid reader and book appreciator, it also dawned on me then and there how much I wanted to pass that love on to O. So, over the years, one board book turned into ten, fifty, one hundred, and two hundred. I’ve lost count at how many we’re at now. The bonding experience through board books with my him has been incredible, however, and the structure of board books got me hooked. Sturdy, colorful, strong and meaningful, board books became a treasured part of the fabric of my relationship with my child, and followed us everywhere we went. ⠀⠀
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O is now nearly at the age of moving past board books now (*sad sigs!*). This past August I had M, however, which means at least another five years of board books to bond over, fall in love with together, and learn through. Luckily this means for me all the more opportunities to scavenge thrift stores for new and great (board book) finds, and opportunities to again reminisce with my children over my favourites. Some may say the birth of this second child was serendipitously timed. ;)⠀⠀
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There may or may not be more on this in the future, here in this blog. If there is and starts to be, now you know why!

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How far we’ve come.

I breast fed O until he was 17 months. Assumption dictated I would do the same with my daughter. When M was born, she latched perfectly. Hurray! Then she had to undergo blue light therapy in the hospital for jaundice and somehow, among it, she forgot how to latch. ⁣

It has been a HARD journey since. I’ve been trying many many many MANY times a day to help M relearn what she had lost, and then following it by hours of pumping so that I could feed her (while D gave her expressed bottles). She was often frustrated, I was often at tears. It felt like all hours of the day were spent on this effort. I was pretty much stuck at home, with my breast-pump as my ankle monitor. I read what felt like every single article in existence about breastfeeding, and my anxiety was a MESS. ⁣

(Exclusive pumpers and formula users, I have full respect for you. Please know that.)⁣

But, good news! After about three thousand attempts (no lie — I’m serious) and four weeks, M is finally latching and doing so consistently. It’s not perfect, and we both have some growing to get there, but, we made it. ⁣

Achieving this with M has been monumental to my mental health. Now, I figure out how to transition her fully to breastfeeding, while ensuring she gets enough and keeps gaining weight. This will be another journey of learning, but it is one I am prepared to embrace. Slowly and carefully for my anxiety’s sake, but in proud abundance of how far we’ve already come. 💚⁣ ⁣

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Lost without you.

I am guilty of not publicly saying this or feeling this enough. But, I am incredibly thankful for my husband.

The past seven days have been some of the most trying in our lives (there are a *lot* more details, some unfortunate and messy, to M’s birth story/first few days of her life — ones I didn’t elaborate on in the positive bits I wrote for the announcement/Instagram).

Saying that it’s just been hard would be grossly inadequate at doing justice to the difficulties of those seven days, and what’s to come of them.

Through all of it, however, D has been a bastion of rock solid support, continually going above and beyond, and working tirelessly to hold all of us together. I would have been absolutely lost without him.

Thank you, hunny. 💚⁣ ⁣

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She’s here!

Our daughter, M, has been born!

Interested in her birth story? See below.

My labour with her was entirely slow and boring until it wasn’t.

In the span of an hour and a half: I went from a cervix that was taking YEARS to dilate, to her heart rate dropping and there being a very good potential of a scary, emergency c-section. But, the induction medication was stopped, she rallied back, and my cervix woke the heck up and went VERY VERY quickly to 10CM. Less than 18 pushes later she was here.

How it ended? I was told to stop halfway on my last push (with baby’s head already out!) as the OBGYN had left the room, thinking it would take longer. I laughed ‘cause the same dang thing happened with O, and my laughter finished pushing her out of me. Oops. Sorry guys, lol! ⁣

She’s healthy, getting good at latching, and doing a great job at already making us tired.

We love you, baby girl. 💚⁣ ⁣

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I wish that for you always.

Sending a special shout out today to the moms out there who feel DONE.

Done ‘cause of #stayhome, done ‘cause they just can’t anymore, done ‘cause they can’t live up to societal expectations of motherhood, or done ‘cause all they want right now is a good hour of not being mom and a stiff drink.

I hear you.

I feel you.

I am you.

You are worthy.

You are human.

Your honesty keeps it real, and to others out there struggling, it is achingly necessary.

There is beauty in that rawness, and it is you.

May today give you a chance to breathe.

I wish that for you always.

Happy you day. 💚⁣ ⁣

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Where I have arrived to while #stayinghome.

  • Wearing a purse feels like a strange phenomenon of our society that has absolutely no bearing on reality.
  • Watching people gather in groups on *insert whatever TV series I’m bingeing* make me feel MOST worried for them.
  • I measure my gas mileage in terms of how many weeks per tank. I’m almost at four!
  • The once a week grocery run is actually kind of *exciting*.
  • My slacky home clothes are legitimately in shock with how much I’m using them, and are kindly responding by falling apart. I look *hot*.
  • The concept of doing my hair can fuck right off for the rest of eternity.
  • I nap everyday while my kid naps and I legitimately have no idea how I will function without said nap once the world goes back to normal. I’m gonna be SO screwed.
  • The lack of friends I have that I actually hang out with has yet to make this feel all that different, lol.
  • These words: “we can’t, it’s closed” have magically transformed my kid into: 1) being able to calmly stay at home ALL day while not really “going” anywhere and 2) into being a CHAMPION of long walks (as opposed to playgrounds)… When before he would have lost his *shit* on me about both.

These are *fascinating* times.

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Keeping us sane.

Shout out to the biggest thing that is keeping me sane during this period of pandemic isolation: daily, morning walks with my kid.

They’re long, meandering, and not always with rhyme and reason (as I am often subject to a four year old’s whims), but they are making this experience survivable and pleasant.

Now, if someone could please help my kid realize that paths with pebbles are all good to walk on, and not the devil itself, I’d love you for life.

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It could always be worse.

I am now working from home. My work is navigating us doing our jobs remotely for the first time ever, as I don’t think they ever thought it would get to this stage. It’s a bit of a mess, but I’m home.

D is also working from home. It’s an easier feat for him, thankfully.

We are additionally keeping O home with us until the shit storm that is covid19 blows over.

But, if you don’t do screen time with your kid, how the eff do you work from home with said kid and survive? Make a schedule, have activities set up that you don’t have to man — those parts I get. But he’s a preschooler who doesn’t always appeal to logic, and wants us to play with him and be present and we cant ’cause WORK EMAILS ^ 3894792374.

Additionally, if you have no office space whatsoever to accommodate working from home, and one of you is stuck on the couch (me /weep), how do the ergonomics of your body possibly survive?

It could always be worse (I could still be on the floor in ECE right now), but I did not fully think of these things. My back hurts. I’m worried about my kid.

Working from home lunches are superbly more tasty, however.

There is that.

Perhaps that alone will get me though…

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It may surprise you.

I was at Walmart the other day, and walking behind a couple who were loudly referring to people who were hoarding (due to the current circumstances) as idiots and a bunch of not so nice, other names. #peopleofwalmart, I know.

I get that the hoarding of food is making this exponentially harder than it needs to be for some people, especially vulnerable people, and that it’s shitty. I am dreading going grocery shopping next for our weekly run, and I don’t even have specific, hard to find needs. For some, it’s going to be frightful.

What I also get, however, is that the act of stocking up on food, toilet paper, etc., it lets those who need it to feel power, and control. Not many are able to find that among the current news cycle right now, or at ALL, and that can be frightening. For some, the one thing that brings them feelings of comfort and security among times like these, is buying, and buying lots, and being absolutely sure that they have enough. And the visible act of being able to see a pantry loaded to the gills with food when it kind of feels like the whole world is shutting down outside? I absolutely get how that could be a calming answer to many worries. Especially if you’re a mom, like I am.

Selfish? Perhaps, but I struggle with throwing that around as a blanket statement. In some cases that have come to be publicized, it likely applies. But, in others, I think there’s more to it than we realize.

We all deal in our own ways. We may not always agree with it, but among the chaos that is now, try employing empathy to see the why instead of exasperation at seeing the what. It may surprise you.

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Do not want.

I’ve said this and I’ll say it again, I did not expect the mind fuck of parenting that is worrying about your kid(s).

It’s like this gigantic, all encompassing, slightly obnoxious layer to add to the stress vortext that is life.

You can have this part of the job back, Parenting, my brain hurts

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And now, postpartum OCD.

Postpartum OCD entered my parenting journey at six months in.

It took me doing a lot of thorough and careful research after a counsellor, someone not at liberty to diagnose, made an offhand comment while recommending I see a psychiatrist during my postpartum anxiety and postpartum depression battles.

Despite it having been years since, I have never spoken publicly about this.

I can count on less than one hand the people I have privately told that I have about my postpartum OCD, internal thoughts and actions.

Many of my closest family members do not know.

If I had previously shared my struggles with you about my supposed postpartum anxiety or depression, I purposely did not correct myself.

And typing this right now?

It’s terrifying.

There will forever be a piece of me that believes speaking this truth to power will result in my child being taken away from me.

Even in this very post of me admitting to it, it will glaze over the details of *how* and in what ways I suffer from postpartum OCD. The fear of repercussions — it is strong and deeply, deeply real.

One truth I am not afraid to glaze over is this: there are few things in the world that make you feel more like a terrible person and a terrible mother than postpartum OCD. (Yes, I am far past postpartum now, but I still have the same symptoms — though not as often, so I struggle with what else to call it). The guilt that comes with this disorder is a heavy, heavy load to bear. It hurts in ways I didn’t know one could feel pain, and it can be a gut punch from nowhere that can derail a whole day.

But, I have learned to reframe it. I have learned to positively see the whys. I have learned to function.

Others haven’t. Postpartum OCD is not something widely understood, or rarely talked about. Predominantly from the very people who need help the most, those who are suffering in silence and with my same fears.

If I am ever to truly heal, my truth must be heard.

And if you’ve ever been here, or are here, you are not alone. I hear you. I am you. This will not defeat us.

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True north.

There are about a million and a half things I didn’t realize before becoming a mom. Each of which I feel I could write books about if I ever found the will, want and time. Side note: the arrow points to unlikely.

One of these things has me deep in reflection on the day after having now been a mother for four years. (Happy birthday, my bug!). I get odd urges in these moments of reflection to have to write, to make sense of and to hash out. If I don’t, my head won’t shut up.

Here’s the thing.

Before being a mom, or for those who choose not to be a mom, there are things which guide your choices and that move you through the day. Desire, motivation, ambition, necessity — these are but a few of the many.

But a part of you in this regard fundamentally changes in motherhood. You still have those same drivers, but they are now grounded to your child. It’s as if they are now your compass, your dowsing rod, and your true north.

Everything, and I mean everything I do, considers my child. The benefits to, the repercussions of, the impact to, the growth from. It’s instinctual, automatic and dug in deep into these bones.

I don’t think this is the whole “becoming more selfless” of motherhood thing that people sometimes rag childless people on. I’ve never agreed with that, anyways. I know plenty of selfless, childless, wonderful people.

It’s more than that. It’s like the part of your body that formed your kid hasn’t ever fully separated from you. It’s grown into who your child is today, and it becomes such an inseparable, huge piece of you that you feel it in your utter core. It’s still you, but it’s also not, it’s more than you – and that more than you?

It bewitches you. It envelopes, it consumes, it sets your heart afloat, and it begs you not to fuck this up. It reckons, it’s a merciless relenting of love and letting go, and it refuses to go unanswered in anything and everything you do. It’s in your every thought and your every choice.

It is your new bearing, and from it, you start anew from the very foundation of doing you.

I was not ready for this. I did not expect this. But, I am here for this. 💚⁣ ⁣

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Is this how mom’s workout?

Introducing my, “If you want to watch TV, you’ve gotta walk while you do it” corner. This has also been paired with making better choices with what I eat. I’m trying to move more and eat smarter. I’m 8 weeks in.⠀

I’m not doing this to purposely diet or loose a ton of weight (though it wouldn’t hurt), but to find a balance. To feel better internally. To live longer for my kid. To not want to die when I have to walk up the steps at work. (Note: it’s helping!). ⠀

Pairing an iPad to the treadmill has helped make it a pretty flawless experience for me, and that’s why I’m posting this. A lot of the time I forget that I’m exercising, even while trying to keep a brisk pace. As a result I exercise more, I watch less TV (‘cause let’s be real), and I read more outside of it. ⠀

But, I now need from you guys suggestions of *REALLY AMAZINGLY GOOD* shows to treadmill-binge on Netflix as I’m about to run out of series I can count on. So, lay ‘em on me! Though nothing too scary (I’m a wuss) or funny, cause I about killed myself laughing by almost falling off the treadmill when watching the last season of Orange is the New Black. Whoops.

