I etched a wishbone on my sternum

So it can never be misplaced 

A new addition to my ribcage 

Its job to help keep my heart safe 

You may ask who I’ll let break it 

Hold our breath and make a wish 

Make a gamble, use our pinkies 

Never tell (whoever wins)

Except this wishbone’s not for breaking 

It shall always stay intact

For birds depend upon their wishbones 

When they fly, and that’s a fact 

For they offer the bird structure 

And their balance when in flight 

So I will hold tight to my wishbone 

And no longer be afraid of heights 

She finds comfort in the chaos

Madness puts her mind at ease

She’s a product of her raising

Something many can’t conceive 

For darkness was her playground 

Broken promises her friends 

She feels full when she feels empty 

So much time alone she spent 

She’s a walking contradiction 

Multifaceted, a mess 

She strives toward perfection

Her sole purpose to impress 

And yet she finds it so exhausting

She wants to cast her shell aside 

Not seek acceptance, validation 

In plain sight is where she hides

And she sees now, as time passes

The only guarantee is change 

She will win some, she will lose some 

As her pieces rearrange 

And believe me when I say it 

She is lost and she is found 

But she’s never been so grateful 

For the way she’s come unwound 

Because the her she’s always hidden 

The one she quieted, refrained 

Is who’s just beneath the surface

An old dog can be re-trained 

She’s not a round peg, or a square one

She used to clamour to fit in 

Now she sees she doesn’t have to 

When she’s sure within her skin 

There are things you can’t control in life 

Some things you can’t define 

They may hit you head-on suddenly 

Or sneak up from behind 

They can change your path completely 

Wear you down til you’re worn thin

Bring out the best and worst in you 

Causing your head – and heart – to spin 

You need to trust the flow – the process 

Trust that things will turn out fine 

Whether you dip your toe or dive in

Things will always fall in line

And the truth is, you can’t fight it

Or you shouldn’t, even when

It all makes you lost and lonely 

Wishing you could start again

Because you can’t start fresh completely 

You can’t simply disappear 

But you should honour your authentic self

Despite your pride, your shame, your fear 

Throw out your expectations 

Don’t just cling to what you crave 

Trust the process and your instincts 

And remember to be brave 

For if you act with good intention 

Maintain your hope, give up control 

You’ll get where you are meant to be 

And once there, you will feel whole 

It seems my frankness makes some frigid 

Where others it keeps warm

Where some shy away from darkness

Others’ comfort is in storms 

So instead of fearing judgment

Misunderstanding or distaste 

I’ll focus on my kindred spirits  

When one goes, one takes their place 

For I no longer seek attention 

From wherever it may come 

I seek a closeness and connection 

When held together – or – undone 

And the thing is? Understanding 

Often comes from deep within 

If some don’t feel it, I can’t force it 

Won’t drown what’s underneath my skin

For the sake of others’ comforts 

To be liked or to belong 

I haven’t changed much, just more honest 

I was silent for so long 

Sometimes we have to free our losses 

With love and kindness. Grace. Respect.

Give them wings instead of clinging

To that with which we don’t connect

This post was written nearly two weeks ago, originally by hand. It was interesting to make sense of my chicken scratch writing and elaborate through typing where my hand couldn’t quite keep up with what my heart was trying to say. If my past and present tense don’t line up correctly it’s because of this.

I also basically wrote it (you guessed it) in the dark.

Today I showered in the dark.

Not on purpose (come on, now. Has anyone ever done this on purpose?)

But I highly recommend it. And I’m glad I did.

I’m at a yoga and meditation retreat with some forty or so other women. I don’t know the official count. I came with one who knows me better than I know myself. Upon arriving, I found I know others, too (sweet synchronicity). There are four of us in each tiny, straw-bale, rustic cabin. They don’t have their own bathrooms.

That means we’re all sharing the main retreat centre’s bathroom(s).

And that makes me uncomfortable.

That may sound strange to you, but hear me out; I’m naturally a very private, shy and anxious person.

I also really value my ‘me time’, and since becoming a wife and Mom, I find my daily rituals of getting ready in the morning and then getting ready for bed at night are sacred times I (try to) steal for just me. When I take my other hats off and for a short while, try to unwind, and untangle my essence from my roles that others depend on.

It’s conflicting because I’m not a fan of myself these days, or what I look like in a mirror, so as much as it’s an ‘escape’ to lock myself there, it also sometimes feels like punishment, too.

For a time I got so that it was a time of pampering and even ‘fun’. I’d regularly play music through my phone and dance with my earbuds in. It wasn’t drawn out, but it was stress relief.

As a child the bathroom was my safe place because it was the one place I was able to lock myself when I felt scared; when I was feeling attacked (usually just emotionally, but there were times I feared my safety, too). The door of the bathroom in my childhood home had holes in it, strategically covered with artwork on the outside. I learned to sleep curled up in a ball on a small rug, cupping my hands tightly over my ears and squeezing my eyes shut tight, or surrounded by damp towels in the tub.

This is also likely where I learned how to hold my breath to be as silent and invisible as possible.

I’ve been a shallow breather ever since.

Please, oh please, don’t mess with my bathroom time. It’s my sanctuary.

I was also an only child to a very busy woman who – for the most part – wished I wasn’t there. So, she acted like I wasn’t. We argued at times when I was a teen and twenty-something about me taking too much time in there (for years we only had the one) but I never had to share the space, or any other part of the house, with a sibling.

Or a father, at that.

Apart from my mom removing my bedroom door for a few months when I was around seventeen, I had a lot of privacy.

And I like it that way.

I’ve found ways to cope with the discomfort I feel when away in a new place where a bathroom is shared. I learned young when away with classmates on overnight trips, as early as eleven years old.

I get up extra early.

This is not something I do at home. I mean, I get up early to try to get ready ahead of Weston and start our day off as calmly as possible, but I’m a nighthawk by nature and would sleep in like a teenager every damn day if I could. Well today I got up at five. Hoping and banking on the fact that no one else would do the same.

Our cabin holds four twin beds, one small dresser, two small night stands, and our boots lined up at the door. There’s a bit of wiggle room, but it’s snug. It’s all we need.

It’s refreshing, actually.

Knowing my alarm was set for extra early, and that I would be navigating my way around in the pitch dark, I pre-prepared my bag for the next day. I packed my clean change of clothes, my towel, my toiletries, my book, my journal, my slippers, and my cozy blanket from home. I had it strategically ready and open, so that first thing the next day I could sneak my phone and water bottle in and head out and on my way.

I made sure my alarm was set to a very quiet volume, so as to disturb my cabin mates as little as possible. I made sure my coat and boots were handy. I went to bed.

It’s incredible how dark and quiet a small cabin in the middle of nowhere can be. I feared that my busy brain, that I so often walk in circles in, would keep me up all night.

I haven’t slept so soundly, or gone to bed so early, in a long time.

When my alarm went off I didn’t press snooze or drag out how long it took to get out of bed. At home it takes everything I have to muster the energy. Like I’m weighted down. Like I haven’t slept a wink.

Today I stretched, took a deep breath, and seized the day.

