Strapped into the five point harness of my baby stroller is a mini superstar sucking on a dinosaur soother.

That’s right – I have been given the highly sought after and seriously underpaid job of chauffeuring a little celebrity around town in my Graco buggy.

At least, I’m pretty sure there’s a celebrity in there…

Because how else can you possibly explain the unfathomable amount of attention given to the tiny human chewing on a toy giraffe?

Anytime we leave the house, we have to tack an additional half hour to our schedule for spontaneous “meet and greets.” We barely make it out of our apartment elevator without being mobbed by a herd of cooing grandmas and cross-eyed strangers pulling silly faces. And forget about the days of messy ponytails, sweatpants and a baggy t-shirt – my little passenger ensures that there is no longer such a thing as running a “quick errand without seeing anyone.”

Clearly the only plausible conclusion is that I’m carting around a blue eyed, button nosed, internationally recognized superstar.

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Note: This post was written for Michaela Evanow’s blog series on “This is Motherhood (Too).” This article was originally posted on Michaela’s site on August 10, 2015. 

I was eight weeks pregnant when the ultrasound technician turned a grainy screen towards me and pointed out not one but two little miracles. And in that moment, with two hearts blinking on the screen and cold jelly oozing down my belly, all fears dissipated. My husband and I could only marvel at the God who delights in giving such sweet surprises.

Amazed, we stumbled out of the appointment with a fistful of fuzzy ultrasound photos and the reassurance that One greater than ourselves was holding this pregnancy in the palm of His hand.

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Cozied up under a pile of blankets, munching on salted popcorn, and swatting away mosquitoes, this is one of my favourite places to be on a summer evening: Theatre Under the Stars.

In its 69th season, TUTS (Theatre Under the Stars) offers annual musical performances at the Malkin Bowl in Stanley Park, Vancouver. Every summer, the outdoor stage echoes with songs from shows like “Legally Blond,” “Titanic,” “Bye Bye Birdie,” “Thoroughly Modern Millie,” “Annie Get Your Gun,” and “Grease.”

With beautiful sets, live orchestras, belting performances, and even the occasional park raccoon to wander its way across the stage, stories come to life under a sparkling, starry sky.

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One year ago today, I buried my baby.

It was grey and drizzly as we made our way from a nondescript funeral viewing room to a soggy graveside. As my husband and our fathers lifted the tiny, white casket out of the hearse, I couldn’t help but picture blue booties and a tiny baby clad in airplane pyjamas.

I had never gotten the chance to dress him, never seen him smile, or felt him burrow against my chest. I had never even seen the color of his eyes. And yet, here I was, saying good-bye.

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Twelve months ago, the baby in the incubator looked more like a broken bird than a plump polar bear. During those early days, we were so focused on making it through the next hour that we couldn’t even dream of the next week, let alone an entire year.

But before I knew it, I was mailing out birthday invitations and dreaming of coconut covered cupcakes and polar bear guestbooks. A month of naptimes were spent making bunting, pompoms, and paper snowflakes. Our Costco membership card was broken in, presents wrapped, fondant rolled, and an overflowing igloo cake was stuffed in the oven, cried over, and very nearly stomped on. (Never again!)

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From trendy neighbourhood cafes to moss covered hiking trails, we’re on a quest to get off the couch and discover all that Vancouver has to offer to this mostly home-satisfied family of three. (And yes, we’ve broken the cardinal rule for every true Vancouverite and lumped the surrounding cities into our definition of “Vancouver.”) And so, launching this exploration mission on Canada Day, we figured that there was no better place to start than at the very peak of the city: Grouse Mountain.

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To my dearest, sweetest, little man, Happy 1st Birthday!

Exactly one year ago, you and your brother surprised us with your unexpectedly early entrance. While I was busy envisioning September birthday parties amidst crunchy, fall leaves, God had an entirely different birth date in store.

And His plan was perfect!

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Sitting outside the hospital with my empty, saggy tummy and watery eyes, I watched family after family proudly and ever-so-carefully carry their day old newborns out to the car. With every step the beaming parents radiated a wave of pride, nerves, and pure delight. Caught up in a world of wonder, they smiled broadly in my direction, inviting me to join them in this brief moment of bliss. And while I desperately wished to share in their excitement, to feel something, I couldn’t seem to get further than the fake smile twisted on my face.

This was their happiest day. But it certainly wasn’t mine.

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I have a secret to confess.

I’m slightly obsessed with my new colouring book.

Yep, you heard that right. Colouring book.

Like most of us, I left my colouring books back in the second grade along with fruit scented markers and erasers shaped like unicorns. But who can forget those lazy Saturday mornings, sprawled out along the kitchen table with wax crayons and a new Barbie Princess colouring book? There’s something therapeutic about letting your creativity bubble out onto a fresh sheet of paper and transform a black and white page into a swirl of dancing colour.

Yes, I have rediscovered a childhood joy and I owe it all to this absolutely beautiful book: The “Enchanted Forest: An Inky Quest & Coloring Book” by Johanna Basford. Read more

As our first official Father’s Day flitted by in a haze of early morning snuggles, a baby entranced by empty watchband boxes, and a quick trip to the doctor for a bad case of diaper rash, I was reminded that this day was yet another milestone for our family. Our first Father’s day was one of joy and remembrance as we celebrated my husband and the boys who made him a dad, and a time of reflection as we mourned the memories that we had hoped to make as a family of four.

Sitting on the couch, watching the lake water reflect through the window of our summer cabin, I asked my husband about his experience with grief. As he paused for a moment to think, I was struck by the sudden realization that for the past year, he has had to carry an extra heavy burden. As husband and father, his shoulders have borne the weight of both his pain and mine. He has stood tall as protector, provider and supporter for our family during an uncertain time, and he has emerged from the other side stronger but still scarred.

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I am not an athletic person. And while I like to think that somewhere deep within my bones is a hidden vein of natural athletic talent, the fact that I’ve spent the majority of my time in organized sports as a “benchwarmer” states otherwise.

So when some friends invited us to join them in a Color Run™, I was initially hesitant about paying money to have my slow-moving body trampled by a mass of super-fit, sprinting, racers. To my delight, I discovered that this race was focused on fun, rather than competition. Boasting in the fact that you can “run, walk, crawl, or cartwheel” yourself across the finish line, I hoped this event would be an easy introduction to 5k runs. And of course, outweighing the dread of having to do actual exercise was the prospect of being doused in a kaleidoscope of colored dust.

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If there’s one thing I’m not – it’s outdoorsy. But Alaska, with it’s unparalleled beauty and raw, untouched landscapes is almost enough to make me change my mind. I was so enamored with it’s powerful mountain peaks, breathtaking glacial waters, and piercingly fresh, salty air that I wanted to strap on my hiking boots (which I don’t own) and ford some gold speckled streams. While this was technically my fourth trip to the land of the midnight sun, it was the first time I had tossed my preconceived ideas about northern living and actually soaked up a tiny bit of its allure. Of course, a quick trip in the dead of January would probably dispel most of these romanticized feelings towards the “last frontier.” But from the comfort of my cruise ship stateroom, this city gal can still appreciate the stunning, natural elegance of an unbridled land.

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