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.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Me too kiddo. Me too. 

On Being the Mom He Knows

At the top of our stairs there are two photos from our wedding. One with our wedding party and one of just Tracy and me.

Sometimes Tracy likes to look at the photos with Mac and point out the people he knows. But when they get to me he throws a fit. 

"I don't like Ma like that. I don't like Ma like that."

Because the me on my wedding day looks little the me he sees everyday. My hair was longer (both naturally and thanks to the extensions my hairdresser clipped in for the side-do she created). Also, it has a big feather and rhinestone clip in which is not my usual around the house style. Instead of a t-shirt and pants I am wearing a long white dress. I'm thinner and tanned. And my nails are weirdly long. In that photo I am not the Mama he knows. 

"I don't like Ma like that. I like Ma like ttthhhhaaattt." He says while pointing to my current mom look. And although he's said it a bazillion times it finally clicks with me. I like to have my picture taken when I look like I did on my wedding day (you know, when I've spent months prepping for that one day of photos and I'm only about 65% authentic). But Mac thinks I'm much more beautiful when I'm chasing him around the yard in an old t-shirt. 

And those are the photos I should be taking. My reluctance to actually be in photos with him these days is robbing him of the memories he'll cherish. He may one day like to look at the photos from his moms' wedding but he won't remember those women. He'll remember us as we are today. And we should really be providing him with more photographic evidence of these days. 

So yesterday, at the park without make-up (or chapstick apparently) and in a t-shirt, I asked my wife to take a photo of Mac and me. Which, predictably, went horribly as he had exactly zero interest in sitting still long enough. But we'll keep trying. This summer I will be in more photos with my son. As the mom he remembers. Y'all can hold me accountable. 

Happy belated Mother's Day. I hope it was everything you wanted it to be. 

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! 

Just One Kiss Mama

I sink into the corner of the couch. Legs pulled up to my chest. Phone resting on my knee. But the lack of space between my thigh and my torso always makes my son nervous. Nothing else should ever be on my lap but him. And when my lap disappears he wiggles his little arm into the empty space and pushes until there is room for his body. 

"Up please." The squeaky voice of toddlerhood. His many demands are now bookended with please and thank-you. 

Diego is on the TV screen and Facebook is in my hand. Our attention is diverted but we connect as I mindlessly stroke his soft hair. His legs curl until he's a ball of love on my lap. My thumb scrolls past a newsfeed of baby announcements and the gym tales. His body bounces and he pushes his fist in the air "vamanos!" 

Without thinking I rest my head on his and kiss that tender spot that still sometimes smells like baby. Which he is not. Seventeen kisses later he jerks his head away and turns to face me. A tiny crinkle forms between his brows. "Ma, why do you always give me so many hugs and kisses? I like you to stop doing that and just give one. OK?" 

And so it begins. My baby is putting limits on my mamahood. A one kiss maximum rule is implemented. And it takes everything in me not to hug and kiss him to infinity and beyond. This is the tragedy of parenthood. Your job is to teach them to grow up and away from you. And it's both joyous and too painful for explanation. 

This tiny human is understanding expectations and setting boundaries. He's negotiating. He's becoming someone. Not just my soft and gushy unformed being but his own person. I'm proud. And terrified. 

The next morning I greet him with "good morning" and before my lips touch his cheek he reminds me. Like a stern elementary school teacher with an important homework reminder. "Just one kiss Ma. Just one."

His lips are chapped but he wipes the balm away as quickly as I can apply it. In the car the dryness burns and his squeaky voice makes his discomfort known.

"You need stop the car and kiss my owie." He demands. And then remembers, "please."  I tell him that we are nearly home and as soon as we get there I will put cream on his lips. But he doesn't want cream. He wants a kiss. And immediately. We go back and forth until finally I remember that I'm not actually in a hurry to get home and pull over into the nearest parking lot. I open his door and give him, just one, kiss firmly on the lips. 

"There. That better," he says. And he means it. To his mind there is still magic in my kiss. The power to fix chapped lips and skinned knees. He believes that my love can heal his minor afflictions and like the velveteen rabbit that belief makes it real. 

And although my kisses are now being limited, I'm relieved to know that, for now, they are still magic. And as he's counting them I'll be sure to make each one count. 

I love you too.