I was methodological, quiet and quick. Within a minute I was closing the cabin door behind me, facing a frigid and silent still-dark morning. Because I hadn’t turned on a light or perused my phone my eyes were still adjusted. I started the long trek through the freshly fallen snow toward the retreat centre. I took deep, cleansing and refreshing breaths. I marveled at the beauty of the snow path laid out before me, illuminating my way.

It was better than coffee (which I don’t even drink, but I imagine coffee drinkers would feel the same).

When I entered the retreat centre there were a few people already up, reading by the fire. Maybe they are just like me. They like to beat the rush. Get their bearings.

Maybe they couldn’t sleep.

Because there are no men at the retreat we have access to both bathrooms. I had used the men’s the night before, so that is where I went. Upon entering, the lights came on automatically. I had the space all to myself.

I always brush my teeth first. I’m a messy tooth-brusher and in my mind it makes more sense to shower off the inevitable and stubborn froth that forms around my mouth as I shower. I’m a routine based, self-diagnosed OCD person, OK?

Watching myself in the mirror it was like I was looking at a stranger. I saw myself through kind eyes. Gently observing my half-awake state. Appreciating the calm and the quiet.

It hit me how much I was appreciating the silence. We rarely get such a luxury in our busy lives. Between pets, kids, TVs, the hum of electronics, the sounds from outdoors. We are constantly inundated with some noise or another. I find when the power goes out at home it can be unnerving how silent things get.

That’s when the noises in my mind get turned up.

Here, I marveled at it. I recognized it and appreciated it. We agreed last night that we will have a ‘silent morning’ this morning. That we won’t talk until we’ve had our first yoga practice and it’s breakfast time. For many this will be a hard thing to do, surrounded by so many.

I know I won’t struggle with it at all.

Once my teeth were brushed I grabbed my towel and my face wash and hit the shower stall. The website had indicated that they supply unscented organic shampoo, conditioner and body wash. I appreciated having less to pack.

The water had barely reached a comfortable temperature when the lights turned off.

Pitch black is an understatement. Even if there was a window in the general vicinity (there wasn’t) it’s still pitch black outside.

My options flashed through my mind. Fumble to turn off the water, wrap myself in a towel, and exit the stall in order to re-activate the lights? Knowing I’m alone, and the whole place is wall to wall tile, rush out and back in naked and soaking wet, chancing that someone else might walk in at that exact moment (which inevitably would be my luck)?

But then it would just happen all over again.

My Initial reactions? Panic. Fear. Frustration. Claustrophobia.

Irritation.

The feelings felt uncomfortable at first, but they didn’t last.

I quickly decided to let them wash down the drain with yesterday.

I took a deep breath, trusted, and followed my instincts. I’d only done this a thousand times before.

My eyes adjusted just enough that I kept my bearings.

Then it was a brand new sensory experience. Every small stream of water was more than the team effort working to wake me up and make me feel like me again. Each separate stream was a massage. Hundreds of them rushing to stimulate my nerve endings.

They cleaned me. Warmed me. Touched me, separately.

I felt each and every one.

Even the tiles under my feet now had an effect on me.

They were basically the exact same tiles I stand on every day at home.

The same feeling I’ve never actually allowed myself to ‘feel’, fully.

How much of my life have I been so basked in light that I haven’t actually been feeling things? How long have I taken myself – and everything around me – for the face value? Seeing just the superficial parts?

The tiles under my feet (and the grout lines between them) massaged me.

I started to think of the woman at work who I’d just discussed reflexology with. I’ve never had a treatment myself, but I’ve heard great things. One thing I do know is that the nerve endings at the bottoms of our feet connect to the rest of our bodies. The bottoms of our feet deserve more respect, appreciation and attention. They deserve to be touched. Cared for. Pampered.

Today, in the dark, I was forced to feel things more intensely.

The dark can be scary. Uncomfortable. Unnerving.

You can lose your train of thought. Lose your way.

You can fumble. Things may take longer, and take more effort.

You have to be more present and self-aware.

And yet – for most of us – the dark is temporary. The dark is a phase we may not see as necessary.

But the dark times are.

Instead of resisting it; clamouring for light; insisting on illuminating; trust.

Trust that the sun will shine again. After a week or more of clouds and sleet, you’ll routinely help your sweet son open his blind in the morning and you’ll both feel blinded by the sunrise because you haven’t seen it for so long. You’ll both squint your eyes, giggle at the shock, and turn your face away, like it’s the first time the sun has ever reached your faces.

The days will get longer (they already are). It will be May again. The ground will thaw. You’ll be walking barefoot again in no time.

If we didn’t have darkness; if we didn’t have a long cold winter; would we properly, truly appreciate the light? The warmth? The spring?

The dark place you’ve fallen in to in your life will make sense eventually. Just don’t let it devour you entirely. Don’t listen to it when it urges you to give up. Hold on with your fingertips to the edge until they bleed if you have to.

You’ll get tired. It’s scary. It’s going to hurt.

But this, too, is part of your story; your process.

And then someone else will join you in the bathroom.

The lights – motion sensored – will come back on.

There’s your feet. There’s your skin.

There are your hands. The floor. The curtain and walls surrounding you.

They were always there but for a brief moment in time you weren’t seeing (or judging) them with your eyes. You felt them, instead. They existed as an essential, important and beautiful part of you and your morning ritual.

We’d all benefit from embracing the dark.

From seeing its gifts instead of cursing its limitations.

Seasons have their gifts. I often say I’d rather live where it’s eternally September weather.

But wouldn’t that make me numb to its gifts? Wouldn’t I take the light and the warmth, for granted?

We curse the seasons. The rain. The snow. The cold. The dark.

And yet spring never fails us. It has a track record and proven history of re-emerging. Often when we’ve been pushed to the brink and don’t think we can handle it anymore.

And summer – sweet, sweet summer – promises to return again, too.

– C. Mom

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

I know I’ve been reflecting a lot lately about how hard it is to say goodbye to something (somewhere or someone) for good. And, how hard it is to walk away, knowing you can’t go back; to a place, or how things used to be.

But – is that always the case?

If given the chance – the opportunity – would you? Will the change that has inevitably happened (for better, or for worse) break your heart? Will a bitter taste be left in your mouth? Will your memories still be re-ignited? Lit back on fire in your heart? Will you be flooded by nostalgia? A rainstorm so appreciated at the end of a long drought?

Or, will it feel like drowning?

This fall I had the chance to walk down a memory lane I didn’t think I’d ever walk again. Thirteen years ago, when my Grandmother passed away, my Grandpa sold their farm.

As much as that was heartbreaking, it was necessary. It didn’t make sense for Grandpa to stay there alone. The adults of the family (I was one of them, by then) were all busy. Too busy to realize what we were losing; what we were saying goodbye to.

I hadn’t fully realized the impression their farm had left on me until I was asked about it this summer; until I was pressed to reminisce. Until I started to talk, and literally couldn’t stop. Until someone – who was intrigued and interested – was content to sit back, listen, and re-live my memories with me.

It was as if they mattered as much to him as they do to me.

Having grown in a volatile environment, the farm was a safe place; a place where I was free to actually be a child. I could play and imagine with abandon. Run about barefoot from sunrise to sunset. Eat homemade food, most of which was grown or raised within a hundred feet of where I laid my head at night.

