If I could take my heart out and show it to you

If I could take my heart out of my chest and put it on display it would look like a train table in the middle of my living room. It would look like tears melted away with kisses and a soft hand on a rising and falling chest at 2 AM just to make sure. It would look like slow dances with legs koala-ed around my waist and silly dancing that lives up to the phrase "dance like nobody is watching." 

But my heart and I, we have a long history together. It loved fiercely for three decades on this earth - parents and friends, exes, my wife. It felt loss and heartbreak, joy and abandon. It existed in a world without Mac. And that's one of the weirdest parts about parenthood. The realization that there were moments in time, important ones, in which part of you had yet to exist. 

And I don't mean that in the "what did we do before kids?" kind of way. We did plenty of things before kids. Our hearts were full and sometimes empty. We had relationships. And we continue to nourish those and build new ones. We are whole people outside of our children. But there's this really strange moment that comes when you realize that you've only known your child for one minute, or one day, or one year, or one decade, and yet it's hard to fathom a world in which he doesn't exist. 

Or maybe he did. Maybe I always knew him. Maybe long before growing him in my belly he was growing in my heart. And long before meeting me, my wife was growing him in her heart, and his father was as well. Maybe he was just waiting for the exact right moment to come into our world and make it complete. 

This is the tangled part of parenthood that nobody can explain to you. The shifting of timelines into wavy paths and roundabout circles. The lack of distinction of life before and life after because hearts don't follow sensibly marked routes. 

 Parenting this child has made me love in ways I never imagined possible. It has turned my world upside down and back again. But there is one thing I know for sure - if I could take my heart out of my chest and put it on display for you to see, it would look like this: 

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.

When you have two moms it's hard to pick a favourite. Unless you are a baby. Then it is easy. Apparently.

I've always been the favourite mom. I don't usually admit that out loud (or in digital print as the case may be). When there is a mother and a father in the relationship it's common for a baby to prefer his mother. Of course, there are exceptions but nobody bats an eye when the baby wants his Mama. When there are two moms, the situation becomes more complicated. I grew him in my belly. For nine months his life was indistinguishable from mine. And in the last ten months he has only begun to take the first careful steps (on all fours) away from me, dividing our bodies into two separate beings. And when the space between him and me grows too large he writhes and cries until he is back in my arms.

His other mom (as well as his Auntie Tata and Gramma) have been able to calm him.  But in his worst moments of fear and uncertainty it has always been his Mama that he needs. I have pretended that I feel bad about this habit. I have brushed off his favouritism by assuring those he is rejecting that it is simply because I have the boobs. He loves the boobs more. Not me. But secretly my heart swells with pride. I'm the favourite. It's shallow and petty I know. But it is what it is.

And then this week my Dad turned sixty and my brother's fiancé had her bachelorette in the same weekend. We packed up the baby and drove the six hours (post baby it is more like nine hours) to celebrate with my family. My wife surprised me by taking an extra two days off of work to extend our visit. For five days we were inseparable. Three heartbeats. One being. Each morning Mac woke up between two moms. At home he often wakes up next to only one mom because Tracy is already awake and getting ready for work. But on vacation he woke up slowly. Flipping back and forth between us. Mama and Mommy. He would open his eyes, smile, and touch my face. Then he would flip over and do the same to her. Then back to me. Over and over. Happy.

And although he was passed around to various grandparents, aunts, uncles, and cousins, both moms were always close by. At no point did his Mommy put on a collared shirt and slip a lanyard with keys around her neck. She didn't wave goodbye and leave the house. And he got used it. To her constant presence. The look of her in a t-shirt and shorts. The smell of her never far away.

But, as they always do, vacations come to an end. Yesterday we returned home and this morning Mac woke up next to only one mom. With his eyes closed he stretched his hand to the other side of the bed. Frantically feeling for her but finding only an empty cold space. He turned back to me and opened his eyes. Relieved that there was at least one mom in the bed but disappointed nonetheless. Before I could stop him he was on the floor and crawling, as fast as his little legs could move, looking for her.

Finding her in the bathroom he sat at her pant leg, pulling and shaking, desperately trying to get her attention. She paused for a moment from her time sensitive hair procedure to grab a quick cuddle.

