The Neurodiverse Child

Gene selection is a beautiful science. An elegant dance of the double helix: splicing, selecting, and producing new combinations of people with new and unique features – a new song. You.

Evolution is the magical conductor in this orchestra. Its not-so-mysterious pattern of directing the wind instruments to play allegro and brass to follow the percussion is affected by many factors – with one of the most notable being the environment around us. It feels like a slow process relative to a single human life, but the orchestrated nuances that eventually create a notable characteristic and produce a new song occur within each new generation – even if not noticed by the keen senses of the audience in that short time.

You may have heard that you are “one in a million”, but my nerdy-ness tells me that you are even more unique than that.

One of the best played songs I’ve witnessed so far by this conductor would be my son and others like him.

Autism Spectrum Disorder (ASD) is a clinical term that is used to categorize a subset of the population and explain the manner in which brain wiring is outside typical scientific expectations. New and different wiring causes new patterns of activity in how the human brain reacts to stimuli. This neurodiversity is vastly different from person to person, and the spectrum of neurodiverse individuals is exciting because the features and presentations are so varied. If you are interested in neurodiversity, Now This has created a fantastic video to explain it further.

As a mother to a neurodiverse son, and a sister to a neurodiverse brother, I’ve seen amazing abilities in my family that have been selected to create an even more beautiful musical. Sometimes the song is very overwhelming because the culture hasn’t caught up with accepting the style of the song. Maybe it’s too loud, or too scattered, or the saxophone should be playing on another bar. In those times we are fortunate to have a caring clinical community and governance to support the costs of redesigning a micro-society around a neurodiverse individual. With the advancement of technology and light speed of social media, the acceptance of change happens much more quickly than we could ever communicate before. This megaphone to the entire planet is a useful tool in changing the way in which individuals, groups, cultures and society share new perspectives and encourage positive changes in thinking.

I would challenge individuals and groups alike to think of ASD as neurodiversity rather than a disability. The experience of having neurodiverse individuals in my family has been exceptional. There are always trials and tribulations as in any neurotypical family, but from what I have seen over my short life is that there hasn’t been a situation that wasn’t made better by the understanding of the groups of people around us. What if that group could be the whole city? country? The whole continent? The world? This is not a new concept in terms of diversity on the planet, but the more you know, the more you can participate with confidence in positive changes in thinking and the culture around us.

What if neurodiverse individuals have been genetically selected by the environment to help make the environment better for diversity on a macro scale? Sneaky.

Evolution my pals…she’s a mysterious conductor with a plan. An entire musical on broadway. What an artist.

Sincerely yours,

A Fumbling Mom to a Neurodiverse Kid

Dr. Christine Blasey Ford is All of Us

If you are a woman, and reading this, the probability of you feeling upset about what is happening in the United States right now is high.

Dr. Christine Blasey Ford stood up in front of a panel of men with power and influence (read: the patriarchy) and described in granular detail her experience of sexual assault in the 80s by Brett Kavanaugh, nominee to the Supreme Court, and his peers. It appears that this testimony has fallen on the deaf ears of men whose upper lip sweat was glistening in standard definition as the wheels turned, and they thought about instances from their high school or college years when *maybe* they took advantage of women in a way they felt entitled to back then. “A simpler time” I think I’ve heard it referred to by people who make excuses for the Kavanaughs of the world.

Ruth Bader Ginsburg must be foaming at the mouth to dissent.

The reason you are probably angry about what is happening in fallen Rome is not only because Kavanaugh will most likely still be appointed to his position in the Supreme Court (and make the most powerful rulings for other Kavanaughs of the world) but because you are Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, but you.

I am Dr. Christine Blasey Ford, but me.

I think I can confidently say that all women, at some point in their lives, know fear at a primal level. Even if you call it by another name, you know the details:

You feel, almost hear, your pupils dilate when your breath catches in your throat. The hair on the back of your neck stands up instantly and sweats, a chill runs down your spine. You shiver uncontrollably, unable to catch your lost breath because your diaphragm is spasm-ing. You are thankful your bladder is empty because you’ve already lost control of so many things: safety, security, space. Numbness takes over in self preservation. You hear fog, and think to yourself, “Next time I’ll be more prepared. Next time I’ll be stronger. Next time I’ll have an escape plan. Next time I won’t be so nice. Next time. Next time.” Not realizing that the problem isn’t you.