I can still smell it. Taste it. Feel it, as if it were yesterday.

At the farm I didn’t have a care in the world. My insecurities and anxieties didn’t follow me over the threshold of the property. My pervasive bellyaches ceased to exist. Boredom did, too. I delighted in the simplest of pleasures.

When at the farm I felt completely alive. Every burden I was forced to carry at too young an age was stripped from me and hung at the door.

A sign can still be found at the foot of the driveway. It was hand-made and beautifully painted by my Grandfather himself. He was a master of creativity. The sign was once a glorious sunset painted behind the words “Sey-Mour Sunsets”. You can still see faint traces and remnants of his work.

I couldn’t help but reach out and touch it.

The farm is in Seymour Township. The message on the sign was my Grandfather’s clever play on words. When I stayed with them as a child I did just that. Come to think of it, I saw more sunrises, too. With them, there, we took pause to appreciate the things you miss in the hustle bustle of every day, even as a child.

As long as I got up with the sun I was able to help Grandpa feed the cows. I’ve never been a morning person, but there – because of that -I was. I didn’t want to miss a thing. It was as if I could feel the sun about to creep up over the horizon, even in a state of deep and content sleep. To be safe I’d always leave the curtains drawn wide. Out of three spare bedrooms, I always slept in the one whose window faced east.

I’d start to see the room coming into focus as the light trickled in. As soon as I could see I’d change from my pajamas and then get back into bed, fully clothed. Like clockwork, I’d hear Grandpa’s footsteps make their way steadily across the upstairs of the house. He’d stand in the doorway for a split second and utter the words, “You comin’?”

As if he even had to ask.

I’d bolt out of bed and rush along behind him. I didn’t make a peep. That early in the morning, before Grandma had even put her face on and made an appearance, before coffee, we didn’t talk much. I knew better.

The days were blurs of fresh air and adventure. Sometimes we went back to school shopping at the local mall. Sometimes Grandpa took me to the animal auctions. We’d buy Smarties in bulk and eat them while we sat together, silently watching the proceedings. On those days, Grandma always wondered why my appetite wasn’t what it usually was. The Smarties were our secret.

As the sun started to set we’d go out to pick dessert. Sometimes that was Grandpa’s pint-sized cantaloupes. He’d cut them in half and scoop out the seeds. Then he would hand me my half, and a spoon. We’d scoop out the flesh, still warm from a day in the sun, scraping it down to the rind. Other evenings it would be fresh picked strawberries, sliced, sprinkled with sugar and then drizzled with fresh cream. Sometimes it was a scoop of vanilla ice cream with raspberries or plum slices on top.

It was always something they lovingly grew and tended to. You could taste that. Love makes everything sweeter.

We’d watch whatever Grandma and Grandpa wanted to watch on TV. I never argued or protested. I was content to be a fly on their wall.

My grandfather was such a hard worker; such an incredible husband, father and man. My grandmother raised four boys and made it look easy, was an entrepreneur for years, and had limitless skills and passions she somehow balanced and honoured while being the best homemaker I’ve ever known.

And they loved me – fiercely – in their own separate ways.

They loved each other – fiercely – in a way I’ve rarely witnessed elsewhere since.

After talking and talking (and talking) about the farm my friend suggested I go back. I thought he was crazy. You don’t go back. They don’t live there anymore.

He said it doesn’t matter. He insisted I should.

Lo and behold the opportunity arose. Thankfully I had his company, his courage and his confidence with me for the drive; for the entire experience. I’d never have done it otherwise.

I found I counted and acknowledged all of the same landmarks that day (as we followed the path my heart was taking from memory) as I did as a child. I didn’t know if I’d know where to turn. I warned I may not be able to get us there.

As if I ever doubted my heart wouldn’t find its way.

When driving up the driveway I felt a healthy mix of fear, apprehension and excitement. I didn’t know how we’d be received. I felt the same eagerness I felt every time I arrived there as a child.

Thankfully the new owner was outside. He was shy, but also seemed to enjoy hearing about the previous owners from someone who loved and knew them (and their property) so well.

He invited us to walk the property.

We did.

In essence, it was the same. It was a thrilling playground then and I couldn’t help but feel the same feelings that I felt there as a child. Standing at the edge of the cornfield I reminisced about the tractor rides, where Grandpa would lay the lounger cushions in the bucket. He’d lift Grandma and I high up in the sky and take us for tours of the property. We’d pull right up to wild grape vines, clinging to tree trunks and fence posts. We’d eat the sour grapes and weave the vines into headbands we’d wear as we continued the tour. At the end of a telltale tractor ride he’d go as fast as he could up the driveway. Our stomachs flipping over the hills. My hair blowing behind me in the wind.

It was the closest to being a bird I’ve ever been, and I loved it.

The man who owns the property now still has that tractor. He remarked at how well my Grandfather must have taken care of it.

He took care of everything that way, though.

It’s just what he did.

Then we walked through the foundation of the old barn. Before my grandparents bought the property there had been a fire. The shell of the barn still remains. I remember finding remnants of blackened wood in the vicinity and imagining they were pieces of treasure. Running in and out of the doorways playing tag and hide and go seek with my step-sisters. Sitting in the window ledges with my legs dangled over, watching the sun start to set.

It’s more overgrown now. Trees are growing straight up through the cement. Vines cascade down from the tree branches. It’s more magical now than it ever was; a secret garden, of sorts.

As anticipated, things are older. More worn. Broken down. Faded.

Changed.

But then again, so am I.

So many things seemed smaller; the gazebo (where Grandma and I faithfully took our oatmeal each morning), the shed (that strategically hid the snap pea vines so I could sneak them without being caught), the small side porch Grandpa built for Grandma so she could hang her laundry on the line (a lookout or tower in a child’s mind).

Others were bigger; like the fruit trees I remember as mere saplings, which Grandpa lovingly tended to like newborn babies. Clusters of apples were still clinging to the branches, threatening to break the limbs if they didn’t continue to bend.

I stepped on a wasp in my bare feet under those fruit trees, while kicking a soccer ball with my brother. They grow next to the field of clover I faithfully fed the cows whenever I got the go-ahead. Grandpa always said it would make the meat sweeter, but they shouldn’t get too much.

The tree where the rope swing was still stands, although the branch the rope was knotted to has broken free. The expansive vegetable gardens have been seeded with grass again. Grandma’s perennial gardens aren’t what they used to be.

Few could ever rival the Valleau duo at the Campbellford Fair. Jack’s veggies and crafts, and Chuck’s knitting and flower arrangements were hard to beat. Their collections of red ribbons were proof. The new owner acknowledged that, and the fact that the place ‘isn’t what it used to be’.

But it shouldn’t be.

I wasn’t expecting it to be.

Things change as much as people do. Places, too. We must learn to be forgiving of time and what it does to the insides and outsides of what we love or once loved. We must respect the process and evolution we can’t deny.

We must embrace the same inside ourselves; honour growth, respect time, accept (and celebrate) what it does to us (the good and the bad).

We can’t stay stuck. We can’t press rewind.

But thank goodness we can reminisce. Thank heavens for the people who want to hear. Who want to go. Who egg us on.

