First Day of School

For years I've seen the photos of smiling (and crying) small children heading off on their first day of school. My reaction was a pretty standard "aw that's cute." But I never fully grasped the enormity of that moment for the kids and for their parents.

Over here we are all mostly ready for this transition. Mac is an only child and he is lonely. My ability to stay in character while playing dinosaurs or having a magical pony tea party is not note-worthy. He is craving more child interaction than the park and playdates can provide. And I think I will enjoy playing dinosaurs and having tea parties much more when they happen for a few hours in the evening rather than ALL.DAMN.DAY. Also, my business is really busy. Which is a really fantastic problem to have but it's also really hard to find balance. Most days you can find me editing photos until the very wee hours of the morning and then I'm woken-up by Mac, full of energy and ready to start his day, just a few hours later. With him in school all day I can hopefully get more work done during daylight hours and actually spend more quality time with my family.

So, for all of these reasons, we are very much looking forward to the first day of school tomorrow. But then, there's the reality that I'm sending my whole heart off into some kind of unknown wilderness. My sweet kid who has been somewhat sheltered in his 4 years on this earth. Who hasn't yet learned that "pink is for girls" and "blue is for boys." Who is as likely to ask for fairy wings as a toy truck. Who still says "did you notice that?" instead of "did you know that?" which makes me smile every.single.time. What changes are in store for all of us in the months ahead? Will the teachers be kind to him? Will the kids be kind to him? Will he be kind to the other kids? Will he be able to hold onto his goofy and sweet personality? There's a lot of questions.

Recently, in a parenting group I'm in, someone really smart offered the following words of wisdom:

"Sending our kids out into the parts of the world we can't carefully curate is the greatest act of faith imaginable. Faith in our kids that they have the resilience and self-confidence to be themselves. Faith in humanity to recognize and celebrate their beauty. Faith in ourselves that we've prepared them for whatever is ahead."

And she is so very right. So that is what I'm trying to do - have faith. And my gosh it is hard!

So this one is for all the first time school parents out there this week. May we all keep the faith.

P.S. Thanks for reading! I know it's been a long time since I've written. There's a few reasons for that - one being that I've struggled to find the balance between public and private. And that gets more complicated as Mac ages and has his own personality. It's sometimes hard to differentiate between my stories and his stories. But the biggest reason is that Mondays with Mac Photography has just been so very very busy and I'm rarely ahead of schedule when it comes to editing. I'm hoping that Mac being in school will allow me a bit more time to write (both about my family and to share the images from the beautiful wedding and families I photograph). So it seemed like the first day of school was as good a day as any to jump back in.

A Review for Shoeme.ca. And pretty much the most baring my soul post I've ever written.

Have you noticed it's been several weeks since I've posted a blog? There's a reason for that. I couldn't write another post until I wrote this post. And there's been a pretty huge disconnect between getting this post out of my heart and onto the screen. Because when I signed up to write this post I was feeling all brave and kick-ass. But being brave and kick-ass is sometimes fleeting. And one should learn not to sign-up for things in those moments. Or maybe one should. I guess it depends on your perspective.

Anyway. What the heck am I talking about? I'm talking about these pretty awesome  Merrell Women's Pace Glove 2s shoes from Shoeme.ca. And my body. My post-baby, post-postpartum depression, post anti-depressant, body. And as I even write those words there's a tear in my eye. Because this is just such a raw thing for me to talk about with you - my friends, family, and the internet. But here we go.

Before I got pregnant with our spectacular Mac I had a pretty "average" body. I put average in quotations because I get that there's really no such thing. But it felt average to me at the time. If you need numbers to be visual I was 5 foot 7 inches and weighed roughly 130 pounds. I went down as low as 120 during a low carb stint. And I went up as high as 140 when in a steady relationship that encouraged lots of dinners out and movie popcorn. But generally I weighed 130 pounds. Feeling feminist and woman-supporting to my core I tried my best to speak kindly about my body. And although I wasn't always successful at that I was more successful at speaking kindly about other women's bodies. I've always appreciated women's bodies in their various shapes. I always wanted to support the women in my life to love their bodies and appreciate them as they are. Always the perfect size in the moment. You could hear me say things like "if you want a bikini body, put a bikini on your body" and "riot don't diet." But, if I'm being honest, those things felt easier to say in a 130 pound frame.

With Mac's other parents in 2010 before conception.

Pregnant with Mac I gained about 40 pounds. The nurse at my doctor's office mentioned once that it was a little too much. And I felt strong enough to put her in her place. "This body is growing a person and I'm feeding it lots of healthy food and if that's how much weight it needs to fulfill this task then please don't try to make me feel bad about that." You might have read that last line as if it was said with a bunch of sass and confidence, maybe even a finger wag at that the end. In reality I probably stammered and whispered my way through it. But I definitely stood up for myself.

In the months after giving birth about half of that weight came off without any effort on sincere intention on my part. And then my world got rocked. 