I told my wife I loved her very early into our relationship. Even by lesbian standards. It was summer and we had plans to meet friends. She was still in that place where she didn't fully believe that she could be loved. Completely. For exactly who she was. She was trying to push me away - picking a fight - testing me. And I just blurted it out. What are you doing right now? Don't you know that I love you? The pupils of her eyes got so wide that I could see myself reflected in their shiny black surface.

Do you know what you just said? She asked accusingly, assuming I would take the words back as quickly as I had said them.

I know exactly what I said. I love you. 

And I did. Wholly and completely. Nobody had ever made me laugh the way she did. And my heart had never fluttered at that speed before. It was lust and love and everything in between. She became the  best part of my world. And in the years that followed I said I love you more times than I could count.

Lately, I love you comes a little less frequently. And not because it's not felt but because of the
busy, busy, busy. Did you give Mac his puffer? Yes. Did you pack an extra set of clothes? Yes. Did you feed the dog? And so it goes. While we seem to exchange a substantial quantity of words with each other, the quality is lacking.

But if you pay close enough attention to the little hidden meanings that creep up from time to time you can still see those unabashed, screaming it from the roof tops, I LOVE YOUs poking through amongst the grocery list conferring and the vast and varied list of toddler needs.

On the weekend I was out of town attending a bachelorette to celebrate the total awesome-ness of my oldest friend as she prepares to marry to her best friend. And Tracy was home alone with Mac.

On day two she texted me 4 simple words that filled my heart with warmth:

It was, you're a good mom, I appreciate what you do, and I love you all wrapped up in one. And while a lot of things have changed since that first time I blurted out I LOVE YOU, there is one thing that really hasn't: I love her too. 

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Four Ways to Entertain a Toddler While Lying Down

I remember back in my pre-parent days when parents would complain about the onslaught of colds and flus and general virus-y ickiness that accompanied the winter months and I would listen to them with a modicum of sympathy but I remained relatively uninterested. Because here's the thing about the common cold - when it happens to somebody else it seems like totally no big deal. I mean, it has the word common right there in the title. But when it happens to you it's basically like Armageddon and it rivals tragedies happening in far off countries.

But every year you get one, and every year you get through it relatively unscathed. But what they don't really tell you about parenting a child who is either in daycare or school, is that the months between November and March are basically just one giant germ infestation. Or, rather, parents totally do tell you but you just don't really believe them because when somebody says they've been sick with one thing or another for 4 months straight that seems like total bullshit. Except - IT'S TOTALLY NOT.

So here we are, in March, and we've all been sick for months to varying degrees of horribleness. But the absolute worst of it was a recent stomach flu. I also remember, back in my pre-parent days, a friend who called her mom (who lived in a different city) to come and stay with her while she had a stomach flu. "Well I can't take care of him (her 2 year old) while I'm throwing up," she said. And I remember thinking that was sort of weird. I mean, he's two, how hard could that be? Can't you just put him in front of the TV for the day? Oh silly pre-parent me!

Last week Mac had a stomach flu. And then, just as he recovered, Tracy and I got it at the same time which meant that we had to take turns lying in the living room pretending to take care of Mac while the other person got to sleep in bed. And quite frankly that was pretty horrible and I wished I could call my mom to come over.

But necessity is the mother of invention, so, here are my four ways to entertain a toddler while lying down.

1. Dead Man's Twister

This one requires a sheet of stickers. But if you have a toddler you have a sheet of stickers somewhere. Basically you lie on your stomach or back on the floor or couch and occasionally call out things like "red sticker on mom/dad's knee" and "puppy sticker on mom/dad's back." Then the kid follows the instructions and covers you with stickers.

2. Hungry, Hungry Laundry Basket

You lie on the couch or floor next to a laundry basket and say things like "laundry basket is hungry for something red" and "laundry basket is hungry from something square." Your kid then scours the rooms he can access to collect those things. Make sure you are playing in only childproofed areas.

3. City on my Back

You've probably seen one of those t-shirts on Pinterest  with roads and buildings on the back. The person wearing the shirt lies on his/her stomach and kids can use dinky cars to drive along the routes. On Pinterest these shirts and colourful, the roads and buildings are drawn well, and they are very clearly Pinterest-worthy. But toddlers have much lower standards. Just take any old t-shirt and throw some duct tape on the back. Take a marker and draw some centre lines on the "roads" and you are good to go.

