I don't know Ma. I just needed it.

Sometimes these tiny people, and their capacity for assessing their own needs, amazes me. I mean, babies, toddlers, and children are generally well known for expressing their wants and needs. They don't worry about being pushy or selfish. They don't sensor themselves so as to appear agreeable. This isn't news to anyone who has ever been in the presence of a small child for even a few moments. But what does seem to surprise me from time to time is how aware they can be of the intricacies of their needs.

This week Mac has been a little "off." If you've ever been a regular care-giver of a toddler you know what I mean by that. He's not sick but he's just a little… different… he's a bit quieter, a bit more whinny, and a bit more clingy. 

So when we are headed to the park and he asks to be carried I am not that surprised. At almost three years old and a little over 30 pounds, carrying him in my arms for a long period of time isn't really feasible. But there is a trusty Onya Baby carrier in my closet that he agrees to. I snap the buckles around my waist, cherishing the clicking noise that I heard at least one thousand times in the first year of his life when he liked to be worn constantly. I bend down to let him climb on my back and he makes an unhappy face. 

"I don't want to go on your back Ma. I'm too shy today. I want to go on your belly." 

Now, if you know my kid you know that he's certainly not shy. But we all have our days don't we? With a swelling heart I scoop my boy up and snap the buckle closed on my shoulders. He's all legs and arms. They hang a bit awkwardly at his sides but in a few moments we've moved our bodies like a puzzle into a configuration that is comfortable for everyone. His head rests against my chest and my nose can't help but bend down and inhale the sweet scent. No longer the intoxicating smell of newborn skin but still the unmistakable smell of my child that will always be my favourite scent.

His declaration of not wanting to play at the park today is short lived. Twenty minutes of his heart beating next to his Mama's is all he needs and by the time we arrive at the play structure he is ready to get down and play.

Of course my Mama's heart is happy to see him feeling better. There are some new kids at the park and they have brought seahorse moulds with them. I love watching them sweetly offer Mac a turn with their treasures and seeing his eyes light up when he turns to me and says "the girls shared with me Ma!" 

But a small part of my heart feels heavy as he climbs out of my carrier. I am keenly aware that there are a limited number of "baby wearing" days left in our future. Each time I unclip him could easily be the last. And while watching him grow is such a joy there is still sadness in seeing each phase come to an end. 

Minutes turn to hours and it is time to head home for lunch. I assume he will want to sit in the stroller  but instead he surprises me by asking to get back in the carrier. This time he's feeling less shy and decides a back carry will suffice. 

I've had a long few weeks and the unexpected treat of holding my babe close to me today feels like medicine for my soul. Later, cuddled on the couch, I ask him why he wanted me to carry him today. 

"I don't know Ma," he replies thoughtfully. "I just needed it."

Me too kiddo. Me too. 

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. 

An Ottawa Staycation. Two Wives Re-Engaged.

It was early 2011 and I was six years into my relationship with Tracy and two years into our marriage. I was thirty, pregnant with my first child, and life was going well. A former student of mine was in town and invited me for coffee. She had recently come out of the closet and even more recently suffered her first heartbreak. We talked about lesbians and the ways we connect with one another. We laughed about u-hauling, and third date cat adopting, and weekend DIY backsplash projects. And we talked about the way we tend to break-up. Never easy or quick. Always long and drawn out. Messy and intermingled.  We date for six months and then break-up for six years. It's our way.

"What's marriage like?" She asked, eyes wide with curiosity. I thought about it for a few minutes and rubbed my not-quite-yet-showing belly.

"Waking up and choosing to stay married is the easiest decision I make every day." I said telling her the complete truth. I watched as her posture relaxed and she smiled. My answer reassured her. I was playing my part in an It Gets Better script and was happy to be in the position to offer hopefulness.

Two years later things feel so different. My love for my wife is still strong enough to rock me to my core when I allow it. When I sit and think about all that we have, and all that we've done, and all that we are, I can feel my heart burst with gratitude. If you know me, you know that I adore my wife.

