Me on Behalf of You

Sometimes one year can feel like a very long time, while in the same instance feel like yesterday 365 days ago.

I think time, when you’re no longer creating it, is probably more like a web with too many starting points to really know where the beginning ends. I suppose this network of ideas and feelings and thoughts would be the most accurate description of what memories might look like.

The very last time I spoke to you on FaceTime you told me a story about when I was little. A memory from my childhood that I had forgotten in the busy life I lead, creating time.

You laughed as you told me how you would automatically say ‘no’ when your children asked you something. You explained that one day you had an epiphany, and decided way back then you would consciously change your response to ‘maybe’, always, until you’d had a chance to think about what was being asked, and what you were required to give.

I was very young when you changed your answer to ‘maybe’, about 4 or 5, and you told me how my sister would send me in to you, as the youngest child, to ask you for the things we wanted. You explained she said I could get a yes from you, when the answer was usually a no. — I like to think it’s because my sister believes I’m more charming, but I’m not sure that’s entirely true.

You would always answer ‘Maybe’, and I would run away excitedly to return to my sister, hiding around the corner, exclaiming you said ‘Maybe!’ because in my young mind, if it wasn’t a ‘No’ well then it simply must be a ‘Yes!’.  You would laugh at my antics, then most often say ‘Yes’ after all of that.

I laughed as you told me that story. Creating memories from a memory, although I didn’t know it at the time.

I went to see you today, in Deep Bay where you are now free, swimming among the waves. You’ve probably been to Hawaii and back, and all around the Gulf Islands in this past year. At least, I hope you have.

I brought your grandson with me to say ‘Hi!’ today. He says that now, in his small, cheerful voice. He also says ‘Bumpa’ for ‘Grandpa’, which I think you would have laughed roariously about. I wish you could see him now, a little boy instead of a baby like he was when you held him for the first, and last, time. I think we would have had a lot to talk about, raising a boy. He has your ears. He also wears your cowboy hat around the house quite comfortably saying “Yee-haw!” as best he can. I like to think that even though he doesn’t remember your visit with him, he still misses you. His Bumpa.

I receive at least one piece of your mail every day, waiting for me, in a tiny mailbox when I get home from work. “Me on behalf of You” is what it normally says. Often from some vendor, tax department, lawyer, notary, accountant. They write about you as though you were a business that I’m now responsible for closing, or liquidating, or collecting, or paying. These people send me a lot of mail about you. I suppose that means you lived a full life, with all the things you weren’t allowed to take with you when you died: whoever is in charge of this dying business didn’t say ‘Maybe’ to the somethings I’m sure we all would want to take with us when we go.

I cried harder last night than I have in a very long time…The kind of crying where you fall asleep smelling cool rain on hot pavement. It felt good to cry because I hadn’t really sobbed about you leaving until then. –“Stiff upper lip!” you would say, and I would keep marching like a good little soldier, afraid to show a chink in my armour. Afraid to feel what someone my age should feel when they lose a parent because vulnerability creates a feeling of weakness in me.

I asked you today, as your grandson and I looked out to you, floating effortlessly in the salty water of the Bay, if I’ll get to see you again some day. You didn’t really answer me, so I guess that makes it a maybe…

Which I’ll choose to take as a Yes.

Love, your daughter,

Fumbling Mom

I Wish Teeth were Good People…

I’ve made the decision that humans should be born with a full set of teeth.

Grown in, ready for a good stomp chompin’ time.

Setting aside the fact an irritable screaming banshee refusing to sleep, eat or play nicely inhabits our home when it’s teething time — and that’s only my behaviour…here are the reasons a mother needs her child’s pearly whites to be fully functional before that cord is cut:

1. They are already just lazily hanging out behind the gum line waiting to poke out and bust through. Like pitch forks. From hell. Nobody likes pitch forks. ESPECIALLY lazy ones.

2. Everything that could ever go wrong in the universe occurs because of a teething child:

– “Oh! Your kid has a fever?”