I pried him from her arms and brought him into the living room in an attempt to distract him. I showed him his favourite toys and even broke out my secret weapon (a pocket full of Goldfish Crackers). My plan worked with limited success until she entered the room again. That's when Mac saw the full picture. The collared shirt. The lanyard. The keys. And he broke down.

I scooped him up and brought him closer to her. But as soon as he was within grabbing distance he was  pushing with all of his strength away from me and towards her. His arms reached out and he grabbed at her shirt trying desperately to get into her arms. Unable to resist his desperation she held him close. Tears staining the collar of her shirt. He clung to her like she alone could save him from whatever peril he was about to meet.

And as the clock moved forward, reminding her that she would soon be late, she reluctantly passed him back to me. At which point all Hell broke loose. He wiggled out of my arms and crawled after her towards the door. His tiny fists banged on it as it closed behind her. I picked him up and opened it so that we could wave goodbye as she left. Her wave brought a short reprieve to the tears. But as the car door closed and the tires turned to lead her away he again became inconsolable.

I tried to explain to him that she had to go to work so that he could be kept in mashed bananas and goldfish crackers. I told him that she hated leaving him but that she was working, so hard, for us. But such rationals are lost on a 10 month old.

So, instead, I just held him while he cried. I rocked him and stroked his head. My heart hurt a little with the realization that biology and breast milk were no longer making me the favourite mom. It seems that time spent together can trump them both. But I couldn't blame him, really, she's my favourite too. Eventually his sobs turned to sniffles and his head rested on my shoulder.

"I understand baby," I whispered in his ear, "I miss her too."

Many thanks to Thimble Cakes  for sponsoring this post. Whatever the "free" you need, ThimbleCakes can help! They are a completely nut and egg free bakery offering the best cupcakes in Ottawa Ontario from sugar free or gluten free to corn free, rice free, soy free and vegan.  

Slow and Fast. Good and Better.

How did it get so late so soon? It's night before it's afternoon. December is here before it's June. My goodness how the time has flewn.

            Dr. Seuss

Her legs curl up into her belly, tucking and folding, all squishy and brand new. I forgot about the curling. The way newborn legs haven’t yet learned the infinity of space. Hers curl perfectly, like an old love letter that has sat folded through time so that the creases are permanent.

And there’s a tear in my eye because I forgot about the folding. I think back to the hours I spent watching my newborn. Memorizing the lines on his toes and the curl of his fingers. I knew that no camera could capture the endless wonder and promised myself that I would document it all with my heart. I would remember every noise and every scent and every inch of him. But already I forgot the curled legs. How could I forget the curled legs?

Mac’s legs don’t curl anymore. They kick. And they stretch. And they propel him across the room. And it feels like an eternity ago and yesterday that they were curled in the crook of my arm all warm and snuggly.

They are nine months apart. The length of one full pregnancy. She was conceived the week Mac was born. I like to think that he was her good luck charm. Still with connections on the other side, he smiled at his Auntie Valerie as she held him, her heart bursting with joy and envy, and told her that he knew the perfect baby for her. I’ll make a call he whispered in her ear as his legs curled into his belly.

Her mum asks if I’d like to hold her and I jump at the chance.  But the handoff is rocky. I know now what she’s doing as she passes her to me. Letting me hold her whole entire world in my arms. Outwardly she is calm and collected but inside she is screaming. Hold her head! Hold her head!

I don’t hold Mac’s head anymore. I hold him upside down by his ankles and tickle his ribs until he’s laughing so hard that he can’t breathe. I toss him over my shoulder and ask his mom if she ordered a sack of potatoes. And then we spin around until we collapse into a heap on the floor. Giggles tangled around legs. Bellies covered in kisses.

It seems impossible that he was ever that little. How do the parents of grown-up babies reconcile the conflicting images of infant and adult? How must my mother feel as her son peers down at her from a foot above?

9 Months

Time in parenthood is both sped up and slowed down. The hands on the clock dance back and forth. Slow and then fast and then slow again. Hours that are long. Days that are short. Nine months fly and crawl by. And in the middle of it all we stand still. Baby in our arms. Child in our hearts.  For a moment the clock stops. The three of us. A picture of our little family freezes in time for just a second. And then the bell rings, the hands on the clock gain momentum, and we are off. The squeals of a nine month old trumpet us into the next moment in time. Slow and fast. Good and better. 