But if you read this blog you also know that we've been struggling for the last few months. Parenthood came with all of its work and exhaustion and then postpartum depression hit and we haven't been managing those new challenges well. We went from being each other's warm, safe, place to fall into at the end of the day to adversaries who yell and scream and take out all of our frustrations on the other person. It's not like this every day, of course, but the grumpy, angry, days are creeping in more and more frequently. Like a spec of mold that, left untreated, feeds and spreads and takes over until everyone is sick.

We knew we needed to make some changes. We needed to go back to the simple advice my late mother in law once gave me. "Marriage is easy," she whispered hoarsely as getting oxygen into her lungs was a struggle, "you just find someone you like talking to and be kind to them."

Tracy and I used to love talking to one another. We did it all day long every day. We talked long into the evening, our conversations getting muddled and less sensical as one or both of us drifted off to sleep. But lately we exchange as few words as possible. She tells me about her day at work and I half listen while trying to keep Mac from climbing the TV and the second she's done her story I don't offer my thoughts or opinions I just move the conversation onto the agenda items I need to address before passing Mac to her so I can head out to one my commitments. There is very little talking. There is even less kindness.

One day just after Christmas I spent twenty minutes crying in my car before I came in the house. There was no hiding the red eyes from my wife. Instead I sat on the living room floor and let the rest of the tears come. She took her seat beside me and rubbed my back. She didn't ask why I was crying. She just held me and waited. And before long we were both in tears. We leaned onto each other and let the heavy weights on our chests find a shoulder to rest on.

"Do you still love me?" I asked. All blotchy eyed and snotty nosed. The look of shock on her face told me that she did. "Do you still love me?" She responded. Always one to turn the tables. Nobody answered. Nobody needed to. Mac was already in bed and we sat on the floor for hours. We talked and we fought. We aired our resentments. And we defended our shortcomings. We put it all out on the table. Parts of it ugly and gory. Other parts beautiful but vulnerable. And once it was there we started to take inventory. We made plans and started negotiations. I see your not leaving dishes in the living room and raise you not being on the phone during dinner.  And so it went. Back and forth. High stakes marital negotiations.

And we vowed to start the new year off on a new foot. We promised to speak with love and to simply speak more in general. I wanted to start off this new year with a surprise trip but we aren't big travellers and are even less likely to travel on snowy roads. So I booked a night away at Les Suites in downtown Ottawa and whisked my family (15 minutes) away for a relaxing vacation.

Within sixty seconds of check-in Mac had scanned the suite and found both remotes. He's basically a blood hound for gadgets. Tracy and I admired the soft looking king sized bed and took turns settling in for a warm bath before heading out on the town.

With Mac happily tucked into the Onya Baby Carrier we started to explore our city through tourist eyes. We had lunch in a new place and ordered a glass of wine in the middle of the afternoon. We shopped at the little shops we usually avoid because they don't have parking. And we held hands.

With Mac napping against my wife's chest we decided to duck into a coffee shop and relax with a cup of coffee.  We talked and we talked and we talked. And we fell in love all over again.  Once Mac was thoroughly rested we headed back out into the cold to see the lights on parliament hill before returning to the suite for dinner and snuggles. Mac loved watching the cars out the window. And we loved the simple change in scenery.

Before heading home in the morning we took our son out for breakfast at Eggspectations (the restaurant that hosted his moms' wedding). It was the perfect ending to a perfect weekend. Being back in that space where I promised to love, honour, and cherish the woman sitting across from me helped me to remember all the reasons why we got there in the first place. It was a vow renewal of sorts. Even if it was only in my head.

As we arrived back home Tracy put the car in park and reached her hand over to mine.
"Thank-you for this," she said, her eyes holding my gaze, "this was the best vacation I've ever had. And the travel wasn't bad either."

If I was to have that 2011 conversation with the broken-hearted young lesbian again now my answer might be a bit longer. I would admit that sometimes marriage is hard work. But I would still tell her that waking up and choosing to stay married is the easiest decision I make every day.

