Your ID…Ma’am?

I’ve read somewhere, everywhere, that when you become a parent, your whole identity changes. The transition from not having your DNA breathing, running around, barfing on you and getting into everything, to it doing just that everyday is a bit…bumpy. The person you once were exists too, but as a sort of, quieter inner voice. A hush, almost…

“Did you see that episode of Friends where Joey eats everything in the fridge because it’s broken? That’s you! You’re the fridge! How are your nipples feeling today?”

“Gosh, remember when you showered every day and everyone remarked on how great you smell all the time? Did you buy deodorant yesterday?”

“Let’s go dancing! Ooooooh remember dancing?! It felt good right? All the people, free flowing drinks, great beats? No, not beets, Mom. Beats! Tunes lady! Yeah, let’s do that again! You should buy beets though…”

Sometimes my inner voice says things that result in situations that were once very familiar, but now foreign being the guardian of two small humans:

I went out to a club. Like, out, out. I haven’t been out out in almost a decade.

But not just one stop, no no, that would be half-assing it! A youthful restaurant with a DJ, a bar with live music to follow, then a dance club to cap off the night, all wrapping up nicely at the crack of 3am after visiting the 99 cent (now $1.49) pizza place. Snapchat captured it all in a brief 24 hour story that has disappeared into the bowels of the internet somewhere. Like whiteout for social media. Sigh. Best invention ever.

I’m going to be honest here. I didn’t think I was going to have fun. I have an infant at home with hubby, a high energy 4 year old, and I’m an introvert; so picture a completely exhausted dirty dishpan, and that’s me, except with messier hair, on my good days. AND I was “Ma’am-ed” at the beginning of the night! Ma’am-ed!! Lord give me strength.

BUT

I was in GREAT company. Two of my favourite ladies were out with me, and it was one of their birthdays. The drinks were flowing, the nostalgia was strong as the live band was the same from my early 20s and they were playing 90s jams. We got great seats at the bar for some pretty epic people watching. The conversations were deep and inspiring. My vocabulary and expressiveness increases 100 fold after a few spiked ice teas, and I can spittle at strangers with confidence. Yes, yes, this was a good time. Even when I tried to explain to the bouncer at the club that he really should see my ID as he explained it was 100% not necessary (and I was belligerent, arguing for 90%) it was a great time.

The people were a total mess. Like, the kind of mess where you’re wiping vomit off your shoe that isn’t yours (or your DNA’s), you find yourself sympathizing with the bar tender who tells you tales of the office party that was in there at 4pm that day getting annihilated and limiting career opportunities…

and as I looked on at a girl and a boy who had just met that night, making out on the bar, tongues a-flailing, in front of a packed house, I thought to myself…

I’m definitely a Ma’am alright. Definitely.

That bouncer deserves a raise, he One Hundo P did not need to see my ID. Because you know what, inner voice? Even though you get me into trouble sometimes, you’re right. I DO like dancing, and I’m only sometimes a broken fridge, and dammit I CAN smell good sometimes if I want to! And although parenting the day after this late night adventure was like conducting a marching band of monkeys on ice, it was nice to do something different with my favourite people. Self care is a big deal when you’re responsible for small ones who look to you for balance and love, and laughter, and light. Loving you makes loving them all that much more rewarding. Take it from this tired pigeon. Do you think I should just shred my ID?

Best,

Your Fumbling Ma’am

A Letter to You, My Youngest Kiddo…

Dear Youngest Kiddo,

You’re asleep now in your crib, hands cast above your head, fists relaxed, currently dreaming of your few short months on this earth…and perhaps the ether that came before.

I write to you, as I did your brother, in the first few months of life to also let you know what I see, where you come from, and hopefully inspire you at a later time when I am gone, and you need me.

You are the youngest in our little family of 4, and you will find it is inevitable that you will, at some point in your life, be compared to your older brother.

Even now I am guilty of posting adorable photos of you and him, side-by-side, as your birthdays are so close together, just 4 years apart. I cannot help myself as I clutch these memories of you both in those photographs with the fierceness of a mother’s love for her boys. Hoping to hold on to time, freeze it ever so briefly.