Sometimes we can’t see the positive effect something has had on us until much later. Sometimes it takes someone else recognizing it first.

I will likely never go back again, but I don’t need to now.

I’d always wanted to. I’d always longed to. I’d always had the urge.

It was unfinished business that had taken the breath out of me, but I had never put my finger on it.

Now I know. Now the breath has been breathed back in.

An appreciated rainstorm after a long drought.

-C. Mom

Tonight I put my son to bed.

Like any other night; I brushed his teeth, washed his face, changed his diaper, wrestled him out of his clothes, in to his pajamas, and read a few stories before tucking him in to bed.

Now that he’s out of his crib and in a twin bed I can’t resist the urge to climb in with him. Yes, we’re forming a bad habit. So?

Most nights I fall asleep before he does. Tonight that wasn’t the case.

Despite being utterly exhausted I was fixated on his sweet, peaceful face. He was out like a light; I laid there tracing my fingers over his nose. Around his ear. Over his eyelids. Across his lips and through his freshly cut hair.

My heart ached, but in a good way.

Tonight was the last time I put him to bed as a one year old.

My baby is two. How did that happen? Where has the time gone?

Two years ago around this time I had my first contraction. It woke me up from a deep sleep. Being the night hawk that I am, it was strange that on that particular night I had opted to go to bed decently early. Something in me must have known; that was the last time I was going to bed pregnant. It was the last time I was going to bed ‘childless’.

Nothing can prepare you for what becoming a mother does to your life.

It was the last time my heart would beat solely in my own body.

Wouldn’t it be nice if we could somehow know when we are experiencing something for the last time? If we knew that, we could slow down and savour the experience. Be fully aware and present. Inhale deeper. Open our hearts wider. Soak in every sensation. Let it ease into our mind, heart, flesh and bones. That way we would have the opportunity to make the most of it. Appreciate it for all it is. Remember it in great detail. Let it really sink in.

Just like tracing my son’s face tonight, as he lay there sound asleep.

I learned a painful lesson last year on his first birthday. For some ridiculous reason I thought it would be a good idea to introduce him to Santa on his birthday. I can’t even say why, as I’m not even a fan of the whole ‘pictures with Santa’ tradition (not until a child requests it, anyway). I’m especially not fond of photos of children screaming – terrified – on Santa’s lap. I mean, I don’t think ill of parents who do it (and find it funny), it’s just not something that I want to do.

But I got the idea in my head – and it stuck.

Last year Weston’s birthday was on a Friday. It was Friday the 27^th of November. It was a PA Day. It was also Black Friday.

Talk about a recipe for disaster.

I got Weston into a stylish outfit. We drove – in crappy weather – to the mall. I couldn’t find parking. Just that took forever. I really should have turned around then. I seriously considered it. A spot finally became available. We made our way inside.

The mall had never been busier, I swear. But then I really don’t like the mall, and rarely go, so what would I know?

It was full of frantic consumers, bored teenagers, and perfectly polished children (and parents) in the ‘Photos with Santa’ line.

Like lemmings, we joined them.

I knew Weston’s Dad was on his way. I’d convinced him to leave work early and join us, as it truly was a momentous occasion (Weston’s first birthday, not the Santa picture). He didn’t get there in time for the photo, unfortunately.

Weston turned out to be one of the screaming kids. He was terrified. We hadn’t driven all that way, searched for parking that long, or stood in line as long as we did for nothing – so I joined him. On Weston’s first birthday I sat next to a scowling Santa with a very leery child on my lap. His Dad arrived as we were paying for our picture. I immediately felt guilty that we hadn’t waited. He should have been in the photo, too.

From there I sent Weston home with his Dad. It had been a long day, and we had an even bigger weekend ahead of us. We were planning and organizing his first birthday party. You know – one of those ones with a theme, where you spend too much time and money on something the kid won’t even remember? Where you invite even your own grown friends (who don’t even have children) to be a part of the festivities?

It was a great time, and was worth it, don’t get me wrong.

Aidan took Weston to the comfort of our home on that cold and dark November evening while I went to a Dollarama I hadn’t checked yet. I was looking for specific items for loot bags that I needed more of.

As I drove the highway I suddenly had the urge to look at the clock. It said 5:57pm. My heart constricted in my chest. I suddenly felt sick. A year before that very moment Weston was three minutes old. Three minutes old. Why the Hell was I driving to the twelfth Dollarama that week instead of holding my son? Watching him play? Sharing a meal with him? Singing him the happy birthday song? Telling him – truthfully – that he is the best thing that’s ever happened to me?

I had missed the moment that he became one. I would never get that moment back.

He’ll never care or remember, I know, but I do.

That was the last time I’d do something because I felt like I had to. Because ‘everyone else is doing it’. I’ll never forgive myself for that, no matter how silly it seems.

I remember the last time I spoke with my Mom this vividly, as at that stage of her illness we knew every moment we shared with her could be our last. I was in a wedding dress, having just married Aidan on the rooftop patio at the hospital where she spent her final days. The wedding guests were heading out to dinner; our guest of honour wasn’t able to join. As I said goodnight and promised to see her the next morning she said, “They’re going to make me more comfortable now”.

That was the last time I would hear my mother’s voice.

I didn’t fully comprehend just how comfortable she meant.

The next day when I arrived to spend my day with her, she was no longer conscious. She was mumbling, frantically, but her eyes were closed. There was a frustration in the tone of her inability to fully communicate that will always haunt me. I’ll never know if she was angry that she couldn’t speak? Maybe she had more she wanted to say? Maybe she was angry at me and she was annoyed that she couldn’t express that clearly?

I’ll never know.

I tried to tell her it was ok. To rest. To be calm. Tears periodically escaped from her closed eyes. I can still remember how they tasted when I kissed them away. How they felt on my fingertips as I brushed them aside.

Last time’s, good and bad, can haunt us. How often have you said, “If I’d only known it was going to be the last time…”, and longed to re-live it? Rewind and re-do? Have a second chance?

What would you do differently? What would you say? What would you leave entirely as-was, but re-live one more time?

So many of my friends who know they aren’t having any more children say they can’t believe when they’ll never have a chance to experience certain things again. Like a newborn in a bassinet. A toddler in a crib. Breastfeeding. Puréed baby food. Bottles. Diapers. You name it, it feels like a big deal. Sometimes (often) there’s excitement that comes with these changes, but nostalgia still has a way of sneaking up on you.

I remember when my son had learned to sit up on his own. His baby swing collected dust in our living room for a good month before I realized it wasn’t needed any more. He had physically and mentally outgrown it. He had basically lived in the thing for the first months of his life, and now it sat empty. That fact alone strangely made my heart ache. Blame it on my lingering hormones, but I put him in it one last time. I turned it on and it began to sway – sluggishly – from side to side. His legs hung over awkwardly. He looked at me strangely. I watched him swing for a mere minute (two, max) before turning it off and returning him to his toys. I wanted to remember the last time he spent in his swing, no matter how ridiculous the reason.

Speaking of growing out of things, we just moved into a bigger home and traded our SUV for a minivan. I’d been convincing myself it was time to try for another baby. I was lining up my ducks. Crossing t’s and dotting i’s. I always thought I’d have more children, but I’ve still always treated every “last time” with Weston like it may be the last chance I’ll experience that particular moment or milestone as a mother.

