Birthdays are hard for me.

This feels like a déjà vu. Maybe I’ve written about this before. Maybe I have multiple times.

I can honestly say I don’t understand why some people make a big deal about their birthdays. To each their own, of course. And I truly don’t intend to judge, but I guess a part of me does. Where some people make it a week-long bells and whistles “Look at Me!!!” affair, I’d rather disappear, have people forget about it (and no – not so I can be passive aggressively upset about it), and then have things go back to status quo upon my return. And I know I’m not the only one. I’ve connected with others who are similar.

And I say I don’t intend to judge, but I guess I do? I don’t even know if it’s ‘judgement’. I think it’s more a discomfort that comes from misunderstanding. I don’t intend to be critical of anyone who does all things ‘birthday’ differently from me. I’m not saying my way is right and theirs is wrong. I’m not feeling superior or better or ‘right’, I just don’t get it. So I can’t connect with it.

I like to think there’s a difference.

But, having been called judgemental not too long ago, by someone whose opinion I truly value, I find I reflect on that aspect of my personality a lot, now.

And there are anomalies in my past, yes. Somehow in university I didn’t mind making a week/weekend of it. But then again, those were some of the freest and most exciting days of my life. Where I lived out from under the thumb I was used to being trapped beneath. Where there was a different bar or pub with a feature night each day of the week that I genuinely liked frequenting. I didn’t mind line-ups as much. Hangovers were more short-lived (or non-existent, even!)

Those were the days.

I also happily made a big deal of my thirtieth. That was the tail-end of a period of major transformation in my life. I’d just pulled through a rough patch that I had disguised with healthy eating and weight lifting. I was childless and spontaneous. I was in great shape. The world (or the 40km radius around my hometown) was my oyster. I wore a too small red mini dress with strategic cut-outs. I had my makeup professionally done. I even paid extra for the fake eyelashes. I look back at the pictures of that night now and realize too much makeup (and fake eyelashes) make me more ‘drag queen’ than ‘pretty’, but you only turn thirty once. And I exited my twenties with a bang.

Shortly into my thirtieth year I became pregnant and a new phase and chapter of my existence began.

Birthdays have been quiet again since. And I’m so OK with that.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m always bowled over by the loving messages I receive on and around my birthday. It means so much to me and I truly take them all to heart. But, if we’re being honest, then I get stuck in a cycle of guilt because I’m piss-poor at getting back to people. And then I feel I must seem careless and ungrateful.

Remember when I said I wish people would just forget?

This past year, as I’ve mentioned previously, has been especially exciting but also difficult. It’s maybe been the hardest of my life thus far. It’s been a major period of reflection, change, transformation, risk-taking, etc. etc. etc.

Many choices and changes have been ‘for the better’, with others I’m still grappling with the grey area they’ve created or left behind.

Grey has always been a favourite ‘colour’ for me. I’ve always gravitated to it in décor, art and fashion. These days it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth. I want the rule book. The answer key. The cheat codes.

I want someone to say, “this is how it’s supposed to be”.

I want to be confident and sure.

But as I start my thirty-third year I realize; I’ve never been so lost in my whole life.

And as much as that sucks in many ways, I’m also consciously accepting it; trying to trust and have faith in the process. Trying not to control things, anticipate or force anything.

I’m attempting to mediate the conversation between my head and my heart with grace and stamina. Although most days that conversation feels more like a fist fight, and the blows I’m struck with by being in the middle take my breath away.

This year for my birthday I got a beautiful, healthy, smart, polite, and terribly sweet two year old with a spiral fracture in his right tibia.

Just what I always hoped for.

In all seriousness? I’m a fucking wreck over it. I was standing right next to him when the ‘accident’ happened. He was walking. Carefully. On the hardwood floor. In our house.

The kid has a penchant for falling awkwardly while one foot slips out in front of the other. We’ve officially been to the ER three times now because of similar issues, all progressively worse than the last.

The first was when he was newly walking and he stepped on one of his hats on the hardwood floor. He came down hard on his one knee and wouldn’t walk the next morning.

Off to Emerg we went.

False alarm. Don’t limit his activity. Alternate Advil and Tylenol. Phew.

The next was just over a month ago. We don’t even leave toys in his bedroom, but his room is inundated with books. If OCD Mom isn’t trailing behind him putting them back on the dresser/shelves/side table, they remain scattered on the floor.