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Fumbling towards.

I’m trying to make sense of who I am as a mom. Still.

I don’t really know what this making sense looks like, tastes like, or feels like to wear against the skin of my arms, but I keep trying to reach forward into the realm of mom identities and find something to latch onto.

I’m not the crunchy mom. Not the boss mom. Not the Pinterest/crafty mom. Not the helicopter mom. Not the wine mom. Not the perfect mom. Definitely not the cool mom.

There is nothing wrong with any of these moms, I’m just not them.

In this attempting to make sense of my mom identity, I’m doing something I try hard to not do to anyone else. I’m labeling myself, and admittedly masking it as attempt to try to figure out where I fit. I’m taking a square and pushing it into the round hole of mom identities, and expecting to meet my deliverance.

These walls are too thick.

I guess I could be a wannabe minimalist mom. An RIE mom (on my good days). An obviously plus sized mom. A boring/little too honest mom. Kinda the hot mess mom. A “reads too much and really loves sleep and chocolate” mom.

Or, in any case, the sum of those moms.

But what lies in the lingering and claiming/writing/marinating of such mom identity(s)? Is there sense to uncover? Ease to be found? Will I be less of a foggy mess and more (wiggles fingers *magically*) “with purpose”?

Side note: will blogging in this bloody thing become not be such a forgetful, directionless conquest?

Or in claiming something, anything, on this mothering journey, and trying to fit into it — will it only further lead to my own bewildered, dazzling confusion?

Perhaps this making sense… it is more than a label. More than a type. More than a niche.

Perhaps it is simply settling on where I find myself smiling in this mothering journey, and letting that be the sense and the identity that I need.

I don’t know. But I’m fumbling. It is a peaceful, awkward tumble. I’m reaching towards and casting away. Eventually, I’ll land.

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Educaring? What’s that?

When O was born, I worked on the floor as an ECE (I also did so [exhaustingly] for awhile after he was born, but that’s a story for another day). While pregnant, I deeply nested and dove into my ECE books (I spent a lot of time with this wonderful one), and in doing so, I became grounded in the tenements of RIE.

If you have no idea what RIE is, see here.

If you want to know what RIE means when it come to parenting, see here.

The more I learned about RIE, the more it began to shape the majority of my interactions with the children I worked with. Once O was born, it was my go to. It continues to be to this day. It hasn’t always been easy, and sometimes it asks of me to do things a LOT differently on this parenting journey than what is typical, but it has been SO worth it. D too follows RIE, and while at first I think that was due to my insistence, he has long come into his own with it all.

The bases (at least to me) of RIE lie in respecting, trusting and genuinely hearing the child(ren) in your life. This sounds simple enough, but it asks of you to turn SO many parenting standards directly on their head to really, really follow it through. Your language, actions, intentions and purpose? They all change. Seriously. Think about the process of authentically trusting and respecting a newborn, toddler, etc. Everything modern society is taught to do when parenting goes *exactly* against that, much without realizing it.

How so? I’ll leave that to the “experts” explain. One could first read about RIE through Magda Gerber. These days, Janet Lansbury is big on the scene with RIE, and she shares a lot of really great resources on how to go about making it a reality in your home and/or child care. Lisa Sunbury talks about it a lot, too.

(Note: I know that in the topic of respectful caregiving/parenting as a whole, there are a LOT more resources than these two, and it’s also called a lot more things now, too (i.e., Resptecful Parenting). Janet and Lisa were just my fallbacks as I learned, initially struggled with and came to strongly find my footing with RIE.)

I bring up the topic of RIE, as it matters immensely in my journey of being a parent. I’m not here to preach about it. I’m terrible at writing in this blog, so I likely won’t write about it, either. I rather wish for it to be known that in what I do post in this life, be it personally or here, RIE is the direction from which I’m/we’re working. It’s important, and it matters. RIE might not always make sense to you or perhaps seem a bit peculiar to you, and that’s okay. For our family, it works. Remarkably so.

And, if you’re curious, RIE might work for your family too! Let me know if you’d like to know more.

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The words.

I’m unexpectedly revisiting an old journal of thoughts that I opened as I couldn’t remember it’s purpose.

These are the words of postpartum anxiety and postpartum depression.

Attempting to get philosophical about how much I’ve grown or healed since these days is a bit too wax-poetic for the raw pain of what this experience was and sometimes continues to be for me.

But, I can now say, and truly believe, that my kid loves me. 💚⁣ ⁣

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You always will be.

7 years married, 11.5 years together. ⁣

D, I have no idea how you continue to love me, support me and put up with me. Truly. It baffles me.⁣

We’ve changed a lot these past years — and not always in the same direction. We’ve given each other the space and the love we needed to find ourselves among such change, however. We’ve experienced the reckoning that is having a kid, and how to put the pieces back together of our marriage and our identities in its wake. We’ve loved, we’ve struggled, we’ve worked hard, and we’ve refused to give up. ⁣

We are entwined. Deeply. These roots are infallible. We might not always see eye to eye, and sure, we make each other a little crazy, but you are my home. I know not myself or my life without you. ⁣

And you’re still the one.

You always will be. 💚⁣ ⁣

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Things I’m “really” good at.

  • Asking for advice on a mom’s group about how to make something better, get lots of good advice, but fail to follow ANY of said advice ’cause who the hell has time for that. WHO.
  • Loving my friends terribly from afar but never ever reaching out to tell them ’cause dear god that’s way too much effort but I really do love them REALLY.
  • Hating making lunches for the next day. I am good at hating. Like SUPER good.
  • Appearing as a calm, collected and rational human being to the parents/child care providers I interact with at work while my inside HAS ABSOLUTELY NO FREAKIN’ IDEA WHERE HER BRAIN EVEN IS AND WHEN IT EXACTLY LEFT.
  • Accepting the fact that my kid’s favourite pair of socks are grey ones that 1) say Thursday one them, 2) have snowmen on them, and 3) are referred to by him as his Baby Beluga socks AND DON’T YOU DARE QUESTION IT, MOMMA.
  • Postponing trying to find new/easy/no cook/no bake lunch ideas (YES, THIS IS SOMETHING I’M *STILL* WORKING ON [/SOB]) and instead posting shit like this on FB. I hate you, Pinterest. For life.
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’cause HUGS.

(Quick note: O has never really been one for hugs or cuddles. He very infrequently gives hugs on his own volition and you often have to ask. They’ll last like a second and then he’s off to see the world again. It’s been like this for as long as I can remember.

1. When my kid sick, as he has been quite sick this week with the flu, a part of me is sad while another part is content. He cuddles when he’s sick! I get alllll the HUGS!

2. When he’s hugely mad and pissed off during hair wash time in the bath (his biggest enemy of the day), he demands hugs to make it end sooner. I don’t even care if it soaks me, he gets them, ‘cause HUGS.

3. When he’s stalling in not doing something D needs him to do, and uses hugging me to stall it even more, I’ll admittedly lean a bit more into those hugs than I should… ‘cause HUGS.

4. When I’m the one thing he can’t have (cause I’ve gotta be elsewhere or cause it’s D’s turn to do something) and he uses hugs to make it not so, I also lean into those and probably feed more into the situation than I should, but HUGS.

5. When I drop him off at childcare and I know I should be quick about it so separation is easier on him/me, but he’s giving me hugs, I’ll totally delay (sorry teachers) ‘cause HUGS.

Long story short, the potential of hugs make me a slightly terrible but awesome (?!) mom.

And, if I’m ignoring you or the whole ‘cause a hug is happening with my kid, it’s not you, it’s me.

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He CAN.

We just got back from a trip to Las Vegas.

We’re home, unpacked, resting and watching O engage with his play space like it’s the most magical ever (and thank goodness for that, ‘cause we are tapped and have nothing at this moment to give him).

We may be tired, but the trip worked out well.

It was sad to say goodbye, as it always is, but I’m happy to have learned more about the resilient parts of my child.

He CAN stay the night somewhere else and actually sleep.

He CAN stay up late, or skip a nap, and not be a total mess as a result.

He CAN withstand a plane ride and all it’s weird/loud sounds and “not being able to move around lots” bits.

He CAN warm up to animals and in time, pet them and grow to be okay around them.

He CAN be at large gatherings for long periods of time and not completely shutdown because of all the loud sounds.

He CAN make his own way in places he’s never been and with people he’s never met or remembers ever meeting.

He CAN find camaraderie with his counsins and love his Vegas family from the get go, even if he hasn’t seen them face to face much in his life.

He CAN bust a sweet dance move to any length of music (expected or not), dislike other people’s “ceilings” and be terrified of his baby cousin no matter how freakin’ hard you assure him that he’s safe.

Some of these things may be obvious, and they should be even more obvious to me as an early childhood educator.

That’s the thing with post-partum anxiety + first time motherhood, though.

You convince yourself of everything but the obvious.

It was so good to be proved wrong. 💚⁣ ⁣

Thank you to those who told me it was time. You were right.

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For a few hours, that is.

Parenting is so weird.

Some days I’m pretty sure I’m the worst and that my kid is gonna grow up and think I’m the worst. Or that I look at my phone too much and am missing his whole life. Or that I should be better at socializing him on the weekends. Or that. Or that. Or that.

But then there are days we wake up, and happily engage him in putting away dishes and loading the dishwasher, putting away laundry and loading the washer, sweeping the kitchen, and helping pour and stir ingredients into the crock pot for dinner — all before 9:30AM like a Montessori/Waldorf (?) dream team, as he’s positively BEAMING the whole time.

And then I think again that this whole parenting thing is gonna be okay.

For a few hours, that is.

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I don’t know how to stop.

I have an obsession with buying/giving my kid books to read.

I don’t know how to stop.

I adore reading to him and do it lots, I keep finding amazing steals at Value Village (98% of these are second hand and were $1.25 each!) and I figure if you’re gonna spoil your kid, ya might as well do it with books in hopes of helping build a love of literacy.

Right?

Right?!?

Riiiiiiiiight?!?!?

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Every Child Matters.

I didn’t learn about residential schools until 2011. Having went to high school in the states, it was never covered in the curriculum (nor are there enough mentions of the atrocities committed against the Indigenous people there, but that’s a story for a different day). It was unsettling to have my picture perfect image of peaceful and kind Canada disrupted in such a way at the age of 27. Even more so by first finding out about them in a class of fellow college students, all younger than me, who were talking about the crimes of the residential schools like common knowledge. Wait, what?!⁣⁣
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But in learning about it, I learned how to be different. I learned how to better understand the systematic racism that prevents people of the First Nations of being able to do and simply be. I learned how to check my own ways of thinking, and how the world (and sometimes myself) can be so quick to Other something based off of unfounded fears and assumptions. I also learned how to ask better of the people around me, and to not be afraid to call them on bullshit that does nothing but further divide us. Not just for myself, but for children in this world that deserve so, so much more.⁣⁣

My coworker and I wore these shirts today. On the way out of work we were stopped by a teenager. Our office is rented through the Burnaby Neighbourhood House, and it runs lots of community programs for people of various cultures and circumstances, etc. The teenager asked my coworker what our shirts meant. Having seen them earlier in school that day worn by his fellow peers, he didn’t know what they represented, and wanted to know more.

I too still have a lot to learn. Too many of us do. #orangeshirtday day is just a step of many that need to come next in terms of truth and reconciliation. One that I will soon took with my son. It’s a step I’ll be proud to take.
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#everychildmatters

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Ceiling! You okay?!

My kid talks to our fire alarms, whom he has dubbed as “ceiling”. This started back in April, after they went off twice while coking was happening in the kitchen with my best friend, Lynette. He was scared of them for quite awhile, and still sometimes is (especially when we go other places that have fire alarms above us), but now? O and ceiling have a full on dialogue.

“Ceiling! You okay?!” (when he thinks he hears a fire alarm, which he believes is the sound of the ceiling crying, no matter how many times we’ve told him differently).

“Ceiling is sad” (a continual belief on his part, to which we often reply with, “Ceiling is happy, actually!”).

“You have a good day, Ceiling?!” (after coming home from child care).

“I have to go get (such and such), Ceiling” (told to ceiling as he passes under it [which he often asks permission of it to do so]).

