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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Oh.

Finally, the separation was a reality. Happiness became you. You were free. You could live again. Oh, the sweet relief.  

And lived you did. Not long after you jumped onto Tinder (it was what people did, you thought). You were there for things you had longed for and missed. To genuinely talk to a guy, to connect, to shamelessly flirt, and to feel attractive. You soon discovered the (deceptively shallow) thrill of a match. Oh, the validation.  

Matches turned to conversations; your phone glued to hand. You were giddy on difference and change. And thrived in the attention. You came to life. Years of a dead marriage and dead bedroom left you determined. You would harness this energy. You would become again. Oh, the renewal.  

Alas, that wave soon broke.  

For you awoke. 

Eyes opened to the inner voices that lead you to stay unhappily in a marriage for years too long.  

Not a single one of these people would like you in the flesh and blood, Sarah. Your tinder profile, despite how overly honest it is, was nothing but a ruse. You, in all your eagerness and wonder, were but a ruse. Oh, to be a ruse.  

And the conversations turned to ash.  

Rife with uncertainty (where do you go next?), you turned to what you knew. The comfort of World of Warcraft. You hadn’t used your computer much these past few years and it took some adjusting, but your heart sang. You found (some) of your people again. You were having fun again. You were living again.  

But again, you awoke.  

Was this living? Or were you just there to chase the next validation? Dare not find it in yourself, but in those that once showered you with it. They found what you couldn’t. Oh, what you couldn’t.

(And among these messes that you are and where they have led you, there came to be someone else. The one with the voice that you’ve low key had a crush on *for years*. You start talking daily. You somehow end up playing WoW together, and you soon found yourself in Valheim. As your friendship has grown, so does your crush. It’s profoundly silly of you, he’s a thousand miles away. Yet, you know better than to have a single expectation. You’re just enjoying each other’s company, you reason. He’s a delightful escape from your mess, you justify. Oh, to rationalize.)

This past weekend, you deleted Tinder. It was a relief to be on the other side. But… on the other side of what? 

The other side of knowing what you want? You feel no closer to that now than you did at the precipice.

Or on the other side of knowing what you need? For this is a need that does not have the time, Tinder. The bravery. The capacity. The energy. The readiness. And it would be a lie to say I ever did.

And that next validation hit — it needs to come from myself. Myself alone.

Oh, to know.

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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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’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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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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“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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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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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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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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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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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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