Parenting Lessons: Learning Follow Through

Getting Mac's picture taken with Santa has been strangely important to my wife. The idea of keeping a busy toddler still in a long line in order to ultimately sit on a stranger's knee while an overly high-energy elf excitedly rings a bell in his face was less than appealing to me. But marriage is all about compromise so we headed to the crowded mall on Sunday. The line was long. And when we finally got to what we thought was the end we realized that it snaked around the corner and was actually much longer.

I ask the woman at the end if it was moving quickly and she winces while shaking her head. We get in line anyway. The woman in front of me has one child, around five years old, sitting on the floor playing with her shoe. Ahead of her is another woman with four children, two boys and two girls, in matching reindeer sweaters. The girls stand like statues by their mom's side. The boys sit on the ground banging their shoes against the linoleum trying to make as much noise as possible. I'm grateful that I brought our Onya Carrier instead of a stroller. Mac is content to people watch from the warm vantage point against my chest. I rock and bounce like I did endlessly when he was a newborn. What once seemed slightly tedious is now bathed in nostalgia and melts my heart.

He is loving the hip carry lately

We have barely moved up six inches when the mother with the four children two spots ahead of us in line starts yelling. She's a well-practiced yeller. She yells when talking at a normal range would suffice.

Aiden don't put your fingers on the floor. It's dirty! 
James don't sit on that banister!
Aiden keep your sweater on or you will mess up your hair! 
Amelia help your brother with his laces!
James get off that banister RIGHT NOW!
That's it we're not stopping at Tim Horton's for donuts! 

As the line inches forward this collection of orders barked at the children continues. On repeat. The woman directly ahead of me and I exchange a few looks. We're judging her parenting and I feel a bit guilty about it. What do I know about having four children? And even if I did know what it was like to have four children I know absolutely nothing about what her day has been like, what her life has been like. I don't know what it feels like to bring four children to the mall all by myself. I don't know any of it. So I try soften my feelings of irritation. She doesn't make it easy though as her voice raises with each reprimand.

Aiden don't touch the bottom of your boot. Why would you touch the bottom of your boot? Don't you have any common sense?
James I'm not going to ask you again. Get off that banister. 
Amelia fix your skirt. You have to learn to sit like a lady. 
James get off that banister. 
That's it we're not stopping at Tim Horton's for donuts! 

In the hour and a half we waited in line these children lost their post-Santa donut snack no less than twenty seven times. At some point her children called her bluff.

The line finally came to an end and she got her picture with four matching reindeer sweatered children surrounding Santa. And then the children skipped off knowing that donuts were next on the schedule.

I smiled as she left and gave her a silent thank-you in my head. Not for yelling non-stop and giving me a headache. Not for creating a pretty serious craving for donuts in my belly. But for teaching me a lesson about parenting. The importance of follow through. For the rest of the day I thought very carefully before uttering the word NO to Mac. Was this something I was going to change my mind about? Was it a serious no? Or an I don't really feel like it right now but if you beg enough or ask later when I'm feeling less tired I'll say yes kinda no? If it was the latter I said yes.

Parenting is hard. And amazing and rewarding beyond belief. And sometimes we meet our teachers in the most unlikely of spots.

Put your Hands Up For Detroit

*** I started to write this post way back in August when it happened. But then PPD hit (read about that here if you'd like) and I couldn't get the energy together to write about what was a truly wonderful weekend while feeling so sad. So, now that things are getting back to normal, I thought I would finally tell you all about the weekend we spent in Michigan with Andy's family. Let's just pretend it's the end of August again OK?***

We are waiting at the Windsor airport when cousin Tony pulls up in his minivan. He works near the Detroit-Windsor border and he has come to collect us for the family reunion. The hellos are slightly awkward. Hi, yes, I'm the girl who used your cousin's sperm to get pregnant. This is my wife. And that is your cousin's son. Nice to meet you. But that didn't last long. He has three sons and parents can always find mutual ground for conversation. Mac starts to fuss and Tony pulls out a drop down DVD player and sings along with the show. He knows the words by heart.