And I’m glad, because I’ve had a change of heart.

Maybe I just need time, but, I’m at a place where I’m quite satisfied with having one child. Being a mom isn’t easy (on your body or your spirit). It’s rewarding, exciting and beautiful, yes, but I also know my limitations and have decided to honour them. Time will tell, but it makes me wonder if I always knew in my heart that I’d only experience it all once. I remember saying to myself repeatedly, “This could be the last time you [insert monotonous but meaningful task or experience with your baby here]”.

I’ve really tried to savour every step of the process thus far, and continue to do so. Life gives us no guarantees.

We moved out of my childhood home just over a month ago now. We had a nice two week stretch to ease me out of it. We got the keys on a Friday and used that first weekend to give the new house a good clean. I truly had no interest in going there at first. When I finally went on the Sunday I walked through crying (not happy tears). I found my way to the ensuite (something I’ve never had) and sat at the edge of the tub and cried.

I repeated over and over (and over), out loud, “What… have… I… done?”

That first week of our transition I spent time each day packing and moving small items to the new home. I found myself moving from room to room in the old house. Flashbacks (good and bad) flooding my mind. Sometimes I’d find myself smiling, but often not. It was the only house I’d ever known. Like moving on with my life without my Mom physically in it, I doubted I could do it. I truly felt that I was severing a part of myself that would change me intrinsically, forever.  I was progressing through a “Now what?” stage in my life. I was figuring it out as I went.

A week after getting keys we had our big move day. Furniture was being moved to the new home so we would be living there from now on. Thankfully we still had another week to ease me out of the old home. There were odds and ends that needed finalizing and tending to. Packing of items that hadn’t quite made the cut the first time around. Reflecting and reminiscing I had to get out of my system.

I had intended to spend a couple of days at the old house. On one of those days I’d hoped to write about Last Time’s. I had it planned and sorted in my head. That was going to help me feel peace during the transition, and after it.

And then a sick toddler happened, and those plans went out the window. I was almost there when daycare called. I promptly turned the van around.

In the end, I only spent a few hours at the house on the very last day it was mine. When I left that last time I wouldn’t ever be going back. For thirty years I’d always been able to ‘go home’. I wasn’t going to be able to, anymore.

Upon arriving I walked from room to empty room. I touched walls and windowsills. My footsteps echoed. I stared out the windows to burn the views into my mind. I reminisced about my memories in every corner of the home. Knowing it would be my last time allowed me to really appreciate it. To make the most of it. To walk away without regret.

As I drove away that day, having put my last house key in to the lock box on the door, I felt an appreciated sense of calm and acceptance. I’d shed the tears I needed to, and I just felt gratitude and peace.

It hit me that in our lifetime we will love many places, things, and people. They will shape us and we will shape them. They are important, and valuable, but it doesn’t mean we’re meant to stay forever. Like my son and his baby swing, we outgrow things. We outgrow people. We outgrow places. Instead of longing for what we had and getting stuck, frozen in our yearning, staying where we no longer ‘fit’, we must move out and move on.

It hit me then that the man who bought my house is a very good one. I thankfully got to meet him, and immediately liked him very much. We chatted with ease like we’d done it many times before. Our personalities are very similar. He loves his new home.

I realized then that the house wasn’t meant to be mine forever. Someone new loves it now. Maybe he will appreciate it more and better than I ever could. Happy memories will be made within its walls. New life is being breathed into the home the way new experiences, people, things and places can do for us.

It was time for change.

I’ve had chances to drive by the home since. I turn and acknowledge it, yes, but I am free of pangs of regret. I had time to process my last time and am at peace with it.

If only we always had that chance.

I guess when we ache over a last time it is a reminder of a love and appreciation we once had. It’s too bad that that fact alone can’t turn our brains off or keep us warm at night. What a shame that we can’t re-live moments we would do differently, if only we’d known. What a tragedy that we get so caught up in the stress of everyday life, our own emotions, or our belief that we’ll have another chance, that we take moments for granted. Even simple, every day interactions. People we assume will never leave. Places we’ve returned to so many times we figure we’ll always be able to.

There’s truth in the saying, “Live each day like it’s your last”.

Or, “Don’t live like you get a second chance”

Because sadly? We don’t.

So appreciate what you have while you have it, as much as you possibly can. Try to live and act in such a way that when you look back you will feel peace and acceptance with your last times.

If a last time is haunting you; because you wish you’d soaked it up better, said something differently, hugged a little longer, said “I love you” one last time, or maybe you wish you hadn’t said something at all, forgive yourself. Try to. Learn from this one. Stick that lesson in your back pocket and sit on it awhile. Let it serve as a reminder the next time around.

We don’t always know when an interaction with a person, place or thing may be our last. Do your best to treat it like it is.

Regret is heavy and so is shame. There are some things we’ll never be able to get back or change, no matter how hard we hope or wish. Let them go. Try.

And if worse comes to worse? Distract yourself with moments, people and places moving forward. Spend so much time soaking up the things that bring you joy, that you know are still yours, that you don’t wallow in the ones you’ve already lost.

Don’t waste or ruin last times moving forward, because you’re so fixated on the ones you can’t get back.

-C. Mom

Here’s the thing about change; it isn’t easy. Even if what’s on your horizon is necessary, exciting, refreshing, fulfilling, or healing, it doesn’t make getting there a breeze. Quite the contrary.

We’re currently going through the process of selling my childhood home. There are so many emotions tied up in this process that I’m surprised I’m still standing. Nostalgia has a way of grabbing you by the throat, hard, and threatening to never let go. I have (actually) had a hard time breathing for the past three weeks or so. It’s like something heavy is sitting on my chest and threatens to never get off.

And yet it will. It always does. I’m no stranger to this feeling; it’s the reason I’m feeling it that’s foreign to me.

I’ve been in this home since I was two and a half years old. My Gramma loves re-telling the story of the time she was bringing me up to the house for the very first time. She said, “It’s time to go and join your Mom in Udora now, Caitlin”

My response?

“Mydora?”

Although not always a ‘white picket fence’ happy home, it’s been home, nonetheless. My Mom worked tirelessly to care for and pay for this home as a single woman. And as her only child, it became mine after she passed.

You’d be surprised at how many times people have said to me, “You’re so lucky to have inherited your house”. One went so far as to say I’d won the lottery!

Ya, that’s always nice to hear. As if I wouldn’t give it all back to have even one more day with my Mom. Ultimately I know people just don’t understand.

I have to remind myself that my life here wasn’t always easy. That caring for my sick mom wasn’t, either. And, (for the most part) when parents pass away their children inherit their possessions and investments. That’s what happens. That’s just how it goes.

And yet I’ve lived for six years with guilt hanging over my head. Why should I get to enjoy it and not her? We’ve attempted to redeem ourselves constantly by fixing it up and ‘making it our own’. My husband is very handy, patient, and hard-working. The house needed a lot of (expensive) work; new windows, new doors, new roof, new eaves troughs, new insulation in the attack, new fireplace, new floors, new kitchen, new bathroom, new water treatment system, new trim, new light fixtures, new paint, new appliances, new furniture, plus extensive yard work and landscaping.