Teething.

– “Your child has diaper rash?”

Teething.

– “Your little munchkin of love won’t eat?”

Teething.

– “Your little Prince of Darkness is vomiting?”

Teething.

– “You were over-charged for diapers at Walmart?”

Teething.

– “Your baby Daddy wants to see other people?”

Teething.

-“There’s a hurricane in the Gulf of Mexico?”

You get the gist.

3. The molars and eye teeth (Um, by FAR the most painful ones) grow in AFTER you are back to work full time:

I never understood the purpose of concealer until I realized just how dark those circles could get. Like, REAL dark. Like, undead dark. Which is fitting because I feel like a zombie with an office job.

4. Who needs nipples? It’s not like anyone sees them anyway!

5. Because gosh darn it, meal times are so much more pleasant when your small person can chew things into itty bitty pieces preventing the gagging/choking fiasco that happens 4 to 5 times a day. I have several Oscars for “Appearing calm, cool and collected while everyone else is panicking that your child is dying”.

6. It’s a nice thing when the pharmacist doesn’t know you by first name because you no longer have to stock up on Children’s Tylenol once a week.

It really is nice when you’re picking up that embarrassing prescription for you. You know, to still be anonymous.

7. The stress sweats would occur less often, and be relegated to leading meetings for the CEO instead of pretending you are unaffected by the screams originating from those tooth bastards.

8. Faces and bedsheets would be cleaner from lack of barf hanging out on them. There would also be fewer parties in the bathtub at 2am on a school day.

9. Life would be more like a box of chocolates instead of the guessing game: chocolate on the carpet, or poop? Fun for the whole family during teething season!

and

10. Because I prefer to snuggle while not being chewed on. Call me crazy, but my legs without holes in them seem classier in shorts and skirts. Albeit only marginally.

Now, I’ve only listed 10 items here because I’m at a loss for additional reasons.

My brain is obviously teething.

Yours truly,

Fumbling Mom

Have You Seen My Stapler?

12 months. 365 days. 8,760 hours.

An entire year of mat leave. Complete.

I am sitting here, on a couch, at home, drinking cold coffee (because I got trapped in the bowels of my Facebook newsfeed on some other friend’s friend’s girlfriend’s sister’s husband’s post that required both hands for some reason) alone while our little dude is transitioning into his daycare routine before I head back to the corporate world next week.

Today, I’m wearing sweatpants, have bare feet, and decided to forego a bra. I care not what the public deems appropriate for a trek to visit the people of Walmart. My people.

Next week, I’ll need to make important decisions in a business environment that could affect other people’s lives while wearing heels – which automatically warrants a bra – cuz I don’t make the rules. Fortunately?

Life this past year has been quite a ride.

We welcomed the newest member of our family, figured out the whole baby-care thing, hubby started a new job, and my baby boy lost his grandpa way too soon. Still working on finding time for the grieving process on that last one.

Needless to say, it’s been quite a year. I’m very much looking forward to getting the band back together at work, and my little big guy starting daycare, playing all day with his friends. He loves it, and that makes this whole transition back into the working world so much easier. Phew!

I’ve decided over this past year that change is overall a good thing even when crummy things happen.

Change allows for a fresh perspective on the variety of the every day, and prevents sweatiness over the small stuff while learning to have the small stuff remain small.

Change also gives you the opportunity to feel good about what you have…and I suppose this rings truer when the change is a little misaligned with what you want.

Change also provides new and exciting shopping adventures as someone like me ponders things like, “What the hell is a Muddy Buddy?” and “Would Spanx make this skirt fit better?” and “How do you make an apple turn into a pear?”

Answer to that last one: be me, grow a person, then try to fit back into your old jeans.

It’s okay, I like pears.

In all seriousness though, I’m enjoying change. It keeps me occupied on the days of never-ending Barney and Lamb Chops theme song sing alongs – note to self: Expand this repertoire.

I hear my office desk has been moved.
Hopefully not to the boiler room.

