2017, The Teacher

I'll cut right to it: this year has been intense. I got divorced, learned to be a single parent, fell in love, traveled to Europe, and watched my preemie twins turn four; I lost some family and friends, I made some new family and friends, and I learned more about myself than I ever would have thought possible in just twelve measly months. For the first time I began to really understand my goals, my needs, my desires, and my priorities; to shake off what I once thought I should care about and to embrace what I truly do. And I learned a few big lessons:

1. Time heals.

There have been so many moments this year where I thought I’d never find my way out of the darkness. Where everything seemed so overwhelming and terrible and I couldn’t imagine a future where it wouldn’t. Times when I watched people I cared about slip away as a result of my divorce, and where I worried endlessly that not only myself but especially my children would lose an entire half of their family. There were days where I was overcome with guilt about everyone I believed I was hurting, and where I was sure my girls would be eternally damaged by the break between their parents. Some days, I missed my ex-husband’s constant friendship so much that I couldn’t eat, or where being a single parent felt so lonely and unendurable that I was scared I’d ask to move in with my mother or my boyfriend just to avoid being alone. But somehow, it got better. As the months passed I felt myself settling into the strangeness, and adjusting to my new normal, where with patience, I found contentment and peace. But to get there I had to accept that…

2. You can’t band-aid a bullet wound.

I read that any time you feel the urge to rush into something− whether it’s a career choice, or a relationship decision like cohabitation or marriage− it’s actually your instincts telling you to either slow down, or get out entirely. But we often try to outpace this deep anxiety or uncertainty by making big steps forward, instead of taking a step back and allowing things to play out more organically. It’s our way of trying to exert control over a life we feel has become chaotic; for me, I’ve always fallen prey to this anxiety and leapt before I looked. But this year I decided to try something different, and it taught me that embracing my fears and releasing control loosened their control over me. In doing so I learned to face my grief and loneliness head on− as they say, the only way out is through. And in stumbling through that dark, I realized…

3. Those who mind don’t matter, and those who matter don’t mind.

Cliché, but true. It’s natural in a divorce to lose people, particularly those on your exes side. And it’s also normal for everyone to have something to say about your choices, especially when they’re controversial. This year, I learned to accept and let go of that− it’s taught me who my real, honest-to-god, flesh and blood, non-judgemental, supportive, faithful-and-have-faith-in-me-friends are. The ones who’ve watched me break down and bawl and laugh and seek joy and recover and relapse, and have loved me through all of it. And though I’ve had actual relatives distance themselves because of my decision, I’ve also had some of my former in-laws step up and offer generous love, kindness, and support despite it. Regardless of our marital split, it’s always been my ex and my goal to stay a family, and many incredible people on both of our sides have helped us reach it. And ultimately while some might have offending opinions about our situation, this year I’ve learned it is absolutely none of my business what anyone has to say about me; at the end of the day it really doesn’t matter either. In that vein…

4. It’s important to forgive yourself, too.

I spent a good portion of 2017 (and 2016) punishing myself for my decision to leave my marriage. I felt that I was sinning greatly, not just against God, or society, or against my friends or family, but against the promises I’d always made to myself; the commitment to giving my children an intact home and never making them live apart from their father; the determination to break the pattern set by my parents and grandparents before me. It was a decision I agonized over for a long time before we went through with it, and one that continued to plague me even after the divorce was final. But now, I’ve decided I’ve practiced enough masochism for awhile. After all, I am only human, and a broadly imperfect one at that. All I can do is attempt to improve on my former self, to be better and kinder and more generous and more compassionate and not squander this opportunity to learn and grow as a mother, daughter, girlfriend, ex-wife, sister, and friend. And with that…

5. Life is precious.

This year has been tumultuous, but it’s also been magical, and it’s mine. As the months have passed I’ve begun to realize how much of it I freely gave away before; how I handed out intimate moments to strangers, or subconsciously believed that my relationships weren’t real unless they were validated by others. I used to put endless pictures of my husband and I online just to assure people how in love we were, when in reality our marriage was falling apart. I’d post happy family moments in an attempt to hide the desperate sadness, as though if I received enough likes, perhaps that fake happiness would become real. In the end, I thought that if enough people on Instagram liked our relationship, maybe we could like it too.

This time, I’m trying a different tactic. My current relationship is real, and lovely, and bumpy, and intense, and messy, and incredibly special, and because of this it’s not something I feel compelled to overshare. It’s tangible whether or not those on the outside can grab a hold of it; in fact, the more I clutch it to my chest, the more untouchable to others it becomes, and that’s a very good thing. Maybe this year has jaded me, or maybe I’m just growing up, but I’m beginning to have a real distaste for exposing the things I care most about to a voyeuristic lifestyle; after all, my partner and my children are not props in a production called “Happy Family”. They are demeaned by playing a role on the internet, by being reduced to characters with pleasing, digestible story lines for others’ consumption. Simply put, this year I’ve learned how important my family life is to me and how aggressively I’m willing to protect it, regardless of the cost. While I’m sure I’ll never stop blogging or using social media entirely, when it comes to my relationships I believe the good stuff is kept beyond a screen, and as I get older I’m realizing I don’t want to miss it. Whether big moments or little ones, like that leftover Christmas chocolate they’re too sweet to share.       