Before long we arrive at the reunion. As we walk in I hear Andy giving his family direction. He takes a while to warm up. Your best chance is to play hard to get. He proves himself right as we enter and Mac clings to me, his hand clenching my shirt like a life raft. Andy does the introductions, cousins, aunts, uncles, children, and his boyfriend. I give one-handed hugs while Mac buries his face in my shoulder.

Suddenly there is a loud crash. Adults move towards the top of stairs and peer down. There's no crying. They shrug it off. You should go downstairs and see what you are in for. Andy laughs as he says this. We've been warned that there are a lot of boys in this family. Three brothers had seven sons. I venture into the basement, Mac still clinging on for dear life, and enter into a world of boys like I have never seen. If there is a piece of sporting equipment made it is probably in this basement. There is a giant chalkboard outlining the most recent tournament they are conducting. I am not entirely sure if it is based on an actual sport or a video game. They all talk about it like it is the Super Bowl.

One boy chases another. Two more join in. A football flies through the air. And then there is a large pile. All legs and arms and sweaty t-shirts. Mac is mesmerized. He watches eagerly. Two of the group look up and notice our intrusion on their game. They make their way over to meet Mac. Or Ma-ah-ck as they say in Michigan. Ma-ah-ck can hardly believe his luck when they settle in for a quick game of peek-a-boo. But a moment later the game is back on and Ma-ah-ck can't compete with the lure of a group tackle.

I've been discouraging Ma-ah-ck from walking in the hope that he will take his first steps in front of his dad. He does and I figure that if nothing else happens the weekend is a success.

It's a bit strange to be meeting this new side of our son's family (and by extension our family). It reminds me of going home to meet a new boyfriend or girlfriend's family. Except that we've already made a baby and my wife and I are there together. I imagine that it's strange for them too. These Michigan cousins with their far more traditional family structures. But if it is weird nobody lets on. They welcome us in like long lost relatives and soon we are privy to the inside jokes and legendary family stories. I do my best to memorize them so that I can retell them to Mac before his next visit. Let's go to Konka! He will yell as he walks in the door - already familiar with family tales.

Mac continues to cling to me as the weekend passes and I start to worry that he won't get enough quality time in with his Dad.

So when nap time nears Tracy and I strap Mac into the Onya Baby Carrier on his Dad's chest and quickly get out of his line of sight. Our plan works and Andy gets some quality cuddle time with his son.

By Sunday Mac is finally starting to warm up to everyone. Right in time for us to cross the border and head back to Canada. We say our good-byes with many hugs, knowing that we will be back soon.

On the plane ride home Tracy and I discuss how strange and wonderful our family has become with it's multi-sided design. In some ways it's a family structure that exists way outside the box. But, in other ways, it's exactly like every other family on the block.

Families are formed in a myriad of ways. Whether by shared lineage, choice, or love, groups of people come together defining their inclusion. Boundaries shift and bend but the line remains drawn. This is us in here. Our group. Our family. For better or worse.

Andy's family has become our family via all three of those criteria. They share a lineage with Mac by virtue of Andy's DNA. We came together by choice when we chose Andy to be our son's father. And love - well there's a whole lot of that to go around.

Home

We didn’t bring a lot of baby gear with us to NYC. With our trusty Onya Baby Carrier we managed just fine. No stroller, no high chair, no pack and play. But still, he required his own bag of clothes. And we needed extra clothes for ourselves. Because babies are not leak proof. So when we return home we have more bags to bring in the house than usual. I carry the baby in. She gets all the bags. His nap in the car means that he is wide-awake. We are less so. Hours later his eyes shut, he claps his hands a little in his sleep, because it’s his new thing and even sleep doesn’t stop it. I ask Tracy if she is going to head to bed too but she is too excited to download the pictures from our trip. I am more concerned with sleep than the city that never sleeps.

The next day I feel off. Funky. Mac is bored. New York City is full of bright lights and people to watch. It has fast and loud subway cars that propel you from one magical destination to the next. And in New York he got bites of pizza and bagels and cannoli. The inside of my living room pales in comparison.

I’m impatient with his boredom. We head to the park to give him space to play. We have a lot of that in Ottawa. Space. Green space. Grass space. He can crawl and climb to his heart’s content. But his heart was content being carried around New York. His head on my shoulder. People to stare at everywhere he turned.

