Making Memories

My earliest memories come sometime after my third birthday. My mom was pregnant with my brother and I remember her big belly. I remember it as only a child can - from the underside. My memories only reach three and a half feet tall. Standing on the green carpet leftover from the seventies, my mother's hand on the bottom of her belly asking me if I wanted a little brother or a little sister. I wanted a sister so badly. And I was young enough to believe that my wanting it would make it so. 

Tracy thinks her first memories come some time later. She doesn't think she can remember the time before school started. When it was just her and her mom at home. She remembers feeling homesick at school and trying to hold back tears while sitting cross-legged on the carpeted kindergarden floor. So she knows there must have been happy moments to be missed. But they escape her. 

Mac is just two and a half years old. I feel like I have lived a lifetime in those months. The transition from myself to his mama was swift and brutal. It was beautiful and joyous. In one traumatic and miraculous day my new life began and I've done my best to preserve every memory since. Some with cameras and some etched onto the surface of my heart. But it occurs to me that, of this entire life we have lived with our precious son, he will likely not remember any of it. There will be photos and this blog. Some of it he may "remember" in that way that we create memories from keepsakes even though we didn't have the original recollection. But he won't actually remember the kisses and the hugs or the tickles and the laughter. 

Still, we try anyway. Mac has developed a love affair with a big purple dinosaur named Barney. There is a movie, that has been played countless times in my house, that is a recording of a Barney performance. I watch that movie with my son and long to give him that experience. To bring him to a show and watch him dance in the aisles, singing the songs he knows by heart at the top of his lungs. But his love affair with Barney has been facilitated through Netflix and old episodes. Did you know that Demi Lovato and Selena Gomez played friends of the big purple dinosaur as children? Me neither. These episodes are old. Barney is now a retired rockstar and google did not reveal a farewell or comeback tour. 

Then one day I was flipping through an issue of Parenting Times  and saw a full page advertisement for  a live Barney show in Ottawa. Well, actually, it was an ad for The Baby Show. But Barney was going to be there on stage. I blacked out the weekend on my schedule and waited for showtimes to be announced. As springtime photo shoots filled my calendar I kept the weekend as free as possible. My kid was going to see Barney! 

The day arrived and we headed downtown. Slow traffic and blocked roads, the result of a bicycle race, meant that we didn't make the 11 AM show and instead would wait around for the 2 PM show. But we were not deterred. The small town girl in me still feels like she is being kicked in the stomach when she has to pay city parking prices. But what's the cost of a mid-level bottle of wine in comparison to my son seeing Barney!? 

We got there early. Each taking turns holding our front row seats while the other browsed the Baby Show booths. I made the decision to leave my camera at home this time. With it in my hands I am constantly searching for the right light, the best angle, and sometimes that means that I miss what is right in front of me. I decided I would snap a few quick photos with my phone and let the rest write itself on my heart. 

Tracy and I were giddy with anticipation. So much so that tears welled up in my wife's eyes at the excitement of being able to bring her son to his see the purple dino of his dreams. I only found out about this after when she turned to me and said "did you cry a bit before Barney came on?" And when I gave her a quizzical look she said "ya, me either." And then added "don't tell anyone that." Which sounds like "I double dog dare you" to a blogger. 

Before long Barney was on stage singing the songs Mac knows by heart. But instead of dancing in the aisle as I had imagined he would he crawled onto my lap and sat stoically. All of my attempts to get him dancing and singing were met with "no Ma." The experience was overwhelming for our boy and he was just taking it all in. 

As the tiny groupies rushed the stage for their moment with Barney we asked Mac if he wanted to get closer. He was unsure. And then the homebody boy after my own heart said "Ma, can we go home and watch Barney on my TV?"

It wasn't the heart-exploding moment of sheer joy I had hoped for. And yet this morning, after sleeping on the memory, he woke up excitedly proclaiming "You remember Ma? You remember when Barney touched my head?!?" And, for now, the memory of seeing Barney on stage is a magical one that he will tell everyone about for months to come. 

Although he likely won't remember the day, as the months turn to years, it will live on through my wife and me. And I like to think that even though he won't be able to access the details of these early days in tangible ways they will still exist in some way in his heart. And when he has his own little ones someday he will know what these years were like. He'll access that part of his heart and thank his moms for the memories he can't quite remember. Like I should probably do right now. Thank-you Mom and Dad.  



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Did you skip over that bit at the beginning about voting for us (Mondays with Mac Photography) at over at  Ottawa Wedding Awards ? If so we would so appreciate your vote! And if you have already voted for us then thank-you so much taking the time - it truly means so much! 

Always a Privilege

I wasn't sure what to write about today. It's the first day of April and we are finally getting some  nearly-spring-like weather. It's still cold. I mean, if Mac's American dad was visiting he'd be in long johns and a parka. But, relatively speaking, it was quite warm today. And that's good because at this point winter is a houseguest who has long overstayed her welcome. There is a Disney movie that is popular this winter called Frozen. About a girl who turns her kingdom into eternal winter. And in a strange case of life imitating art it has felt like our city was transplanted to that magical kingdom.