I’m not faulting my son’s Dad. He’s basically the best father I’ve ever known. But he’s much more chill and relaxed than me (and thank heavens for it, too!) Thankfully our little man takes after his Dad personality-wise. Not so great, though, because his Dad also has a tendency to not properly look where he’s going and has poor spatial perception at times.

Basically he’s clumsy, and so is our boy. I am, too. Our boy is essentially doomed.

Why aren’t there procreation check-lists?

“Hey you two – you’re both accident-prone. This likely isn’t the best idea”?

A mere two days after Christmas, after a routine bum change in his bedroom, Weston stepped on a thin picture book. It swiftly went out from under him on the carpeted floor and BAM, his foot was majorly sprained. This time we didn’t jump the gun. It was obviously tender but it didn’t swell or bruise. We iced it, comforted him, and gave him some Advil to help him sleep that night. The next day when he wouldn’t weight-bear we took him to the paediatric walk-in clinic first thing. They sent us for an X-Ray and ultrasound. We got called back in to the clinic a few hours later. They said he had multiple fractures in his left foot. That there might be signs of old fractures, too. That he could be pre-disposed to this kind of thing and we should go to Sick Kids Hospital right away for more imaging and tests. That he’d likely need to have a cast.

Insert very emotional and concerned Mom and Dad [here].

Off to Sick Kids we went. The ER of Sick Kids on December 28^th is not the place you want to be. Basically you never want to be there, ever, but especially not then.

There was barely a place to hang our hats. I wanted to shield our injured dude from the germs very clearly (and generously) being spewed (literally) in all directions.

It was a nightmare.

And yet when we finally got our own – for the most part sterile – room, we were able to relax. So what our day had started super early at the walk-in, and it was now close to 10pm. Our son’s spirits were great and infectious, and we at least had each other. Then to add a cherry to our sundae the doctor who finally came in to see us about the scans they had done apologized and basically giggled.

She said, “So there aren’t any fractures in his foot. At all. That’s what a two year old’s foot is supposed to look like”.

Cue happy, relieved and grateful sighs (giggles, tears, etc.)

So we were sent home again. False alarm. Don’t limit his activity. Alternate Advil and Tylenol. Phew.

He slowly started to improve and get better, but then took some steps backwards in his healing. He had clearly pushed himself too hard, or, there was more to the injury than they’d initially realized.

So we went back. More x-rays. Blood work. Worry. Waiting.

I’ll never forget the relief when the doctor came back to us with the initial lab results.

“So the good news is there aren’t any signs of cancer”

I said pardon?

These are the moments where shit gets real. Where you want to hit the floor of that germy place and kiss it. Where in the room right next to us they’d just performed an enema of epic proportions (more fruits and vegetables for your kids, people!) but the next door over there may have been a family hearing worse news. These are the humans we make with a partner and then grow in our bodies. The ones we nurture and love with every ounce of our beings and still somehow question everything we do and feel guilty about every step of the process.

These are our people. And they’re fragile. We can’t – no matter how much we try – protect them from everything.

It could have been worse.

They did find inflammation in the blood sample and arthritis was mentioned (please God no). They then looked in his throat and found the expected cause of the inflammation (we hoped). In the few days our boy had been back in daycare since Christmas he’d obviously picked up a viral bug he hadn’t really complained about, bless his heart.

They referred us from there to another Toronto Hospital for another visit in the upcoming week. Basically for another look over and more blood work, and also referred us to their orthopaedic clinic for the week after that.

Slowly and surely we attended the appointments. Our dude dutifully and bravely underwent a lot of poking and prodding. We were sent home at the end of the three week ordeal with a clean slate bill of health.

Go home, they said. And don’t come back, OK?

You don’t have to ask this Momma twice.

And yet this past weekend our bad luck struck again.

My best friend and I had just returned from the most incredible yoga and meditation retreat. We had not only bonded beautifully together, but with so many other remarkable women. We ate hearty, healthy food. We slept like babies. We took risks. We cracked our hearts open in vulnerability. We let others do the same, extending love, support, and a safe place. We loved one another without judgement or expectation. We breathed very deeply.

I was home all of an hour, still riding my zen wave. I’d just finished telling my husband about it. I was heading upstairs to sort laundry (I had a lot of catching up to do), my husband was making homemade pizza in the kitchen. Our little man walked out from the living room toward the kitchen. He had only one sock on.

It very unfortunately did not have grips on the bottom of it.

As always? One foot went out, while the other went under.