Even so, you are your own man. You are already, at such a young age, strong and independent, wanting warmth and love, and slightly surprised by the ferociousness of your older brother’s love for you. “Please be careful! Don’t smother your brother!” your Dad and I say on an hourly basis. We laugh, and exclaim that your brother will follow you to the ends of the earth to hug you as hard as he can. We hope you will let him.

This is a beautiful gift, to be the youngest, as your Mommy is the youngest sibling too.

It is important to understand that as the youngest, you have responsibilities to be not only adored (undeniably!) but to show the beauty of being unexpectedly strong while also being vulnerable. Even now I see you absorbing the essence of light and laughter around you, eyeing everyone, reading their thoughts, then responding, as you do. Intuitive you are, my little one.

Your qualities already precede you.

You are tall, with kind, grey eyes. Although ample height is not known to be common in our genetics, I hope you understand that you should always feel tall, even if you are not necessarily that in stature. Be tall in kindness, generosity, compassion, and empathy. With these qualities, others will see you from a mile away, and follow your lead. This world will thank you.

You find patterns to be marvellous wonders, and are astonished by their existence. You see these before anyone else notices they are there, and I hope you hold on to this curiosity and astuteness. Life is made of patterns, and the sooner you see them, the more you can share them with others, perhaps helping them find their way in a confusing labyrinth.

Your voice is powerful, and you are not afraid to share your opinion, my sweet child. Currently, you use this to let me know when you are hungry or annoyed, but it should be acknowledged that you have a strength that many others do not. I hope you will use your voice to stand up for what is right, and talk openly about when things feel wrong. Communication is vital to relationships, and you are so gifted in this, just like your father, and his father before him.

You have an affinity for snuggling like no other. Touch is your most favourite of the senses, and you should always feel love in this –never suffering, or pain. If you find yourself in the latter, I hope you have the strength to leave. Know that love is where you belong.

Although still little, I see you are wise. Your eyes give you away, revealing an old soul, and it is clear to me that you have seen the stars up close. Your experiences will make up a large part of who you are and who you will become. We have all had those days we wish we could forget, but I hope you know that mistakes are human, and learning from them is what makes you better than you were a minute, a day, a week, a month, a year ago. Mistakes are opportunities. Seize them my love.

As I lay here, post partum belly still squishy and soft with the memory of your growth, I listen to you breathe in the baby monitor, thinking of you, and the future life that lay ahead. I am already in awe of your spirit. Your transition from wherever you were onto this plane was flawless, and you have owned every second of your new life. Rock on, my small one. You have a huge village that loves you so.

Love your biggest fan,

Your Fumbling Mom

The Pink Nightmare

Do you have dreams, like I do, where you are not familiar with the environment, are not entirely certain who you are, but you know that you are not who you are in your waking life?

See, I was born in the 80’s, and that meant I was a youngster in the early 90’s, where mushroom cuts were all the rage. I preferred having short hair for a good majority of my childhood simply because I liked the way the clippers felt when they shaved the back of my head to get that perfect mushroom bowl. This preference, my preference, led others to conclude that I was male because my hair was short, and my face is handsome rather than fine featured.

Preference. That’s a funny word.

So, my mom had my ears pierced when I was 5 years old to help convince other folks that I was female; and like I said, it was the early 90’s, and men (even a handful of boys) also had their ears pierced, so this tactic was about as successful as Pepsi Clear.

“You are such a cute little boy!” said the neighbour lady who lived next door to me since FOREVER at the time.

My sister and friends were always slightly more offended than I was by ‘you must have a penis’ commentary, and were quick to jump to my defence by shouting from the bottom of the neighbour lady’s driveway that I was indeed, a girl.

Preference. Hm.

I remember being invited to a ballet-themed birthday party when I was 5, and borrowed pink tights, a tutu from god knows who, and pink ballet flats that were just this side of too small. Cutting my too long little kid toe nails didn’t help the cause.

I went to that party with my baby fat shoved into a pink sausage case onesie, my mushroom hair freshly cut, and infected pierced ears, thinking, “What in the hell?” as I stared into the mirror seeing a true pink nightmare. Ralphie who?

I remember that moment because it was the first time I wished I were a boy rather than simply looking like one.