I woke up one day underwater. Postpartum depression hit me like a tonne of bricks. A tonne of bricks that I didn't see coming. Suddenly everything felt terrifying. Small decisions like what we should have for breakfast felt like they would have life-altering consequences. And they paralyzed me. Sometimes Tracy would come home and find me sitting on the floor in the dark holding Mac on my lap. Because I knew that if I just held him right there in the silence, with nothing sharp or suffocate-y around, then he would be safe. The responsibility of just keeping him alive felt immense. I sometimes imagined what it would be like if I had an injury. Nothing too big - just maybe a broken leg or something. That way someone else would have had to take care of him for a little while and I could sleep. I was sure they would have done a better job. I stopped sleeping and I started eating. A lot. Chocolate chip muffins gave me small moments of pleasure. So I kept eating them. 

And then I made the choice to go on anti-depression medication. I'm not sure how to write this part of my story. Because I don't know what would have happened if I didn't. And I certainly don't want to play any part in convincing someone who needs medication not to take it. It's possible this story would have a worse ending if I had decided to forgo the medicine. But it felt like with medication things went from bad to worse. I had an expectation that this medication would make me happy. It did not. If anything it just made me less sad. It was like I was a sour margarita. I expected that adding medication would be like adding sugar. Instead it was like removing the lime juice. Not sour. Not sweet. Just bla. 

And because I didn't really understand how anti-depressants work I kept asking my doctor to increase my dosage. Until I was at the maximum dosage allowed. And they came in this giant pill bottle the size of my hand that signified this girl is really depressed. And I was. 

As the dosage increased so did the side effects. Mainly an increase of sugar cravings and a slowed metabolism. I gained nearly 70 pounds in a relatively short amount of time. Not of baby weight. Of post baby weight. And in some swirling combination of new bodily realities and mental anguish I misplaced all that feminist, kick ass, body-positivity that seemed to come so easily before. 

The more weight I gained the less I liked myself. And perhaps because of the physical weight or perhaps because of my new less-confidant self, the world seemed to like me less too. I don't say that to be pitiful or look for sympathy. But walking through the world as a size 18 as opposed to a size 8 was a very different experience. I was used to going to stores and trying on clothes and having salespeople say "that looks so great on you" instead of "that looks so slimming on you." Living in this new reality was difficult. And I didn't know how to make it easier. 

Eventually, the fog lifted. Enough time passed and my hormones got back to some semblance of "normal." I weaned myself off of the medication and tried to pick-up the pieces of my life. That period of time did a number on every part of my life from my marriage to my self worth. And I've been walking around with this (literal and metaphorical) heaviness ever since. 

A few months ago I decided to try and lose weight. And I never wanted to talk about it here or on social media because I still want to be that body-positive person I was before all this. I want to be that woman saying "Hell yes I'm rocking this dress." I want to be a better role model for my kid and for anyone reading this blog. And I know that talk about dieting and weight loss can be triggering for women who love their bodies as they are and don't want to read about people changing theirs. I get all that so I've been silent on the issue. 

And maybe silence was the right choice. Maybe it was a kinder, more feminist, choice. In this moment, before hitting publish, I'm not entirely sure. If this post is making you uncomfortable maybe hop on over to somewhere like HAES (Healthy At Ever Size) for a while. 

For those of you still reading, I started to count calories. And I started to lose weight. I was feeling pretty good when Shoeme.ca sent me a message asking if I'd like to test out a pair of shoes from their website. I assume their intention was to pick out a pretty pair of heels but I had my eyes on some new running shoes. I thought maybe I could start running too. And thought maybe I'd be brave enough to blog about all this. 

So I said yes and I ordered these lovely Merrell Women's Pace Glove 2s. And I started a couch-to-5K. I lost 50 pounds. 

That was weeks ago but that moment of braveness I had when I agreed to this post has long since left. And I know that when I agreed to write this post I also agreed to post pictures. Of myself. And as I much as I want that to be easy and empowering it mostly feels really scary. And it feels awful to admit that. 

The problem with writing a narrative that is authentic is that it's not as neat and tidy as something fabricated. As time passes this isn't just a story about me getting postpartum depression and gaining a bunch of weight and losing a bunch of weight and loving myself. After losing fifty pounds I've since gained some back and am now struggling with that. It's a story about getting postpartum depression and gaining a bunch of weight and losing a bunch of weight and gaining some back and losing more - all the while trying to love myself and sometimes succeeding. It's messy. But it's real. And now it's down on paper. Errr- the internet. And it's out there. 

Like me, this story is a work in progress. And I don't mean that my physical body is a work in progress - I mean that the person I want to be is.  But at least I'm doing it in some fabulous shoes. 

Shoeme.ca asked me to pair these shoes with a styled outfit. So, in case you are wondering, both the capri yoga pants and the blue running shirt came from Smart Set. 

Things you should know about Shoeme.ca:

- They carry a large selection of popular brands (180 and increasing!)

- They offer FREE express shipping anywhere in Canada

- They offer FREE returns and easy exchanges

- You can follow them on Facebook , Twitter, Pinterest, and Instagram

Things you should know about Merrell Women's Pace Glove 2s:

- They are really comfortable

- They are REALLY light weight (I was actually going to capitalize really in the last point but then I changed my mind because I thought it would detract from the seriousness of this point. They shoes weigh practically nothing. It's weird. But awesome).