My eyes no longer see the beauty in freshly fallen snow. We've long since passed the sweetness of tiny bodies bundled in puffy snowsuits. We are firmly in that part of winter where boots never seem to be dry and we each own six mittens that have lost their mates. Somehow over these cold winter months my son has transitioned from a baby to a boy. Magic beans and fairytales. His legs, like beanstalks, grow towards the sun. And his snow pants fit like capris. But winter is almost, almost, almost over and there's no point in buying new winter gear that may not fit next season.

And my lack of patience for mother nature and her unwelcome shenanigans have been creeping over to Mac. Because he's tired of his Mama's tiredness but he's too new to really understand seasons and I'm not sure he gets that there will ever come a day without snow again anyway.

So in my winter-weary state I decide to read some old blog posts to see if one will spark an idea for a new post. And I start at the beginning. When everything was new. The springtime of parenting. My little baby born in trauma and his magical voice that reached into my chest and pulled out my heart. The marvel of baby legs that fold into bodies not yet aware of the vastness of space on the outside. And the humbling reality that this ridiculous knock-you-on-your-ass love that I feel for this tiny human is a feeling shared by two people towards me.

And that's when it hits me that the cold and the snow and the infinity of toddler snot and winter illnesses have tricked me into glossing over what an immense privilege this whole parenting gig is. With spring eyes I look to that boy who not too long ago fit neatly in my belly. I smell his head. It smells more like peanut butter than newborn but it is just as sweet. I brush my fingers against his soft cheeks and I whisper secrets in his ear. I tell him that of all the blessings I've had in this life, and there are many, being his Mama is the very best one. Because even in the last days of a long winter, when his snow pants are wet and dirty and too short, and there are no matching mittens, and there is kleenex in every pocket, loving this little human is still always, always, such a privilege.

One

It took three attempts to make our Mac. Three awkward airport pick-ups of Mac's dad. "How was security?" I would ask him and he would laugh. Officials start to become a bit suspicious when you cross borders, leaving the city that never sleeps to come to the city that's never warm every 28 days. There's no declaring sperm at the border.

I rushed through the unease of it all. Rushing to catch that egg. Wanting so badly for the next part to start. But still, if I had known I'd only do it once I might have savoured it more. I might have taken a moment in the middle of that social discomfort to remember how it all was. What it means to meet a stranger and make him family. To relish in the excitement of what was to come.

Three attempts. Twelve artichoke jars of sperm. And eighteen pregnancy tests. Until the one. The one where the second line emerged. Strong and beautiful. And I knew there was a baby in me. Well, there were cells that would one day, with luck and magic, transform into a baby. Our baby.

And I walked around my city. Proud like a peacock. A secret growing inside me and it took everything in me not to tell every detail to the woman cutting my hair and the man selling me carrots. The happiness of those moments shone like moonlight. Illuminating our blessings. And yet paling in comparison to the brightness of the sun and what was to come. The round belly. The birth. The baby. But still, if I had known - if I had known it would be the last time I peed on a stick and cried with gratitude I might have held that stick a little longer. I always thought there would be a next time.

Nine months of throwing up. In public and in private. On the side of the road and in a garbage can in the middle of the shopping mall. Nine months of people offering me crackers like I was part parrot. That's what I think of when I remember being pregnant. The damn crackers. The memories of curling up in a rocking chair so that my legs wrapped around my belly and rubbing the bundle of countless possible dreams yet to be lived are harder to hold onto. They slip through my fingers even as I write them down. A permanent record can still be forgotten. Next time, maybe I won't be so sick I thought to myself. But if I had it to do again I'd know what it's like to love like your heart could explode. And that would be enough to get me through it.

Twenty-something hours of pain so unimaginable to me I shudder when I remember it. His tiny bum crushing my sciatic nerve like an elephant on a peanut shell sending waves of excruciation through my leg and out my toes. Contractions four minutes a part lasting a minute. We should have been much farther along. But instead we stayed at 4 centimetres for an eternity.

I clung to the plan I had for his birth. Laminated pages of ideas already tattooed on my heart. I stared straight ahead at the robot onesie hanging on the wall. I imagined his little body turning the cotton fabric from 2D art to 3D perfection. But he had other plans. And so did the doctors and nurses. I negotiated with them like a child resisting bedtime. Just one more hour. Please. Just let me do this on my own for one more hour. Just leave me in this tub with this jet positioned right here where it can penetrate my flesh and apply pressure right to that nerve doling out pain every four minutes. 

And then his heart rate was dropping and there was no more waiting. There was a vacuum and a team of people ready to take his grey body from me. I didn't get to put him on my chest. I didn't get to let the rest of the world disappear. I just waited an eternity until he cried. And on that first night as I stayed wide awake from the adrenaline rush I imagined all the things I would do differently next time.

Nine months of bliss. He needed constant bouncing and rocking and breastfeeding. He cried a lot and needed a lot. But I loved it. I loved the smell of him. So distinct I'm fairly sure you could blindfold me and put me in a room of babies and I would sniff out mine like a drug trained hound. In those moments I thought I would get to do it again. That it wouldn't be the last three month birthday celebration I toasted.