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Community Building with a Showering of Love

*This post is being sponsored by ThimbleCakes. All opinions are mine and mine alone.

Showers and I have a complicated history. But before you go thinking that I prefer being stinky to bathing what I mean is that I’ve always been slightly uncomfortable with the concept and execution of wedding and baby showers.  I am a sucker for sentiment but have never felt comfortable when things are overly commercialized. And I saw baby and wedding showers as primarily gift-giving events.

History supported that belief. In the late 1800’s bridal showers are said to have grown out of dowry practices. If a woman’s family was unable, or unwilling, to produce a dowry then friends would bring her gifts that would compensate for her misfortune and enable her to marry.

Although gift-giving for new babies has a long history, the modern baby shower developed in North America after WWII during the baby boom era. It came at a time when consumerist ideals were flourishing and served to provide the new mother with purchased things that were not only designed to make infant care easier but also seemed to construct the woman’s primary (and nearly exclusive) identity as a mother.

So when my own wedding approached I eagerly told those who would listen that I wasn’t interested in a shower. In addition to the reasons stated above I have also never been a particularly good liar and I was afraid of getting gifts that weren’t my style and having to feign enthusiasm.

But my wife wanted a shower. Already in her mid-thirties at the time of our wedding she had been to countless wedding and baby showers for friends and she wanted that favor to be returned dammit! But more than that she wanted validation from the people in our lives that our marriage would be “real.”

Our friend Tammy (Mac’s auntie Tata) ignored me and listened to my wife-to-be and I am so grateful that she did. We were welcomed into matrimony by many of the women in our lives who loved and supported us. The silly games, the finger sandwiches, the balloons, all seemed to validate something that I never thought needed validating. 

Opening gifts in front of a large group of people was awkward. Particularly when Tracy’s aunt gave us a wedding album that had the names Herb and Beverley monogrammed on the front and room for “grooms military record” and “groom’s education” inside. It was clearly a garage sale find. 

And I was unsuccessful at holding back tears when my grandmother gave us matching sterling silver charm bracelets with our initials, the date of our wedding, and the lesbian pride symbol. The day was overwhelming and we were very honoured.

As we prepared for Mac’s arrival we had a similar experience with his baby showers (yes! We had two!). Mac’s auntie Tata poured her heart and soul into a NY themed shower that brought together friends and family who surrounded us with love and support. 

And my mother hosted a second shower that did much of the same, while also rooting Mac’s presence in the town that raised his Mama. We were spoiled with gifts that we appreciated beyond measure but it truly wasn’t about the gifts. It wasn’t about constructing our identities as mothers through the consumption of gadgets and coloured plastic. It was about being supported by family and friends who were welcoming us into the grand world of parenting and confirming that our son would be born into a village of loving adults ready to support his growth.

With all of that in mind, we prepared recently to co-host a shower for Mac’s aunties Valerie and Marty. Along with Valerie’s sister, sister-in-law and a few close friends we planned an event that would hopefully let the moms-to-be know what was in our hearts.  Each part of the planning committee utilized her own special talents that worked as complimentary puzzle pieces operating in unison to organize an event that would show the moms that their baby girl would be born into a village that would help to raise her up into the intelligent, confident and miraculous woman she is meant to be.

Some of my early criticisms of showers had to do with wasteful spending and an obsession with details of which I had yet to understand the value. Did it matter that pom-poms were cut out of pink and orange tissue paper and hung to the ceiling? 

Did it matter that the tables were adorned with coordinating covers and centre-pieces? 

Did it matter that the kids were entertained with bingo, scavenger hunts and prizes?

Did it matter that miniature postcards from Paris were ordered off of Ebay and that friends and family were encouraged to offer the new moms words of encouragement from their experiences as parents? 

Did it matter that there was a table filled with gifts that ranged from practical to heart-warmingly-sentimental? 

Beautiful hand-stiched quilt made by Valerie and Marty's dear friend LeeAndra

And did it matter that at the centre of the food table sat a beautiful two-tiered cake that the moms got to cut with all of the emotion usually reserved for a couple at their wedding? 

Thank-you ThimbleCakes!

Of course we could have pulled off a love-filled shower without any of those details. But each one acted as an important ingredient in a recipe of love and community building. They matter because Valerie and Marty matter. And because baby Gabi matters more to the people in her moms’ lives than she will probably ever know.