- They are really breathable and that keeps your feet nice and cool 

- They are VEGAN

Want to check out Shoeme.ca for yourself? Use the code JustForYou25 to receive $25 off orders of $100 or more. 

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! 

Making Babies the Lesbian Way. And why it might be good for your STRAIGHT marriage.

First things first, I should be very clear that lesbians (and trans men) get pregnant in a variety of ways. They might have sex with cisgender men or use anonymous/known donor sperm via a sperm donor clinic. They might use fertility treatments, including but not limited to, IVF. And that's not even touching on the options of surrogacy, and adoption, and children created in prior relationships. Others, like me, use a known donor to donate fresh sperm and do at home inseminations. But "Making Babies (one of the) Lesbian Way(s)" is sort of a weird title for a blog post.

So, anyway, where am I going with this? I have a friend. I'm going to call her Khaleesi because I just read that there are now more babies named Khaleesi than Betsy or Nadine in the U.S. and that totally blows my mind. But that's not her real name. She doesn't want her sex life broadcasted on the internet. I know, weird right? I mean, my wife doesn't want that either, but I can't really give her the same pseudonym treatment as Khaleesi without confusing everyone. Sorry Tracy.

So, a little while ago, Khaleesi sends me a message asking for specific details regarding our artichoke jar inseminations.  This throws me off guard as I know that she is happily married to a cisgender man. But sometimes people send me messages asking for information for their sister, coworker, hairdresser's cousin's BFF, etc. So I give her my standard reply with a few specifics and point her to The New Essential Guide to Lesbian Conception, Pregnancy, and Birth** which was basically my bible during my trying to conceive process.

A few days later she sends me a long response thanking me for the information and tells me that she and her husband have been trying to get pregnant, without success, for 10 months now. They have two more months to try to conceive "naturally" before their doctor will give them a referral to a fertility clinic. And in the meantime their marriage is really suffering. Sex has become a chore and they are both frustrated, grumpy, and on edge. Khaleesi is taking her temperature each morning in an attempt to predict her most fertile period. This is called charting your basal body temperature and it's awesome for seeing patterns overtime to predict when one is going to ovulate (in addition to identifying some cycle issues that may be impairing fertility). But, in general, it tells you when you have ovulated rather than when you are about to ovulate so there is still some guess work to be done.** And Khaleesi and Dothraki (also not his name but, hey, I figured I'd grab another Game of Thrones word and google gave me that one) are sick of the guessing game. Dothraki is really frustrated with the scheduled sex-on-demand that their attempts at baby-making are producing. And both of them were longing for the days when sex was spontaneous and fun.

To make matters worse, their work schedules don't line-up. She often gets home from work when he is sleeping and sometimes he needs to leave for work before she is awake. So, not only are they having sex that neither of them is enjoying, at least one of them is missing precious sleep to do it.

Enter - making babies the lesbian way. After my detailed explanation of how to insert "donated" sperm Khaleesi and Dothraki now have a system in place that is working much better for both of them.  During their fertile window Duthraki gently nudges Khaleesi awake and hands her a jar of fresh sperm and then heads out to work. She inseminates herself and then falls easily back to sleep.

"This is seriously life changing." She admitted to me recently. "We do this really wacky thing now where we have sex WHEN WE FEEL LIKE IT and it feels like so much pressure has been lifted off of our shoulders. There's no more fake moaning to try and speed him up so that I can get back to sleep before I'm totally awake. Lesbians have the best ideas. God, make sure you change my name if you blog about this."

Of course, I am not saying that using this method of insemination is going to increase a straight couple's chances of getting pregnant. But if you are frustrated with your current attempts, and open to trying something new, this might help to take a bit of the pressure off. The general understanding is that inseminations done with fresh donor sperm are about as likely to result in pregnancy as heterosexual intercourse.

Curious about how to do it yourself? Keep reading.

What you will need (other then your bodies).
- a jar, bowl, or something with a lid to catch the sperm
- a needle-less syringe (most jokes about lesbian conception involve a turkey baster but a needle-less syringe is actually easier to use). The best size to use is 3-cc or 5-cc.

What to do:
Make sure the jar you are using is clean and dry. Encourage your partner to take his time producing the sperm. The more turned on he is the greater the volume of ejaculation will be. Decide how you want to do the hand-off. Is it less awkward if he leaves it on the counter for you? There's no right or wrong way as long as the sperm stays warm. Some people also think that sperm can be a bit sensitive to air and light so tell him to put the lid on the jar and dim the lights when he is done. When we did our inseminations Tracy took the jar of sperm from Andy and then kept it warm in her sports bra until we were ready to inseminate.

I haven't been able to find a definitive amount of time that fresh sperm is "good" for. In The New Essential Guide to Lesbian Conception, Pregnancy, and Birth Stephanie Brill suggests one hour (p.288) but other sources have said thirty minutes, ninety minutes, and even up to 24 hours. I am no expert so I can't give solid answer.

