#motherhood

Scrolling through my Instagram feed the other day, I decided to check out the hashtag, “motherhood.” It was everything I thought it would be: babies sleeping peacefully on their mother’s flat postpartum bellies, children laughing as they run through sprinklers and lick perfectly swirled ice-cream cones, the sun setting behind smiling mothers and toddlers clad in matching outfits. The photos are clean and mess free, full of smiles and daydreams, perfect lighting and one-off shots. It’s not real and yet, according to Instagram, this is what “mom life” looks like.

It’s a definition that’s gotten a little twisted along the way – one that I, myself, am guilty of contributing to. My living room floor is currently a maze of dirty laundry piles, carrot-muffin crumbs, and crayons. I ate a cookie for breakfast, my toddler watches far too many Paw Patrol episodes, and last week, there was that faint but persistent smell of milk emanating from somewhere deep within my son’s room. But if you look through my Instagram, you’ll notice that I have never posted a photo of any of that. After all, who wants to look at reality when we can carefully craft fiction?

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One year ago today, I got a positive pregnancy test.

After months of mourning and healing, my husband and I were finally ready to set aside our fears and “what ifs.” Love had begun to overflow the shaky walls that we’d built, and new hopes and dreams were blossoming in place of pain. Our grief had not been forgotten but our hearts felt called to stretch once more.

It was a quiet Monday morning when those two, pink lines first appeared in my hands. This family was growing again, and I felt nothing but pure joy.

After a quick trip to the store, the toddler and I spent the rest of the day decorating a Popcorn Cake and munching on marshmallows. I knew exactly how we were going to surprise my husband with the baby news. I topped the gooey dessert with a mini-bunting that announced, “Mama’s Going to Pop!” and my son and I sucked on Smarties while the cake chilled. The kitchen counter was dusted with cinnamon and fluffy, white marshmallows: the scent of hope and anticipation, the flavour of possibility.

A year later, I can still see the love and excitement that was poured into that cake; the look of shock and amazement that crossed my husbands face at the sight of it. I never dreamed that we’d be here, a year later, still waiting on a baby.

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The jagged seashells crunch underfoot and the tide laps lazily along the shore. We’re the first ones on the beach this morning and the silence feels comforting. Gulls swoop and screech above as we settle into the cool sand, toes burying deep among the tiny grains. My toddler busies himself with buckets and shovels, creating a world of dusty castles and ravine roads, and I bask in the early morning warmth of the spring sunshine.

For a city girl who loves quiet libraries and comfy couches, it never ceases to amaze me that the place I feel most connected to my grief is here, outdoors.

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My best friend arrived at the door armed with Christmas presents, sugar cookies, and lunch supplies. I sat on the couch, a hand pressed tightly against my abdomen, and watched as she navigated her way around my kitchen. She didn’t have to be here on her day off, bearing platefuls of crispy grilled cheese and creamy tomato soup, but when she’d heard I was miscarrying she’d offered to help.

My son and her swapped Christmas presents while we waited for lunch: a slightly wonky snowman ornament for her and a wrapped parcel for him. He didn’t need much encouragement to rip his way through the paper and uncover the new toy underneath. He could barely contain his two-year-old enthusiasm.

The toy was colourful, wooden, and in the shape of a semi-circle: a beautifully, handcrafted rainbow.

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“Is he your first child?”

This question follows us around wherever we go: playing at the park, buying shrimp at the grocery store, hanging out at a mom’s group, or celebrating a friend’s birthday. This is the question I have to answer most frequently. Coincidentally, it’s also the one I find most challenging to respond to.

Most often, the truth feels too time consuming to put into words; it carries with it awkward responses and a lingering emotional toll. So I take the easy way out and simply say, “Yes.”

I know that in a few years, I won’t be the only one struggling to find an appropriate answer to this question. Alistair will have to find his own words for this story too.

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When our doctor confirmed at the four month check-up that our son was teething, I assumed that we’d see those pearly whites popping up shortly thereafter. It was another eight months (and countless bouts of swollen gums) before we finally saw that first tooth – needless to say, we were all pretty relieved.

We all know that having a teething baby can be exhausting for the whole family. Here are 9 simple tricks to help you and your little one get through this process:

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“Aren’t you afraid that he’s going to fall?”

Legs dangling, feet swinging, my son stuffs a handful of cheese into his mouth and giggles from the comfort of his Guzzie + Gus Perch highchair. Whenever we invite guests over for dinner, this is inevitably one of the questions that gets asked. Will this “floating” perch hold his weight?

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Remember when Baby Showers used to be a lot simpler? Back when a group of women would sit in a circle, tie balloons to the new mom’s chair for decoration, and watch as she opened up a pile of presents? We’d eat cake, guess which melted chocolate bar had been smeared inside the diaper, and go home with a couple clothespins clipped to our sweater.

But thanks to the wonderful and all too time consuming invention of Pinterest, things have changed. Now a days, even the once-a-year party planner is expected to channel her inner Martha Stewart, and quite frankly, it’s all a little daunting to live up to.

When it came time to organizing a Baby Shower for my marvelous friend April, I struggled to come up with a simple to execute, budget-friendly theme. So I decided to go back to the basics: a good ole’ “Baby” themed Baby Shower. (The fact that we knew her little one is a boy helped to refine the colour scheme a bit.)

And I have to say that I love the way this party came together. Cute. Simple. Budget-friendly. What’s not to love?

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A night of gift wrapping used to be synonymous with a roll of reindeer covered paper, a glass of eggnog and a Michael Buble Christmas CD. By the end of the evening, a pile of presents would sit under the tree dressed in shiny gift tags, sparkling bows, and delicately handcrafted snowflakes.

But with a toddler in the house, everything looks a little different…

While I envy your Pinterest inspired wrapping techniques, and gifts pretty enough to hang over the mantle, our boxes are going to have a little more “character” this year. But in case you’re still curious about that foot-shaped imprint in the middle of your present, here’s what it looks like to wrap gifts with a toddler in the house:

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When you dream of being discharged from the hospital with a healthy, full-sized little one in your arms, it can be crushing to suddenly find yourself in the organized chaos of the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit (NICU).

Most families never plan on spending time in the NICU. The average mom is unprepared and unfamiliar with this strange world of beeping monitors, bubbling oxygen machines, and gowned hospital staff. And when you factor in a little baby that’s not doing so great, a few postpartum hormones, and a ton of stress, it’s no wonder that it can feel particularly overwhelming.

That being said, here are a few tips that this NICU mommy wishes she’d known in advance:

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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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