And this morning: “I see ceiling’s mouth.” (we have no idea about this one, though it is mildly terrifying).

There’s even some occasional sass:”Ceiling! You have to cut your nails!” (after he’s not let us cut his nails for the past week).

“Ceiling! *insert testy toddler trash talk here*” (we have realized that in terms of pecking order, O has placed ceiling on the lowest possible dominator).

This is not a part of parenting I expected, like, at ALL… but, I’m here for the journey. As crazy as it may make me. 💚⁣ ⁣

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This is what I know.

For the past five or so days I’ve been on a massive cleaning, purging, MAKE IT LOOK GOOD frenzy. It was brought on by some other changes going on in my life, changes that are going to give me more time to invest love into our home, and this endeavour of organizational overhaul was seemingly the best place to start.

(Can I just say that organizing does my brain better than ANY therapy, religion or mindfulness could ever dare hope to? It’s good. So freakin’ good. Like thrillingly good. ANYWAYS.)

As I’ve been tossing, donating, giving away, straightening, fixing, redecorating, focusing on what matters, etc., I’ve had time to think. Time to dwell. Time to ponder and ruminate.

And I’ve come to this conclusion, a conclusion in answer to my last post… if I wish to write (which I do), and have it be from a lived experience, then isn’t the answer simply to write what I *do* know?

And what is it that I know, anyways?

So, to begin (and perhaps one day end…):

I know what it is to be a mom and feel like I have absolutely no freakin’ idea what I’m doing, but, amazingly, things seemingly work out okay and my kid loves my anyways (*pats self on back*) – even if I genuinely have NO idea how.

I know what it is to be on the receiving side of the toxic realm of mommy shaming in this world we live in, and how inexcusable, hurtful and NOT necessary it is, and that I so very much want to spread LOVE to make all the moms I know feel worthy and good enough – ‘cause I don’t always feel that way myself.

I know what it is to be a mom of a child with special needs/special rights, who asks of the world differently than what it’s able to typically give, and the tears and the struggles and the JOYS that come with such an identity of nurturing.

I know what it is to mentally struggle as a mom, and to struggle deeply, bearing fourth my vulnerabilities to the therapists and close friends in my world, always hoping my story gets better… or helps another know that the light isn’t always so dark.

I know what it is as a mom and wife to be blindsided by the addition of a baby and now toddler, and how it forever changes one’s marriage, and how HARD that can often be to help kindle, heal and give it the attention that it needs.

I know what it is to be a mom without a village, or without a real and *present* network of support (except Tina, god bless that woman), and how “without” that can make one feel, and sometimes less than – and the startling realization of being able to physically count on so few.

I know what it is to become a mom at an older age than some, and the shock of a system it can still be at times to put on mommy shoes when for so, so long that was never, ever the case – and the at times *incredibly* trying adjustment it can be to shift into a mothering state of mind.

I know what it is to be a somewhat “new to being a mom” in this very digital world of Facebook mom groups, mom blogs, “overly eager advice sharing people with a keyboard”, and the trials, triumphs and tribulations that have so far come with parenting in a (perhaps too) technological rich realm of information/misinformation.

I know what it is as a mom to want to embrace said technology, but only giving teeny tiny little bits of it at a time to my child, deeply afraid of it being harmful to his growing brain or becoming unstoppable – as technology in my life past was want to do.

I know what it is to be a mom that is guided deeply by the tenements of trust and respect for my child, even when he’s doing what a two year old often does, and how I refuse to shush or distract him from what he’s feeling/going through for the sake of an easier road – even if an easier road sometimes would be much, much easy to bare.

I know what it is to be a mom who is bigger than most, who looks different than others, and who doesn’t always love her body – even if my kid ADORES it, tummy and all (which boggles my dang mind).

And as all moms do, I know what it is to sacrifice. To give up sleep, food, my own needs and my own wants, all for a child who is rested, full, healthy and happy. How he gets there, I’m not so sure, but I’m seemingly doing *something* right.

This is what I know.

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She writes.

My urge to write is deep and nagging. I long to divulge like the books I bury myself in, hoping to drip in similar soliloquy and metaphor. I just don’t possess such abilities, be it I lack the imagination, right words or the experience, and thus the words I sting together sound hallow. Like those of a school girl bitterly writing her pained experiences of the heartaches of being a teenager, devoid of an aged knowledge, but rife with scorn and annoyance. (See how forced it is even when I try?)

There is little bitterness in my life right now, however. I am in a good spot. My mom journey is in a good spot. I am happy in this spot. I am comfortable in this spot. But it is in pains that I find I can do my best writing (though this is based on knowledge from my high school years, full of similar strife to what I previously referenced). Does sorrow still hold my best words, my best promise of a written creation? Or have I moved beyond that? Have I become something more?

I am unsure and at times unwilling to find out. My issues with the way I write, wishing it to be so much more than it is, stop me from pouring fingers onto keyboard clicks. I don’t truly know what to write, and I fear of sounding juvenile, of bringing to something a lack of meaning from a contently led life. I fear not knowing enough to truly write from lived knowledge, but rather bits and bots placed on paper made to make happy those who know my writing. Aimed to impress with overly used clichés, familiar heartache and the same old swoons.

But the satisfaction of those swoons quickly thaw, and I long for more. I long to be deeply understood. I long to pour all of me out, thin and transparent against the screen, and to then be carefully collected and embraced. I don’t truly know what there is of me inside this brain and body that doesn’t feel embraced or understood, however, but there lays a hunger — a dull ache of words having gone unsaid. Emotions not given their due right. Hope and fears diverted rather than divulged.

I want to follow that ache, to live it, to drown in it, to write it – and to come up from its depth with eyes wide open.

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A story of a teeny tiny bruise.

Want to know how exciting my life is as a mom? Read on.

I’m in a dressing room at Change (a bra store here in Canada).

I’ve just tried on a new and different bra after bringing back two I bought last week that 1) one had already broken and 2) kept stabbing me in my side-boob (looks like I wasn’t sized correctly the first time around). So, I’m rocking nothing but a bra and a pair of SWEET tights, and the fitting attendant asks me to do some exercises for “four minutes” (who comes up with these times?) to make sure this bra doesn’t also try to murder me. Sure thing, I say.

She leaves, and I start with some stretches. Stretches soon turn into a full out dance party, and THEN out comes the Sprinkler, ‘cause there aint no dance party until that move hits the floor. However, I underestimate the amount of space in the dress room and proceed to wack my ‘sprinkler’ hand HARD against the mirror. It hurts like shit, I’m screaming inside as there are people on either side of me in their own dressing rooms wondering what the fresh hell it is that I’m doing, and I proceed to spend the next three minutes quietly sitting down and assuring myself that this bra will do just fine.

Thankfully, it’s had no issues yet.

AND THAT IS MY STORY OF A TEENY TINY BRUISE.

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Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Email I just sent to O’s childcare…

“I just wanted to say thank you. When I arrived yesterday, I got out of the car and immediately heard something unexpected. My son’s name was loudly being chanted, “O! O! O! O!”. As I walked closer and through the parking lot, I realized both classes were in the front and nealy everyone was cheering for O as he used his walker. Having never seen him use it (as he’s refused here at home), and seeing all the children cheer him on, I immeiately started crying. It was such a huge and special moment for me. I then came into the gate, got down on my knees, and had my son walk to me (in his walker) for the first time ever. He was so proud, and so happy, and I was so very overjoyed for him. As I hugged him through my tears, one of the 3-5s asked a friend why I was crying, and I believe it was L that answered, “Because she’s happy!”.

And she’s right.

I was profoundly happy, and seeing that moment had just made my week, month and whole year.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.”

*sobs*

💚⁣ ⁣

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My heart soars.

O’s childcare is slowly getting him used to being in the 3-5 room, as he will be moving to it in September (he will be getting a support worker to help him once he gets there, thankfully).

His impending move has slowly meant spending time with children significantly older than him. They all walk, run and are quite tall. Especially when you are stuck in the third percentile and essentially sitting nearly everywhere you go (with scooting being his main form of transportation). Sometimes, it can be scary when the world and everyone in it towers over you.

But, and this is what brings me to feel an overflowing abundance of joy, the 3-5s have started to notice this. In ways of empathy, acceptance and brilliance, they have realized that he needs people on his level. So, yesterday, they began to scoot with him. They sat on the ground with him. They played with him. All in ways where they could equally reach, interact and socially engage.

My heart aches at times to see O’s differences and the special rights that he needs. At times like these, however, it soars.

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THIS.

Trust him.

Respect him. ⁣

Observe him. ⁣

Listen to him. ⁣

Ceremoniously slow. ⁣

Wait. ⁣

Breathe. ⁣

Soften. ⁣

He’s not giving you a hard time, he’s having a hard time. ⁣

We are on the same team. ⁣

Don’t react, respond. ⁣

He’s only little once. ⁣

Remember how old he is. ⁣

Do with, as opposed to do to. ⁣

You are here to help, not make it worse. ⁣

You do have time for this. ⁣

This is what matters. ⁣

Set limits early. ⁣

When you know better, you can do better. ⁣

This is an opportunity to connect. ⁣

What need is he communicating?⁣

Where is he coming from?⁣

Talk aloud what’s happened.⁣

This is not an emergency. ⁣

I am where I need to be. ⁣

This is age appropriate. ⁣

Treat him how you’d like to be treated. ⁣

Share your calm, don’t join the chaos. ⁣

Acknowledge the inner delight. ⁣

See the effort, voice the effort. ⁣

Be consistent. ⁣

It’s not personal. ⁣

I am here. ⁣

I hear you. ⁣

Your words today will become his inner voice tomorrow. ⁣

He’s doing his best. ⁣

Hours are long, but the years are short. ⁣

It’s harder for him than it is for me. ⁣

Let feelings be, they don’t belong to me. ⁣

Be who you want him to be.

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Different by a lot.

Raising a child with a significant gross motor delay is different than a raising a child who develops typically. At times, it’s different by a lot.

For instance, what did we do this weekend? We finally reached the point we needed to lower O’s crib from the newborn position as he’s gotten pretty good at coming to a stand (hurray!). His mobile finally had to come down, too. He turned 2 at the end of November.

I want to reach out and bring O to play dates and such, but he just can’t do a lot of stuff other kids his age can. And a trip to the park for him? It looks *dramatically* different than a trip for a typical developing child of his age.

At times, it’s isolating. I want moms to bond with over our kids shared triumphs. But for so much of the big stuff that’s happening to him right now? The mom’s with kids his age went though it a year and a half ago. It’s old news.

Every day in every way I’m celebrating him. He amazes me. But, I’m also worrying, wanting and aching for him. I don’t know if he knows if he is different or not (how can he not when all the children around him at childcare walk?). In a few years I don’t know if that difference will still be there or not.

But right now, I just want him to be happy. To find his people. To fit in. And it feels like the cards are stacked a bit too much against him at such an early age. I hate that I can’t change that. I realize some of this is my worried mom perception, yes. But it’s the part of it that’s not that keeps me awake at night.

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She works.

A year ago today I went back to work after my mat leave.

Biggest things I’ve learned so far?

  • Being a mom and working full-time is no freakin’ joke.
  • I’m tired. Not newborn tired, but it rivals what came after that. Weekends have never, ever been sweeter, though they are now much harder than they ever were before.
  • I feel like I have no brain cells. I’ve come to realize my brain pre and post mat leave are two dramatically different things. Post mat leave brain is still struggling to understand what that means, on top of fitting everything else into it that I’m now asked of.
  • I have very little time for mostly anything. Between work demands, parenting demands, and personal demands, the time I have in my life is stretched so thin that a flick of the wrist could break it’s mere illusion.
  • And I miss my kid. A whole freakin’ lot. Picking him up from childcare everyday fills me with such a sweet, blissful, contentment. It makes me whole. My heart feels radiant and complete. And saying goodbye to him the next morning is a bittersweet event that always, always comes too soon.

But there is something undeniably needed in this crazy, exhausted, sometimes dead brain of mine: a purpose beyond myself and my world. One that gives. That cares. That spreads joy. That empowers. That helps.

And so work I will.

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Returning to where I need to be.

Okay. I am about to feel incredibly silly for writing this all out, as I have not completely become confident in sharing and living it yet, BUT… this is an act of holding myself accountable. Continue on I can and will.