Make sure the cap is off your syringe, that there is no needle in it, and that you have pushed all the air out. Put the tip of the syringe in the sperm and pull the plunger part back (there's probably a word for that part of a syringe - I'm sure someone will chime in) so that the sperm is pulled up into body of the syringe. Lie on your back and insert the syringe deep inside your vagina. Slowly push the plunger part so that the sperm enters your vagina. When you are done, slowly pull the syringe out. Doing this slowly will help the sperm to not fall out. At this point you would do all the things that you would regularly do after intercourse. Some women like to lie with their hips up for twenty minutes. Others like to spend a few minutes on their back, stomach, and each side to help the sperm move around and find the cervix.

And that, my friends, is it. I want to be very clear that I am not a doctor, midwife, or in any way trained on matters of fertility whatsoever. So please don't take anything you read here as definitive. There are links to a few REALLY GOOD books below. Read those and talk to your own health care providers!

Good Luck!



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If you are interested in the books or products mentioned in this post please click on the links below. They are affiliate links which means that should you make a purchase I will receive a small fee.

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***
If you are a longtime reader you may remember that when I was trying to get pregnant I used the Ovacue Fertility Monitor. This little gadget does a pretty awesome job of actually predicting your fertile period.



If you are looking for a good book on how to chart cycles and understand fertility this is the standard recommendation.

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.

Keeping it Real. Blogging and the Truth.

"Your post last week was reeeeally beautiful," my friend confides over coffee. Her emphasis on the E in really conveys the seriousness of her confession. "I was just so... real."

I thank her for the compliment and listen as she talks about the struggles in her marriage. We are confidants now. Our coffee turns cold and we add more from the pot to keep our mugs warm. We are alone in the house but our voices are soft as we confess the secrets of our marriages. Of course only her words are secrets. Mine are published on the internet for anyone to read.

But what sticks with me is her description of last week's post as real. The word rattles around in my head as we talk about fighting, making-up, frustration, and love. I wonder if perhaps what she means by real is vulnerable. Last week I wrote about our choice to stop at one child. We made that choice because postpartum depression was a nightmare. It nearly killed me and my marriage. And those are two things I'm not willing to risk. It's not the first time I've mentioned how PPD has changed my marriage. My wife and I, neither of us are perfect. But we are doing our best. In the world of Facebook and Twitter where our lives and our families are presented as a series of carefully screened photographs and 140 character summaries of our thoughts we can sometimes forget that we don't always see the full picture. So when somebody tells that part of the story - the less shiny part - it can make us uncomfortable. Or it can make us relate. Really? Your marriage isn't perfect? Mine either! We should form a club! Except that we forget that we are already in that club. And it's called humanity. None of us are perfect people. We try and we succeed. We try and we fail. We love and we fight. And sometimes we just plain fuck it all up.

But reality is complicated. It's filled with moments that are both perfect and entirely not perfect. But it's important to remember that the good and the bad are equally real. When I write about postpartum depression, or struggles in my marriage, those posts are entirely real. But when I write about the humble gratitude I felt for my son's cries when he got his first tooth, or the wonder of a baby who curls her legs into her body because she doesn't yet understand the vastness of post-womb space, or the joy of watching my son understand that his dad is actually his dad, those things really happened too. They are pretty and shiny and testements to the happy moments of parenthood and family life. They are real.

And I think that's why you are here reading this with me. We are here to commiserate on the bad parts and revel in the good parts. And none of our lives exist entirely in either end of that spectrum. But believing that they do exist only in the negative or should exist only in the positive is where we screw ourselves over. It's not a competition. This whole parenthood thing. You don't have to find it rewarding and exhilarating every moment of the day. None of us do. Even those of us who blog about the moments of pure perfection on a weekly basis. But don't forget to notice those moments in time that take your breath away either. The sweet smell of a newborn's head, holding your toddler close for a slow dance, the warm feel of your partner's hand on your shoulder when you think you are out of strength for the day. Those are all real too.

I can't invite you all over for coffee. But you can pour a cup where you are and we can chat nonetheless. So, what you are your real stories?

There is no blog today. Well, there's this one. But it isn't much.

The outlook wasn't brilliant for a blog post today
The photographer was busy editing so the bills she could pay
Clients were waiting patiently for images of their faces
And photographer Kristin was working hard like a pony at the races

Every spare moment is spent in the darkroom that is digital
Time keeps slipping by and deadlines are getting critical
There is much to blog about once when autumn comes to an end
I hope you'll bear with me until then my dear blogging friend

Somewhere on the internet bloggers are writing with delight
Stories are sharing somewhere, and posts are in your sight
And somewhere moms are laughing, and somewhere children shout;
But there is no blog here today - photographer Kristin's time is out.


I'll be back. I promise. Just not today.

Happy Monday All!

Oh, and how about this totally unrelated photo of Mac and his BFF to make this post seem less pathetic?

Toddler's Don't Keep

Mac has been with his grandparents in Sudbury for a whole week.  I adore seeing the bond between him and his Bobo and Ba deepen. And the break from toddler meltdowns was pretty nice too. But OMG I MISS MY BABY! So today I won't be blogging. Instead, I will be driving to the always lively (not really) town of Deep River, which is half way between Ottawa and Sudbury (i.e. half a bajillion hours away) to pick up my son.