Hooray for change!

Have you seen my stapler?

Sincerely yours,

Fumbling Mom

For My Dad

I don’t know how to talk about this very well, so I thought that, like everything difficult for me to say, I would write.

My Dad died yesterday.

I was looking at my Facebook page, which for all intents and purposes is actually a time capsule, and my Dad’s last comment was one week ago on a picture of my son and my husband watching a hockey game. He often wrote his comments in my son’s voice saying this time: “I love my hockey!”. I look like my Dad, and my son has some of his (my) features, so these voice overs are actually very fitting, and often funny.

I’m so happy to have these memories etched into digital photos to keep as long as technology is hanging about in this world.

My Dad lived an interesting life.

He was a broadcaster and producer for a local TV station, then shifted careers in his twenties attending university to achieve his bachelor and masters degrees in Education. He taught elementary and high school for many years, eventually joining the administration as Principal in two different school districts. In his spare time, he was a contractor for many homes, built each of my childhood abodes, and was a master carpenter of cabinetry and furniture. My love for movies, how to write and make them came from my Dad.
He had many talents, although spoke about them rarely.

Dad gave me important advice when I was young which I have heeded as best I know how:

“Do something important with your life, and take the hard road first. It will be challenging, but more rewarding much earlier than if you take the easy way out.”

He was right.

Because of this advice, I have managed to accomplish many things as I finish the last year of my twenties. He reiterated through my young life that I should not make the same mistakes he did. I have tried to do so, and of course made mistakes all my own. These mistakes are not better or worse just different. Just human.

My Dad was human like all of us. He did his best with what he was given. Loved as best he could, lived life, and worked so hard.

I will forever be grateful for the lessons he has taught me, and the wisdom of his advice.

Dad, I’ll meet you in the den to watch a movie with you on the other side.

I’ll pretend I still think the kissing scenes are gross…

Love your daughter,

Kell Belle

The Narrating Introvert

Picture this:

It’s day 186 of your maternity leave.

You are alone in 800 square feet with your 5 month old. It’s 10am.

You’ve played peek-a-boo, done the hokey pokey ten (hundred) times, wiggled and bobbed every toy (including the ones under the couch), danced, sang songs, changed his clothes (because he’s barfed on himself), changed your clothes (because he’s barfed on you), and even done tummy time.

It’s 10:30am

You’re looking at your kid thinking, “what now?”, and he’s looking at you like “I don’t know lady, I thought you were in charge…”

Right.

So I start harkening back to the good old days when I was the kid and my Mom was home with me. What the heck did we do?

Crafts? No.

Chores? Not yet.

Math? a^2 + b^2 = (nope)^2

Why couldn’t I develop memories at 5 months? That would help a lot.

How ’bout….

Baking.

Now, baking as a 3 year old with my Mom and me baking with a 5 month old are different experiences. Um, yes.

3 year old me would ask nothing short of a million ‘whys’, and my 5 month old sits in his rocking chair on the kitchen floor drooling and staring at me in silence interrupted by the odd gurgle, blurp and/or coo.

But I want him to learn something, so I narrate EVERYTHING. He can’t see down there on the floor anyhow.

“Now honey, we need one cup of flour and we’ll put that in the large bowl, and 1 teaspoon of baking powder, a teaspoon of salt, and then…”

You would think this would stop after whatever we were baking went into the oven. I would think that. And most people who know me know that I’m more of a “speak mostly when spoken to” type person. A listener, if you will.

Well move over Don LaFontaine, now I’m a narrator… of my whole life… all the time.

This could be awkward when I return to work.

“And then we clean under your chins!”

No.

The strangest thing has happened however, since becoming a narrator outside my internal dialogue:
My kiddo actually listens to what I’m saying to him, and he speaks back to me…
Baby language, but regardless, he’s paying attention and looking at me rather than through me for the first time this month.

So cool.

My stories make absolutely no sense.

Maybe Fox should hire me.