I will never, ever forget the feeling in my body as I watched his strangely twisted leg get crushed by the rest of his body weight. His face immediately crumpled in horror. A look I’ve never seen before. I very quickly began to lose my breath in panic. I’m not proud of the fact that the only time I legit feel I’m ‘losing control’ is when my child is in pain, but it happens. In a tornado of fear, worry, and immense love, I fall apart.

Once again; thank God his Dad balances me out so well. We moved him carefully to the couch. His Dad gently removed his pants. Our son was wailing like an animal, clinging his lower leg to his body. Screaming in a way I didn’t think possible. I was so scared.

My heart was (is) shattered.

I started rushing, frantically, in circles. A true ‘chicken with my head cut off’.  The world was spinning too quickly around me. I got the diaper bag. My purse. Socks (with grips on them). We tried to carefully put his pants back on, to no avail. We could tell he would have bitten our arms off before we’d ever succeed. We wrapped him in a blanket, got our jackets on and hit the road for the hospital. We rushed in as fast as our legs and the frigid air let us.

The ER of our local hospital wasn’t busy. Not obviously, anyway. A nonchalant nurse peeked out and slowly dragged out the words, “Someone will be with you in a minute”. She spoke like molasses straight from the freezer. In monotone. With a vacant facial expression.

Don’t you see this is an emergency? That a toddler is in extreme distress? That a mother is wishing every bone in her body could be broken, if only it would mean her son wouldn’t have to suffer? That a husband is just as terrified but always has to hold everything together for everyone else?

I love when nurses (and doctors) look at me like I’m crazy. I tell them I’m trying to stay calm but I’m worried and yet somehow I always end up with eight heads to them. That never seems to help how I’m feeling.

We finally got checked in, and the Coles Notes version goes like this; they did an X-ray. Confirmed the spiral fracture of the tibia. Sedated him in order to put on a temporary splint cast. Called Sick Kids to say we were, in fact, going back (despite the orthopaedic doctor’s original and now outdated orders).

So much of the conversation with these particular healthcare professionals was so ambiguous. I have so much respect for doctors and nurses, always, but on this particular night (and maybe just because of my anxiety and emotions) I felt like we were being danced around.

It’s amazing what a Mama-Bear, “Please explain this in more detail to us! We’re educated people!” growl will do. They finally spoke to us more clearly. With more care and respect.

Yes our son was the patient requiring immediate attention. But we were hurting and confused, too.

Fast-forward to the next morning. We arrive at Sick Kids at 7:30am, sharp, on zero sleep. We get put through the questioning rigor, repeatedly, again (I get it, and respect it, whole-heartedly). Thankfully it was the most efficient visit to date. Within a four hour period we had more imaging done and a fancy new cast, and we were on our way.

All things considered, he’s OK. Adapting, still in pain, inconvenienced and uncomfortable, yes, but OK.

Fast forward to today. My birthday. The day I’ve always had a hard time celebrating (for the most part). Especially since my Mom passed away. This is my 6^th birthday ‘celebration’ without her in my life. I’ve mentioned it before; that somehow feels wrong. Like her absence – the woman who grew and birthed me – makes my birth date heavier. Harder. Emptier. Less meaningful.

And this is where I get even more real. I’ve been having a hard time lately. I’ve reached out to my doctor, naturopath, and my councillor. I’ve had blood work done, I’ve changed supplements. I’m considering medication. The grey area isn’t clearing like I’m used to, and I don’t like how ‘not me’ I feel.

While I showered today I had an awful thought, but since I’m being honest, here I go…

I found myself wishing my Mom had had the abortion she’d originally scheduled.

I wept as I showered and fully thought of the ‘burden of me’, and how many people’s lives would be better off without me in it. I’m not exactly screaming for help. And I’m most certainly not asking for a pity party. But maybe, if you’ve been wondering what’s up with me lately, this will help explain it.

I thought; if there was no ‘me’ Aidan would be happier with someone else. Someone better. More deserving. More appreciative. More loving.

I know some of you are shaking your heads as you read this. You’re thinking I’m as good as any other woman. But that’s where you’re wrong. I’m not and I haven’t been. What you see on paper, on social media, what I portray in public, is only the tip of our iceberg.

I’m not easy. And he’s far too patient.

I got a tattoo this fall to signify Weston. It’s a compass rose, combined with a Sagittarius bow and arrow. It strategically points ‘West’ instead of North, which also happens to be towards my heart. I’ve had this epiphany since having him; I may have been a mistake. I may have ruined my Mom’s life (her words, not mine) but I’ve found a purpose in my existence through being his mother.