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Sundays with Mac

My dearest Mac,

I can hardly believe that it has been six months since you arrived in this world. In a way it seems like just yesterday that our hearts stopped beating as we waited for you to cry for the first time. But it also feels like forever. It’s hard to imagine that there was ever a time when you weren’t in our lives.

I’ve avoided taking your sixth month photo all week. I was trying to convince myself that if I didn’t take the picture it wouldn’t be true. People always say that time speeds up when you have children but I had no idea that it would whiz by faster than those Nascar racers that your Grampa likes so much. Days have just seemed to blend into the next and now, suddenly, it is six months later.

Month five was your best month yet. Smiles and giggles have been plentiful. And if cuddles were currency your mommy and I would be very rich.

You had a few unhappy days as your teeth started to emerge but we made it through.  Your Gramma came for a long visit and you napped for 2 hours on her chest every day. I can only convince you to stay asleep for about 30 minutes. I think you liked that menopause has made her as warm and cozy as a roaring fire. Your toasty little body probably only made matters worse but she didn’t complain. Your auntie Tata visited you nearly ever day and delighted in your giggles. And the two of you had your first Valentines Day (or Saturday before Valentine's day as the case may be) date together. You made her watch Charlie Brown and then fell asleep on her shoulder. She didn’t complain either. And you had lots of visits from other aunts and uncles and friends who all love you dearly.

Mac, auntie Tata and The Fergus

One of the best parts about month five has been your weekly Mommy-and-Baby-No-Mamas-Allowed-Mall-Dates. It began as a way for your mommy to take you out of the house for a few hours so I could write this blog but it quickly became the highlight of your week. And your mommy’s too.

She dresses you like a little man. Or, I suppose you could say like a little lesbian as your extensive wardrobe is modeled after hers. When you see the pictures showing how handsome you looked I think you’ll forgive us for that. You might have your dad’s lips and your mama’s eyes but at six months old you certainly have your mommy’s sense of style.

Every Sunday afternoon she snaps the Ergo carrier around her waist, bundles you into your snow suit, and heads to the St. Laurent Mall. If you are old enough to be reading this you will now know that our family has a strange attachment to the St. Laurent Mall. When your mommy and I were just dating we went to that mall, ate Thai food, and did a little Valentine’s Day shopping. We ended up choosing our own presents and had a great night. I still wear the earrings from that first Valentine’s Day date almost every day. We enjoyed ourselves so much that we decided to make it a tradition. Dinner at the food court and buying our own presents might not sound like a glamorous date to most but your mom and I are suckers for a tradition.

And just like us, you love it there. She takes you up and down the escalator and your eyes scan back and forth taking in all the lights and pictures and people. You coo and squeal for all the grandmothers who come over for a quick hello. And then when you are all done wandering (and your mommy has spent most of her money) you head over to the food court where she has a coffee and you have your bottle. You sit on her lap, bang your hands on the table, and entice strangers to come over and say hello.

On your last Mommy-and-Baby-No-Mamas-Allowed-Mall-Date you started to smile and coo at somebody else’s mommy. She came over and talked to your mom, wanting to exchange stories of baby smiles and sleepless nights. Always one to be honest and upfront your mommy was looking for a way to let the other woman know that you actually grew in your mama’s belly. And then, half way through the conversation, she realized that your relationship needed no explanation.  Because, you see my sweet Mac, while I was growing you in my belly your mommy was busy growing you in her heart. And if you learn anything from me my son let it be that hearts are more important than bellies.

You were so excited when you got home from your date. You chattered away endlessly, telling me all about your adventures in your very own baby language. It is a dialect that I can’t understand with my ears but speak fluently with my heart. And then your mommy, with tears in her eyes, told me about how she didn’t correct the woman in the mall who thought that you grew in her belly. She picked you up and kissed the top of your head and whispered you are mine in your ear. Because, my darling boy, you are hers and she is, entirely, yours. She is a real mom. She is your real mommy. And gosh you are so lucky to have her.

Happy sixth month birthday Macaroni. Thank-you so much for filling our lives with joy.