Remind me again why I’m so lucky?

And then there’s the stuff. Oh Lordy there has been stuff! Her stuff, my stuff, teaching stuff, Aidan’s stuff, baby stuff. Nothing but stuff! Aidan has said on multiple occasions, “We’ve taken so many loads to the dump and Good Will! How is there anything left?!”

Because this house is like the Barney Bag, Mary Poppins’ Carpet Bag and Mr. Dressup’s Tickle Trunk rolled into one, that’s why. Because it’s a bottomless pit of memories, that’s how. Because it has a hollow leg that haunts me, ok?

But moving is helping a lot.

Aidan has been doing the physical labour of making it look great again. Updating it. Refreshing it.  ‘Bringing it up to speed’, so to speak.

I, on the other hand, have hunkered down and I’ve been doing the nitty gritty emotional parts. I’ve made a habit of picking out my Mom’s favourite CDs to put in my five disk changer while I work. Music holds me up. Music drives me ever forward. I dance, I cry. and I get ‘er done. And as much as it sucks and it’s hard; it feels incredible.

Four boxes of hometown paraphernalia? I took photos of every item and wrote a description for each for the Whitchurch-Stouffville Museum. A friend recommended I do it and that was the perfect solution. I had to adopt the mantra “not my memories” and repeat it over and over (and over) again.

My Mom’s newborn gown, which she wore in a hospital that no longer exists? Yes it went. Along with the newspaper article and silver engraved cup she and her mother received (because she was the first Whitchurch-Stouffville baby born at Brierbush Hospital in 1951). Or how about the professional photos her Dad took when she was prom queen? And the fake flower corsages she wore, still in their original box (which has a stamp for a flower shop that no longer exists on the top)? They went, too. Her 1960s gym uniform (a one piece romper, to boot) was part of the lot, as were countless other hard-earned, happy memory items.

“Not my memories. Not my memories. Not my memories…”

Now the community as a whole can enjoy them and those four boxes aren’t collecting dust in our basement any longer. When we left the museum on drop-off day I felt I could breathe a little easier, which thankfully inspired me to keep going.

A large black sticker adorned antique shipping trunk (which my Mom had since university and was our rec room coffee table for ages) became the “Trudy Trunk” after she passed away. Over the last six years I’ve put things in there that I didn’t feel ready to part with… just yet. When it was too full I started a bin. It filled up, too. Then another. Then another. I made myself a promise that I could consolidate all of them into the one trunk. It was time.

So one day I sat cross legged for who knows how long. I was ruthless. A paper bag full of postcards she had received from friends and family over the years? Gone. Her address book she’d kept since the 70s? No thanks. The shoebox filled with every card I had every given her? See ya. The two hats she wore after chemotherapy (that still had stray hairs caught inside of them)? Goodbye.

Clinging to stray hairs inside hats she hated wearing wasn’t bringing her back.

I had to break it to myself (repeatedly).

I was successful, for the most part. Some things I still couldn’t part with. Her small box of most prized Beatles paraphernalia? Still there. Her sketch books and scrapbooks? Keeping them. Her childhood wallet, filled with photos of family members and friends? Mine. The purse she was using at the time of her passing? Intact. Right down to the last lipstick she wore (faithfully) in the perfect curved shape for her lips, and a Kleenex she had used to blot those perfect red lips on, with a chewed piece of gum inside of it. Weird, I know. Some things we can’t explain, ok?

The trunk is still the “Trudy Trunk”, refined. It’s amazing what one, three, six years can do for a person who’s letting go. It gets easier. You become more selective. What really matters is much more apparent.

My mom may be taking up less space in our home, yes, but she’s never taken up so much space in my heart.

Last week I was brave and did a dump run, solo. I know many women do it – but as a shy and anxious person – it was outside of my comfort zone. I loaded up the back of our minivan and set off. When I got there I was surrounded by men with pick-up trucks and trailers. I backed into my spot in the que and heaved thirty-six year old carpet into the pile of rubbish. Big heavy bags were swung as far as I could make them go. I saved one bag and retrieved one of the hardest items I’ve discarded to date from the passenger seat; my Mom’s radiation mask.

My Mom ended up with brain cancer, and at the end of her life – even though they knew her days were limited – they attempted to shrink the multiple tumors that had metastasized on her brain. She was no longer able to feed herself or walk. She was violently ill, as the swelling was causing severe nausea. Ultimately, they wanted to make her last days as comfortable as they could.

And has much as the radiation process was very uncomfortable, it worked. In her final four weeks of life she was able to eat solid foods again and even feed herself. I didn’t have to run to empty her (much too small) kidney shaped vomit basin just in time for her to fill it again. She was able to sign the legal paperwork we’d put off for far too long. I gave her manicures. We watched movies on our laptop from the tray table. We laughed. We cried. All thanks to those five sessions of radiation.

The mask itself wasn’t comfortable. To have it fitted she had to lie still on her back for a very long time (not enjoyable or comfortable for someone as nauseous as she was). They had to heat the mesh material and then force it over her face. It was snapped to the table under her. It hardened there, fit so snug that she couldn’t move an iota. Then they had to use tape and a pen to mark where her mets were, so they knew where to aim the radiation each time. They were meticulous. They were precise. When she finally emerged, the mesh mask had left a criss-cross pattern across her entire face. I was so proud of her for being so brave that I wept for her.

She joined me.

Every day for five days we took the long trip across the hospital to the cancer centre for her radiation. Each day got a bit easier (for both of us).

The scant hair that had grown back following her chemo treatments promptly fell out.

One day when I arrived at the hospital I found her crying. She was looking down at herself and the bed surrounding her. She was covered in her hair and couldn’t do anything about it but lay trapped and stare at it. She knew she was dying, and her hair was the least of her troubles, but she had every right to be angry and sad. It wasn’t pleasant or fair.

The next day I came armed with more clean nightshirts and pillowcases, as well as a brand new lint roller. We fought each battle valiantly as it was presented to us, with all that we could.

After she passed I couldn’t bring myself to part with the mask. It was a perfect mold of her beautiful face; the profile of her nose; the outline of her lips, her Hollywood cheeks? I can’t tell you how many times I took it down from our closet (then the spare room closet, then the shelves in the basement) to trace my hand over a face I’ll never see again. It still had the tape pieces marked in pen to show where the cancer was that had killed her.

It wasn’t a happy mask.

Her face was one of the most beautiful faces I will ever have the pleasure of seeing, but the mask didn’t represent a time she enjoyed. It represented the end of her life. The closing of her battle. A time that was scary, sad, and frustrating.

So I pulled the mask off of the passenger seat. I opened the last bag that I had purposefully loosely tied. I felt guilty putting her face into a garbage bag but I felt worse about throwing it into the pile of trash exposed. She was a proud woman. She wouldn’t want anyone to see her that way; not even a representation of her. Not even perfect strangers.

I ran my fingers over the outlines of her face one last time. Unlike the men surrounding me I shed a few quiet tears. Not so much for her, really, but for myself. I put the mask into the bag. I tied it up. I threw it as hard and as far as I could.