Your introvert chatting away in 800 square feet trying to keep an infant busy,

Fumbling Mom

A Letter to You, Kiddo

Dear Kiddo,

I’m taking this time, while I have a chance, to write to you as you dream of Tiggers and Pooh Bears, smiling faces and little fingers, bottles of milk and love, to tell you about what you are made of.

You appear to be the perfect combination of so many interesting people, and with their traits comes abilities, skills, and wisdom. This is what I hope.

Let me tell you what I see:

You have your great grandmother’s eyes mixed with a little of Mommy’s Mom’s too. Brilliant blue grey with a dark blue ring. These will help you see the qualities you value most in others, and the beauty in a sometimes not so beautiful world.

You have your Grandad’s ears from your Mommy’s side. Large and in charge, you will be able to hear when you are needed by others close to you, and I hope you come to their rescue.

You have Daddy’s Dad’s zest for life. You are always busy and active, love to laugh, and have family around you at all times. This is important, and I believe you will get even zesty-er with age.

You have your Daddy’s Mom’s strong legs. These will help you run long distances with great endurance should you need to – hopefully toward good people and away from bad situations.

You have Daddy’s face, which is kind and generous. You look approachable, even now, and I hope you act just that way too.

You have Mommy’s head size (sorry darling) and hands; with these come responsibility to use your big brain and short fingers to think first, then act. Always use your knowledge for good, then do good for others…but also remember you are valuable too.

Your smile is all your own.

You illuminate the room and make others happy. You will be a beacon of light during sad times for those you love. You are cherished, and should cherish others just the same. I hope you do.

And of course you are much more than simply the sum of your parts. Watching you learn and grow, become frustrated and try again, full of gumption even at such a young age…I hope you will succeed to be kind, intelligent and generous. I hope you overcome the struggles life sometimes has to offer, and challenge adversity at every turn. You can do this.

You have all the tools…

Go get ’em tiger.

Love always,

Your Fumbling Mom

10 Things You Forgot to Remember, I Think?

We are so lucky in Canada to receive 12 months of maternity leave to raise, bond with, and love our new children. A magical year indeed. So many firsts for them, so many firsts for new parents.

In all the excitement and newness of having a baby family member, and all the coordination involved sorting out life with babe, sometimes parents forget they matter as individuals and adults too.

Although I hear through parenting circles that this is considered the norm, the details of what this forgetfulness and neglect looks like is a little elusive, at least to me. I think it’s important for people (not only parents) to get the chance to peek behind the curtain to understand the specifics of forgetting to be, well…a person. At least, the person you thought you were.

1. You forget you have pants you could wear that do not resemble sweatpants.

This may sound simple, but in all the hub bub of bathing, changing, and dressing your child, you forget to spend the time to dress yourself. You consider it a “fancy” day if you put on pants that require you to wear underwear.

2. You haven’t showered in 3 days, and have resorted to wearing more perfume instead

Although horrid, this is an every day reality. You’d rather wash the cheese out from under your infant’s chins than take 5 minutes to approach a loofa yourself: “these 5 minutes could be better utilized with tummy time” because “we are so frigging behind on that.” Lady, take a shower. Alright fine.

3. You Battle Entropy Every. Single. Minute. of the Day.

You have children? Your house is a tornado of mess from spilled milk stains on the hardwood floor to poopy laundry. Rug fluff dances with your dust bunnies, escaping out the front door on the bottom of your guest’s socks. Your hand always carries a wet cloth, the skin on your knuckles displaying dry cracks from cleaning detergents and hand washing. Clean when the baby cleans. Righto. Entropy.

4. Your vehicle has become a baby and stroller transport system.

When I bought my first vehicle, I walked into a dealership and asked them to put me in a car that made me look like I had my life together. 2 door, lipstick red, V6, gas guzzling sports car. When I traded that car in, I walked into a dealership 9 months pregnant and asked them to put me in a car with at least 4 doors, could fit two car seats when required, and allow me to get in and out without ripping the ass of my pants. Priorities, you know.