And since I won't be blogging today I decided to write you a poem instead. OK, I actually just changed the words of someone else's poem. But that's basically the same thing right?


Reader, o reader, come see my child,
Bright in the eyes with energy that is wild.
It takes an hour to get him comfy in bed,
But, oh, the bliss of the smell of his head. 

Where are his mothers who should be blogging?
They are in the car, long weekend highways are clogging. 
[whatever. you try rhyming with blogging].

Oh, I've grown as shiftless as Little Boy Blue
The toddler is waiting, and look, he grew!
Words that need writing are way past due
Pat-a-cake darling and peek peek-aboo.

The Twitter's not done, Facebook's lonely too,
But in the backseat of my car there's the most beautiful view.
Look! He's learned new words and can count past two!
Ma, Mac-do, put on my shoe. 

The social media and writing can wait 'til tomorrow
Because away from their mothers toddlers keep growing as I've learned to my sorrow. 

I'm sorry dear readers, please come back next week.
I'm playing with my toddler, and toddlers don't keep. 

Remembered Always

April 15th, 2012

The week of busy, of rushing, of go-go-go, is finally coming to an end. I think we just planned an entire wedding in the span of one week. My future sister-in-law has bought a dress and shoes and all of the sparkly wedding bits that will decorate her on the day she marries my brother. We've made guest lists and to-do lists and to-buy lists. I've made a master list of the lists. It's over and I finally have Mac all to myself again. In this week of wedding planning extravaganza my major contribution to the upbringing of my son has been to pull my boob from my shirt when needed. Instead of spending his days in my arms, as he usually does, he has been passed from grandmother, to aunt, to friend, to random sales lady, and back again. And when I finally get a moment to myself to wind down I realize that my arms have ached for him. So I pull his warm little body next to mine and curl myself around him as I try to quiet my mind in preparation for sleep. But for some reason I can't turn my thoughts off. I think of all the parents who have lost their children and I wonder if they feel an ache in their arms.  At first I try to chase those thoughts away. But then I force myself to give them my full attention. I can't complain about imagining that loss. So many parents are living it.


April 16th 2012 - 7:00 AM

It's Monday which means blog time. I'm exhausted from the week of wedding planning and all I really want to do is hold my baby. But that's why I called this blog Mondays with Mac. I knew that by giving myself a hard deadline each week I'd be forced not to let procrastination, that old temptress, take over. So with the baby happily tucked into the carrier against my chest I sit down at the computer to write. I'm still thinking about the strange ache I felt in my arms last week. "Mama arms"- I coin the term and realize that I have a topic for my blog. I write about the busy week and how I missed my baby. And then I write about all of the parents who have lost their children. I write about my wife's friend who lost twin sons, and my grandmother who lost two adult children, and the bloggers I follow who write about the loss of their children, and my heart breaks for them. I sit at my computer and I cry. I ache for all of the parents with aching Mama (and Papa) arms. And I finish the post by writing "You are in my thoughts today."


April 16th 2012 - 12:00 PM 

The green light flashes on my phone and I turn it on to read the single worst text I have ever received. My friend, who has just amazingly grown two perfect babies in her womb for the last eight months, has lost one of her children. Her pregnancy has been pretty normal, in the world of twin pregnancies at least, and this is a devastating shock. No heartbeat. No signs of life. Alive two days ago. Gone today. My heart drops into my stomach and then leaves me entirely. It is flying across the country, landing in a hospital room in Nova Scotia, sitting next to Katie's bed.

I sob. Hard ugly cries. Her words make her seem brave and strong. She's in shock most likely. And since her son is still living in her womb I imagine that her body is not yet letting her feel the full impact of the trauma.

Never one to be short on words I struggle to find the right ones. I'm sorry seems too miniscule. I'm sorry my grocery cart bumped into yours, I'm sorry I forgot your birthday, I'm sorry I'm late for our appointment... but I'm sorry your child has died? No that doesn't sound right. But there really aren't any words that matter. I know she doesn't give fuck about my words right now. And I can swear because I know she would. She's probably so fucking sick of hearing I'm sorry. There are no words that will help. No words that will comfort. So I write some anyway, knowing they are useless, but necessary nonetheless.


April 10th, 2013

It's a cold spring. I don't know if the groundhog saw his shadow or not. I don't much care. But I'm cold.  Which allows me to believe that it's still winter and not yet spring. Can it really be April already? Has it really been a year since Caroline died? It seems impossible. And yet I look at the photos of her brother and there he is - happy smiles and big toddler teeth. Somehow a year has indeed passed.

She doesn't feel strong, my friend, I know this much. And she's sick of people telling her that she is. It's not strength that keeps her going. She's angry and sad and a million other emotions I can't comprehend. But she's still breathing and there's strength in that. She's made it through the first year of parenthood and the smiles on her son's face are proof of how much she has rocked it. She's also muddled through the no man's land of bereaved parent and new mom. It's hard to find a place to be between the grieving parents envious of her healthy son and the rest of the new moms who exchange birth stories like baseball cards.  