In the end, I'm still learning. I'm only twenty-seven after all, and I'm beginning to understand just how very young that is. As the calendar turns on this year and 2018 begins, I'm looking forward to big changes and even bigger growth, if I'm lucky. Though the future offers no guarantees, it will arrive regardless, and I finally feel strong enough to face it. 

To the Present and the Future Me

“The measure of your enlightenment is the degree to which you're comfortable with [your own] paradoxes...”

-Deepak Chopra

Here’s the truth:

The older you get, the more you’ll realize that you are such a tightly-wound tangle of contradictions.

You are deeply indecisive, and usually wait until the cliff is at your heels before you’ll decide whether or not to step off of it. But then, you never choose the land; you always leap, and not because you’re impulsive but because you’re so much braver than you think. In this way, you espouse self-efficacy, but are still mired in self-doubt. Every time, no matter how frequently you’ve taken flight, you unfailingly fear your wings won’t catch the air. And it makes you restless, not in the romantic sense, but with a terrible dread that you’re headed in the wrong direction. Some might say you don’t really know what you want.

And at your core, you don’t really care what anyone says, but you simultaneously let others’ opinions steer your choices far more often than is acceptable. You somehow manage to be one of the most stubborn, bossy people in the world and yet often turn a deaf ear to your own inner guide.

You’re impatient in the present, but spend forever reflecting on past moments you never savoured. You’re both pragmatic and heavily sentimental, prizing logic but regularly falling prey to your emotions. You’re dramatic and sensible as a consequence of reading far too many books− you learn life lessons from the pages, picking up ideas but applying them incorrectly like one who reads a new word but never learns how to correctly pronounce it. You’re hot-headed, and lose your temper over little things, but consistently stay calm in a crisis. You are at times full of selfish, arrogant pride, convinced of your superiority, and at others are terribly humble and in awe of your own insignificance.

You equally adore and distrust men, having grown up with so few to admire. And in that vein, you bloom at his firm warmth and rough cheek next to you in bed, at the feel of those arms that catch you in the night. But if we're being honest, you hate having to share a single square inch of sheeting. You insist on being treated with sophisticated equality, but can’t hide a little smile when he calls you “kid”. You crave love, but struggle to accept it when it’s offered, and argue for forgiveness despite having trouble ever forgiving others' mistakes. In romance, you’re excited by unpredictability, but acutely desire dependable guarantees. You have trouble staying still, but long for somewhere permanent to rest your head.

As a woman and a mother, you are like two halves roughly sewn together. You’ve always been softly maternal, and imagined carrying many children; after all, it is only in moments with your own that you think you might have an inkling of what life is all about. But at the same time, you crave the firmness of independence, the sound of heavy heels meeting concrete, and the youthful joy that comes from absolute, untethered freedom. You find both comfort and despair in domesticity. You seek responsibility and you idolize commitment and stability, but alight with a sip of something wild, and thrive when reborn from each husk of who you used to be. You are immoveable and flighty, glue and Teflon.

You both ache to build, and ache to burn, and you’re sometimes worried that your hunger for the flames might be hiding a craving for them to consume you, too. In this way, you’re empowered and self-destructive, always your own most enthusiastic cheerleader and coexistent worst enemy. You are somehow the happiest and saddest person you’ve ever met; the most sensitive and most obtuse.

You are ardently optimistic, and sharply cynical. Your capacity for judgment and cruelty sometimes shocks you, but you are sick at the thought of causing anyone else pain or suffering. Sometimes your heart feels like it’s going to burst, and at other times you think it might just shrivel up and disappear; because of all this, you’re never really sure whether to listen to that pumping, thumping organ or the one in your head. And that might be your fatal flaw.

But guess what:

You have to stop believing that your contradictions are tied to weakness. After all, none of us would be capable of true goodness if we didn’t first recognize our own propensity for evil. It’s okay to make decisions, and it’s okay to fail too. It’s okay to love anew after having lost, to take a chance on something again after publicly gambling it all away. You are not beholden to your mistakes, especially if you learn from them. And in these days of doubt, somewhere in between twenty-five and thirty, between year two and three of your degree, between jaded by divorce and joyfully in love, between being a stay-at-home mom and a kindergarten one, between living alone and trying to build a new family home, it’s okay to possess a few paradoxes. While they might never reconcile with each other, you may one day accept the inconsistencies as necessary pieces of your identity.  

Above all, remember that you're going to be okay. You've survived a few crashes in your day.

xxo
(Image via Google Images)

Outside the Frame

Every day when I log on to Instagram I’m inundated by images of brides, wedding dresses, bouquets, boutonnieres, and engagement rings− ENDLESS engagement rings propped on splayed, manicured fingers, the diamonds glinting under perfect light. And sometimes it makes me want to scream, because a lot people are impressionable, especially young women under twenty-five, and all these images do is insist that there is no bigger dream than being gifted jewelery by a man. They exclaim that a wedding is the ultimate finish line, and if you aren’t there yet, you’d better start sprinting. And not just any wedding− it has to be a flower-showered, materialistic, Instagram-worthy wedding that puts all the focus on the white dress and the sparkly ring and very little on the actually significance of this enormous commitment two people are making to each other.