Six months of Hell. And another six months of aftershock. Postpartum depression was the worst experience of my life. I woke up one day underwater. Unable to move. Unable to decide. On anything. The simple choice of breakfast would leave me in tears. So unaccustomed to these feelings I turned to medication expecting it to make me happy. But instead it just numbed me. And so I kept upping and upping the dosage until there was no where left to go but down. And with each new milligram I became more and more numb. Fifty pounds gained in the span of six months. One perfect marriage nearly destroyed. We work hard to patch those cracks. But the scars remain. We plaster and paint but the weak spots have been identified. They won't withstand another tidal wave.

And I know I can only survive that once.

One baby. One perfect baby. One amazing child. One love of our lives to hold our hearts in his hands and do with what he chooses. There will only be one child in this house. And while it's not how I always imagined it to be, I know how blessed I am.

Dancing Up Close: On twos being both terrible and terrific

It wasn't a good day. Two O'clock in the afternoon and the 1.5 hours between that moment and my wife's triumphant return from work felt like an eternity spreading out before me.

Before parenthood I imagined that I'd never bemoan the "terrible twos." After all, I had wanted this baby with every molecule of my being. I had hoped, and prayed, and dreamed, and by some miracle beyond my comprehension grew him into flesh and bones reality. I would never be one of those parents who complained. That would be like grumbling over the weight of my wallet when stuffed with too much money. No, I would experience the "terrific twos" and treasure each moment of perfection.

But that November day was not terrific. Stuck inside for days on end in the middle of a cold snap, we made a brief attempt at an outdoor adventure but our breath seemed to freeze in the air before us. The snow stayed frozen in the clouds. And we returned indoors. Forts made from fitted sheets over kitchen chairs were boring. Baking was so last week. My living room was scattered with crafts that somewhat (not really) resembled their beautiful Pinterested inspirations. And his cheeks were the perfect shade of crimson. That colour that experienced parents could pick out from a mile away.

"Two year molars?" My neighbour had asked. My son's eyes and red cheeks the only thing visible under his winter layers.
Sigh. "Yes." She gave me a knowing half-smile and an affirmative shake of her head. No more words needed.

The ratio of whine to wine in my day was entirely off-balance and I was just.plain.done. I turned on Barney and closed my eyes. I was hoping I could play dead long enough for him to sit still and let the digital babysitter take a turn at parenting.

Restless, he continued to move around the room. Grabbing, climbing, whining. Oh the whining. And then his little hands rested on the Apple TV remote. In a moment of perfect chance he managed to turn off the purple dinosaur and turn on my iTunes library on the laptop across the room.

My friend Preetam Sengupta's words filled the air. Let's go dancing. And my whinny, red-cheeked, son turned to me and said "dance up close Ma?"

[Press play. Music begins at 1:53]



And so I picked him up. He was no longer my little baby who once spent hours upon hours in my arms as I danced around the room to ease the crying. But the additional weight of his toddler-sized body felt like air in that moment. And we danced. We swayed. His two year old hands fumbled with my hair. And unable to bite back the tears I let them fall on his shoulders.

"No cry Ma." His eyebrows registered some mix of confusion and concern. The concept of happy tears was beyond his grasp. So I smiled and reassured him that I was happy. And he wiped my tears away with the sleeve of his shirt.

His attention span fell short of the three and a half minute song and he was wiggling to get down with a minute to spare. But it was enough. It was enough time for me to be reminded of the full force of my love for this tiny, sometimes incredibly annoying, human. And it was more than enough to get me through the final hour and a half of solo parenting before my wife returned home.

And with that short not-quite-three-minutes of terrific the previous nine hours of terrible had been completely balanced.

And that's what two is, terrific and terrible, in harmony.



[You can purchase Preetam Sengupta's album Hopefull on iTunes or visit him online.]

Shirley and Mondays with Mac Visit Sudbury

This morning, at what felt like far too early of an hour for a vacation day, I was in the car driving Mac to Tim Horton's. I told him we were going so he could get a bagel. But, really, I needed the coffee. The radio was set to our local Ottawa station, Hot 89.9, and psychic medium Blair Robertson was on the air answering questions. Usually people ask about their futures. When will I meet my mate? Will I get pregnant? Will I get a promotion? But today most the callers were focussed on the past. Each one wanting to connect with a loved one on the other side. He offers them words that seem to comfort them. Many of them just wanting confirmation for what they already think they know.  But knowing that you know something is far different than thinking it. And third party confirmation is always helpful. Then he offers some comments that seem to be directed at everyone instead of just the person on the other end of the phone line. Love never dies, he says, it's the topic of his next book. Once someone loves you that love doesn't just go away. Ever. They are around you. Maybe not every millisecond of the day. But sometimes. When you need it. 

And that makes me smile. Because we've been talking a lot about Shirley lately. You remember
Shirley don't you? My late Mother-in-law. Who is not really late for anything. That's a strange expression. She's early, really. Early to be gone from this world. But we talk about her. A lot. And she's here. Kinda. If you are new here you can start with THIS post. And then, if you want, there are more posts HERE. 

I'm grateful that I at least got to know Shirley before she passed. I'm grateful that when my wife speaks about her I can imagine her moving, laughing, being silly and saying things that don't always make perfect sense, except to her, while chopping up vegetables in the kitchen. Shirley signed her name with a smiley face every single time. It was so uniquely her that a smiley face even ended up on her tombstone. I'm not kidding.