Enter the confusing time in every child’s life where we become aware of stereotypes that are thrust upon us (mainly for the purpose of commercialism and product marketing) but also for the purpose of determining a deeper sense of identity and personal belonging in a community. The community of gender.

I am female, and identify as female, but I participate in the world in a way that our current culture still stutters in believing to be male. For example:

• I am the working parent
• I will choose to wear blue over pink
• I prefer to play sports roughly (Foul is my middle name in basketball, and I tend to make it a contact sport)
• I am trained in Kung Fu
• I prefer to lead (in the boardroom, and in the ballroom)
• I think farts are hilarious, and my sense of humour is almost always circling the toilet

I could go on…

For me, being a parent of two boys in this era is a conscious effort. It is important that my sons are supportive and understanding of gender fluidity, and that no, Donald, makeup is not only for girls, and yes pink does make a great hockey helmet for my boy, and if you refer to my child as a ‘bundle of sticks’ one more time I will Kung Fu punch-you-in-the-throat.

My four year old is constantly asking me whether a toy or product is meant for boys or for girls, and I consciously explain it is always both. I have yet to see a child’s toy that is operated using genitals, and if I do find one, you can be certain that a strongly worded letter to the manufacturer will follow shortly thereafter…then a bon fire…then that mind eraser thingy-ma-bob from MIB.

Son, you want to wear makeup to the mall?

Absolutely.

You want to have a Barbie for Christmas?

Santa says yes.

You want to wear a dress to your buddy’s birthday?

You betcha kiddo.

Look, I’m not on a crusade here. I’m just fiddle-farting my way through Mommyhood just like everyone else- throwing shit at a wall and seeing what sticks. All that I’m trying to accomplish is to instil empathy and compassion in my children, who just happen to be born male, but can be whoever the heck they wanna be, and should encourage others to be just as courageous and understanding.

So, do you have dreams, like I do, where you are not familiar with the environment, are not entirely certain who you are, but you know that you are not who you are in your waking life? Well, in these dreams, I am always a dude. It’s nuts!

Sincerely yours,

Fumbling Mom

Helicopter or Bust?

So I’m sitting here watching my kiddo figure out how a number puzzle of orange 1,2,3-shaped plastic fits into the 1,2,3-shaped holes…

So I’m sitting here watching my kiddo push around a wooden toy truck under foot in the kitchen, as he makes vroom noises with his mouth…

So I’m sitting here watching my kiddo navigate an iPad and/or iPhone better than I can, watching the Point Pleasant Police Department sketch on Jimmy Fallon for the millionth time…

So I’m standing here watching my kiddo run around a football field with his family and friends at the annual Mudbowl game on New Years Day. Laughing, then crying because he fell, then laughing as he scrapes himself off the frozen ground and continues to chase chaos as a player of the game in amongst the adults…

So I’m sitting here enjoying a coffee and watching my kiddo run around the McDonald’s Play Place before swimming lessons, babbling to other children, lightly tapping an arm or a chest to instigate a game of tag, returning to the table only to have a bite of a Chicken McNugget before he scampers away again to explore…

And through all these activities, I’m also staring at the 2 stitches he recently acquired when he decided to battle a bed frame over Christmas at the mountain, and lost…

…shooting down an icy mountain slide in a tube unrestrained in my lap with no helmet, no problem… Bed frame? Game over.

Which one of these events made you gasp internally (externally?) as a parent? 

Playing with plastic? Playing underfoot in the kitchen? Eating McDonalds? Playing independently in a play centre? Watching videos on an iPad? Playing football with adults in the cold? Winter sports without a helmet? The bed frame incident and the stitches that followed? 

All of the above?

Me too.

I argue with myself every day making choices as a parent. 

Choosing my battles with a high energy toddler who tantrums often. 

Choosing to save my energy. 

Choosing survival and happiness over perfection.

I’ve learned over the couple years this small person has been in existence that I’m not part of the helicopter parent group, nor do I feel it necessary to judge the parents who are. Sure, they cramp my style sometimes at the playground with their hairy eyeballs, but that’s just a day here and there. No big.

Through trial and error, I’ve decided my role in my kid’s life is to be the chick with the landing lights at the airport…maybe sometimes the broad at the control tower when stuff gets real. My little dude, however, needs to pilot his own helicopter.