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Before I was a Mother

We all have a list - before we become parents. A list of things we swear we will never, ever do. Or promises that we always will. Usually that list comes in reaction to the things our parents did, or didn’t do, and the ways we want to replicate them or put an end to a pattern that no longer works (or never did). We all keep that list. Some of it is etched into our hearts – forever permanent and unwilling to be altered. Some of it is more elastic and allows for gentle and swift bends and changes. Before we are parents we cling to that list like a lifeboat. We chant to ourselves that We Will or We Won’t because the concept of caring for a new life is so entirely overwhelming and filled with emotion that we feel the need to hold onto some part of the rational world for fear of being sucked in. For fear of becoming our parents. Or out of fear that we won’t.

Some of my I always wills have stood the test of time (and by time I mean the mere five months of my son’s precious life thus far). Before I was a mom I promised myself that I would always listen to my child. That I would make the time to read to him and play with him and treasure the small moments which escape too quickly. Five months have already afforded me more small moments than it feels like my heart can contain.

But the other list, the I will nevers, hasn’t fared as well. I swore I would never co-sleep. I may never have said it out loud, because I was afraid of eating my words, but I thought it.  And while I’m not a regular co-sleeper now there are just some nights that call for it in our house.  And as I lay him down next me and our heartbeats seem to talk to each other, beating out morse code for love and family and security, it feels just like it did for nine months when he was making his home inside of me. Only it is substantially more comfortable with him on the outside.

Before I was a mom I swore my home would never be decorated with brightly coloured plastic. As we prepared for Mac’s arrival and my mom kept trying to feather our nest with toys that seemed to only come in vivid colours (which clashed greatly with my usual palette of earth tones and black and gray) I protested with more ferocity than I employed as a teenager fighting her curfew. I decorated my son’s room with a contemporary New York City theme and told his grandmother that he would just need to learn to have adult tastes from birth.

I would have never believed that the monstrosity pictured below would reside proudly in our living room. But gosh, if you could see his smile, and the way his whole face lights up as he bounces in it, you’d see why it has become an essential piece of furniture in our  home.

I swore I would never be that mom who let her baby crawl all over her like a jungle gym. And yet, as I sat on the couch yesterday, the baby sitting on my belly, his legs kicking my boobs, one hand reaching up to poke a finger in my nose, the other exploring the edges of my teeth, I barely noticed the intrusion on my personal space. And I realized that the only time I should say I will never is if it is followed by say never.

But the truth is that it’s hard to make a pre-parent list and stick with it because the emotion that comes when you become a parent is unpredictable. I was asked recently why I began blogging. And I answered honestly that part of me was just so overwhelmed with the love I felt for my son, and the realization that other parents (including my own) felt it too, that I needed a space to write about it. And I did in my first post. I can remember those first moments of being conscious of that love. It’s a love that is like no other and I didn’t expect that. I love my wife. I love her with every ounce of my heart and will be forever grateful that our paths crossed and that she chose to love me for the rest of her life. But I didn’t love her the first moment I saw her. She had to earn it. She had to love me back. She had to work to capture my heart (even though it’s something that seems so effortless these days). Mac, on the other hand, didn’t need to do anything. He simply needed to exist.

I can remember becoming aware of that love and wondering why everyone wasn’t talking about it. If mothers and fathers all over the world loved their children THIS much how were they not screaming it from the rooftops? How were there not love letters written in the sky and breaking news stories entitled father loves his child THIS much! Surely THAT was newsworthy!

And then I realized that I had just never before seen the world through the eyes of a parent. Because everywhere I look now I can see parents loving like that. When my best friend’s five-year-old daughter reads the words “baking powder” without help and her mother’s smile beams with the kind of pride you would expect from the mother of a Nobel Peace Prize Winner – she is loving that much. And when her husband’s pockets are filled with hair barrettes, collected coloured stones, and kitty figurines; and when he is as likely to rhyme off the names of fairytale princesses as Maple Leaf draft picks – he is loving that much.

Me: OK, we need 1 tablespoon of this stuff. Do you know what it is?
Cailey: No
Me: Can you read it? (expecting her to sound it out... because she's five... so obviously)
Cailey: (without a second of hesitation) baking powder
Me: What?! You read that? When did that happen?
Cailey's mom: *proud smile*

When my friends move with determination and passion across the department store to buy boys’ briefs for their daughter – they are loving that much. And when my own parents drove six hours (each way!) in the span of a single day to see my pregnant self one last time before I moved from being simply their daughter to the mother of their first grandchild – they were loving that much.