Last year we decided to take this huge leap. We started a photography company. And we invested tens of thousands of dollars into it. And jumped with both feet into a very over saturated market. Without really knowing if we could do it. And along the way we've had moments of OMG what are we doing? And hey! Check us out! We are TOTALLY doing this. Like, for real. And as time passes it's so much more of the latter and so much less of the former.

As we travel from Ottawa to Sudbury I am so excited to shoot an engagement session and a sold out set of mini family shoots in my hometown.

Josh and Lisa's engagement shoot goes well and I'm starting relax and get excited for the day of mini shoots on Sunday. Until I look at the weather and realize they are calling for non-stop rain. And that's when the self doubt kicks in. What are we thinking starting this business? I can't reschedule photo shoots in Sudbury when I don't live here. We're going to disappoint all the people. 

So we are having that kind of a discussion when we head to the Tim Horton's drive through. And our coffees land in our hands with a little message.

Relax girls. She's telling us. I got this.

And she does.

It threatens to rain all morning. But it holds off.

There are also photos of this family where everyone is looking at the camera. But this is more indicative of their shoot in general. And I'm always a fan of real. 

This is how I imagine life with four kids would be like. 

The sky is grey but it's not until our last morning session of the morning that it starts to come down. We manage to do half the shoot outside in the open air and half of it inside a small gazebo. And that all works out fine. 

The family who booked immediately after lunch had already cancelled a few days earlier. We decided that instead of booking a new family during that time we would just take a long lunch and enjoy a warm meal while my parents are busy wrangling our toddler elsewhere. 

And that was a really smart plan because it rains all through lunch and through what would have been the cancelled shoot. We are watching out the window, hoping and praying that the rain clears up. And then our bill comes. 

We laugh. And watch as the sky turns from grey to blue and the rain stops. 

We breeze through the rest of the afternoon with a gorgeous post rain sky. 

The day ends and we are packing up our gear and Tracy turns to me and says "I can't believe Shirley pulled that off."


I sometimes feel like I missed out by not having Shirley in my life for very long. I don't have those oh my meddling mother-in-law stories that some people have. And then I remember that I kinda do. She meddles a little here and there in her own way.  And Blair Robertson is right. I think. Love never really does die. Because she's still here. Maybe not every millisecond of the day. But sometimes. When we need it.

Telling Andy's Story: Andy Inkster Versus Baystate Reproductive Medicine

The story of transgender folks butting heads with health care professionals is not a new one. The power struggle over access to both trans-specific and general health care has a long and varried history that would probably shock you if you haven't lived it. I have a friend who tells a cringe-worthy story about the time he needed a prescription for yeast infection medicine (in the days before Monistat was available at every corner). Having candida susceptible reproductive organs but presenting as male made the prospect of a doctor's visit less than appealing and he waited longer than anyone ever should to deal with that uncomfortable problem.  When he could take it no more he visited the doctor and tried to whisper the reason for his visit to the receptionist. However, she was unable to wrap her head around the situation and yelled at him for being a pervert and wasting the doctor's time.

So it was not shocking when Andy Inkster had his back-up as he approached a fertility clinic in Toronto in 2008 in search of help conceiving a child. He had all the requisite baby growing parts and was not taking hormones that could interfere with the process. But still. He expected some push back. To his surprise, he was met with support and encouragement.

Several rounds of inseminations with the fertility drug clomid were unsuccessful in Toronto and it was time for him to move on to something stronger. During this time he moved from Toronto Ontario to Springfield Massachusetts to pursue a doctorate. The closest fertility clinic was Baystate Reproductive Medicine at Baystate Health Centre. Baystate was known to be (and advertised to be) a leader in trans health care. So Andy set-up his first consultation with the belief that he would be able to access the care he needed without a lot of difficulty.

His first appointment was a bit rocky as he was asked questions like "where's your wife?" and "aren't you overly masculinized to have a baby?" He was put off by their lack of tact and respect but he certainly didn't imagine that he was about to be refused care because of the trans identity. They suggested another round of clomid and although he was fairly certain that clomid was not going to work for him he decided not to push back too much and let them follow their own trajectory of escalated care. He left his first meeting with a copies of the protocols that would follow and instructions to call on day one of his next cycle.

On day one he called and left a message but it wasn't returned. On day three he went to the lab with his requisitions and had blood work done. Later that day a nurse from Baystate left him a voicemail message telling him that they would need him to visit with their "psychological counsellor" first and that until then they couldn't give him any of his test results or let him meet with a doctor.

Annoyed, Andy agreed to meet with the counsellor (Susan Lynn, MSW). And that's when things got bad. She asked for a letter from his current therapist regarding his emotional competence to undergo fertility treatments and pregnancy. But Andy's therapist refused. She said that ethically she could not participate in a process that she thought was discriminatory. When pressed, Baystate claimed that they did not have a specific policy in place requiring such a letter but that it was standard practice. However, Andy's current therapist, who specialized in queer families and infertility, had never been asked for such a letter prior to the request on Andy's behalf. Andy felt disrespected during his interactions with Ms. Lynn. She asked questions such as "what was your old name?" and "aren't you confused about your sexuality?" She told Andy that she had no prior experience treating trans people and put the onus on him to educate her. When Andy argued that her lines of questioning were not relevant to the matter at hand he was dismissed.