5. You Tell Time Based on When Ellen Starts.

One year of mat leave. You can only go on so many walks and trips to Walmart. Better start a blog.

6. You’re like, ‘What Makeup?’

Even though you probably look the most tired you’ve been since your last teenaged growth spurt in the 90s, makeup to cover up those Mommy bags under your peepers is simply out of the question. Forget about it. I’ve already put on underwear today, date night, I’m ready.

7. You forget to be hungry until you’re hangry.

If you’re like me, you’re always counting the hours from the last time you pumped a bottle for your very large, very hungry infant. Between the counting, nap time scheduling, diaper changes, grocery shopping, parenting classes, exercising, and dozing, you find yourself asking “why am I mad?” Oh that’s right, I haven’t eaten since 8am and it’s dinner time. I know this because Ellen is on.

8. You hum the Winnie the Pooh theme song when you’re not with your child, and you don’t even like that song

I prefer Abba.

9. You baby talk to your spouse by accident

Barf. You’d think I could control the pitch of my voice at 29 years of age after the kiddo has gone to bed. Nope. “Does Daddy want seconds? Num num num!” Not in that tone of voice he doesn’t. Divorce.

And last but not least:

10. You’re so stupidly happy that you forget you’ve forgotten yourself

This is usually the thing that happens when your kid laughs for the first time. Or rolls over. Or sits up. Or talks to you. Smiles at you. Oh jeeze the list could go sappily on and on.

What’s important to realize in all this is that you really haven’t forgotten or neglected yourself with all the mess, dirty hair, stained clothing, etc. You’ve actually remembered what is important in life:

Happiness.

Making others happy, and thereby making yourself happy. Simple.

So, even if you have forgotten to put on a bra before taking down the garbage, with your hair doing that alfalfa thing it does when it’s greasy, and via Murphy’s Law run into your hot neighbour…

…you don’t have to be a parent to have this delight happen to you…

Spread happiness. In the end, it’s really all that matters.

Sincerely yours,

Fumbling Mom

Guilty Boobs

Boobs.

Oh good, I have your attention.

A friend of mine asked me to write about this topic specifically, so I thought I’d give it a go.

Here’s the thing…I’m doing something that a lot of women who have recently had a baby do, and that thing is allowing me to no longer have the ability to zip up my pre-pregnancy winter coat, have a good night’s sleep (even if my infant does), or be in the vicinity of a crying baby in public without several layers between me and that baby:
I am breast feeding nursing providing breast milk for my child.

Now, I say providing because I am doing just that. I strictly pump and bottle feed.

If you’ve read This New Life you know that I went the route of a midwife as my primary caregiver throughout my pregnancy. Best decision I ever made.

Don’t get me wrong, I have no issue with the maternity docs of the world. I was just needing a little more support with my first baby…especially postpartum…and where I come from, the medical system in this particular department is a little too
“here’s your hat, what’s your hurry?” for me. Just a personal preference really.

Back to the boobs. (Back boobs too, cuz you know, that happens).

Okay, so I’m pumping and bottle feeding.

What this basically means is that every 5 hours I’m hooked up to an electric double pump system for 15 minutes that extracts milk for my very hungry baby. And surprisingly my midwife was cool with this.

I’ll get to how I feel about that in a sec.

I’m fortunate that I have what are called “eager” boobs (okay, breasts) cuz I produce between 40 and 50 ounces each day. This is what my little monster needs, plus a little extra for the freezer. He’s huge. You understand.

So, what happens to your boobs after you have your baby? This is a popular question from soon-to-be moms. Probably Dads too… I guess.

Let me give you the low-down in chronological order:

It’s 2 days after you’ve just given birth, and you are waiting for your milk to come in.

You may or may not produce a lot of colostrum, your baby is dang hungry, and, if you’re like me, the supervising nurse is getting all Dr. Phil on your ass about your unplanned c-section and birth experience.