What this means is my kid has A LOT of learning moments:

-climbing on a slippery surface in sock feet means I need extraordinary balancing skills to accomplish the mission. Still attempting success.

-trying the stairs without holding the railing is not a good idea as a top heavy child.

-pushing too hard at the playground means other kids won’t want to play with me.

-if my parents’ faces don’t look worried, then what I’m doing is okay.

The list could go on and on, but you get the idea.

Is it difficult to watch my son fall at the playground while he’s learning his body’s abilities? Totally.

Does it suck to hold him down while the doctor stitches up a fresh wound in his forehead? Oh yeah.

Is it hilarious listening to him babble to other children to ask them to play? And then explain his name is Jimmy Fallon? Uh huh.

It’s difficult, sucky, and hilarious to watch him grow into a little person.

What I’m saying is, whatever your style as a parent, you’re doing a good job. There will always be that person who judges your decisions, or questions your choices, or gossips with other parents about you. Ignore that garbage. Smart people talk about ideas and solutions, not about what your child ate for lunch.
I think it’s important to support each other as parents regardless of differing choices. Parent Wars are so 2012…and also so ridiculous. Choose community.

You can do this parent thing, I believe in you.

Excuse me a moment, my child is asking if he can make a phone call to Jimmy Fallon…again.

Yours truly,

Fumbling Mom

Let’s Have Another Baby…

So here’s the thing. 

When you’re in your thirties, like me, and you have a child who is over the age of 2 years, you will absolutely be asked by complete strangers (in the mall, at the park, in the bathroom at a movie theatre) when you are going to have another baby. This is a fact. Feel free to calibrate your Rolex to that true north.

Now, I’m the first to admit that I am frigging awkward in person. Like, needs to have a game plan about conversation topics a minimum of 24 hours in advance of a child’s birthday party. I’m so awkward that I’ll answer ‘Yes’ to every question I’m asked, and before you know it, I’ve got myself a job recruiting Steve Harper to be the next contestant on the Price is Right. “$1!” “Ohhh, I’m sorry Steve, the closest bid was ‘The People’.”

So, awkward me being my awkward self usually answers sheepishly like Goofy has taken over: “Garsh! I really don’t know! Hayuck!” and scuttle away to pee in heavenly privacy.

Being that I truly do not know the answer to the question, the hubs and I decided to quit our jobs, and open a business in the arts. A film studio in our home town. 

There are a lot of parallels to starting a business and having a human baby…especially if you decide to do this while also raising a toddler. I figured I would share a few:

1. The labour involved is painful and intense. You will need your village to get you through it…because the hard parts are really really hard. You know it will be over soon, and the baby will be beautiful, but you will need that village to talk you out of giving up every minute that labour goes over time. Keep going. 

2. There will be unexpected expenses. Chew bubble gum, solve some algebra, you’ll never see them coming, so quit worrying and solve the problem as it presents itself. Employ experts to help you, it’s worth it.

3. You will have to answer calls at all hours of the day and night. You are responsible, completely, for growing that child. 

4. You will have epic philosophical battles with your partner on how best to raise your baby. Major and minor decisions seem to mean the end and beginning of your new world all at the same time.

5. You will need to move, at least once, to provide a better environment for your growing family. Whether the space for business isn’t large enough, or you downsize your personal living space to give this new life a chance, this inevitably means moving. Get comfy with quick change.

6. You will make decisions that will fail. You will learn from those failures, and you will grow. So will your baby. Human error is what makes this process so awful and perfect. 

7. You feel in control (because you scarily are) while being totally out of control (because the learning curve is fucking steep). Ear muffs. Learn to slow down and look around. This usually happens after you’ve been through a few #6’s, as above.

8. There are major growing pains. You have a new responsibility, a new purpose, and a new love. Balancing the newness with your previous life takes practice. The stress sweating will stop. Buy stronger deodorant in the meantime.

9. You will cry a lot. To your Mom. For no reason at all. Just because.

10. The small wins will feel like you won the Stanley Cup. Celebrate each victory, even if it’s something as small as putting your underwear on the right way ’round. #winning.

So, I suppose the answer to those strangers would be a confident ‘Yes’, our baby is 3 months old, and we named her Finerty Studios. And she’s beautiful.

Proud parent of two,

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

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

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