In my ongoing journeys of post-partum anxiety, post-partum depression and post-partum “what the fresh hell has happened to my life” I have been seeing a counselor and attempting to heal. Born anew I do not expect to be, but eventually finding again the harmony, security and joy to what I once lived is a hope of mine.

So, how I am being instructed to go about doing that is through the act of mindfulness.

There are many interpretations of mindfulness out there, but I personally like this one best: an embracing of awareness in the presence, and cultivating that awareness with kindness and curiosity.

I’m not always the greatest at practicing mindfulness (even though I talk about its teachings often in my career), but I am thankful for what changes it has made thus far in my struggles and the potentials it has in helping me. It helps my brain stop when nothing else can, it grounds me and it allows me to embrace the here and now.

And there is one particular mindfulness strategy I have found to be invaluable to me thus far, and it is known as 5 4 3 2 1.

After taking some purposeful, deep breaths, here is what it asks of those who practice it to do:

  • Acknowledge FIVE things you see around you.
  • Acknowledge FOUR things you can touch around you.
  • Acknowledge THREE things you hear.
  • Acknowledge TWO things you can smell.
  • Acknowledge ONE thing you can taste.

(The above can be rearranged if a particular sense is much more abundant than the rest).

I have come to embrace this strategy as it takes me out of my head. It stops the thoughts. It returns me to the physical and lets me simply be. In a world of anxiety and depression that is nothing but a warzone of emotions and panic, it is a lifesaver.

The super nerdy, I’m embarrassed to admit part: recently, in a hope that it better helps and reminds me to practice 5 4 3 2 1, I put together a mindfulness kit for myself to let me have one of every sense readily available to me. The items I choose were ones that particularly spoke to me and bring within me a great sense of peace. My kit now goes everywhere I go, and it looks a little like this:

  • See: pictures of heavily forested landscapes
  • Touch: aventurine worry stone
  • Hear: “zen” chime
  • Smell: essential oils (lavender and orange in particular)
  • Taste: yes, that is a mint tin, but there are totally green jolly ranchers inside of it. :>

And it all else fails, a deck of mindfulness cards with other exercises to try if needed.

So, long story short, if you see or hear of me peddling around a chime, staring at trees and smelling heavily of lavender/hippie fabulousness, I haven’t quite lost it. Yet! Rather, I am taking a moment to return to where I need to be. Please be patient with me, as I might not always get there, but I’m trying.

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Tired but thankful.

We’re staying in the hospital tonight as O is in recovery from one of his surgeries. Here are the highlights thus far:

  • The baby O is sharing his room with is ten months and potty trained. My brain is so confused.
  • O was up both nights from 9:15-2:45, and then off and on until 6. He kept thinking he had just gotten up from a nap when the nurses needed to do stuff to him. We are… tired as hell.
  • BC Children’s Child Life dept. is a magical place of flashy lights and dazzling distractions that are like crack cocaine to an upset toddler.
  • There is no greater hell than sharing a hospital room with a frequently upset baby when your own baby is frightened by crying. No. Greater. Hell.
  • We have half a room this time instead of third a room! Despite the other stuff, this too is magical.
  • Nurses that get some stuff can wait and that sleep matters most are my favourite. Nurses that feel they must do everything for every box on the clock (after you just spent an hour and half getting your child down) are not my favourite.
  • For O’s next surgery we get to be in the new BC children’s hospital ward that has all individual rooms! Hurray!

That’s all for now. We’re headed home soon. I might try to smuggle the giant morphine drip machine home with us. For serious.

Signed,

Tired but thankful.

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I will miss this.

With a heavy but accepting heart, our breastfeeding journey is now coming to an end.

These past seventeen months of my body helping feed and keep alive my son has been deeply profound (and at times frustrating, let’s be real).

This last picture of us before I switched to pumping (and before the world became too fascinating for him to stay latched) holds a place forever in my heart.

Thank you, breastfeeding, for helping me learn to love parts of my body that I never used to… and thank you, O, for letting me know now that it is time for us to move onto other journeys together. 💚⁣ ⁣

I will miss this so much.

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Maybe I’ve got it.

I can’t pretend for a single second to know what the fresh hell I’m doing as a mom…

…but when a kid lets both parents laze around on the living room floor for three hours (with their heads buried in books) as he very contently plays and explores on his own all around them, happy as a clam?

I want to then believe I’m at least doing something right.

(Now, have a photo of him intensely playing with my hair-tie like it was the absolute greatest thing since sliced bread, lol.)

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A tender spot.

The interesting thing about those who suffer from post-partum anxiety (which I can probably just call anxiety at this point considering that I’m now 15 months PP) is this: one’s absolute lack of staying in the present. And by interesting, I mean freakin’ terrible.

My kid was super sick over the weekend. Like, all I want to do all day long is lay on your body please don’t move, OH GOD HOW DARE YOU MOVE, sick. He held our weekend hostage, but whateve, that’s parenting.

In the midst of it all I made an attempt to cheer him up a little bit. Everyone loves a little tickles, right?! So, he squirmed rapidly in my arms, leaned to the right and promptly bit the ever living crap out of me. It HURT. I’ve got a sweet bruise from it now that is painful to touch. It was a legit bite.

Of course, the second it happened, I was in immediate panic mode. For example, the thoughts that were racing through my head: omg, he’s gonna be one of those kids. He’s gonna be a biter. He’s not gonna have any friends. All the other kids around him are gonna be afraid of him. So, *calculates exact wording and plan of action in her head*, this is how we’re gonna approach it. When it happens at childcare, this is how we’re gonna manage it. When it comes up in parent teacher meetings, this is how we’re gonna address it. We’re gonna see him through this, we’re gonna help his manage his frustration in ways different but not harmful, and it’ll all be okay. We’ve got this, we’ve got this, we’ve got this…

Aaaaaand, in the span of 8 seconds, I was five years ahead of myself disaster planning and readying for the worst while somewhat maybe actually DESPERATELY hoping for the best.

With some gentle reminders from D, such as the fact that our child is really freakin’ sick (with a cold that I too now ferociously have), tired and not wanting any of our shit, I was able to snap back to the*now* and take a deep breath.

But I fail to comprehend how, as a parent, to live in that now. To stop and take note of exactly where I am. I wasn’t like this before I became a mom, and, now that I am, it’s hard. Really freakin’ hard. Even more so when you’ve got a FIERCE bruise on the precious flesh of your inner arm staring you right in the face.

So, I love you terribly, sweet boy, but next time? Try not to hit a spot that is so tender. Both physically and emotionally. 💚⁣ ⁣

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He is who he is, and I am who I am.

Since the day he was born, I have parented O based on two principles: respect and trust. They are small words, but they are profound words. Words that in times of uncertainty and unease, have helped lead the way… and in times of strength and joy, words that have been enthusiastically celebrated.

Respecting and trusting a two month old, a six month old, a fourteen month old, a whatever month old — it looks a lot like this. It is fundamentally different than the ways many babies and toddlers are raised, yes, but it is beautiful. I haven’t been perfect about it (when it came to getting O to sleep, I /had/ to let some of it go), but it’s meant so much to me to try and be with it’s premises as much as I could.

This means that I didn’t do tummy time with O until he was able to discover it on his own. I honoured his timeline, and I had the mantra of “in-time”, NOT “on-time”, on repeat in my head. This wasn’t the Olympics, and he’d eventually find where he needed to be. Heck, come the start of kindergarten, he’d be running around and causing a ruckus just like every other kid there. There felt no need to rush it.

It slowly became apparent that O would be taking the long way around as a means to development of his gross motor skills, however. At six months he rolled into his tummy. At seven months he rolled onto his back. He is still a bit funny about doing both, however. At 12 months he mastered sitting on his own (yes, you read that right). And just today, at 14 months, I witnessed him get from his tummy to a sitting position for the first time ever. I was so, so, SO happy to be there to witness it, surgery bruises and all.

Now, and because you’re probably wondering, he has yet to crawl (though he does some fierce, exploratory circles on his tummy), yet to stand and yet to walk. And you know what? It’s taken me a long time to say this, despite how deep my intentions were in respect and trust, but it’s gonna be okay. It really, truly is.

As anxiety is wont to do, there have been times aplenty that I have struggled. Did I cause his delay? Should I have pushed him anyways? Is it my fault he currently has the gross motor capabilities of a 6-9 month old? Should I have listened to the naysayers who told me differently? Have I been stubborn and foolhardy for my gain alone? Insert doubt after doubt after doubt.

Do you know how hard is to to watch a kid half your child’s age do things that they cannot? Or the heart wrench at yearning for their freedom and independence of movement as they howl in frustration for the umpteenth about not being able to reach something just outside their grasp? The wanting of so much more for them, and for them to be like all the other toddlers in that last play date you attended, but knowing you are powerless. Insert worry after worry after worry.

But you know what?

I listened to him. I honoured his choices. I let him guide the way. I did what was in my heart. I was lead by a gentle, slow and patient love that believed tremendously in respecting and trusting him. And as he now gets extra, special help from various specialists so that he can learn more, I continue to do all of those things everyday and always. This is no ones fault. It is simply how the cards laid.

He is who he is, and I am who I am. And at the end of the day, week, month and year, we’re gonna be okay.

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The bough.

I’ve been quiet on here for a bit, hey? I haven’t forgotten about Soundly Sarah, however. Rather, I’ve chosen to be purposefully quiet. While I have had many, MANY things I have wanted to write, a large part of me couldn’t consciously put any of it to paper until I addressed something that took place not long after I last posted here. Addressing that something has been an extremely private, long, arduous, six month journey for me, however, and I have returned here now as I am finally ready to write it out and begin again in this space that I have so missed.

On a Friday morning near the end of July, I had a breakdown. It was a full on, anxiety ridden, nerve stricken, tears and screams, I’m losing my mind, I can’t breathe, I can’t think, why am I shaking?! breakdown. It was very real, very scary, and with D’s help, immediate medical attention was sought for me to understand what the hell was going on.

But to make clear to you what I eventually learned about myself, I first need to give a bit of back story.

Many of you are already aware, but for those who are not, the first hundred days of O’s life were a nightmare. He would not, could not, be put down. At all. He slept nowhere but on us (no matter how many times or how hard we tried to change that). If he was awake, he had to be moving or breastfeeding 95% of the time or he was livid. It was all this and so so so so so much more. A part of me has chosen to purposefully forget some of it because I just have to. His colicky, angry and needy demands drained from me every ounce of energy, every ounce of sanity, and my every ounce of EVERYTHING, joy included. The posts I put on FB from during this period were mostly a façade of the few good moments he did have. All the other moments that didn’t make it on FB were the REAL ones, and by god did those real ones hurt.

But after those first hundred days, we found a bit of reprieve. We found a little bit of peace. I was able to find some happiness once again. I started to feel a bit more human. I bit more myself. A bit more like I could do this motherhood thing and that we would survive.

Near the end of July, however, O began a vicious cycle of teething. At the time I didn’t know it, however, as you tend to not know a lot of stuff during that first rodeo until you get slapped in the face with it, and boy – did it ever. The reprieve we had been experiencing? It was shattered to the ground, stomped on, set on fire and proceeded to have its ashes obliterated into one million pieces. Well, that is exactly what was happening in my head at least. Because, unlike freaking out like a normal person and hoping for the best, I began to have a series of PTSD like flashbacks that quickly worsened.

Imagine holding your child as they are screaming at you, unable to find comfort or calm. You are sitting in a rocking chair in their dark room, trying your best to help their exhausted, pained body. But rather be there and be present, your mind is waging war on you. Your mind is telling you that you are going back to those first one hundred days and you are never leaving it. Your mind is telling you this is it from now on. Your mind is telling you that there will never be better. Your mind is SCREAMING at you, as you struggle to breathe amidst a rapid tightening of chest, that this is going to be FOREVER. There is no escape, there is no way out, you’ve gone back and you will never return.

And then imagine telling no one for days and days that this is happening to you continually and soon constantly because you are ashamed, unsure, embarrassed and deathly afraid.

On that Friday morning, the bough finally broke. Like a river it all flowed out, unstoppably and rapidly, and the shell I had been frantically trying to encase it all in soon gave way.

With the help of BC Women’s reproductive mental health unit, psychiatrists, counselors and medicine, I soon came to learn of a thing I had never heard of before. Postpartum anxiety. I knew of postpartum depression, but anxiety? That was a new one. Additionally, I came to learn of the concept known as intrusive thoughts. They were the thoughts that were giving way to the PTSD like flashbacks and they were the thoughts I soon set out to try and understand, come to peace with and, if I was lucky, banish for good.