While he waited on a decision from Baystate about whether or not they would agree to treat him he called the clinic and read their own Patient Rights Policy to them. Click over to see the entire policy if you wish but the important part comes in the very first line. They claim that patients will "access treatment or accommodations that are available or medically indicated, regardless of race, creed, sex, national origin, sexual orientation, gender identity or expression, or sources of payment for care." When confronted, the clinic responded that their reluctance to provide care was "not about gender" but instead was because he was a male seeking female services. 

Ultimately, Baystate decided that they were not prepared to move forward with his treatment. Andy was then forced to seek care in Boston which meant multiple two hour trips, being farther away from his care providers in moments of necessity, and generally disrupting his life during a time that was challenging enough on its own.
In the meantime Andy went on to seek fertility treatment in Boston and conceived and birthed a daughter whom he named Elise. Unfortunately, during his pregnancy there were complications and it was thought that he might need to be induced. Not feeling secure about his ability to receive care at Baystate he and his birthing team had to come up with creative scenarios to avoid the hospital that was closest and would make the most sense to visit. 

Andy and Elise walking the dogs (4 months old)

Andy and Elise (two and a half years old)

This month MCAD reached a decision in the case of Andy Inkster versus Baystate Reproductive Medicine. They found probable cause that Baystate had denied care to a transgender person. I asked Andy how it felt when he received that news and he said that he felt a mixture of relief and anger. He had never intended to set out on this David versus Goliath style fight. He said that the last three years had been draining but that he was glad he had continued to fight. Glad not just for his own victory but for the hope that now Baystate, and other institutions, will be forced to examine their own policies and practices and encouraged to provide trans people access to respectful healthcare. And, as he said, "transgender people shouldn’t have to go to court to go to the doctor."

Andy reached out to a number of LGBT advocacy groups but struggled to find someone willing to fight on his behalf. On his own, he filed a complaint with the Massachusetts Commission Against Discrimination (MCAD). That process has taken three years and has involved rounds of claims and rebuttals between himself and Baystate Health. 

The lingering trauma of his experience at Baystate did not end there. With a newborn to worry about it was not sufficient for him to rely on having her care providers a two hour drive away in Boston and he could not trust Baystate with his family. So he left his PhD. program and moved back to Canada, ultimately changing the trajectory of his life entirely. 

At this point the finding of probable cause means that both sides will come together to discuss retribution. Guessing on what that will entail would not be productive. But Andy says that he is most looking forward to their acknowledgement that they were wrong.

If you would like to get in touch with Andy Inkster to learn more about his story please feel free to contact him by email at AndyInkster@gmail.com or on Twitter @AndyInkster. 

Sure you can have a pony. Would you like cake with that?

As the last hot days of summer come to an end and the landscape is painted with beautiful oranges, yellows, and reds, our photography business is busier than we could have ever anticipated. Which is amazing. Like bust out the champagne and have a party to celebrate amazing.

Tracy and I shoot weddings together. Which means that we exhaust our childcare options with Saturdays that start at sun-up and go late into the night. So when we have additional shoots in the evenings and on Sundays it is just me who goes. Tracy stays home with Mac and gets all that fun evening and weekend time when rules are far and few between and the world is their oyster.

And it's starting to show.

I carried this child in my stomach for nine long months. He sat directly on my sciatic nerve for two of those months. But all of a sudden he likes her better. And we aren't talking he'd prefer her to put him to bed better. We're talking "Nooooooo Ma! WANT MO!" screaming until he's blue in the face better. And as he gets over this last bout of asthma we aren't supposed to let him get too upset so he wins. And she puts him to bed. And she pours his coconut milk. And I'm not even allowed to touch the remote. No Ma, Mo do 'mote. I mean, not that it's a competition or anything. Except when it is. And I'm totally loosing.

So Sunday morning rolls around and the only commitment I have is a family shoot at 2 PM. So with this rare free weekend morning I decide that I'm going to take Mac out for breakfast. But he wants none of it. Mo. No Ma. Mo. He's crying and I'm pleading and Tracy is trying to convince him that I'm not the monster he seems to think I am while trying to control her self-satisfied smirk. And it sucks.

So I convince him to leave the house with me by promising a visit to the choochoo instead of breakfast. But once in the car he still cries the whole way there. We head to the train set at Chapters (which is like Borders for those of you in the US). That seems to make him forget about the other half of his mothering duo.

And then we finish at the train and his eyes fall on the animal figurines for sale. He has this strange obsession with the over-priced animal figurines that you can find in places like Chapters and Michaels. He wants a pony. So I buy it for him. And then he wants another. And I buy that too. A new blue parrot from the craft store next door? Sure thing kid. Forty dollars later we are walking out of the store and he's clutching his loot to his chest.

I'm certain that I've made up for my parenting absences.

And then we return home and it's all he can do to get up the stairs without dropping his new friends so that he can show them to his favourite mom. Who, by the way, is not me.