As the date approaches we talk a lot about Caroline. Even though I know it's the wrong thing to do I'm always cautious to mention her name. What if in that one single moment she wasn't thinking about her terrible loss and I just reminded her? I tell her about the blog I posted last year just hours before hearing of Caroline's death. And then I backtrack. I tell her not to read it because it will just make her feel worse. And then she tells me what I already knew but somehow couldn't really accept. "It doesn't make me feel worse," she says. "There's no such thing. People always worry about reminding me, or opening up wounds. Please don't ever worry about that. My wounds are always open, not a second goes by that I don't think about her."

Her words hit me over the head like a hammer and I feel bad for all of the times I didn't say her name. All of the times that I saw a butterfly, thought of Caroline, and didn't tell her. This time I heard her. Really heard her.


April 15th, 2013

It has been one year since Caroline died. One year without her precious soul on this earth. And today I will say her name on repeat. I will tell Mac about her. I will say a prayer for her. I will say a prayer for her parents and her brother. I will morn her. I will love her.  And I will remember her. Always.

The Lesbian Recognition Nod

She was cute. In a teenage boy kinda way. The girl across the coffee shop. Her hands were shoved down deep into the pockets of her baggy jeans and her head tilted shyly toward the floor while her eyes looked up in my direction.

I looked behind me to see if there was another lesbian in sight. There wasn't. This sort of thing happens when I'm with Tracy. The lesbian recognition nod. Tracy plays the part well. I become visible as her wife but on my own I tend to blend into the heterosexual background.

There was a brief time in my twenties when looking gay became high priority. I quickly learned that it was all about the hair. It's hard to find a girlfriend if you have straight hair (as in not-gay not not-curly). So I dyed it random colours that can't be found in nature, shaved bits of it, and faux hawked it from time to time. It worked and life got less lonely.

Once during that time some man yelled dyke at me while I was walking down the road in Kingston Ontario. When I looked around and realized that he was talking to me I felt a strange amount of satisfaction. I must be having a good hair day. 

With my friend Jon at an academic conference on the 60's. Check out my faux hawk and t-shirt that reads "Best Female Performance." I was all kinds of Post-Modern-Judith-Butler cool. 

Pink hair and sitting next to transgender activist Leslie Feinberg. Doesn't get much queer-er than that. 

But then I got married, and became somebody's mother, and stopped using my energy to find the perfect lesbian haircut. So it seemed strange to me that this girl was still staring in my direction.

She was already on the other side of the Starbucks line waiting on her order. I placed mine and moved over to where she was standing. I'm a happily married woman. Of course. And this girl looked at least a decade younger than me. But still. It was nice to be noticed. I straightened my coat and ran my fingers through my hair.

"I'm sorry to stare, but it's just, you look really familiar." Her eyebrows crinkled while she tried to place me. "Have we met?"

I knew we hadn't so I thought maybe this was a new kind of pick-up line that the kids were using these days. I half expected her to follow it up with "maybe it was just in my dreams."

I told her that I didn't think so and she continued to look puzzled. She introduced herself. Amanda. And then got her coffee and took a seat. I wondered if perhaps she became less interested when she saw me up close. A year and a half of parenthood have etched lines under my sleepy eyes.

With my coffee in hand I was headed toward the door when I heard her call out my name.

"Kristin! Do you write Mondays with Mac?"

So I'm not young and cool. And she wasn't checking me out. But people read my blog. Which is way more flattering.

Why I wish we could stop saying that Breast is Best.

There's a mommy blogger post that's getting a lot of attention right now. The title is 5 Reasons NOT to Breastfeed.   Stephanie over at onesleepymom.com writes that she finds the act of breastfeeding disturbing. She doesn't want her children to think that their mouths were on their mother's breasts and she is glad that her mother's breasts were never in her own mouth. I can't fault her on that one. She's welcome to her own opinion. But her other arguments against breastfeeding include the claim that it's unsanitary and that breastfeeding in public is gross. As you can imagine, these arguments have mommy bloggers around the world up in arms. And while I don't agree with Stephanie, I think that it would serve us to take a moment to understand where her motivation might be coming from and what we, as a community, have done to breed her resentment.

Before I get too deep into this discussion maybe you'd like to know a little bit about my experience and my position. I breastfed my son for 14 wonderful months. I was never in any pain, never experienced any blocked ducts or mastitis, and never had supply or latch issues. I loved breastfeeding my son. I loved how after 9 months of pregnancy-induced insomnia I could easily drift off to sleep after nursing. And I loved lying on my side with my baby cuddled up next to me so that my limbs enveloped him. I loved that it was cheap and that I always had food with me. I fed my son in the mall, in grocery stores, and on the street. And I didn't use a cover-up. I had a wonderful breastfeeding experience.

But I do not think breast is best. Or, rather, I think that the discourse surrounding breast-is-best propaganda is at best misleading and at worst very damaging. Clearly, I am not against breastfeeding but I am against the enormous pressure being put on women to breastfeed or face the scorn of being called a selfish, inadequate, mother. As a woman, a mother, and a feminist, I am far more interested in supporting and empowering women in the choices they make. The culture that we have created that allows a bottle-feeding mother to be scolded by a well meaning breast-is-best lactivist while she feeds her child at the mall is extremely problematic.