However, the weird thing about getting help for mental illness – which anxiety falls under – is that it breeds other things. Admitting it can be a chain reaction, and a revelation of so much can be equally clarifying AND unhinging. It brings you up the depth to which you’ve denied, it forces you to acknowledge that which you have refused to do, and it leaves you raw. It leaves you weak. It leaves you to realize just how deep, multifaceted and pervasive our minds can be, and how much they will refuse to let go and morph anew no matter the amount you shake.

Six months later, I still wouldn’t call myself healed, but I’m trying. There has definitely been some harder moments, and they’ve absolutely effected how I deal with the outside world (I apologize to those who might have read this who I KNOW have gotten the receiving end of some of that), but I’m trying. Intrusive thoughts are still a daily struggle of mine, though they have decreased in intensity and occurrence. But I am making my way back. Always.

Most importantly, and this has taken me a LONG time to say, I finally know now and can say with confidence that this doesn’t make me a bad mom. This doesn’t mean that I don’t deserve O. An inability to cope doesn’t make me abnormal. It makes me human. Admitting it here, on a public blog, can in fact be empowering. It can be healing in itself. And while this has been a damn hard journey to wellness, I am determined to get that shell of mine back. That is a belief that I refuse to let go of. And to those of you who are willing to join me for this journey, thank you. I appreciate you more than you know.

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A year ago today.

A year ago today and ever since then…

You made me a mom. After years of uncertainty, you arrived. Squishy, small, loud and proud, you arrived and opened a door that I will never, ever close.

You taught me a meaning of love that was entirely and utterly selfless, eternal and profound to the absolute depths of my core.

You reopened within me a humour and laughter that was warm, joyous, tirelessly in love and kind. Forever my tickle and cuddle monster you will be.

You brought to my marriage a new lens to which I could view my husband/your dad. His hardened exterior crumbled just a bit more as he gave to you everything he could possibly give; compassion, tears, snuggles, worries and mirth.

You prompted a yearning for me to want to live in a better world and for me to be better myself, as I emulated my very best attempts at grace, dignity, respect and trust.

And finally, you gave to my career a new understanding, an unseen beauty, a purposeful slowing down and an opening of eyes. Not only to the image of the child, but to the image of the parent amongst a world that refuses to stand still.

So, no matter how tired, overwhelmed, anxious and unsure I have been throughout our journey thus far, I am forever and without question grateful for you.

Happy first birthday, my sweet boy. 💚⁣ ⁣

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Tomorrow will always, always come.

Tomorrow is my first day of being back to work post mat-leave.

There are so very very very very many thoughts coursing throughout my brain on this eve of stepping again into the working life I once had while saying goodbye (for now, at least) to the everyday, day-long rituals of my son and I as we lived as one, breathed as one, cried as one, laughed as one and found a sweet, peaceful solace as one. I will miss those days always, and ache for them I know that I will.

But it is time for me to use my brain again. It is time for it to hurt again as I wrestle in ways theoretical, philosophical and pedagogical. It is time for me to bring that which I have struggled with, questioned with and embraced with of motherhood and to see what of it gives rise to my being as an educator, collaborator and enricher.

Don’t let this fool you into thinking I am ready.

I’m not.

But tomorrow will always, always come.

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The start of something greater.

Sometimes, I forget that I immigrated to this country.

While my process of moving to Canada was absolutely nothing like the refugees that are dying to get here, and the country from which I came (the US) has next to nothing of the horrors those said refugees are trying to escape (unless you can count Donald Trump as one), Canada is not the land of my birth and nor the land of my childhood/adolescence.

Citizenship of this country I do have, but acquiring that officially at the age of 22 due to my parents lineage, not directly my own, can sometimes make me wonder if it’s truly mine at all. Does a law and a location change give me the right to call myself Canadian? I don’t know. These are but the many question I ask myself.

As I make efforts to raise O, I do not want this for him. I want him to know and to unequivocally be a part of the land which homes him. I want him be able to proudly call himself Canadian and to know how lucky he is to call this country his own. I want him to know that he is part of the fabric of Canada and helps make it what it is, because sometimes, I am not entirely sure if I do, or if I am but just an immigrant.

Nearly everyday we read these books, and while they will never fully measure the scale in terms of what Canada is or what it means to be Canadian, at eight months old they are the start of something much greater. And that it is a greater I want so much for his life. 💚⁣ ⁣

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My weekend has been won.

It’s been a rough three weeks.

O’s had teething issues, tummy problems, sleeping woes and a clinginess that has been nearly suffocating. I’ve had some difficult mental struggles that I’m still trying to understand and make sense of… and D, the super hero that he is, has been working extra extra extra extra hard to make sure that we’re both okay and happy, but he too is getting rather worn around the edges as a result.

This morning, however, O let me sleep in until 6:30 and I was able to make, eat and *enjoy* my breakfast all while he contently played on his own in his space. I can’t remember the last time this happened. By 7:25AM, my entire weekend had been won.

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Work WAS the vacation.

When I was pregnant and mat leave was on the horizon, I was so excited about how much time I’d have off from work. It was like I’d be having a year long paid vacation and it sounded amazing! Come sooner, mat leave, I’d say. Mommas ready for some time off!

Ah, hindsight. Work WAS the vacation. THIS stuff of parenting feels like *THE* work.

This is work that has no sick days, no room for late shows, lunch breaks, early clock outs, hell — start and end times in general, no time to slack when a supervisor isn’t watching, coworkers to joke with in the middle of the day, retirement dates, vacation days, understanding if you’re not at your best ’cause of life circumstances… It has none of that, and some days it lets you know like a punch in the face.

I adore, cherish and love my son with my whole heart. But today, especially today, and everyday before it has been a reminder that the real work of my life has just begun.

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For you, I have all the gratitude in the world.

Over the years D and I had many conversations about having children. Some wavered on maybe possibly yes, some were stuck in the middle, some were hesitant but kinda pretty sure no. Some of those no periods admittedly lasted quite long, but obviously came to an eventual end.

In times of those conversations that ended in no, we were driven by a worry that we weren’t sure if we could be selfless enough to have children. On top of so many other things, bringing a child into your life requires tremendous amounts of sacrifice. For all the years we had been together, and for the very many years before that, we both relished in the quiet, predictable, certainty of our lives. Our hobbies and interests were paramount to us, practically creature comforts, and we were incredibly habitual and unwavering in doing them. Trying to bring a child into that equation often felt like it would be mixing oil with water.

O changed everything.

In watching D become a father, I have often thought back to those conversations. I replay who the people we were then to who we are now, and I am stunned. In D’s case, a man who once professed great worry that being a father would take away from him all the time in his life for the things he liked to do, he is transformed. Not necessarily to something greater, but to someone who now lives beyond himself. To someone who’s things he likes to do now intimately involve his son and the joy he now derives from life is deeply connected to the time they spend together — 99% of which they giggle and smile at one another, thick as thieves.

Some might say that this happened because he became a dad, but I disagree. Some men have children that never evolve or truly get it. Ever since O came home from the hospital, however, this has categorically not been the case for D. Selflessly he has poured every inch of himself into helping his son, helping me help his son, and helping me stay sane in being there for our son. If I only have three and a half hours of sleep one night, then so does D as he trades off to relieve me, regardless if his next day ahead holds twelve hours of work and commutes. Unfailingly he has been there at any and every hour that I’ve needed, and at times I’ve gotten more rest than him, for he has believed since the beginning that I work just as hard at raising our son during the day then he does at work, and that belief doesn’t stop when shit gets real at 3AM.

This willing and continual sacrifice of sleep, one he continues to make at the drop of a hat if I even begin to speak aloud a moment of need, it represents one of the THOUSAND sacrifices D has made and continues to make every day for the sake of our family. It is in stark contrast to a man who once wondered if he could ever be selfless enough to have a child. Tirelessly he endeavours every day to make it so that we equally share the load and responsibilities of raising our son, and his continued recognition and appreciation of how hard I work every day, being on mat leave or not, makes my heart sing. I do not deserve him, but I love him terribly. Happy Father’s Day, D. For you, I have all the gratitude in the world.

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Frankly, I don’t have my shit together.

I keep expecting to one day wake up and know what the hell I’m doing in this life of motherhood.

I’ve got the bases of loving, trusting and respecting my child down pat, and I fiercely strive to protect those bases.

Yet the other, more tangible, situational, organizational, numerical and implementation-al aspects of feeding, bathing, clothing, “resting”, socializing, outings and childcare (yes, even that) are a total shit show.

I feel like the antithesis of not having my shit together in those realms.

But hey, my kid is happy!? I think…

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“Bad Moms”, you say?

There’s a movie coming out soon called Bad Moms. The trailer for it is pretty wonderful (if you haven’t yet seen it: https://youtu.be/P0FNjPsANGk) and the concept of the flick is essentially a group of overworked, overtired and generally DONE WITH EVERYTHING moms that finally give themselves a break from their demanding lives and it’s endlessly selfless responsibilities. Upon doing so, they are then confronted and called out by their local group of perfect, sanctimommies for not living up to their standards. From what I assume, as I do not know how the ending goes, lessons and truths are eventually learned by all.

This hot mess mom movement (which is legitimately a thing and has been for years, though called different names) is fascinating to me. In truth, I see a lot of myself in its workings, but at just six months in, many may just equate that to me being a first time mom and the confusion of trying to figure everything out in the only way I know how. However, in a year or so’s time, when I ideally will have a bit more of a grasp on what I’m doing, I still see myself identifying with the moms in that movie who felt like they needed to *temporarily* give zero fucks. Not because I can see the future, but because I believe in what it represents.

While still pretty new to this game of motherhood, already I feel the pressures from just about EVERYWHERE to do better and be better. Without abandon, the growing standard of what a mom should be, could be and needs to be is sky rocketing to the height of impossible ideals. Ideals which so often fail to take into account context, culture and environment, mind you, but are batshit rampant nonetheless. These ideals are SUPER pervasive and, intricately laced within them, are attempts to subjugate what our children should be, could be and needs to be into the expectations of overachieving, over-succeeding, perfect spawns of creation (but more on that point at a later time).

Inadvertently, I’ve gotten these pressures from some of the closest people in my life. Suffocatingly real and somehow always there, they are with the best intentions or not. They have come from well meaning people, and people who have simply had an opinion or were probably just trying to help, but it is a game I’ve already realized I do not wish to play. I do not feel I need to justify my parenting to anyone but my son or my husband, and nor will I ever again. I will not give anyone that power, for in doing so lies a dangerously, slippery slope. One thing prompts another, another and another, and before long I’m madly juggling to hold on not to what I deem important, but what society and its sticky fingers believe should be the standard of how I do motherhood. Yeah, I’ll pass.

At the heart of all this hot mess/bad mom reality, I don’t see laziness. I don’t see neglect. I don’t see a mom who shouldn’t have had kids. Some may say this is too optimistic and too kind of me, but I see a woman who isn’t willing to forget her needs on the journey that is motherhood. This is not me saying that all the ‘perfect’ mommas out there have forever put themselves last, rather, for any mom who has chosen at a time to put herself first? You have committed no crime.

There is no me if I don’t have the time *for* me. If that means during naps the kitchen doesn’t get cleaned or the laundry doesn’t get done for awhile, so be it. If that means we don’t leave the house for a few days ’cause the dumbness of people hurts my brain, so be it. If that means I have to put O down for nap earlier than normal for a few times ’cause I just can’t deal right now, so be it. None of these things are choices made without thought. Behind them lies purpose and intentionality. Behind them lies a recognition that I need time to focus on me right now so that I can be the mom I want to be, and sometimes I might need that for days at a time. Shit might not get done as a result. And you know what? THAT’S OKAY. I’ll still love and care for my child so much that it hurts (as I do right now and always), just not within the confines of how society or anyone else thinks I should. To hell with that.

A raw beauty is in a hot mess mom, and that beauty doesn’t make you or me a “bad” mom. It doesn’t mean we aren’t cut out for this. It makes us real, it makes us honest, and it makes us alive. So, carry on, brave soldier. I’ve got your back.

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Observations of first time motherhood, (part 12^234234).