Lesson of the day? You cannot buy your children's affection with plastic horse figurines. I'll try cake next. Unless you have a better suggestion.

Breath

He already has a virus. Croup we suspect. So we're watching him. Listening to breaths and looking at snot. The job of a parent is immensely glamourous. Under the weather and under the covers. We spend the day snuggled on the couch watching Barney on endless repeat. Sick baby days were easier when I still had control over the remote. We're big and little and short and tall. Some are in the middle some are very small. Are you big or little Mac? I ask him. Big Mac. He responds with pride.

And then his breath changes. We don't know if this is a serious development or not. Sometimes I worry that in this two mom family we jump to the worst possibilities first. But we head to CHEO (The Children's Hospital of Eastern Ontario) anyway.

And so begins one of the scariest days of my parenting experience thus far. One nurse listens to his breath and calls a second nurse. There seems to be a correlation between how many medical professionals enter the room and how bad the situation is. One nurse, two nurse, red nurse, blue nurse. They talk to each other but not to us. A now quite lethargic Mac is slumped over my shoulder whining but I try to hear what they are saying over his mumbles.

Dual symptoms.
I don't hear air on the left side. 

The worst part about ER visits is the wait. Hours in a room with coughing, sneezy, and oozing kids and their tired and stressed out parents. One hour, two hours, seven hours. You should bring a charger for your iPhone. You are going to be there a while. But this time is different. We skip the wait and head directly to an isolation room. Turns out that the wait is not the worst part.

"Does the nurse think this is serious or does she just have bitchy resting face?" Tracy whispers to me. I'm not sure either.

In our private room Mac is clingy and unhappy. They show us how to administer Ventolin which means that one of us holds him down while the other tortures him. He holds us equally responsible.  Then prednisone. And more Ventolin. We need to do it every 20 minutes, and then every hour, and then every 2 hours.

No more puffs. No nice. Mac whimpers on repeat. 

The probable diagnosis is asthma but he's too little for the official test. The doctor is nice and reassuring. He asks if there is a family history of asthma and Tracy begins to tell him that she had a puffer as a child too. I give her a quizzical look and realize that she has forgotten her lack of a biological connection to our child. We all laugh. I forget sometimes too.

He needs to make it to two hours without needing Ventolin to be allowed to go home. As much as we want him to be better we both admit that we'd prefer the security of the hospital. But as we wait we talk about the parents we know that do this wait-and-see dance far too regularly. Children with special needs and serious illnesses who have spent more time in hospital rooms than any one person should. It becomes easier to put our day in perspective.

Eventually it is discharge time and we are uneasy. Tracy asks the kind doctor questions about risks and time frames. With each question the fear in her voice increases. The doctor can see her face flush red and he finds the words she needs to hear.  He turns to her and says that in the last 15 years not a single person under the age of 18 has died from asthma for not getting to hospital fast enough. Tears stream down her face with relief and she thanks him profusely.

At home we continue with the Ventolin and the prednisone. I stay awake and listen to him breath. In and out in and out in and out. Two days pass and the scary part is over. Tracy is calm and begins to return to normal. But, as is my way, I've deferred the anxiety. I did the same thing when I was 22 weeks pregnant and we nearly lost our boy. I was eerily calm through the ordeal as my wife panicked enough for both of us. Mama instincts took over. I kept calm for him. But anxiety deferred is not erased. It comes eventually.

The second day comes to an end and I'm a wreck. I call my mom and ask if she can come. She doesn't ask why. She and my dad are here 16 hours later. And we are all breathing better.

You can help support Mondays with Mac by shopping the following deals! I will receive a small commission with each sale. 

Hurley – up to 50% off zulily Back to School sale!

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Bobo, Ba, and Mac

The drive between Ottawa and Sudbury is a long one. If you aren't familiar with Northern Ontario geography it is approximately 1 bajillion hours. To put it in perspective it is slightly farther than New York City to Pittsburgh, slightly less than Chicago to Kansas City, and nearly exactly the distance between Tuscan and Las Vegas. However, during each of those drives there are a number of interesting places to visit. The drive between Ottawa and Sudbury is mostly trees with Tim Horton's coffee shops strategically placed every few hours to accommodate addicts like myself.

When Mac's Dad, NYC resident Andy Hall, visits he regularly comments on how nice it is to be surrounded by grass and trees. "You live in such a park like setting" he has said. So he might really enjoy the long drive between Ottawa and Sudbury. I, on the other hand, hate it.

It has been a year since I was home last. It shocked me to realize that. But my parents have an inability to be away from Mac for more than four weeks at a time so I guess that their continued visits have offset my usual homesickness.

Mac is well into the Toddler stage so it's a roller coaster of highs and lows these days. Of course, our trip to Sudbury was met with a few meltdowns. Like the time we wouldn't let him fall down the stairs and break his neck.

But Sudbury is a wonderland of sorts for Mac. There is the sprawling green space for him to run without any nagging from his city-dwelling moms who can usually be heard saying "not too far Mac" "stay close Mac" "This way" "Stay away from the road." And there are big trucks everywhere he looks. People in the city drive far too few trucks for his liking. But the highlight of Sudbury is absolutely Bobo and Ba. 