I kept my composure while I got back into the van. I even held it together while I paid the ten dollars it cost me to dispose of my memories. As I started to drive away, the nostalgia noose around my neck loosened enough for me to finally cry. The cramp in my throat released. I let myself sob until I was able to catch my breath, and then I realized something so important; the transition of letting go was the hardest part.

Driving away I felt lighter. More free. Liberated.

And that’s the thing about any change; whether you’re starting a new job, or at a new school. You may move to another town, province, or country. Maybe someone you love has left you; physically through death, or emotionally because they’ve fallen out of love. Sometimes you’re the one leaving. Becoming a spouse or parent can do it, too. All significant change – and letting go of one version of yourself in order to evolve into the next one – is going to knock the air out of you. Sometimes the process takes a while. It rarely happens overnight.

You’re not just going to struggle with catching your breath, you’re also going to suddenly remember all of the good things about your past situation. You’ll reel over the happy times you shared or experienced with that person, or in that place, or both. The struggles you endured and the reason you’re letting go and moving on fade into the distance enough that you start to back pedal. You’re in a hole surrounded by loose dirt. You’re clamoring to climb out but the earth is letting go around you. The struggle is only making it worse.

Once significant change has started, you really can’t stop it. The momentum is there. It’s not your job to control it or change its direction. Eventually it’s out of your hands. You’re entitled to be scared, sad, angry, and even full of regret, but halting the process isn’t an option. Even in the rare case that it is, moving backwards doesn’t serve anybody. It’s time.

Time to take a step into the unknown. Move forward into the new. Embrace the change. Accept the evolution. Trust the process.

I remember like it was yesterday parting with my Mom’s clothes. There was a keep bin, a give-away to loved ones bin, a donate bin, and a garbage bin. For the clothes going in the trash I felt so guilty that I cut a four inch square piece from each article of worn-out clothing before bagging it. I kept that stack of fabric squares for a long time. And then one day I felt ready to throw even that out.

Other things I’ve parted with I’ve taken pictures of. That way I feel I’m keeping the memory, via a snapshot of the item, before saying goodbye.

You’d be amazed at how many times I go back to that folder on my external hard-drive to re-look at those items.

I haven’t. Ever. Not once.

But the good thing is? I can. I haven’t, but I might. And I know they’re there. Not collecting dust and not taking up unnecessary space (physically or emotionally).

I’ve sold some of my mom’s collectible items, and that has also been a truly freeing process. The corner cabinet that my Great Grampa made went to a woman who was going through a divorce and was downsizing. It was exactly what she was looking for (and admittedly, I’d never really liked it). My collection of green Depression glass was too big for it, anyway, so I found a beautiful hutch and buffet online that a man even delivered. It had been his parents’ (which they had custom made) and it was equally as hard for him to let go. It’s the perfect fit for my collection, and I could tell he was relieved to see it find a happy home. He was moving in with his partner and she already had one. He was also going through a change. It was time.

The secretary desk/cabinet combo was a piece I never liked. My Mom got it later in her life and was obsessed with it. Moving it home in the back of my truck the glass broke. She was devastated. I replaced the glass in it for her for mother’s day that year. It may not have been original, but it would do. It ended up holding a set of dishes that had been handed down to me from my Gramma. It was a beautiful set, but it remained in the basement in the cabinet. We brought it out when we had company (namely, my Gramma), but it couldn’t even go in the dishwasher.

I posted the set of dishes on Kijiji and we went and got ourselves a large plain white set of dishes. They are used for every day, and there’s enough for entertaining. They’re dishwasher and oven safe. Plus they match everything and single pieces can be replaced, if needed. It just makes more sense.

The lady who came for the other set came all the way from Niagara on the Lake late one winter evening. She works for an artist named Trisha Romance. Trisha also has the full set of Fruit Sampler dishes, and the lady who bought them from me had asked  if she’d ever be willing to sell any of it (she loved it that much). Trisha wasn’t willing, as it is her favourite, too. The lady struck gold with my full collection. They’ve found their loving home. Everybody wins!

That cabinet they were in? I posted it on Kijiji, too. The lady who immediately expressed interest was persistent. She didn’t trust I wouldn’t sell it to someone else and wanted to email money to secure it. I assured her I would be true to my word and she could trust me.

Sadly I wasn’t home when she and her husband came to pick it up. Aidan tells me that when she saw it she started to cry. It was just what she had been looking for for years. Her family had the same one when she was little. Her mother used to let her use it to play house. One day she came home from school and the piece of furniture was gone. She was despondent. Inconsolable. They needed the money they’d made from it, but her father saw how heartbroken she was. He went out and tried to get the cabinet back. The new owners refused. He had felt guilty ever since.

Not only had she fulfilled their wishes to get that (exact) piece of furniture back, her father had just returned home from a long stint in the hospital. They had almost lost him to a brain aneurysm. There was still a long road to recovery, but he had survived, and she was going to be able to share that she had gotten an identical piece of furniture back. It found its loving home. Everybody wins…

Another set of dishes was a set my Mom always had on display in my Great Grampa’s corner cabinet. After she passed I packed it up and put out my green glass collection in its place. This past year I posted that collection of English Cottage Ware on a local Antiques page on Facebook. I found a buyer (who I assumed was a dealer who would re-sell them).

On the day I delivered the boxes I drove up the long driveway of a most beautiful home. Horses watched from either side. Upon meeting the matriarch of the home, Weston and I were welcomed in with open arms. She made tea and peeled an orange for Wes as he sat at their daughter’s craft table. She let him climb up and down her stairs with abandon (as we live in a bungalow and he doesn’t get much practice). She sent me with their daughter’s rocking horse as a sentimental gift for Weston (whose birthday party was around the corner, and was “Western” themed). She is English, and her whole home is decked out in antiques and décor from England. She wasn’t selling the set of dishes (that actually look like English cottages) at all. They found their loving home. Everybody wins…

We promised to keep in touch but hadn’t had a chance to get together again, until I posted my Mom’s collection of Royal Family items on that same Antiques page. I should have known my new friend would be interested! My Mom had connected us yet again.

While there the second time she tracked down a saddle in case Weston was interested in riding a pony (he wasn’t). Then she let him explore the box and front seat of their pickup truck. He was in his glory. After that she had me get in the trailer behind their lawn tractor. She held Weston on her lap as we drove down to the pond. He was in his glory again. When there she overturned their rowboat and took us for a spin around and around the big and beautiful pond. Their lovely daughter came along for the ride. I was blown away at their reminiscing about happy memories on their farm.

After, we hiked around the outer edge. She stripped off her shoes and socks (and Weston’s, too) and let him try out the water. She then taught him how to throw a rock into the water to make a splash. Near the end of our walk there was a bridge we crossed to get back to the driveway.

I couldn’t help but say, “I feel like I’m in Terabithia”.

She said, “Funny – we call it that – but I didn’t know if you’d know the reference, or if you’d think of it in a sad way”

Anyone who has read Bridge to Terabithia will understand.

Weston ‘helped’ drive the tractor back up the driveway and then our dear friend let him on their big trampoline. After, she pulled out a bubble wand and showed him how to make gigantic bubbles.

I swear his sweet little eyes grew five sizes that day out of sheer wonder and awe. Ever since our day on the farm, Weston loves being behind any steering wheel.