4. Stuffy Hide and Seek 

Tell your toddler to go down the hall, cover his eyes, and count to ten. From your lying down position take your kid's favourite stuffed animal and throw it across the room somewhere. When your kid is done counting s/he can come back and find the stuffed animal. And repeat.

I hope that helps if you are struck down with a stomach virus while home with a healthy and energetic toddler. And hang in there parent friends - cold and flu season is almost over!


Psssttt… Pin it! You know you want to! 

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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?

If You Give a Toddler a Steroid

[If You Give a Mouse a Cookie by Laura J. Numeroff]

If you give a toddler a steroid he'll want some juice to go with it.
So you'll give him some apple juice.
But the apple juice won't be in a purple cup.
And toddlers always want apple juice in a purple cup.
So you'll pour the apple juice from the blue cup into the purple cup.
But the purple cup won't have a straw.
So you'll go to the cupboard to get a straw.
And the toddler will remember that apple juice comes from apples and apples are high up on trees so he will climb on the counter to pretend to pick an apple and spill the apple juice all over the floor.

So you will get a mop and a bucket.
And the water in the bucket will look like the perfect tub for a teddybear.
So the toddler will plunge the teddybear into the bucket.
And you will tell the toddler to take the bear out of the bucket.
Which will make the toddler run around the house with a wet, soapy, bear.

Since the bear is already wet you will ask the toddler if he wants to have a real bath.
And he will chant "TUB TUB TUB" until he wakes up the neighbours.
So you will call the neighbours to apologize while pouring a bath.
But the toddler will scream that the bath is too cold. And too hot. And too cold.
And then he will remember that tubs require sitting and sitting is not running and he will insist on getting out immediately.

You will be so tired that you will call super aunt for backup.
And she will bring stickers.
The toddler will want to put all the stickers on all the furniture.
And you will let him.
Because it means you can sit on the couch for 76 seconds.

The stickers will remind the toddler of crafts and he will ask for scissors and glue.
So you will spread the craft drop cloth on the floor and get supplies.
But while you are trying to figure out how to turn newspaper and pipe cleaners into something entertaining, the toddler will run in circles around and around and around throwing pieces of paper in the air and yelling CONFETTI! CONFETTI!

You will remember the tip on Pinterest about pushing pipe cleaners through the holes in a colander.
The toddler will sit to examine what you are doing.
But the pipe cleaners will look like spaghetti and spaghetti will remind him of playing chef and he will shake the colander while screaming "I'M COOKING! I'M COOKING!"

His head will shake back and forth and you will remember Jesse Spano singing "I'm so excited, I'm so excited, I'm so, so … scared."
And you will be scared too. But you will also laugh. And you will try to take a picture of the chaos.

Pretending to cook spaghetti will remind the toddler that he's hungry.
So you will open the fridge.
And the toddler will crawl inside.
He will want pickles.
Not pickles, cheese.
Not cheese, donuts.
Not donuts, cookies.

And with the fridge open you will notice the half empty (half full) bottle of wine.
And you will drink it.
Because when you give a toddler a steroid it is like - well - giving a toddler a steroid.
So you should also give his parents more wine.

Dancing Up Close: On twos being both terrible and terrific

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Press play. Music begins at 1:53]



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

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

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

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

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



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

"My Dad"

This new acquisition of language is the coolest thing to watch. The nouns are the easy part. He learned them quickly and only needs to hear a new person, place, or thing once before it is committed to memory. The verbs and the adjectives are following quickly behind.  It's not the kind of thing you teach, really. You just talk and hope that some of it sinks in but you never really know when it will. Until it has. And that's such a cool moment.

Mac lives in Ottawa with my wife and me but his dad lives in New York City. At two and half years old he has seen his Dad a dozen times or so. For the last year he has understood Dad as a noun. That guy who comes to visit every few months, the one with the scruffy face and the phone filled with videos of cats and horses on demand, his name is Dad. And to my toddler he's a pretty stellar guy. His visits produce donuts. And he lies on the floor to play. He looks for opportunities to wear matching outfits and Ma (that's me) takes a lot of photos when he's around.