You cry uncontrollably because of the following:

A. You’re overwhelmed that you’ve created a real human. He’s terrifying and adorable at the same time.

B. Your real human is balling his face off because he’s starving and you have nothing to give him. You feel responsible. You’re his Mom. It’s heartbreaking.

C. Your nurse keeps asking you how you’re feeling every 2 hours. Get outta here Phil.

D.Your milk is coming in.

I’ll repeat that one:

Your milk is coming in.
Cue the major waterworks.

You thought I was emotional during my pregnancy? Oh heck no.

So the milk comes in around day 3.

Hallelujah.

You now have porn boobs that stand straight up, and feel like they are filled with concrete.

Your partner is thrilled. Maybe you are too, but for an entirely different reason.

So I attempt to actually breast feed my child. He cries and cries and cries and gags because he’s crying so hard.

It was terrible.

I start crying because he’s crying, and then it’s just all about energy from that point on. Nervous boob energy.

Every time I tried to feed him from the boob I would get my nervous sweat on. He’d give me the hairy eyeball “Are we really gonna do this again Mom?”, and I was all, “Yes, damn it!”.

I hadn’t even considered the pump at this stage of the feed me game.

Because that would be failing at motherhood.

Silly me.

So, my little monster wasn’t putting on weight. Big problem. My midwife suggests the pump, and I’m like, lightbulb! Yes ma’am. Sign me up sister.

I felt really guilty about this machine for a very long time. I fought with myself daily about not trying again to breast feed my child, even though he was now thriving.

My child is thriving.

And happy.

And healthy.

Wait. What the heck am I feeling guilty about again?

So I take my Type A brain for a walk and tell it to smarten the hell up and get over itself.

He’s getting breast milk from me, and being fed with a bottle. Super duper.

It’s not the 80s anymore where you’re either on the boob or the bottle (i.e. formula). No sir. Options are the bees knees.

Sorry. Right. The boob thing. I forgot.

Initially it hurts…well, stings I guess is more accurate…but that goes away after about the first few days to a week. Everyone is different.

In addition to this, they grow, fill up (remember the concrete thing? Every. 5. Hours.), empty after (in my case) pumping, in others feeding, are soft again, and round and round it goes. Basically.

A friend of mine told me that after I’m done with this stage and my kiddo starts to eat more solid food, they will look like tennis balls in stockings.

My boobs, not the kiddo.

Rejoice! I’m SO looking forward to that.

See ya nice boobs.

I’m totally not against a boob lift in my old age though. Let’s pick those puppies up off my belt buckle. Why not?

So whether you are breast feeding/nursing, pumping, supplementing with formula or not, you rock. You’re an awesome mom. You’re feeding your baby, and that’s all that matters.

In conclusion, breast feeding is frigging hard. Unlike my guilt for providing breast milk to my child via pump-o-rama/bottle, my boobs continue to increase in size. Until I pump. Then they shrink again. Proudly.

I still can’t do up my coat.

My boobs pee the bed.

And even though I like you, get your crying baby away from me, this bra is silk.

Sincerely yours,

Fumbling Mom

This New Life

Once upon a time, I was an individual in a loving marriage to my perfect man.

Then we got pregnant.

And had a baby boy.

Now, I am a Mom in a loving marriage to my perfect man, and we are a family.

Wait…I’m a Mom?

This is the part that I’m struggling with in this new found life caring for an infant, so I thought I’d talk a bit about what that’s like, and why it’s like that for me. Perhaps you can relate.

Let’s back it up:

My pregnancy was healthy and “normal” (whatever that means), and was everything someone like me would expect when I was expecting: hella’ weight gain, sexy cankles, cravings, night sweats, an obsessive body pillow dependence…the whole nine.

My husband and I decided we wanted to have a home birth (gasp), and try to bring this little life into the world in our home, with a midwife and doula, without the drugs, au natural. We did our research, gathered our birth team, prepped the birth room, and finished all that good wholesome (some would say crunchy) stuff you do when you are turning one of the rooms in your home into a place to push out a football. No big deal. I can do this.