  1. The closer the bond you form with your baby, the more watching ANYTHING showing a child lost, hurt or killed makes you loose your shit. NOPE, NETFLIX, NOT GOING THERE ANYMORE.
  2. 6AM is now sleeping in, and it is a marvelously blissful thankyoubabyjesus BEAUTIFUL thing when it happens.
  3. Days when you are able to accomplish eating all three meals, making the bed, brushing your teeth and putting clothes on ALL parts of your body are days that you’re pretty sure you are a rock-star. Bonus: If you get a shower in, you’re probably ready to go on tour to cement your status as rock elite.
  4. You look at moms/dads juggling with more than one baby/child and you are pretty sure they are god damn wizards. HOW?! WHEN?! AND FOR THE LOVE OF ALL THINGS HOLY, WHY?!
  5. Every time you run errands, you now question if it’s worth it to drive to more than one place. Do you really want to pack your child in the car TWICE for what you need? Do you really need that other thing? Is it worth the potential crank? Or the potential super freakin’ short nap they’ll take on the way to the other place while later on rejecting the much better nap they could have had? THESE ARE THE ETERNAL QUESTIONS. Being “out” is now a game of how many things you can magically get accomplished in one, close to home, walkable shopping center that doesn’t really have everything you need but you’re DETERMINED to make it work anyhow and all within the time frame of your child’s happy wake period, if you’re lucky. (You’re usually not.) (I *WILL* get better at this.)
  6. Worrying that you’ve actually created a drug like dependence on Enya in your child is now a thing.
  7. You are 100% positive you have the cutest baby in ALL of the land to EVER exist. Sure, those other babies are pretty adorable, but YOUR’S is the cutest there ever was (said every parent in man-kind).
  8. The things you and your SO celebrate will be forever changed. “Guess who went poo today!” “Whoa, did you hear that burp? That was a burp!” “He slept an ten extra minutes for that nap!” And somehow, no matter how mundane to the average outsider, these moments to celebrate feel just as epic to you as anything ever worth celebrating before.
  9. Pretending to look/talk/play with your child in their stroller is an amazing way to avoid having to interact with people in public that you don’t want to. Weird guy gonna walk by you on the street? HI BABY, I LOVE YOU BABY, PAY ATTENTION TO ME BABY.
  10. After a brutally long day of mothering, you will sometimes find yourself, after having FINALLY gotten your child to freakin’ sleep and while getting some YOU time, now staring lovingly at pictures of them on your phone. You are absolutely addicted to this thing your body made and no matter how tired or over it you get (you are human), you can never seem to get enough. A crazy, profound love has been born into your world that is infinite in its ability to fill your soul to the brim while leaving you wanting, needing and forever reaching out for more.

Obviously, these are all from the context of my own life, and, like all things, they do no blanket apply to every first time mom or mom in general… but, with hope, some of you were able to relate!

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My first birth story, parts 6-10.

Before I continue on, here is the link to part 1-5 in case you missed it.

6. Prior to getting my epidural, I wavered quite heavily throughout my pregnancy if I wanted one or not. Would it make me weak? Could I be brave enough to endure the pain of a natural delivery? I admittedly (and quite stupidly, in retrospect) felt some guilt about it all, though I didn’t really have my mind made up about any of it as I went in for my induction. Once I discovered that ALL of my labour would be felt in my back, and that ALL of my delivery would essentially have to happen while laying on said back, however, it was a choice I could have not made. My doula helped cement the decision for me. But guess what? I’m pretty sure it ended up being the best decision of my LIFE. After I got my epidural, I got to SLEEP. It was GLORIOUS. Thankfully, it didn’t slow things down labour wise, and considering the time I have birth at (11:58PM — after a looooong day), it gave me one last chance to sleep before becoming a mother. It was absolutely, 100% what I needed to do, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. The humor in this one is that I almost gave up liquid GOLD for the sake of silly ideals. I am so very thankful I didn’t. 

Lesson learned: you’re about to have a friggin’ baby, that is anything BUT weak. Do what you have to do.

7. I awoke from the epidural around 11PM. Tests and what not were done to establish if it was time to push, and around 11:45 I was given the go to. I couldn’t really feel when to push with my contractions, however, so I kinda had to wing it and try whenever my nurse said to. My first three tries at pushing were a bit of a learning curve mess mess, and on the fourth try I heard someone mention they were starting to see O’s head. Woo! At this point, I was told to push again as my main nurse and her mentee turned towards the baby monitor devices to see how it was effecting O. With D and my Douala next to me, I gave it a really big go… aaaaand out popped 75% of my son with NO ONE ready or expecting to see him quite yet. Both my nurses then turned quickly towards O and yelped at me to stop (uh, I can’t feel a damn thing! How the heck do I stop?!) but thankfully the charge nurse who was making her rounds dashed across the room to catch him as he was born. It happened so fast that my dreamy OBGYN didn’t even have time to show up for the delivery! In the end, all was well, and after twenty years on the job, my son was the first baby that nurse got to catch. I supposedly made her whole career.

Lesson learned: these hips were made for birthing babies?! Or, rather, like all things so far in motherhood, expect the unexpected.

8. Once out of the delivery room and into our recovery/over night room, things were a blur. We ended up staying in the hospital for five days as O needed a lot of testing done. I would amusingly go on to realize that so much of the shit I packed for my stay was, uh, COMPLETELY UNNECESSARY. It’s my fault for reading about 9759756 different hospital bag articles before hand that listed all the stuff I should bring. I kid you not, some of the shit our suitcase had in it: battery operated candles (to help dim the room, lolz), a rolling pin (for D to ghetto massage away my pain during labour), fancy magazines from Chapters that we spent far too much money on (to read during ALL the time we had… hah), Gatorade (to refresh my electrolytes during delivery or some shit), a hairdryer (to do my hair afterwards amidst my pure and utter delusion), a bag of 93485934597 quarters (for a vending machine I’m pretty sure they didn’t even have), my birth plan (which was too overwhelming for me to even think about and consider when shit got real)… it goes on and on, and every time I needed something out of that damn suitcase over those five days I had to move all that other not needed crap and I pretty much wanted to cut a bitch. 

Lesson learned: the internet is *still* full of LIES.

9. Once home (btw, I drove us to AND from the hospital, /flex), I decided to weigh myself. Why not? Before continuing, know that I had gestational diabetes during my pregnancy. It’s why I had to be induced in the first place, and it limited a lot of what I could and could not eat during my pregnancy. Quite frankly, it was a giant pain in the ass for the second half of O’s gestation. Upon weighing myself once I got home from the hospital, however, I weighed less than I did before I ever got pregnant. Maybe having GD wasn’t so bad! With the occasional walks we’ve been taking and breastfeeding, I have continued to loose since and I kind of don’t ever want to stop BF as a result, lol. I weigh less now than I have in years (I didn’t expect this to happen with motherhood) and I will GLADLY take it. Thanks, O! 

Lesson learned: women’s bodies are an amazing thing, and the narrative of extra baby weight hanging around after one gives birth does not apply to all. Other weight, however, is a different story!

10. After unpacking and settling back into our home life, it was scary. We had just spent five days in a controlled environment (our hospital room) with continual and professional help on hand in case anything went wrong. That space in BC Women’s/Children’s became our little cocoon, and to leave it to the real world with a REAL LIFE CHILD was… overwhelming, exciting and terrifying. We came home and basically tried to recreate in our bedroom what we had made work for us in that hospital room, and we proceeded to stay in our bedroom and ONLY there, just leaving to get food, for about the next week and a half. We had to, and you could say that we were a bit shell-shocked and a WHOLE lot unsure. To this day I still find remnants of those memories in that room… Splashes of dried, pumped breast-milk I missed cleaning up by our bed, papers and notes when D thought it was crucial we track every ounce O ate [this was back when he would only take a bottle] and a burping cloth that got lost in the madness and shoved underneath the bed, only to be found months later. A part of me laughingly shudders at it all like that of a war wounded PTSD. Eventually, we learned to reuse our whole space as the family we became, and, in it we have thrived. For the most part.

Lesson learned: while life changingly beautiful, having a baby is scary, and it’s okay to be scared. In times of such darkness, light will be born.

*

I enjoyed writing these, and I hope you enjoyed reading them! Hopefully it gave you a chance to reflect on the humourous moments of your birth story, or perhaps think about the one you may one day have.

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My first birth story, parts 1-5.

It is my first Mother’s Day. I’ve had a lot of time to ‘do me’ today, thanks to my wonderful husband and son, and with it has come some much needed opportunities to think. In that thinking, I’ve been reflecting on O’s birth story and how he came to be. While full of gushy, wonderful moments, the experience of my pregnancy, birth and becoming a mom had so many humorous aspects to it. These aspects keep me smiling and laughing months later, and from them I have learned so much. Lessons that I feel are prudent to think about and mention these many moons later.

Here are the first five of ten. Enjoy!

1. During O’s gestation, it was noticed in an ultrasound that he had short femurs. As a result, I had to have monthly scans to ensure things were normal (I seriously have 25+ ultrasound photos of him, it got a little intense). Additionally, his short femur issue required our family be seen by the Maternal Fetal Medicine specialists at BC Children’s to be briefed and guided throughout his development. However, the specialists at MFM are super nerdy and can’t really take a joke, ever, both D and I tried. But guess who was laughing when O came out of my womb with perfectly, if not LONG, sized femurs? 

Lesson learned: sometimes, doctors and medical professionals know NOTHING. That nothingness can be infuriatingly hilarious at times.

2. My OBGYN was quite possibly one of the most gorgeous men I’ve ever met. His hair was flowing and looked out of a modeling shoot, when not on call he walked around with a bomber jacket on top of his scrubs (seriously) and carried all his papers in an *on point* leather messenger bag, and he was extremely attentive and caring. Anyone we mentioned him to at the hospital seemed to be madly in love with him and whenever he was there, he’d create a tizzy. Much to their loss, however, as our Douala later told us he was very happily gay and had humorously broken many, if not dozens, of the newer nurses hearts thus far. 

Lesson learned: gay guys are *still* pretty much the best ever.

3. O was breech a week and a half prior to my induction date. That caused quite the concern for me, ’cause it meant a c-section if he didn’t shift. In a desperate attempt to get him to move, D and I resorted to trying some pretty silly shit. One of them was me laying diagonally on an ironing board, head on the ground and with my feet up in the air… as my boobs smooshed my face and desperately tried to kill me. Another involved acupuncture and these things called moxie sticks, which were essentially rounded, long pieces of charcoal that we lit. After being lit, I was then prescribed to hoover them around my baby toes (yes, you read that right) for ten minutes to release their energy or some crap. I have never felt so friggin’ silly in my life, and poor D was in charge of helping me through this task — one which we didn’t know whether to cry or laugh through. O ended up flipping, however, and no c-section had to happen. 

Lesson learned: sense and logic tell you otherwise, but sometimes that naturopathy crap actually works! Or it serves as a good placebo for helping you think you made a difference. One of the two. :>

4. The day prior to my induction date I experienced a sudden increase of fluid draining (sorry for the TMI, that’s about as un-gross as I could put it). We were asked to come to the hospital to see if my water had broken and after a few hours, learned that it hadn’t. All throughout the nurses trying to figure that out, however, they kept asking me if I was having contractions. Nope, I told them, just the occasional back cramps (which no one, including myself, seemed to question). Eventually we were sent back home, but all that night as I slept I kept regularly having those back cramps. I’d literally wake up and have to do controlled breaths to get through them. But I still didn’t put two and two together. The next day and many hours later, when I was measured prior to the induction starting to see what method they were take, I was already 3cms dilated… ‘CAUSE THOSE WERE FRIGGIN’ CONTRACTIONS HAPPENING, YOU GOOF. Turns out, just like how it is with my period, I would go on to feel everything that happened in my labour in my back. 

Lesson learned: the idiocy of mommy brain sets in well BEFORE you ever give birth.. and likely never, ever goes away.

5. Once I got into the pains of active labour, all of which was back labour that I had to unfortunately and mostly lay on my back to endure (long story as to why), I reached a point of pain with no return. An epidural absolutely had to happen. When getting it, however, I was already using laughing gas (something they give you in delivery rooms in Canadian hospitals). I don’t exactly recall all the specifics that went into the epidural coming to be, as a result, and when they started asking me questions to gauge if they had given me a proper dosage, I couldn’t even think straight. Busily sucking down the laughing gas as if it was my last breath, they rubed pieces of ice down my preggo belly while asking me questions to gauge the effectiveness. Could I feel the ice? High as shit, I thought by feel they meant just the wetness, not the coldness. Incorrect! So, these poor dr’s kept confusingly trying to figure out why I was still using the gas to get through my contractions like my life depended it, even though I had the epidural. They kept asking me things my dumb brain couldn’t process, but eventually two and two came together and I was finally/happily delivered to planet numb, not able to feel both the wetness AND coldness. 