Lactivists tend to push the idea that breastfed babies are, in general, healthier than their formula fed counterparts. I'm no scientist. And I certainly have not studied the benefits of breast milk in any structured manner. But I am probably willing to concede this point. What I'm not willing to concede is that the link is unquestionably causal. Let's say there's a statistic that says that breastfed babies get 50% less ear infections than formula fed babies. I'm totally making that up by the way because it's 11 PM and I'm too lazy to go and look but I'm sure a similar statistic exists out there somewhere.

At first glance that seems to prove that breast is, indeed, best. However, what that statistic doesn't convey is the many other factors influencing the choice to breastfeed. Let's also say that women with high paying jobs and good benefit plans, or moms whose partners have high paying jobs, are more likely to breastfeed. Again, a totally made-up statistic but it makes sense because these women are more likely to be able to take paid maternity leave or to be stay-at-home moms. They also have greater access to regular medical care and fresh fruits and vegetables. These babies are able to be at home and shielded from bacteria and viruses. And I think it's fair to suggest that these reasons may contribute to the lack of ear infections in breastfed infants at least as much as the ingestion of breast milk.

My biggest concern is with the enormous amount of pressure being put on mothers. Women are expected to hold down lucrative careers while also managing to feed their children Pinterest-ed organic cucumber sandwiches carved into statues of woodland creatures. They are expected to never loose their tempers, to find every aspect of motherhood a joy and a privilege, and to be selfless and self-sacrificing.

So I can imagine that when a woman formula feeds (whether by choice or necessity) and is met with contempt and judgement it can be damaging to her sense of self and self-worth. Women who hear breast-is-best ad nauseum while feeding their children what is then, deductively, an inferior meal, are bound to become resentful.

And I think that is what has happened with Stephanie over at onesleepymom.com. Of course I do not agree with all of her points. Breastfeeding certainly isn't unsanitary. And she may just have to accept that women are going to breastfeed their children when they are hungry whether or not she is in their presence. But I can understand her frustration. One can't swing a digital cat in mommy-blog land without arriving at a post that tells women that if they truly care about their children, and want them to grow to be healthy, bonded, and happy, then they MUST breastfeed. Which just isn't true. And can be incredibly hurtful.

So this is my shout out to Stephanie and all of the other formula feeding moms who have felt judged. I'm sorry that you have felt slighted. It's time that we put aside this breast-is-best obsession and instead try to come together to support one another through this amazing, fulfilling, boring, scary, joyous, and lonely experience of motherhood.

BlogHer Syndication. Merry Christmas to Me.

This year Tracy and I have invested in a lot of new camera equipment so we decided to forgo exchanging gifts for Christmas. But Santa (also known as the nice folks over at BlogHer) decided that I was far too good of girl to not be rewarded with a present. They're pretty awesome like that.

So, here it is, my post on how one manages to say thank-you for an artichoke jar of sperm is being syndicated on BlogHer today. 

Happy Holidays Y'all!

Also, don't forget that our Re-Engaged Photo Session Gift Certificates are still 50% off until Midnight tonight! 

Answering Your Frequently Asked Questions

Last week I told you that you could ask me anything you want. You did and I answered. 

What would you do if Mac ever asked to go and live with Andy in New York?

Sob uncontrollably and tell him that if he left I would literally crawl into a ball and die of a broken heart? That's not incredibly productive is it? It's actually something we've talked about as it's likely to happen at some point. The cool thing about our relationship with Andy is that it's like a divorced couple but without any of the you're an unpleasantly smelling man with a wrinkly scrotum! you're a frigid wife and your spaghetti sauce is far inferior to my mother's  kinda drama. Or whatever it is that straight people say to one another when they are getting divorced. So if Mac ever called Andy and asked to come and live with him he wouldn't feel like he won some kind of superior parent award. Instead, he'd be mature and awesome and take some of the heat off of us by letting our grumpy little teenager know that a permanent change of address would not be possible.

How did you and Tracy meet?

I wrote a guest post about that very thing on the blog ohthethingsthatmommiesdo.com.  It sounds sorta strange. Unless you're a lesbian. Then it will sound totally normal. So, this girl that I dated invited me to come to the bar with her and her new girlfriend. That new girlfriend also invited her ex-girlfriend. The ex-girlfriend was Tracy. 

Are you planning any more children? Will you use Andy's sperm again?

We aren't there quite yet but I'm hopeful that another baby is in our future. Andy's sperm created the perfection that is Mac so I couldn't imagine using anyone else's. 

Ok, super nosy question: how many tries did it take you guys to get pregnant? 

Not nosy at all! If I could ever get my act together and finish the Mac: The Prequel Series then you'd get to read all about it. Mac is the result of three insemination attempts. We did a wholelotta stuff to turn my eggs and his swimmers into reproductive over-achievers. 

If you and Tracy decide to have more kids, will you or she be the one to carry?

Tracy has always said that she didn't want to be the one to carry. I just asked her if she would ever reconsider. Her response: "I would carry him/her home from the hospital. But that's about it. I had a front row seat to the delivery process and I think it gave me PTSD." So I guess it will be me again. 