Approximately every 30 minutes during our entire visit my son can be heard squealing "Yay Bobo! Yay Ba!" 

And if they manage to get out of his line of sight and then return he will run with his arms held wide excited for their embrace.

It's easy to understand why he's so happy there. The word "no" is used very selectively. Yes, you may eat peanut butter straight from the jar. Yes, you may make phone calls to China. Yes, you may insist on going to the park at 6 AM. No, you cannot play in the stove. See how that works?

I'm not sure where Mac got the idea to call my dad Ba and my mom Bobo. At first it sounded a bit ridiculous. But, the more he says it the more fitting it becomes. In Mac's presence my mother is as excited and animated as any Bobo The Clown impostor could be.  And Mac feeds off her energy. She is the sun and he's a solar powered battery. And after a week with Bobo he could likely power a big Sudbury truck all the way to Ottawa.

In Sudbury my son rarely stops smiling. And that is why I drive the one bajillion hours to get there.

________________________________________
Update! The buy now button has been removed as these are all sold out!! Thank-you for your interest. If you would like to arrange a special shoot for grandparents/grandchildren please message me at kristin@mondayswithmac.com for details. 

Do you want to celebrate the love between your child(ren) and parents? In honour of my son's love for his Bobo an Ba, I am offering FIVE Grandparent(s) and me shoots for only $75. Each session will take approximately an hour and you will receive 10 edited photos with print release as well as one 8x10 print (something I almost never do!). 

To claim yours, click Buy Now below and an official gift certificate will be emailed to you within 48 hours. 

If you have questions email me at Kristin@mondayswithmac.com 

A spiked fever, a long drive home, and an Auntie Tata that makes parenting so much easier

The road that stretches between Ottawa and Mont Tremblant, Quebec is full of twists and turns and hills and narrow shoulders. It requires a steady hand on the wheel and a cautious foot on the gas. It is a beautiful drive with breath taking views of hills and rivers and quaint little towns that encourage you to stop for a taste of wine and cheese fresh from the farm.

It is a lovely drive and I highly recommend it. That is, unless your baby is sick on the other end and you are trying to get to him in a hurry.

It is 8:30 AM on Sunday morning and we are already on the road. The drive that, on Friday, had been so sweet and relaxing, Oh hello little town market, sure I'd love to try your cheese curds, oh, and a small glass of red to wash it down with? don't mind if I do, is now the longest drive in the history of the world. The GPS mocks me with an ETA of 10:30 and I know it's probably right. These are not highways to speed along.

The day before my wife and I were nestled in amongst tree covered mountains shooting the beautiful wedding of a boy, now a man, whom I knew as a child but haven't seen in nearly two decades.

The groom, clearly a man unafraid to commit to both his wife and life-long friends, has organized a group of groom's men that serves as a reunion of sorts for me. My memories of the groom involve him and his best friend, inseparable, and perpetually mischievous. And now they are men. With careers and wives and children. But still best friends. There is something about the longevity of the friendship that makes my heart swell. 

But while my wife and I were admiring beautiful scenery, love-filled vows, and life long friendships, poor Auntie Tata was back in Ottawa watching the numbers on the digital thermometer tucked under Mac's armpit rise and rise. 

I glance over at my wife and notice that she has both hands on the wheel. Her grip is tight but her knuckles aren't white. She's concerned but not panicked. I know I need to be the calm one. So I take a few deep breaths and try to imagine what Tammy and Mac are doing in that moment. The truth is that I am not overly concerned. I know that Tammy loves Mac as much as we do. And I know that she's likely to bring him to the hospital before I am.  I know he is in good hands. 

I know that he is in the hands of a woman whom he sees as a third mom. I know that he can be comforted by his Auntie Tata as well as he can by his moms. And I know that we are exceptionally blessed to have her caring for our babe in our absence. 

Mac and Auntie Tata: Day 1

Auntie Tata comforting a teething Mac 

And while I know these things, I also know that our sweet Auntie Tata is probably freaking the (insert expletive) out.

The roads twist and eventually we come to something more akin to an actual highway and the top left corner of my cell phone changes from "no service" to a picture that indicates two bars. I text her to ask how he is doing and she admits that mostly he's annoyed. She woke him up every hour through the night to check on his temperature so by this point he is trying to sleep-in and occasionally mumbling "No Tata, No." I can hear his exasperated voice in my head and I laugh a little.

You know that NyQuil commercial where the man has a cold and rolls over in bed asking his wife to call his mother? Well, with two moms and an Auntie Tata, that is certainly the kind of man we'll be raising. Good luck future daughter/son in-law! 

I assure Tracy that our baby is just fine. She smiles in my direction but I know she needs to see for herself. All four of our "mama arms" are starting to ache and we are counting the minutes until they are filled. 

Finally, FINALLY, we arrive home. We quickly bring the cameras and photo cards into our house and make sure that they are stowed away safely (oh the pressure of wedding photography!) and then we are off to retrieve Mac. 

We walk into Tammy's house afraid of what we might see. A sick babe limp in his Auntie Tata's arms perhaps? 