Lesson learned: it is probably best in life to generally stop one drug before starting the next. :>

If you’d like to read the second part of this series, here is the link.

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A canvas for watching darkness and light.

Oh man, I’m totally nerding out right now. With O, I try my best to practice something called mindful parenting (more commonly known as RIE). I discovered it in school and putting it to use now makes so much wonderful, heart-happy sense to me. Anyways, I follow a FB parent group of parents who share a similar interest in RIE and people often post to it sharing their observations, struggles and/or triumphs. Yesterday, I posted this to it’s wall and a lot of people loved it… but not only that, one of the main ‘flag bearers’ of RIE these days, Janet Lansbury, liked it and asked if she could share. UM, YES! Our little guy is now famous, lol! Or my whimsical shenanigans are. One of the two.

Observe, wait, trust, and enjoy! A lovely example of the power of nature… indoors!

Sarah shared her success:

“Thank you, RIE! Five minutes before taking this photo I was thinking to myself that I needed to find something to fill this space in my LO’s room. I then noticed him looking at it too, however, and realized he was intently watching the shadows dance across the wall from the swaying trees outside the window. Before, I might have thought him bored, but for forty five minutes he kept coming back to the sight, becoming very still as he watched the moving shapes and silhouettes bounce across the wall. Eventually, the sun moved on and as did his interest… but it seems this space already has exactly what it needs: a canvas for watching darkness and light.”

Here’s a link for those on Facebook.

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You bought WHAT now?

I don’t know why I do it, ’cause it’s sure to drive me insane, but I’ve been keeping a running list of all the shit we’ve bought so far to help this child sleep. Sleep better than what little (LIIIIITTLE) efforts he makes on his own, that is. At just five months old, this list is inevitably going to get longer, but this is where it stands right now. Also, to the person who told me having a baby doesn’t cost a lot of money, I VETO YOU.

Without further adieu and so that you may weep with me, I give you our list of OH GOD PLEASE HELP HIM SLEEP SO WE CAN SLEEP purchases thus far…

Sleep Suits:
– Swaddleme swaddlers, small and large: These worked for us for a bit, thankfully, but why the hell would you not make a size medium? We went from them being snug and then to him swimming in them, effectively negating any use they had whatsoever. Awesome!
– Sleep sacks: Access to his hands was a shit show. He thought it was party time. Adorable, CHILD IT IS TIME TO SLEEP, party time.
– Love to Dream suit: Hilarious looking in it (he looked like a dog bone!), horrible in concept. He kept hitting himself in the face, lololol.
– Zipadeezip: I think we’ve FINALLY transitioned from the Swaddleme to this. Almost. Most definitely almost. Like, 95%. Also, the one he has is made with fabric that has a forest on it, ’cause of course.

(Note: There are literally 46864 different sleep suits on the market. I very easily could have bought more and almost did, but I had to stop myself. The zippadeezip alone cost me $70 CND (!!!!) to make happen and shit was getting out of control at that point, no matter how desperate I felt.)

Swings:
– Fisher-Price 4-in-1 Rock ‘n Glide Soother (note: this is much different than the Rock n’ Play, which is evidently amazing but sadly isn’t available in Canada): I don’t care what the reviews say, this thing was HORRIBLE. O was mortified at it’s lack of effectiveness and so were we. Back to Walmart it went! We couldn’t even disassemble it. Stuck it in a shopping cart and returned it amidst a torrential rain storm. Haaa.
– Fisher-Price Rainforest Friends Cradle Swing: Loud, colors wise, motor wise and sound wise. Back to Walmart we once again! Possibly for reasons more my own than O’s. Jungles totally aren’t my thing. :>
– Fisher-Price Snugabunny Cradle’ N Swing: Yay! Quiet and nice, colours wise and features wise. O has slept in the cradle position of this every night for the past six weeks. We now need to start transitioning him out of it, however, which fills me anew with anxiety. Ack!

Other:
– Live Clean Baby Calming Bedtime Lotion + Bubble Bath and Wash: I like the smell, but I have no idea if it does shit all in terms of helping his sleep after his nightly bath time. I want to believe. I want to beliiiiiiieve.
– Super Soother Calming Sounds, Happiest Baby CD: Didn’t end up using as we downloaded a “pink noise” (I have no idea how that differs from white) song off YouTube that was better and went on for 8 hours. p.s. This album legit has tracks on it that sound straight out of slasher film. Calming my ass!
– Borrowed iPhone 3G: To play said pink noise “song” on repeat 478644 times in a row as O sleeps. We didn’t really buy it, but it needs to be said. We’d be lost without it. O immediately calms once it comes on and it’s pretty much become our baby voodoo box at this point.
– Logitech Multimedia Speaker: To ensure said pink noise song is loud enough. Block out the sound from the giant construction site next to us, please! Pretty pretty pretty please!
– Two boxes of tinfoil, 3 rolls of tape: To madly cover all the light coming into our 9823474 bedroom windows so there was legit darkness. Had it up for five weeks before management asked that it be taken down. Damn! It is now bright as hell in our bedroom. Double damn!

Stuff that was given to us:
– Co-sleeper bedside bassinet. Slept in it for two weeks and, uhm, never again. Desperately wanting this or his crib to be where we transition him into after the swing, but not filled with hope. I think our kid kinda hates sleeping flat on his back?

Or sleeping in general?

Or pretty much everything?

Yeah, that.

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I. Need. Him.

Speaking of needs, I came across a realization of sweetness the other day.

While on bed rest with that hurt foot (one which has now thankfully mended — mostly!), D stayed home from work so he could look after O. Like most babies his age, O likes to move and be up to see the world, no matter how much we try to encourage his independent back play (many, many, maaaany times a day). I wasn’t really able to give him all that he needed with not being able to walk, so D had to take over.

As D was thrust head first into the experience that is my everyday life with O (something which he admitted made him feel entirely overwhelmed — welcome to my life, hubs!), I re-experienced some of what my existence was like before O. Laying around for hours, perusing social media like it was going out of style, watching Netflix uninterrupted — the whole nine yards. However, if and when O wouldn’t calm for him, D would seek me holding him as a reprieve.

And, after one time of having not done everything and anything for my son for a few hours (a very rare occurrence), he was given to me to help settle and soothe.

Once in my arms, something clicked.

Something fell into place.

A part I didn’t know was missing was now there.

My heart became sappy happy and got this strange full feeling.

My god, I realized. It’s not just that this kid needs me. I need him.

I. Need. Him.

Don’t get me wrong, I’ve adored O since he crawled out of my womb. But need him? I don’t recall when that came to be or grew into my being.

And so, he was hugged a bit tighter, squished a bit longer and nuzzled a bit closer before demanding his desires of movement and exploration be met yet again.

Dad, and son, to my rescue.

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Thirty minutes.

Like many other babies his age, O is in the midst of a period where he only sleeps 30 minutes for every nap he takes. He started this off and on a good month or so ago, and now has solely taken naps like this for the past two and a half weeks. Additionally, in between his every thirty minute nap, he has the tolerance for being up around two hours before cranky town hits. Naturally, our daily schedule has adjusted to accommodate this, though not by choice. If I didn’t have to constantly feel as if I was living life by the clock and always chasing the next nap, I wouldn’t. The needs of my child say otherwise, however, no matter how much of a schedule whore it may make me seem.

For me and I imagine millions of other moms, nap time is a time of reprieve. A time when, after giving every piece of you to your LO, you can give something back to yourself.

But in those thirty minutes do you…

Read (a choice I have made more so lately)?

Peruse other hobbies (a choice I have not made enough lately)?

Clean (a choice I made far too frequently last week as it had been neglected and we were expecting company)?

Play SimCity on my phone (a choice I wish I would make less of)?

Sleep (a choice that is a joke within a thirty minute time frame)?

Eat (a choice that should always take precedence, but often doesn’t)?

Write a post on Soundly Sarah (a choice I have neglected lately, oops!)?

Just be thankful you have that time?

Do you choose one of those?

Some of those?

All of those as you frantically try to jumble it into 1800 seconds and end up not satisfied at all as a result?

Evidenced by the fact that I’ve only been able to just now write this while on bed rest from a hurt foot, I don’t know how to answer those questions. Is this how it’ll always be?

In terms of better prioritizing, scheduling and letting go of the reins at times for things to happen as they will, I could have the answers I seek. But I did not expect this aspect of motherhood. I did not expect for my needs to be sequestered into 30 minutes time chunks. I (obliviously) imagined dreamy, two hour naps of bliss and relaxation. Eventually, those may come, but nap time in general will happen less if they do.

This obliviousness, or delusion, rather, it went so far as to tell multiple people before giving birth that I was worried I would get bored or stir crazy while on mat leave. I didn’t realize it would be nothing like that. I didn’t realize the second I’d have some time, it would be gone. Nap after nap, I find myself just getting started on ‘me’ when it’s nearly ended. So often, I hear O on the baby monitor at a point when things have just gotten ‘good’. Is that horrible of me to admit? Or merely human?

I write this for it leaves me in a spot of motherhood that I still find myself flailing, unsure and a bit ruffled. No matter the changes I could make, I am stuck at these questions. How do I redefine and pair down what I truly need while I am immersed in all that is motherhood? How do I make space for my desires and interests in a way that now accommodates times as a resource precious as gold? How do I refuse to loose myself among the demands that this new life entails? And, in this so often mother eats mother world, makes you feel like an selfish jerk for wanting it that way?

How?

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How can we ever really know?

O was born with a couple of things that make him different than the typical baby boy. Some of these things will require surgery in a years time and one is something that cannot be seen by the human eye.

This unseen part about him is chromosomal. To be more specific, he has a large deletion in his 3rd chromosome. This deletion may be the reason for some of the other, differing, things about him — or it may not be. It’s hard to say. All that is known right now is the unknown, as his deletion is considered rare to the geneticists at BC Children’s and it hasn’t been seen enough to know what it could imply health wise, now or later, if anything at all.

In an attempt to understand how this came to be, be it from D and I or how our DNA combined, blood work was done on us. As of a few days ago, I now know that I too have this large deletion in my 3rd chromosome and that I passed it on to O in the womb.

I’m writing this here, in this space, because I need to better understand what this means to me. I need to voice it, to put it in text, to make sense of it. Selfishly, I need to be told it will be okay (even if the irrational side of me disagrees), again and again, on top of how many times I’ve already been told as much. I’m in the midst of scheduling a follow up with the geneticists to be told the same. Everyone is hinging on the fact that I seem to be okay, same with my other family members who may or may not have it, and so O should be okay too.

But how can we ever really know that? Am I okay? What about later on? Have I missed something my entire life? Was there something I should have questioned but never did? Is my son going to suffer because I didn’t? These are huge, unknowable, worrisome questions — I know. But how does one continue on as normal when they find out that something is missing in the base of their DNA? In the base of what makes them human? And that they’ve passed it on to their son, with repercussions entirely unknown?

Nothing I can do can change this, I get that, and I know that I need to be positive. I have to be. Not just for me, but for O and D. But how?

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Precious, brutal, beautiful and exhausting reality.

Before I ever became a parent and, at times, before I had an inkling that I might like to be a mom, I worked (and still technically do while on mat leave) in the field of early childhood education. To it I brought a bachelors of ECE and, prior to giving birth, racked up about four and half years of experience in the field — both with ITs (infant/toddlers) and TFs (three to fives). During the entirety of my pregnancy I was employed knee deep in the trenches of toddlerhood, and I believed that I’d be bringing to motherhood a cornucopia of knowledge and experience. Others in my life continually reinforced this thought of mine. With all of this on my resume, how could I not?!

Ha.

Haaaa.

Hahahahahahaha.

Too bad I had absolutely NO FREAKIN’ IDEA what to do with said knowledge and experience. Upon O’s birth, I was blindsided. My education, something my sweet husband anxiously worried would set me far ahead of him parenting wise, it felt like it meant nothing. My employment, and the fact that I had previously been working all day long with ITs, it was laughable and hardly the real thing — I got to send them home at the end of the day! My passions that I brought to the field of ECE, and the beliefs I garnered throughout it of children and childhood, it fell to shambles in the midst of a postpartum depression that could no longer even tell who I was when I looked in the mirror.