My labour began at 7am on September 23rd normally enough. We went for a walk to Starbucks, had a coffee, worked through the early contractions, walked home, watched a movie, worked through more early contractions, had dinner, had a bath, went to bed. By midnight those early contractions turned into active, punch you in the face, could not sleep through them even though I tried, contractions. We were probably going to meet this baby today.

We laboured and laboured and laboured at home with our doula and midwife. Tried the bath. Tried the shower. Tried the exercise ball. Lunging, walking, sitting, leaning, standing…our prenatal classes came in handy.

Nothing was happening, other than really intense contractions, really close together, no dilation. Wholly frustration! Wholly I haven’t slept since the 22nd! Wholly it’s now 1pm on the 24th!

I wanted to die.

I think I prayed for death at one point. 3 cm dilated. We were expecting an infant 11 days overdue, above the 90th percentile in head size. Football with a watermelon on one end. 3 cm. Not gonna cut it.

It was at this point that I remember my midwife and doula hovering over me as I lay on our bed, my brain and the thoughts accompanying it in another universe while I battled my uterus punching me in the face again, saying softly, “Kelly, I believe this would be a good time to discuss a plan of action. Nothing is happening honey…we want this baby to come out, and we need to figure out how you want that to happen at this stage.”

It was at this point we decided, as a team, to transfer to the hospital. Team Baby grabbing our bags, water broke in the elevator (awesome), waddling out to the car, delirious, heading for Labour and Delivery.

4 contractions in the car and 15 minutes later, I was gripping my husband’s hand through yet another contraction, shuffling passed the coffee shop of hospital on-lookers, to the maternity ward unaware of the intense staring happening on my way there.

We tried a soft epidural for another 4 hours, no progress.

We tried oxytocin for 2 hours after that, no progress, baby in distress.

It was now 8pm on September 24th, and we decided to meet our baby via c-section.

Once the decision to have surgery was finalized, things became hectic quickly.

Oxygen mask put on, the room filled with nurses, students, and doctors. They spoke to each other as they wheeled me into the O.R., strapped my arms down, gave me heavy freezing that felt like ice melting down my back, and ushered my husband away to change into his scrubs. This was the only time during the process when I cried.

The O.R. town cryer announced to the room filled with about 30 people from different medical departments that I was Kelly, allergic to coconut, 41 weeks and 4 days pregnant, and ready for Caesarian. Let’s be honest, I was basically an iodized belly and crotch. Not to worry though, my dignity and sense of embarrassment left me long before this event. This was the only time during the process when I laughed.

Are some of their surgical tools made of coconut?

At 8:21pm on September 24th we met our little big boy. 9 lbs. 2 oz.

Now, to say that our birth plan didn’t exactly go as planned is quite accurate. In fact, I would go as far to say that my labour and our son’s birth went in the exact opposite direction. And this may be where my need to find some kind of sanity begins.

The only way I can describe how I feel or think or understand this new little one who is so much a wonderful part of our lives, is that I know he is my baby, but I do not feel as though I am his Mom.

Perhaps this has something to do with how he and I went through his birth, perhaps not.

All I know is that when I left the hospital with him, it felt as though I had been through enough pain for enough time to cash in my chips at the maternity ward, and they rewarded me with a baby. Like, they have them in stock or something, and this one looked most like me.

I realized through my own reflection that my pregnancy, his birth, and now his presence in our lives are all events that happened and seem completely separate to me. Unrelated.

It doesn’t make me sad, it just is. In fact, I would say, having him in our lives now, I cannot imagine him not being here. If I did cash in my chips at the hospital, and they did reward me with a baby, then I gotta say, I won the friggin’ baby lottery.

And so begins my journey as a new Mom, trying to figure out this little person, how he ticks, what he likes, how he learns, while trying to maintain some kind of identity as his Mom. As myself.

Whoever that may be.

Sincerely yours,

Fumbling Mom