I can admit that she parented him better in the two hours we were there than I had up to that point. I learned so much in that visit with her; the importance of exploration, adventure, taking risks, not overthinking, and truly enjoying one’s company and surroundings.

What an exceptional friend. What an exemplary mother. I wouldn’t have met her if it wasn’t for my Mom’s things. They’ve found their loving home. Everybody, truly, wins.

The bin of clothes I kept have been turned into a quilt. I haven’t seen it yet, but a friend of mine has. She assures me it’s breathtakingly beautiful. Somewhere on it the woman who made it has embroidered, “Your absence has gone through me like thread through a needle. Everything I do is stitched with its colour”, which is a favourite quote by Wiliam Stanley Merwin. Fitting, no?

My favourite part about that fateful day I went to the dump is that I went to get Weston from daycare immediately after. Picking him up gives me the same excited, dizzy feeling I get when I drive by what will be our new home. It’s a giddy feeling I can’t even describe.

When we got home that day, Weston ran around the van to my driver’s side door. He arched his back and stood on tiptoes, trying so hard to reach the handle. I don’t always let him (because of time constraints) but on this day I gave in. I opened the door and lifted him up to stand on my seat behind the steering wheel. The proud and excited look he gets on his face is contagious. After playing with the radio, wipers and lights for a while he reached down to the seat under his feet and picked something up to examine.

There, in his hand, was one of the white pegs that had been attached to the radiation mask. One of the pegs that held that mask, and my Mom’s beautiful face, against the radiation table.

He handed it to me, and for lack of pockets, I stuck it in my bra.

Someday I’ll be ready to throw that away, too.

Until then, it’s taking up much less space, and allows me to hold on just a bit longer.

Change is hard, yes, but it’s necessary.

– C. Mom

Barry is a burly man

He must be six foot five

But despite his strength in stature

Inside he’s only half that size

You see Barry has a secret

It was always plain to see

Poor Barry was a baby

That was never meant to be

He must sense that I am open

To hearing of his woes

He admits much later on

That what he’s shared with me, few know

Barry was adopted

Should be his parents’ pride and joy

But by miracle they got pregnant

And he was “someone else’s” boy

He says frankly,

“No one wanted me,

Not mom, and then not them”

So many of his issues

have the same initial stem

He’s jealous of the babies

Who are wanted, planned and loved

He says, “When my mom was pregnant,

Her belly wasn’t even rubbed.

What did she eat? What did she drink?

What thoughts ran through her head?”

Instead of rapture in her pregnancy

Barry’s mother just felt dread

Barry was adopted

By a couple who had tried

For years to have a baby

Their hopes and dreams had been denied

So they bit the bullet – so to speak –

And applied for someone else’s

A truly generous sort of act

The ‘epitome of selfless’

But shortly after they brought him home

The brand new family

Learned fate had taken quite a turn

They were expecting their own ‘she’

So Barry took the backburner

Barry always felt the brunt

Of being “the adopted kid”

(He was sorry to be blunt)

Except he doesn’t know I get it

Perhaps subconsciously he knew

That I was also a mistake

A regretful womb is where I grew

The clouds of fear and guilt remain

Over mine and Barry’s heads

Insecurities are at our cores

A demeaning diet we were fed

We’ve never felt quite good enough

Or worthy of affection

They wished they’d never had us

(which grows like an infection)

Barry’s rough around the edges

On Barry there’s no flies

He doesn’t give a damn, he says

That his parents didn’t even try

His Mom is in a rest home

He doesn’t even go to see her

She wouldn’t care to see him now

All her love was for his sister

He admits he sought his birth mom out

He regrets it now, he says

She’s trailer trash

No good

A mess

But he got questions off his chest

Like did she know his father?

And if she did, who was he?

Her memories weren’t fond of him

And at the best, were fuzzy

He asks her if she wet the bed

The way he did, for years

He doesn’t know, that’s not passed down

A habit prompted by his fears

He hoped meeting her would fix him

Close a wound that hasn’t healed

But when he saw her face and spoke to her

It was really just surreal

She showed no signs of care

Remorse

Interest, or affection

Her candour inappropriate

Lacking any introspection

It didn’t break her heart one bit

To give him up, she said

If she’d kept him at that stage of life

They’d likely both be dead

She doesn’t get that her words sting

Tears burning Barry’s eyes

His rough and tough demeanor

Is what she sees, but it’s all lies

She had two more children later on

A boy and girl she kept

Barry wonders, “What was wrong with me?”

All by himself he wept

And although my mother kept me

Of which I’m surely glad

She reminded me quite often

That she wished she never had

So now I find my purpose

my healing and my haven

In my own son’s embrace and eyes

(especially when he’s misbehaving)

Because perfection is impossible

I know, I strived for years

An ideal you can’t ever attain

Despite your blood

Your sweat

Your tears

I waited ’til my thirties

I am married, happily

Barry wasn’t even twenty

His wife was only seventeen

He made her an honest woman

They’re still together

They have three

A boy he doesn’t talk to now

And then two girls; close as can be

They won’t even see their brother

Their mother’s heartbroken, she frets

He admits he was too hard on him

But can he remedy regrets?

I ask him if he’s even tried

Has he explained himself at all?

When Barry was a child

he was made to feel so small

And although it is quite difficult

Cycles can be broken

Never too late to start afresh

If we share our words, unspoken

I ask him what he’s got to lose?

Being vulnerable can be healing

Because then he won’t feel so alone

In the strife with which he’s dealing

His feelings for his mother

Seem to be a cause that’s lost

But his concern and love felt for his son

Are what make him turn and toss

He sees himself inside his son

He dealt him the same hand

He made him feel unwanted

And yet his son can’t understand

That Barry didn’t know better

At such an early age

He was still so young and vulnerable

His story stuck on the same page

He did all that he knew how to do

He loved him the wrong way

And now their broken bond

Is a price that they both pay

I hope that Barry heard me

I hope he takes my words to heart

For the rift will only widen

The more they are apart

I’m thankful for the closure

That my Mom and I embraced

She was sorry for her lack of love

Which I blindly always chased

I’m thankful that, in her last days

We had our heart to hearts

But what a shame, so much lost time

We fell – separately – apart

So why not come together?

Talk of your past, and then,

Like meeting someone new to you

You can begin again

The lesson that I’ve learned here

(maybe I didn’t quite yet know)

My son was planned and wanted

And in a space of love he’ll grow

And when he is much older

And he reflects upon his past

There won’t ever be a single doubt

His sense of self will be steadfast

I once dreamt – oh so vividly

That I came face to face

With a younger version of myself

We stood in the same place

It broke my heart to see myself

So thin

So frail

So sad

I knelt down and I cupped my face

And I tried not to be mad

I looked right into young me’s eyes

I told her to be strong

I said, “It gets much better

I promise – you belong”

And even if the people who

should love you don’t know how

There is a light on your horizon

And you will make it there, somehow

I hugged myself so tightly

I felt young me might break

She didn’t quite know how to hug

I felt her body quake

But as I pulled away from her,

the glimmer, it was there

The spark was lit inside her heart

And I said, “I’ll see you there”

– C. Mom