Mac in Ottawa

Mac in New York City

I can’t shake my mood. I wonder if it is the post-vacation slump. But it doesn’t feel that way. I feel homesick. Which makes no sense. I’m home. Have been for a full day now. But still, I’m restless, irritable, jonesing for a fix.

Day turns to night and the baby falls asleep without a lot of fuss. I thank God for small favors. I snuggle into the couch next to my wife. A cup of warm tea in my hand and a bowl of popcorn on her lap. She presses play on the movie and I rest my head on her chest. The beat of her heart competes with the surround sound and I manage to split my hearing so that one ear can listen to the movie and the other to her heart.  Her arm stretches around my shoulder and I breathe a sigh of relief. I am home.

New York City has so much to offer. It has monkeys at the zoo and the best sandwich I’ve ever had. It has streets that mock the moon by appearing to be day in the middle of the night as bright flashing lights illuminate the pavement. It has artists on street corners and yellow cabs that decorate the landscape as they whiz by in packs. It has buildings so large that as you look up you suddenly feel both inspired to be big and ultimately insignificant. It has electricity that mixes with oxygen and carbon dioxide to produce some strange kind of air that inspires artists to create and writers to write. It has Mac's dad and his wonderful friends.

But it doesn’t have this. This still. This warmth. This room with the shades drawn so that the rest of the world disappears. This home I have built in my wife’s arms. Just me and her. No masses of people. No boastful bright lights. Just the humble glow of the TV as it plays the latest Hollywood hit.

Our bodies shift and bend. Finding that perfect nook. Legs criss-cross and hands are held. Like two pieces of Lego designed to fit together we sink into one another. And I realize that I was homesick. Not for my city or my house. But for my wife’s arms. And I am home.

Our continued thanks to DealAngel.com for sponsoring this trip. DealAngel takes the guess work out of searching for hotel deals saving you time, money, and sanity. Check out my review HERE. 

Traveling with Kids Chat Party

Hello Friends!

Thanks to a great deal found at www.dealangel.com Tracy, Tammy (Mac's Auntie Tata) and I will be heading to New York City to visit Andy (Mac's dad) and celebrate Tammy's 40th birthday!

We are beyond excited! But also quite nervous. This will be our first real traveling experience since the addition of Mac to our family and we are not entirely sure what to expect traveling to New York with a baby.

So please come on over to Facebook and help us out! On Friday June 1st from 11 AM to 1 PM EST we will be discussing family travel tips. What products are lifesavers? Where are the best places to go with a family? What games and activities help pass time in a car or on a plane? What are the best kid-friendly restaurants? Anything and everything family travel!

Plus, one lucky party guest will win a $10 gift card to the coffee establishment of your choice. Because when you are traveling with kids you need to keep up!

Click on the image below to RSVP! Or click HERE.

Because Babies Don't Keep

* This post is sponsored by Smart Mom Jewelry. All opinions are are entirely mine. 

The cleaning and scrubbing can wait till tomorrow,

But children grow up, as I've learned to my sorrow.

So quiet down cobwebs; Dust go to sleep!

I'm rocking my baby and babies don't keep.

~ Ruth Hulbert Hamilton

Mac had three teeth pop through last week. That makes a grand total of six (only fourteen left to go). 

The poor kid had a tough week. For several days he clung to me like my body was his life raft in the middle of a choppy ocean storm. I am happy to be his safe place. After his traumatic birth, and the deafening silence that followed, I am always grateful for the sound of his cries. And there were plenty of them last week. He has his Auntie Tata by the heart and she was desperate to help him. 

Mac and his Auntie Tata

She brought home a Teething Bling necklace for me to try. So we rocked and he chewed on the teether-turned-pendant around my neck.

 

And that’s what I wanted to write about today. My gratitude and the way my heart swells with every noise he makes. But the truth is that I also wanted to sit down and write this post so that I could pass off the (now less miserable) baby to my wife and take a bit of a break. I love that holding him close while the tiny, razor sharp, teeth wreak havoc in his mouth can ease his pain. But I’m also glad when the little buggers finally break through so that I can catch-up on laundry and take a bath.  Which is where I am right now. So the post I planned to write felt a little inauthentic. 