It’s like that every night out. Sometimes on the nights in. Every shift at work where the safety protocols are lacking. Every midnight change-over with that coworker who backs you into corners. A phone call from that customer who got your number from your dunce work mate. A knock on your door from that same customer who also found out your address. In that parkade. At that movie theatre. On that dark street. In your neighbourhood. At your home. If you’re a woman, it is inescapable.

Unless you point the finger and you name it. You call it out when you see it happening to another woman. You teach your sons that women are powerful and respected, and that consent is the most important. Teach your sons to teach their peers, and hold strong in their feminism. We are all born of woman. We must act accordingly to not only ask, but insist that “our male counterparts remove their feet from our necks.”

You are a hero Dr. Blasey Ford. A goddamn hero.

#ibelieveher

Sincerely,

Fumbling Mom of feminist sons

I Didn’t Know I Had Postpartum Depression with My First until I Didn’t with My Second

It’s Caesarian Awareness Month, and because I was honoured to receive two c-sections, one for each little gaffer I’ve grown and birthed onto this Earth, I feel compelled to write a bit more about the experience of becoming a mother for the first and the second time.

What I’m hoping in writing this piece is to help another mother or father identify with this story, and feel like it is okay, and very much encouraged, to speak to someone, anyone, about what they are going through.

I did not know I had postpartum depression with my first child until I didn’t with my second.

I have never said that out loud, and I have never said this even to my own family. Today, 7 months after the birth of my second child, I realize that I had suffered in silence for about 3 years, and lied to the healthcare teams in 2013 when they called to check up on how I was feeling as a new mother to my first baby. I didn’t know I was lying to them at the time, but I do now.

How could this happen? Well, for me, in 2013 it was a combination of a lack of knowledge and a lack of experience. Fairly common for a first time parent.

You see, healthcare quality is improved every day. New stories and new experiences come forward and inform the changes and improvements across the community. An example in this context is the motto ‘being a good mother’ in 2013 was translated to “breast is best”. Today, the motto has very thankfully been improved to “fed is best”. This movement came upon the heels of a story covered by the media of a mother who tragically took her own life after “failing” (ugh!) to produce enough breastmilk for her new baby, and, in the throws of PPD, ended her suffering. Sadly, I do not believe she was the only one, however, her widower shared her story, and now we are all wiser from it.

In 2013, I had a very base knowledge of PPD, in that I knew it existed, but not what it really was, and I didn’t know a thing about postpartum anxiety (PPA), or postpartum psychosis (PPP). There are now several other postpartum diagnoses for mental wellness of which the healthcare community is aware, and I would imagine other diagnoses will surface in the future as more stories are shared, and the hive mind becomes cohesive.

So I’m throwing my story in the pile, hoping for some stickiness.

2013 was my first year of parenthood, and the birth of my son came unexpectedly by emergency c-section after 40 hours of labour. My body was exhausted, and I was emotionally drained because I had made my “birth plan”, and I chose ‘Caesarian’ as my worst case scenario; I’d built this up in my mind over 9ish months, and suddenly my worst nightmare was coming true after not sleeping for 2 days. At that point I did not know that I wouldn’t be sleeping for another few months after that exhausting experience. I was fortunate to have a baby who slept. I do believe that from the initial deprivation, I did not recover, and spiralled into a fog of fear, intrusive thoughts, darkness, and despair. For 3 years. And no one knew. Not even me.

The experience of my second pregnancy and birth was very different.

I work in healthcare quality, and gained a breadth of knowledge I did not have in 2013. Also, now that I had experienced the process of birth with my first, I knew that I wanted to schedule my c-section in an attempt to side-step the exhaustion I had experienced from my labour in 2013. It was less important for me and my mental health to attempt to deliver vaginally, and very vital that I slept the night before my son’s arrival. Elected c-section was my choice for my second son, and his birth was so utterly amazing that I do not have the words to express how I felt.

Recovery in hospital after my elected c-section was awesome. I felt like Wolverine, healing in record time, and released home after 2 nights. Obviously I had a very skilled, hand-picked surgeon who caused this miracle to happen, although I do like to buff my knuckles on my shoulder (just a smidgen) to celebrate my body epically pulling through another abdominal slicing.