Instead, we see Mac running around the living room in full monkey mode. The coffee table shows remnants of a painted bird house project and the floor is littered with toys. Auntie Tata is sitting at the table looking relieved to see us. And her sister, who was woken up through the night to give reassurance, is huddled on the couch in her PJ's offering us knowing smiles. She has two babies of her own. Now young men. She remembers. 

Mac breaks momentarily to say hello and offer us hugs. But he acts as if we were just gone for an hour or two instead of two nights. He is excited to show us the painted bird house and ball he has been throwing for Auntie Tata's "big dog," but then he is back to playing and relatively undisturbed by our absence and subsequent reappearance. 

My hand rests on his forehead. I am certain that a Mama's hands are as accurate as any thermometer. The Advil that Tammy has been giving him has kicked in and his fever has broken. 

Tracy and I are relieved. We may have an extra grey hair or two but we are fine. Mac is oblivious to all that has gone on in the last two days. If anything he's a little sleepy and annoyed by his Auntie Tata's obsessive temperature taking. Auntie Tata, on the other hand, may take a little longer to calm down. When Mac turns twelve and needs an ER visit for stitches because he drove his bike down a steep hill, or scaled a fence and got his pants stuck on the way down, she will be sitting with him in the hospital, holding a cool cloth on his leg, and telling him all about the time he stayed at her house and spiked a fever through the night. He will just roll his eyes at his neurotic aunt unaware of the trauma of a sick child without the words to express his discomfort. 

Auntie Tata has the day off work today. I hope she was able to sleep in. 

DOMA Down (a post from Mac's Dad Andy)

Same sex marriage has been federally legal here in Canada for nearly a decade. When I chose to marry my wife we were able to do so with all the legal rights and responsibilities of our heterosexual counterparts. But we knew that was not a universal right. When our son's dad married his husband this past year he did so in a state that recognized his union in a country that did not. But last week that changed. DOMA was struck down by the supreme court and it made a substantial, pragmatic, difference in Andy and Raf's life. The fight isn't over by any means. Most states still don't allow same sex marriage. But it was a victory. And we need to take moments out to celebrate them when they come. So please join me in welcoming our favourite "special guest star" to Mondays with Mac this week! Congratulations boys! We love you so so much! 

Oh, but before I turn the blog over to Andy I just thought I'd mention, you know, in case you were wondering, that today is my birthday. And you have the opportunity to buy me the absolute best present in the world! If you follow me on social media or regularly read this blog you will know that Paige Johnson's story has grabbed ahold of my heart and held on tight. As a mother, as a lesbian, and as a human being it has rarely been out of my mind for more than a few minutes. Paige has 58 days of incarceration left. We are doing pretty well at collecting enough money for her to make a phone call home to her mother every day from now until then. Each phone call costs $6. So, if you can swing it, sending her mother Jackie a $6 donation would make THE BEST BIRTHDAY PRESENT TO ME EVER. The donation can be sent via paypal or snail mail (message me for addresses at kristin@mondayswithmac.com). Generous people have been making donations already and we now only have 42 days left to collect money for [UPDATE: Since posting 4 more people have donated. We are now down to 38!]. Can we get to zero before my birthday ends?

If a cash donation isn't possible you can also send Paige a letter. These connections to the outside have meant so much to her these last few weeks! 

OK, back to Andy now... 

How does the striking down of DOMA (Defense of Marriage Act from the 90s) affect me?

The short answer: Goosebumps. What a wonderful feeling when the world goes your way!

I ran into my boss in the elevator that morning, a long-time New Yorker who came of age in the gay era just ahead of mine. (In Diva Terms, his diva is Donna Summer, while mine is Madonna. Rafael's are the ones still on the radio: Rihanna and Britney).

"Tell me something good," he said, obviously meaning something about the account I work on.

"I'm so happy," I replied, work being the furthest thing from my mind. It took a moment, but then, oh yeah, he realized what I meant.

"I saw it break on the news and I got kind of choked up," he said, a little surprised at the emotion of his own reaction.

And I totally knew what he meant.

At face value, the decisions make an immediate and concrete difference for couples like Raff and me. New York is now a viable option – I can sponsor Rafael for a visa, and he can pursue his career and studies in New York, if he wants to. (I love my husband for innumerable reasons, one of them being that he feels no need to jump when the US Supreme Court says jump.)

But in that quick chat with my boss, I realized that something else was going on here, something bigger and more mysterious than Neil Patrick Harris' wedding plans. This was not just a win for couples juggling the logistics of "settling down." This is a big, emotional win for us all.

Thinking back to those Madonna years – I'm talking Paleolithic Madonna, like "Like a Prayer" and "Vogue" – there wasn't a whole lot about being gay to feel "so happy" about.

There were big depressing things, like the AIDS epidemic. There were little annoying things, like the police showing up to tow cars from the Pride Celebration. And there was this forlorn, prevailing sentiment – one shared by British indie bands and Midwestern moms alike – that being gay meant, at best, a life destined for loneliness and alcoholism.

Things changed, of course. Little by little. And yesterday, in a wave of goose bumps, they changed a lot.

So to hear my young friends at dinner ­last night – ready to propose now that marriage is "a real thing," looking forward to being on the Old Navy float at the Pride March this Sunday, tweeting about their celebrity boyfriends' latest successes – to feel the world going our way – it just makes me so happy.