Mama I don't want all these toys. I just want you to pick me up.

As I sat down to let y’all see the inside of my heart the poem above was running through my head. It’s a sweet sentiment isn’t it? Ignore the mopping and the laundry. Let the dishes sit dirty in the sink. Rock your baby because babies don’t keep. It gives moms permission to let all that “other stuff” go because nothing.is.ever.as.important.as.time.with.your.child.

Reading that is likely to make you feel one of two ways: relief that the state of your floors is indicative of your good parenting or guilt that the state of your floors is indicative of your neglectful parenting. Or maybe you are that special parent who doesn’t feel guilt. In which case, congratulations – you are rocking this whole parenting thing! Unfortunately, the rest of us are often left drowning in guilt as the image of a perfect parent feels increasingly out of reach.

As a new mom I am constantly reminded that these days will fly by faster than I can imagine. I listen to these pieces of advice and offer my thanks to the wise women and men who have come before me. I can see the nostalgia in their eyes and often the regret. Oh what I would give for one more day with my not-yet-grown-child their half-smiles seem to whisper. I tuck their reminders into my heart and promise to enjoy the day they wish they could relive. I know my baby won’t keep and I do what I can to not take that for granted. I rock him gently and stroke his head as he chomps away at the teether around my neck. The day fades away and I know I’ve accomplished something important.

But the truth is that sometimes other things are more important. [Shock! Gasp!] Sometimes that email needs responding to, those dishes need washing or that one more chapter of the Hunger Games needs reading. And here’s the real shocker – THAT DOESN’T MAKE YOU A BAD PARENT. Rocking a baby can be pure bliss (and it can sometimes be boring and uncomfortable if it’s the end of a cry-filled day) but that laundry won’t fold itself and you can’t pay your mortgage with cuddles. Try not cleaning your house for the first year of your child’s life and see how many Parent-of-the-Year awards end up on your doorstep.

Sometimes the TV can actually make a decent babysitter when dinner needs to be made. Sometimes it’s OK to pretend the line-up at the grocery store was unusually long because you wanted to play a few more minutes of Settlers of Catan on your iphone in the parking lot (I mean, hypothetically of course. Tracy, that was a seriously long line yesterday!) And sometimes Mama needs a decent bubble bath. Or, at least, I think all of those things are OK. You might disagree. That's OK too.

I’m starting to let go of the need to be constantly present in each and every moment of my son’s life. Of course, I could easily spend an hour memorizing the way the tops of his cheeks dimple when that infectious smile spreads across his face. And I’m the mom who regularly wears and rocks her baby during naptime. But I’m also the mom who takes bubble baths, occasionally drinks her coffee hot while the Jumperoo and Baby Einstein babysit her child and does her best to keep the sink clear of dirty dishes.

I’m starting to realize that it’s not an all or nothing proposition. I can ignore blog writing and focus on my baby’s first swing one day and head out of the house to just be away from all the sweet cuddling the next day. And I don't think that I am a bad parent on either of those days. 

I’m fortunate enough to be able to spend my days with my young son. And on the teething days I cherish the fact that he needs me because I know a day will come when I will want nothing more. I let the laundry sit in a pile and I ignore the dust bunny in the corner. And then as dusk turns to dawn you can find me in the kitchen washing the dishes while Mac entertains himself. Because babies don’t keep but sometimes they are fine to just chill out.

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Good Babies

“So, is he a good baby?” My son is six months old and I have been asked this question approximately 1783 times (you know, give or take). Although it is seemingly a rhetorical question the asker will still stare at you until you offer a response. The only acceptable answer is yes followed by a smile that conveys love and fulfillment. Saying no isn’t really an option. Unless you want to look like a miserable mother who hates her child. Could you imagine the look on that little-old-lady-at-the-mall’s face if you answered “No. He cries incessantly, sleeps sporadically, and when he’s not biting me he’s puking on me”?