When did you know/realize that you were gay? How did you tell your family? How was it received?

This is a strange question for me to answer. I tend to refer to myself as gay/lesbian because I'm married to a woman with no plans of polyamory or infidelity so it just seems to be the least complicated label. But the truth is that I had some really wonderful long-term relationships with some really wonderful men before coming out and I would hate to devalue those experiences. But in an attempt to answer your question I will say that I realized I was attracted to women in my early twenties. I told my parents over dinner in a restaurant and although they were surprised they were nothing but loving and supportive. 

Were you ever worried that Andy would try for custody of Mac?

No, not at all. 

Not really a personal question, more just curious: how did you get so many followers in the first year? When you created your blog, how did you promote it, network, or get your name out there? Do you have any tips for aspiring bloggers?

Honestly? I really have no idea. But I'm totally grateful for the support. I have a few amazing friends who share every post I write on Facebook and Twitter. They are total rockstars. As for tips, it just so happens that I wrote a guest post for Lisa at expandng.com - read it here. 


Is a Tracy question allowed?!?!?!?! If so: Does she ever have mixed feelings (left out, jealousy, awkward, etc.) because of the biological connection you, Andy, and Mac share? Confession: With our KD, I have felt these things so wondered if universal.
Of course it's allowed! The honest answer is that 99% of the time Tracy forgets that Mac isn't biologically hers. I take it as my responsibility to make sure that she is set-up as an equal parenting partner in the eyes of the world. When we enter a new place I make sure that she is the one to carry him in because for most people the person holding the baby = mother. I will also intentionally say things like "where's your mom Mac?" to make it clear that she is his mother. But occasionally something will happen to remind Tracy of her biological exclusion and we have to recognize and deal with those feelings. One example I can think of happened when we met Andy and his friend Luigi in Watertown for a weekend getaway. There was a pool in the hotel and Andy and I decided to take Mac in for a dip. I was excited by the first swim and without thinking asked Tracy to take a picture while Andy and I posed with Mac. I instantly regretted the request. I consciously avoid taking pictures of just Andy, Mac and I because it visually erases Tracy. I asked her about it later and she admitted that it made her feel funny. 


How old will Mac be before you allow his first Moose Ride?
In Canada the traditional first Moose Ride occurs on the child's fourth birthday. It's a celebratory occasion where the child parades down the road to cheers and claps from the whole community. Then the parents invite their friends and family back to their igloo for beer and poutine. [Inside story: This question was asked by someone named "Ottowa" - when Andy first met us online he referred to Ottawa as Ottowa because he had never heard of it (and yes, it is the capital of our country). One day we will show him Rick Mercer's Talking to Americans. ]


How many Internet hours do you put in a day/week. I find myself thumbing online a lot especially while breast-feeding or "trapped" under baby. Wondering if I need a 10 - step or if I should just embrace and celebrate being able to stay connected with world while staying at home being Mom.
Try to take my iPhone away and I will cut you. I love the internet and I don't think I spend too much time on it. My wife would entirely disagree. 


I have struggled (and ultimately lost the fight) with internet protection and my family. What is your take on the issue and how do you make peace with it? Do you get creepy search word results? I am so glad that you aren't deterred because I think your blog/family dynamic is so valuable to so many readers!
Thank-you for saying that. I have always been an over-sharer - long before the internet existed. I think privacy is over-rated. I think that we can connect with other people by lowering our guards and being open and honest. That said, my wife is slightly more private than I am and she often cringes when I mention our sex life or cervical mucus on the internet. Also, if you google sex tips for straight men my blog will come up as the second hit on the first page. Which means that I am totally doing my part for straight marriages. And also that, yes, I get creepy search word results. I'm just happy for every set of eyes that lands on my page. 


What is your engagement story?
Tracy eventually convinced me that getting married wouldn't mean that we were selling out to the heterosexist institution that has historically ignored and devalued women, LGBT folks, and those who exist outside of the traditional two-person romantic-love-based-unit. Then we picked out our own rings on the internet. 


I too would love to hear if you're planning on adding to your family with another child. My first is nearly 6 months and we are conflicted on whether one or two more children are in our future. I'm always curious to hear how others decide when their family is "complete" (plus I'm nosy).
A second child is a few years away but hopefully in the cards for us. If we won the lottery I would buy a giant mansion and have half-a-dozen children. 


Would you be upset if Andy decided to donate to another couple?
Andy is free do what he would like with his sperm. But if he did donate to another couple I would hope that they would be open to establishing a relationship between our children. 


Now that Andy is getting married does he want to have children of his own? I know that's not the right phrasing. Does he want to have children that he raises?
Perhaps Andy will stop by and give a proper answer to this question (although he's on his honeymoon so lets not hold our breath). I can tell you that we would love it if he did and that I have offered up my womb for baby growing. 


Will/when will you tell Mac the story about how he came to be?
I think that it's something that he will always know to varying degrees. We plan on having many, many, many age-appropriate conversations with him. 


Thank-you so much for all of your questions and for the wonderful first year of blogging! Y'all are the best!