It's early on Saturday morning and Mac is perched on his knees at the kitchen table. My wife and I, bleary-eyed, are curled into the couch drinking luke warm coffee. Andy is at the table with Mac, alternating between bites of fruit and crackers and moving trains and horses back and forth.

Andy holds Mac's attention with the proficiency of a six foot tall purple dinosaur. My wife and I take those moments to let our son's other parent do the parenting. My head rests on her shoulder as the boys chatter across the room.

Unaccustomed to our cold Canadian winters, Andy excuses himself from toddler play and heads to his room for a sweatshirt. Mac looks up from what he's doing and scans the room.

"Where my dad go Ma?" His squeaky little voice registers genuine concern.

"What did you say Mac?"

"Where my dad go?"

"Is that your dad Mac?"

He smiles a proud smile. He's figured out the possessive pronoun. That guy in the other room, the one with the scruffy face and the phone filled with videos of cats and horses on demand, he is not just any old dad, he is Mac's Dad.

Just two little letters that fall out of his mouth but they imply so much more.

My dad.

And he is.

Sometimes the more things change the more they stay the same.

There was a time, not that long ago, when I would stumble into the kitchen, groggy, after too much time spent awake in the wee hours of the morning. There would be dirty glasses in the sink and a corkscrew on the counter with the last cork of the night still pierced through its centre.

It would explain the headache. And the weary eyes.

This morning I had a strange deja vu of those mornings when I stumbled into the kitchen. I guess my wife couldn't open the Children's Tylenol bottle at some point in the middle of the night. It explained the headache. And the weary eyes.

Sometimes the more things change the more they stay the same.

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

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

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

And it's starting to show.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Counting for Dads

There are a lot of things that Dads need to count.

Grey hairs

Wrinkles

College tuition payments

Diapers

And sometimes, when all of those things need to be counted, it can be easy to forget... 

...that toes need counting too. 

The First Haircut

As a toddler my brother had a floppy mop of adorable blonde curls that grew down towards his shoulders while my mother couldn't bear to cut them. One day my dad decided to get his hair cut without her knowledge. I don't think he meant to upset her. He just thought his son needed a haircut so he got him one. I don't think my mother has forgiven him nearly 30 years later.

Mac, on the other hand, has very little hair. But it grows in weird ways. Longer in some parts than others. So I make an appointment at MelonHead because they have cars, and trains, and airplanes for the little ones to sit in and I think he will love that. And he does.

We show up early to the appointment. And of course Tammy, Mac's Auntie Tata, comes along as well. The first haircut for a boy with the equivalent of three mothers is apparently a very big deal.

"Mac do you want to sit in the ChooChoo?"

"Mac do you want to sit in the airplane?"

"Ooohh Mac do you want to drive the car?"

Each of us focuses on a different vehicular choice and the poor kid is overwhelmed by all the mother-hen-ish estrogen. He gives us a look that is the equivalent of a toddler eye-roll and points to the plane. His stylist doesn't seem to bat an eye at the three women nervously bustling around the boy who is the centre of our universes.

I take the backpack off my shoulders and pull out my large pro-level camera and lens. I attach a flash. My wife has already warned me not to set up external flashes for this event. Tammy is waving at Mac from behind her iPhone and snapping pictures of her own.

Tracy is busy explaining her vision of Mac's hair to the stylist. To her credit, the stylist entertains my wife's long list of directives while casually joking that he has such a small amount of hair that she could probably blow on it to dry it. 

I'm still snapping away. Different angles. Smile Mac! Hey Mac! Macaroni! Mac? Hey Mac! Brrrrmmm Brrrrmmm are you flying? Macadoodle! Macadoodle Do!! 

The whole thing takes about 118 seconds and then it's over. But we need a little more photo documentation. 

Also, note to self, that hair dye made your hair much more orange than you think it did. 

The stylist pulls out her point and shoot camera. In its entirety it is smaller than my flash. Part of the MelonHead experience is a photo, certificate, and a cut lock of his hair. I feel a bit silly with my camera by comparison. Like I brought a gun to a knife fight. Or some other comparison that is less violent and more appropriate for a post my about kid's first haircut. 

She takes her picture and prints it off. She attaches the picture to a certificate with a tiny bag containing his cut hair. I pass the whole package onto Auntie Tata. She's much more pack-rat-ish than we are. She stuffs it into her oversized purse trying not to bend it. 