This Christmas Mac shared the new-baby spotlight with his little cousin Reid. While we had to stand and bounce to keep Mac happy, because apparently altitude matters, sweet little Reid was content to chill out in his swing just inches off the floor.

While Mac was voicing his displeasure at the temperature/the level of the voices in the room/the colour of paint on the wall by crying at the top of his lungs, little Reid let his parents know he was unhappy by quietly emitting an adorable billy goat sound.

Reid napped in his swing during Christmas dinner, only needing his mother to attend to him for a few brief moments. By comparison the only way I could convince Mac to take a nap was by carrying him in the Ergo so I spent Christmas dinner photographing my family instead of eating with them.

Reid and Mac both napping during dinner

Not eating meant that I got great pictures like this one of my grandmother and wife

And my family is thankful that I got so many great shots of them shoveling food into their mouths while wearing silly hats. Obviously.

All week people commented on what a “good baby” Reid was. After hearing it for the millionth (OK, more likely the tenth) time I finally corrected the person speaking. He is an easy baby. Mac is not a bad baby. He is just more difficult.

The truth is that babies are neither good nor bad. Or rather, each one is good simply by virtue of being a baby. So perhaps I shouldn’t have corrected my mother/father/aunt/uncle/cousin/brother when they referred to Reid as good. Because of course he is. He is sweet and charming and irresistible. And so is Mac. He is good at screaming really loudly. He is good at kicking really hard. He is good at making the top of his head smell better than warm baked cookies. He is good at playing with toys and snuggling and laughing when raspberries are blown on his belly. And he is really good at capturing our hearts.

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The Fergus

A little over five years ago Tracy and I were shopping when we stopped to look at some cute little dog clothes. At the time we only had a cat but that didn’t stop me from suggesting that we get the tiny camouflage t-shirt. Tracy rolled her eyes. “Maybe if you let me get a dog,” she replied. I was unaware that I was the one impeding a dog adoption.

“We can get a dog if you want,” I responded and then saw her entire face light up like it was Christmas morning.

“Really?” She asked, her face full of hope.

“Really,” I replied, almost in a whisper, a bit confused by the sudden burst of emotion. It wasn’t long before The Fergus was making himself at home in our hearts. Tracy was dealing with the impending death of her mother and Fergus seemed to be the only thing that could make her smile. Suddenly she was waking up an hour earlier than necessary to spend extra precious minutes with the tiny ball of fur.

We spent the equivalent of a mortgage payment on a crate, toys and a tiny wardrobe fit for a king (or a princess – his gendered identity was fluid after all).

For the next five years he lived at the center of our universe. At night we tried to convince him to snuggle between our faces. He usually obliged for a few minutes before shaking off our cuddles and burrowing down under the covers and out of our reach.

We joked that he was just counting down the days until his moms would have a human baby. We were smothering him. My love for Fergus was so intense that while pregnant I actually wondered if I would love my child as much as I loved my dog. We swore we’d never be the kind of parents who ignored the dog when the human baby came along. Not us!

And then Maclean was born. At first Fergus seemed pleased with the new addition to our family. Mac’s insistence on sleeping while walking for the first few months of his life meant that Fergus got a lot (A LOT!) of walks.

But days passed and Mac’s needs increased. Or rather, they continued to be intense and I got tired. It turns out that babies need a lot of touching. And at the end of the day I often feel touched out. The poor Fergus is paying the price. I didn’t quite realize how much until this morning. It was 10:30 AM, four hours after we woke-up, before I realized that neither of us had taken the dog outside. The poor defeated pup had gone back to bed.

My heart broke a little when I entered the room and saw his little tail wag hesitantly. I left Mac with Tracy and took him on an extra long walk. I was trying to assuage my guilt. But as we walked he repeatedly turned around to make sure I was still there. His eyes caught mine and his tail wagged. He was still the happy little puppy that made our lives so much more enjoyable five years ago.

I know our lives are busier these day mister. But I promise that your moms love you as much as ever. And I promise that tonight I will smother you with snuggles until you retreat under the covers to get away from me. 

 
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