When my brother was lost and my mother (metaphorically and literally) kept her porch light on, always hopeful for his safe return and the power to guide him when the rest of us had turned our lights off – she was loving that much. And when my wife's mother, already diagnosed with inoperable lung cancer, held me tight and told me how happy she was that I loved her daughter – not asking me to be good to her baby after she was gone but simply being grateful for the knowledge that I would – she was loving that much.

It turns out that loving this much isn’t particularly special or unusual. You can’t walk out your front door and move 100 feet without running smack-dab into a parent loving his/her child like that. People are born every day. It’s common and ordinary. But before I was a mother I didn’t realize the miraculousness that existed in the ordinary.

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Cravings

Last week I had a craving to head to my hometown. To spend time in the house that I called home for two decades with the people who have loved me since my first day on Earth. It was such an intense craving that it rivaled the Wonderbar craving from month seven of my pregnancy. It was all consuming and had to be fulfilled. So I placed my two-month old son in his car seat, threw my one small bag on the front seat and proceeded to fill the trunk with the enormous amount of stuff that is apparently essential when caring for a newborn and hit the road. As we drove he fussed and the only thing that seemed to calm him was static radio played REALLY LOUD. So intense was my craving that I smiled while the car drove and the static blasted. The usual five and a half hour drive took over eight hours because I pulled the car over every time he cried. But I smiled nonetheless because I was on my way home.

As my car turned its wheels down the road I grew up on, something they had done plenty of times before, I realized that I was viewing the scene in a whole new way. I yelled over the static to Mac that we had arrived and that his Gramma and Grampa were already at the front door waving us in. I turned down the static and coasted up the driveway. Hugs and kisses and a few more hugs followed. Grampa tried to get his first and only grandson out of the car but decided that without an engineering degree he was unlikely to figure the contraption out. I freed the baby from his confines and he was quickly whisked away into the house for the rest of the family to inspect. Gramma stayed behind, to hug me one more time and thank me for coming home. As she hugged me I realized that just as I hug Mac feeling like everything that matters in the world can fit in my arms she was hugging her baby too.

Something changes in you when you parent a child. If you have ever talked to any person who has ever parented any child in the history of time you will have heard this statement. If you are not a parent yourself you will most likely find it obnoxious. And the line from the Garfunkel and Oats’ song Pregnant Women are Smug might run through your head “You’re just giving birth now. You’re not Mother Earth now.” I get that. I promise. But some things do change in you when you are given the opportunity to parent a child and one of those things is that you can, for the first time, truly begin to understand how much your own parents love you. That realization hit me in the middle of the night on my first week with Mac. As I smiled, happily changing his diaper at 3:00 AM, I was suddenly overcome by the understanding that there are people out there who love me this much. I always knew that my parents loved me. There was undeniable proof. But I think you need to feel that kind of love as a parent yourself before you can really grasp what it means. Unless you are Mac’s Auntie TaTa. I think that she loves him enough to understand precisely what I am saying.

So I hugged my mom a little longer than was our norm. And I smiled deeply when we pulled back and I looked into her eyes. I wanted to say thank-you but couldn’t figure out the words to adequately express my gratitude. Hours later as my parents kneeled on the floor cooing and making silly noises as their grandson laid naked on a towel kicking up a storm and smiling his big toothless grin I realized that bringing him to see them was probably the thanks they wanted most. So I sat back and drank a cup of tea, knowing that my son was in good hands and that my parents were busy enjoying the new kind of multiplied love that you must feel when your baby brings home her baby.

And just like it took three Wonderbars to satisfy my pregnant craving, it took three days at home to satisfy my parental craving. I could have easily ingested a fourth Wonderbar and stayed a fourth day but neither craving seemed as critical as it once had. So on the fourth day I packed my son and all of his gear back into the car and told him that his other mom was missing him too much for us to stay any longer. His grandparents kissed him good-bye with tears in their eyes and I hugged them extra long hoping that they got my message: I get it now. And thank-you. 

Are we there yet Mama?

We stopped long enough in Sturgeon Falls for him to mistakenly believe that the car ride was over and we were going to build a life there.