It has been ten minutes and everything is over and done with. Mac struts a little. Proud of his new do. His moms and his Auntie Tata follow behind. Six hands smooth his shirt, tug at his hair, and snap more camera phone pictures. 

And suddenly I smile a little to myself and feel a wave of sympathy for whatever girl or boy shows up at our house for his first prom. Good luck future prom date! Try not to be blinded by the flash. 

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The Train Table

Do you remember a few months back when I wrote about how sometimes love means tolerating each others' meltdowns? One of the biggest fights we've ever had came when Tracy covered our living room in black rubber mats to protect our son's head when it would inevitably hit the floor as he toddled on his wobbly one year old legs. I've never wanted a living room that looked like a playroom. There are toys in my living room but they are in baskets that fit into our decor and look like they could easily contain adult items. Not adult adult items. You know what I mean.

Lately Mac has been obsessed with trains. Or choo-choos as he adorably calls them. Obsessed in the way that only a toddler can. We're talking shaking and squealing with delight at the mere glimpse of any train. Toy or real.

If Tracy and I could wrap up all the trains in the world and drop them at his feet we would. But I was less keen on the idea of actually putting a train table in my living room. In comparison, Tracy was itching to get out her craft supplies super-butch-power tools and build our train-obsessed boy his very own choo-choo.

And so, like any couple in a healthy relationship, we discussed it calmly and rationally. Just kidding. We got into a pretty big melt-down-y fight about it. I desperately wanted it anywhere else. She felt like I was trumping her in the decision department. It was bad.

Finally, we came to an agreement that she could build it for him but it would go in his room (where he rarely plays and only goes to sleep). She wasn't particularly happy with this outcome. I wasn't particularly happy with her pouting.

Begrudgingly she went shopping for supplies at the craft store hardware store. And then set out to start painting, cutting, sanding, re-appholstering, and assembling our son's very own train table. Our house is small so there was no hiding the process from Mac. And I watched as, at every step along the way, his tiny little hands shook with excitement and his knees buckled beneath him. His eyes grew wild and then he smiled so big that they disappeared completely.

When it was all done my wife looked at me with big, brown, pleading puppy dog eyes. And my son looked at the table like he had just won the lottery. And, in Tracy, he truly did.

Consequently, we are now the proud owners of living room with a loving-ly built train table smack dab in the middle of it all. Sorry friends who want a place to put a drink down for the next few years. If you had seen their eyes you would have done the same thing.

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.

Like Tin Men we Walk Around Heart-less

"Making the decision to have a child is momentous. It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body." 
--Elizabeth Stone 

There is a pretty famous quote about parenthood that says that when you have a child you make a choice to forever walk around with your heart outside of your body. Like Tin Men in the Wizard of Oz we walk around fearful of the things that can happen to our hearts when they move outside of our field of vision. A lonely little heart out there all on his own. Does he miss me? Is he safe? How can my heart be expected to survive without me? And then we find people who can hold our hearts for safe keeping. Grandparents, aunts, uncles, friends and trusted child care providers. We wonder if we have made the right choice. Will she protect my heart? Will my heart be safe with him? Some of us are devastated to learn that answer to those questions was no. And that is the haunting part of having your heart walk around outside of your body. The horror of the possibility of that reality is enough to keep the rest of us up at night with worry.

I've been lucky enough to answer only yes to those questions. My heart has travelled to different cities and gone on many adventures beyond my view. And he has remained safe and protected. And now that I understand what it means to hand over your heart to another person for safe keeping I take it as an honour to be allowed to protect someone else's heart.

Jordan, or DieDie as Mac for some reason only intelligible to toddlers calls him, is someone else's heart. Sometimes his parents hand him over to me for safe-keeping. Those are Mac's favorite days. Each morning he wakes up and asks DieDie? DieDie? and if I have to tell him that there is no DieDie today his little heart breaks. For a minute until a truck or a cookie gets his attention.

So I cuddle him, that heart that belongs to someone else, and I love him like I would my own heart.

This week DieDie's mom is gone on a much needed and much deserved vacation. And as much as I know she is looking forward to the drinks and the beach and the sun and drinks, I also know that it will be difficult to board a plane without her heart. So before she left I helped Jordan to write a letter to his mom.

Enjoy the beach Amy! Your heart will be here safe and sound when you get back!