So, this second baby does not sleep. He is up, even at 7 months, 5-6 times a night, and although I am very tired, I am not exhausted. I’m not afraid of the night like I was in 2013, and I felt connected to this little soul, his first cry in the OR ringing in my ears. A song just for me.

I so wished this for my first, and I am thrilled I had the opportunity to feel elated during my second birth experience. I am so grateful that my eldest is such an amazing human, connecting with me when I was in the darkness, patiently and unknowingly pulling me into the light over the first 3 years of his life. My indigo child. My love.

I did not know. There are others now who may not know.

My hope is, in this month celebrating c-sections and birth, if my story resonates with you, and you see yourself, even a little bit, I hope that you will talk, or write, or sing, or dance, or whatever language feels right — about it. There are resources where you live, and if there aren’t local resources, the internet and social media platforms have support groups that make the world feel smaller and much less lonely.

You are brave, and a wonderful father or mother. The community will support you. Reach out. The light is warm, and our inner child would roll their eyes saying ‘I told you so’, but parenthood is better with the lights on.

Love always,

Your Fumbling Mom — my friends call me Kel

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

Where is Mom?

Moms are beautiful creatures.

Often we see them tending to their young in the wild terrain of cities, towns, and villages. Chasing and coaxing 50% of their DNA to ‘be careful’ and ‘have one more bite’. Bags under their eyes and hair in a messy bun spewing from the crown of their heads, the mother is often unwashed, covered in offspring’s vomit, eyeing the closest parking spot to the cart return, hair flopped to one side, lip balm close at hand.

The mother is talented, able to multi-task while keeping her spawn alive and well, she is always armed with some version of a camera to capture moments as the Mommarazzi.

By far, out of all the many notable traits, talents, and identifying features of the mother creature, the most outstanding is her mysterious quality.

So rare is the historical evidence of the existence of the mother. Never featured in the thousands of photos and videos of their young; so limited in number that a less experienced observer of the mother creature may believe that the species does not actually exist – as mysterious and rare as a sighting of the Yetti or Big Foot of the West Coast or Abominable Snowman of the Arctic. The only trace of the mother is fed, healthy, happy children…and a cracked cell phone strewn on a crumby couch while Joni Mitchell plays somewhere softly in the background…an empty bottle of wine on the counter.

Is she shy? Invisible? Stealthy?

Where is Mom?

I will be the first to admit that I am rarely in photos or videos with my kids.

When I was a kid, my Mom was the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. I still think that today. I think a lot of kids feel that way about their Moms. There is just something special about the face that you have known literally your entire life. The first face you memorized as an infant, and loved unconditionally. That person protected you, cared for you, scolded you, laughed with you, cried with you, was so proud of you. How could you not find that person to be the most beautiful human you have ever seen?

I have a video of my 6th birthday party, and my Mom was the host in our house. It is the only historical footage I have of my younger self and my mother in one package, and I cherish it dearly… and she hates it!

I am rarely in photos with my own kids for the same reason: Because I think there is a common thread in the Mom World where we are not super happy with the way we look all the time, and documenting that feels bad/scary/[insert negative feeling here].

Isn’t that crappy?

It is crappy. And today, I thought, you know what? My kids might feel the way I do about my Mom: How I wish I had more photos of our life together where both of us were in it.

Photos are so treasured! What the hell am I doing not annoyingly inserting myself into every picture with my kids (heck, the whole fam-damily) even when my hair’s a mess, no makeup on, and feeling extra postpartum chubby?

I implore you to take that awkward selfie because you and your human are wearing matching t-shirts. Be bold, brave, and brag about it! Do it! Email those pictures to your kids, print them off, make a photo book…whatever floats your boat. Just get ‘Mom’ back in those images, frozen in time.

Because those pictures are not actually for you, in the end, are they?

They are for those little people who will grow up to be big people who will one day miss their Mom, and will need to remember the moments they spent with her. With you! The woman they believe to be the most beautiful human in the world: the wonderful and mysterious Mom Creature.

#putMombackinthephoto

Sincerely yours,

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

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

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