He’s such an exceptional little man. I can’t help but think; he’s wanted. He’s loved. He’s important.

If the only good thing I ever do in my life is bring him into the world, I’ve accomplished something incredible. I’ve made my lack-lustre and accidental existence important and even necessary.

Yes – I understand this all sounds very dark. But better to share it and shed some light on it than let it continue to fester in my shadows, no?

I have a very bad habit of re-playing criticisms in my mind. Especially the sharp and bitter truths that at first I’m tempted to spit out in distaste, but I eventually chew on like stale gum. I don’t want them in my mouth anymore. They taste awful and my jaw hurts, damnit, but it’s like I’m a sucker for punishment. I can hear the feedback and accept it as true. It would be better if I could accept, swallow and digest them, learn from them, and move forward in a better way, but instead I attempt to do all of that good stuff and then I put the broken record on in my head and I drive myself crazy with guilt and regret.

The sad part? I think some people actually like making others feel that way.

The conversation with myself continued today. I tried to consciously remember good times with my Mom. I know, despite her ability to knock me on my ass with cunning and cutting honesty (and spite), that she said nice things, sometimes. I started to convince myself that she likely said the nice and almost loving stuff more often, but that it’s one of my tragic flaws that I cling to the struggle and lose sight of the good.

So I went to my email folder titled ‘Mom’.

Every email my mother ever sent me (of which there are many) I kept.

At first I scrolled back to dates on or close to my birthday. There had to be a message of love from one of those days.

No dice.

Then I looked at subject lines that seemed somewhat, sort of, almost loving.

There were hints of affection, here and there, but they were laced with expectation, disappointment, and resentment.

Oh the resentment!

Then I looked for re: messages. So many of her responses to my loving subject lines were equally nasty. Maybe more-so, even. Like the love I was sending would never (could never) be enough. I didn’t mean it. I wanted something out of it. It was self-serving. I had ulterior motives.

I was actually never good enough. I was always a big mistake.

I wreck everything.

Here I thought I’d find some loving affection from the woman who gave me life. Somewhere in the archives (that I’ve never once returned to) I figured there’d be a hint of ‘I’m glad you were born’, and yet they left me feeling worse.

Reading them separately, upon receiving them the first time, was heavy on the heart enough. Reading them one after the other, with a waning hope and optimism on my thirty-third birthday, was quite literally me flogging a dead horse. I don’t flog anything. I love horses.

What was I thinking?

I spent most of my day at my new job that I love (which is an understatement). It’s such a refreshing, inviting and soothing environment. It’s a place where people come to get and feel better. Physically, and mentally. Where healthcare practitioners take the time to really listen and care. I’m a part of a team of exceptional women.

Despite how much ‘trouble’ I’ve been lately (with Weston’s injuries) my boss hasn’t fired me. Quite the contrary; I got a notification that she had posted on our work Facebook page today so I went to see what words of wisdom she’d shared this time. Have I mentioned how remarkable she is?

And I found my proud, smiling face. And her generous and loving words of gratitude. On the day I started by wishing my Mom had had an abortion, others have selflessly taken the time to remind me of why they’re glad I was born.

And isn’t that enough? Shouldn’t it be? No one is perfect. I am very much aware of my flaws. I own them, to an extent. I’ve never claimed to be perfect, ever, and if you’ve thought that, you’ve completely misread me. I’ve never said I’m a great person. I’ve never claimed to be better than anyone.

I ache for acceptance and validation, yes. I question whether people truly love me all the time (guilty). I can be passive aggressive and am often defensive. I doubt I’m worthy constantly, I know.

But sadly, I can see so clearly why.

And instead of focusing on the naysayers; even the truth sharers that I am grateful for, for shedding light on my dark sides, I need to focus on where the love truly is. Where even if I question it, because of my deep-seeded insecurities, there are people still willing to remind me. Where there are people who, despite my down sides, are ready and willing to celebrate the good. Who lift me up – repeatedly –when I’m down. Those are the voices I need to play on repeat. Those are the words I should make the soundtrack in my mind.

Because at the end of the day (my birthday, especially) no one is perfect. But I do know one thing; when I love, I love fully. When I commit to a friend, I fulfill that role with pride. I’m a great Mom. I have a perfect (despite a full leg cast) little boy.

He wouldn’t exist without me.

And for that and that alone, I’m glad I was born.

– C. Mom