This should hopefully be news to no one, but nothing, and I mean NOTHING, can prepare you for being a first time mom. Anybody or anything that tries to tell you differently is lying. All that I brought to it (which I felt was a lot!) and the preconceived notions I had of it being otherwise, they were broken. Broken as in picked up, shattered to the ground, stomped all over, set on fire and then blown into the abyss. It was a delusional, humbling and hot mess of confusion for a good while there.

Now that I’ve survived the first four months of O’s life and know what it is to sleep again, I am thankfully beginning to see where my education, employment and passions can start being applied (more on that later). I am able to finally dig into those reservoirs and have them be useful, when before it felt as if they would drown me. I am excited for what awaits in that regard (also more on that later!). Most importantly and with relief, I have now added to that repertoire what I didn’t realize I lacked before. The grounded experience of REALITY.

Precious, brutal, beautiful and exhausting reality.

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A Dish of Victory.

This is a normal, probably too bland, basic as hell, dish of food.

It is also a dish of victory. Delicious (my husband better not argue that ;)) victory.

Many of you know that prior to giving birth to O, I prepped 10+ freezer meals to have food on hand that I could easily defrost and let our slow cooker prepare for us. Additionally, my lovely Douglas ladies came over two months ago and restocked my freezer full of even more food that I could quickly reheat and eat in a pinch. I was positively spoiled in that regard.

All of which meant that up until tonight, I didn’t have to legitimately cook a meal that followed a recipe for the past 4+ months.

Four months of not cooking (and I mean cooking where you chop veggies, prepare meat, add seasonings, ect.) it messes with your head. Yes, it allows you to be luxuriously lazy (#firstworldproblem), but it also leads you to wonder if it’s possible to forget how to cook. Will it even taste good? Will I enjoy cooking again? Will it be worth it? I’m not even gonna get into the anxiety I felt in trying to choose which recipe to use, making the grocery list and hoping D picked all the right things at the store while I looked after O. It was embarrassingly intense.

All of this also meant that up until tonight, I didn’t know what it was to cook a meal while also being a mom. Ha. Haaa. Hahhahaahaha. Holy effin’ GONG SHOW.

Those veggies? They were cut *days ago*, intended to be originally served several nights earlier but got thrown for a loop by a hostile infant that would not, could not (and what felt like SHALL NEVER NOT) allow me a few moments to be in the kitchen.

That chicken? It was defrosted, carefully cut up, tossed in a bowl and then promptly frozen AGAIN due to wrath of previously mentioned child. I’m sure any sense of tenderness or moisture it once had was sacrificed to the freezer gods long ago. Thank god for salt and pepper, and a doting husband who is too kind to call me out on it.

Speaking of said salt? While working on the rice, the realities that I am very much NOT a ninja became apparent as the container that once housed it went crashing down on our cement floors and shot shards of glass ALL FREAKIN’ OVER. Exactly what I needed, world! Thanks! Or thank freakin’ god O isn’t crawling yet.

And that rice? It was hurriedly and frantically made this morning between nap times (nap times which are even more achingly short as we work on transitioning out of the swaddle — a story for another time). The joys of listening to your baby monitor on high alert while cursing/staring down your oven to BOIL WATER FASTER, FAAASTER! Those joys are insurmountable.

Lastly, that bacon? It’s probably sacrilegious of me to admit this, but it’s totally the fully cooked stuff which comes in a chilled box from the store that you reheat in the microwave. Ain’t nobody got time to cook the real stuff with an infant. That is the one thing I did get right.

In the end, it happened. I made it, we ate it and while I’m 100% sure this is my denial talking, it tasted pretty dang good.

Victory!

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Real and at times blisteringly honest.

I’ve got too much stuff in my head and a wanting to put it somewhere. The notes app on my phone is overflowing with half written posts, thoughts, questions, ideas, lists combining all four of those things and life. A whole lot of messy, confusing, wonderful life. This is not something new since becoming a mother, but it has definitely become amplified as a result.

Writing has always been a part of me, but in strange ways. Ways which start as thoughts that desire (quite obnoxiously) at 3AM to flesh out and make sense of the raw truthiness of everything and how to find it’s humour, compassion and warmth. While I’d MUCH rather sleep, in it I find comfort. Speckle it’s written component with shitty grammar (my specialty!) and badly lighted Instagram shots, and you’ve got me.

So, with all this new and unexpected time I’ve suddenly found in my life (yay for a sleeping baby!) I made a thing. A blog? A diary? A public thoughts dump? One of those or all of those, it is to be my place to share what I’ve already been writing/will write on this absolutely exhausting yet achingly beautiful journey of first time motherhood that I find myself on, and a place where in posting said things I might further connect, push myself, be challenged and grow.

Like it and follow it if you want. If you enjoy it, feel free to share it. I can’t promise how much I’ll post to it (though I will be doing a bit of “backdate” posting for stuff I’ve already written), and I cant promise it won’t be something I’ll forget about from time to time when life gets in the way (another of my specialties!). But, I can promise that it will be real and at times blisteringly honest, however, as I simply don’t have the time or patience for anything less.

p.s. And yes. I totally named it Soundly Sarah. 💚⁣ ⁣

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The beautiful beginnings of a forever relationship.

There is a sweetness to watching D and O together that hits me at my very core.

After D went back to work and was gone for his almost 12 hour days, I was worried his son wouldn’t come to know him very well at first. How could he for the hour or two he is only sees his dad for every night before going to sleep for the evening? Sure, we have the weekends, but with naps and everything else it feels like those fly by in the blink of an eye.

I was delightfully wrong, however. Whenever D gets home for the evening and O hears his voice, he stops what he’s doing and his eyes go wide. When D comes to say hello to him, he smiles and during their nightly back play session he coos and grins at his dad like crazy. When held by his dad, he puts his head in his favourite cushy spot, arms down as if to hug him and they both look so dang serene sometimes.

They’re still working on getting used to each other, obviously, and nothing’s perfect (this child is a total boob monster and D is still adjusting to the realities being a dad [especially to a newborn] after not thinking he would be for so very long). But, the beautiful beginnings of a forever relationship have begun and it is the most wonderful thing. 💚⁣ ⁣

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Baby whisperer. Magic worker. Helper extraordinaire.

Tina.

Baby whisperer. Magic worker. Helper extraordinaire.

You’re amazing.

I can’t count how many times you’ve already helped save my sanity and allowed me to feel normal again in this life of motherhood. You’ve helped without asking, and before I even realized how desperately I needed it, and you continue to do so. You’ve been there without judgement and just listened, knowing I didn’t need to be told by yet another person what I should or shouldn’t be doing on this crazy journey of raising a human being.

You’ve taken O in his moods that others have run from (no lie) and you have soothed him in ways I didn’t think possible (seriously, I’m pretty sure you’re better with him than D and I are sometimes). I cannot begin to explain what a relief that has been to us. Going ANYWHERE is about ten million times easier when we know you’re going to be there and having you over in the evenings has made our lives less overwhelming at a time it has felt impossible to feel that way.

Thank you, thank you, thank you. If you ever have a child of your own I can only dare dream to provide the kind of assistance to you that you have been to us these past three months. You are an absolute gem. <3

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What even IS baby sleep?

Since he was three weeks old, O has slept in our arms for 99% of his naps and sleeps at night (he is now almost eleven weeks). He is typically tummy down as he leans against our bodies (while we lean back). It started originally as he began to absolutely LOSE it when we put him down in our bedside co-sleeper bassinet. This and a variety of other symptoms lead our pediatrician to believe he has reflux, which with the help of medicine and changing how we do things, has helped make him a much happier baby.

He will now tolerate periods of back/tummy play and being in his swing (we went through a five week period where we couldn’t put him down PERIOD without him loosing it). But getting him to sleep on somewhere that is not our bodies is something we’re having a lot of trouble managing.

I understand this is typical of a lot of newborns and there are very valid reasons why he wants to sleep on us. I just keep envisioning this still happening at 8+ months because it forms a pattern of behaviour, and that makes me kind of want to loose it. We are continually having to find new ways for him to sleep on us while we we try to rest but not really rest and it’s exhausting, no matter how much we break it up into shifts. I miss lying down and have legitimately forgotten how to sleep that way. My hips also kind of want to kill me for all the sitting down I have to do with him.

For those of you who have been able to get a baby past this phase, how did you do it? Here is what we’ve been doing or have tried thus far:

  • He is mostly nursed to sleep (has been since birth, he loves it and nothing puts him out faster). If I don’t do it for him, he freaks. If he could nurse all night, he would. My nipples disagree.
  • He will not take a pacifier (I have tried ten million times). I am his pacifier.
  • Elevating his bassinet, using white noise, making it smell like me, positioning him with towels to be on his side and warming it have all been tried.
  • He LOVES to move his arms and legs. Some of it is his Moro reflex, some of it is it’s just what he loves to do. He pretty much looks like he’s conducting an orchestra all day long and is never still. You can guess how much this desire of his lets him sleep deeply when laying down somewhere that is not on us.
  • Swaddles and Swaddle transition blankets/gear DO NOT work. We have had a rare occasion where they have, but it is not reliable. Anything that restricts his hands or legs pisses him off for hours at end and defeats their purpose. We legit tried them for weeks and weeks — it was horrible.
  • Carriers equally piss him off and while he will fall asleep in one while we take long walks, that’s not solving this problem.
  • I tried co-sleeping with him leaning against me and by me. He either kept waking himself up as his flailing/movements kept hitting me or he couldn’t last longer than five minutes, no matter how milk drunk I got him or where I put him. I am unable to nurse him easily while laying down, and him doing it on his own to get back to sleep is not possible.
  • He has slept in his swing, but it’s very sporadic and getting it to happen regularly is something we can’t seem to master, no matter how much advice we follow from baby sleep blogs.
  • Putting him to sleep on his own his tummy freaks me out. Please don’t suggest it. I understand babies sleep deeper on their tummies and that’s part of why he does when he’s on us, but he’s WITH us while doing so.

This too shall pass.

I know.

But, for now, HELP PLZ.

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You have absoluely no regrets.

O is now a little over a month old, and the realizations keep on comin’!

  • You spend an obscenely large amount of time watching Netflix and browsing your phone as your child goes to town at your all you can eat boob cafe. (Almost done with Making a Murderer, however!)
  • Breastfeeding, however, kinda makes your boobs feel like superheroes.
  • Bringing a newborn into a public space is quite possibly the quickest way to bring upon yourself a million+ awkward and way too personal conversations with complete strangers.
  • There comes a point your child will demand to be stuck to you like glue, and babywearing is your only option at a semblance of life… A life that guiltily looks around to see if anyone is watching before you wipe crumbs off the top of your child’s head from the meal you just ate. >.>
  • You have never known how it feels to be needed and depended upon this much in your entire life. It is both beautiful and terrifying… as you are pretty sure you can’t even remember when you showered last, let alone raised a tiny human!
  • There are few things funnier than when your hungry newborn smells breastmilk on your chin (don’t ask me how the ‘eff it got there) and tries desperately to feed from it. How have we as a species survived again?
  • It takes a huge friggin’ amount of will to not appease your OCD and go clean the mess that is your house during the rare moments your newborn lets you put him down while he sleeps. Must resist. MUST RESIST.

But, despite your desperate and unending need to sleep (so much so that you legit dream about sleeping WHILE sleeping), you have absolutely no regrets.

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Hurt in the most beautiful way.

O is now a week old, and with it, here is what I’ve so far realized:

  • You now find yourself Googling the most random questions about baby care at 3:30AM and it has somehow become a perfectly acceptable time to do so.
  • Watching your child randomly burst out into a smile while deep in sleep is the cutest freaking thing ever.
  • Watching your child get woken with a start because his dad snorted like a freakin’ chainsaw in his sleep (which also woke dad up) is the greatest thing ever.
  • Post birth hormones and emotions, and their ability to make you weep about anything and everything, could very well make you the greatest star of any Hallmark movie made.
  • Breastfeeding is the thirstiest friggin’ work EVER, no pun intended! I think I drank a gallon of water yesterday and still needed more.
  • Sleep is now for the weak. ‘nough said.

Above all else, the amount of love and adoration and happiness and joy you feel for your little one literally makes your heart hurt. Hurt in the most beautiful way.


💚⁣ ⁣

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