And I hate it, not because I don’t believe in love (I do), not because I have anything against jewellery or beautiful gowns (I don’t), but because it cheapens and dilutes one of the biggest and bravest leaps of faith two people can make together. Culturally, it is a centuries-old rite of passage, and socially it represents a critical life change− hey, there’s a reason medieval records often list marriages alongside births and deaths as the only individual markers of the people who lived then.

Don’t get me wrong; I’m all for celebrations and fun. I think weddings are a glorious way to express love and joy among those you care for the most, and without those moments of light in our lives we might all drown in the dark. But marriage is not a state to be entered into frivolously, because let’s be honest, life is hard.  A long life in fact is both a blessing and a curse− it’s an opportunity to grow and thrive as we watch others fade away, and most days, it’s not Instagram friendly. Many of us will live long enough to outlive the ones we love, and between those moments, we’ll all have our own personal struggles that push us to our limits and threaten to break us completely. Things like illness, injury, death, loss, betrayal, and bankruptcy, to name a few. And amidst the whirlwind of dress shopping, decoration Pinning, engagement photo-taking, bachelorette planning, and seating chart-arranging, I think a lot of those realities get buried under layers of tulle.

I’m not judging anyone who gets married in their early twenties, or who gets wrapped up in the fairy tale− how can I when I was one of them? And in some ways, when I see all these young would-be brides online, I envy their hopefulness and still-lingering teenage sense of invincibility. I am painfully jealous of that thrill of fresh experience. But sometimes I do wish that a wiser person would step in and press the pause button for a second, and remind them that a wedding is a lot bigger than the party. It’s not about one night, it’s about a million nights spread out over countless years, during which things rarely go according to plan. There will be decades fraught with undue hardships that rock you to your core, and while you can rent tents in case it rains on your wedding day, it takes a lot more than those plastic tarps to protect a marriage.

Now, I don’t think all young people who get married are entirely ignorant to this. In fact, I have met several who appear keenly aware of these challenges and have simply found the person able to tackle those hurdles with them. And they’re lucky. But there has to be a reason that marriages are succeeding now at a lower rate than ever before, despite the fact that bridal advertising is at an all-time high. And it might lie in the way that we irresponsibly advertise weddings as some sort of glorified prom for young women, even though the two occasions sit on opposite sides of the spectrum. While graduation rightfully celebrates an ending− the conclusion of twelve years slogging through the school system− a wedding is a beginning; the first day of an eternal, arduous partnership that will test us more than all those final exams ever did.

But we don’t say this to would-be brides and grooms; instead, we encourage and celebrate their decision, regardless of how naively it was made, and we seldom candidly illuminate the trials. We enthusiastically use terms like “taking the plunge”, despite the fact that we would never actually encourage anyone to leap into the ocean without first learning to swim.

And I get it; reality isn’t always fun, and sometimes we yearn to believe in something magical− that true love conquers all. But deep down the majority of us know that most things worth having rarely come easily, and this is why I have such a problem with our modern, cultural approach: because marriage can be that rare, beautiful, indomitable gift, but it’s hard work too, and when it falls apart it is more than the couple who suffers.

Don’t believe me? Alongside all the statistics demonstrating the struggles that children of divorce face, and the impact it has on families, researchers out of Harvard, USC and Brown have written about what they call “divorce clustering” as a form of “social contagion”− or what we might colloquially label a “domino effect”. During their study of divorce among peer groups, they found that if your close friends or relatives experience such an estrangement, your own odds of meeting the same fate skyrocket to a shocking 75%. The report concludes by stating, that “divorce should be understood as a collective phenomenon that extends far beyond those directly affected.”* Needless to say, by hiding the difficulties of marriage behind a pretty lace curtain and refusing to be transparent, we do young people and our society as a whole a disservice.

And I really feel that. Perhaps not in spite of but actually because of my divorce, I have far more respect and admiration for the institution of marriage now than I ever did when I first casually approached it five years ago. Since then, I’ve decided that if I’m ever fortunate enough to wed someone again, it will be with my eyes wide open to exactly what the two of us will have to face; I don’t want my partner to have any illusions about what to expect from a life with me. While there are no guarantees for the future, the more honestly and realistically we approach it, the more successfully we’ll cope. And I hate to sound so dull and unromantic, but shouldn’t major life choices be approached with more sensibility than sentimentality?

Because of this, I wish that all these sweet, eager young women would realize that in the grand scheme of things, it really doesn’t matter what your engagement ring looks like; it doesn’t matter if you manage to have that perfect garden reception that Pinterest is always advertising. And it doesn’t matter if all your friends are getting married either, or how dreamy their proposals. Time will eventually peel those moments away like layers of clothing, leaving behind nothing but all our bare, messy limitations. The real treasure is finding someone who sees that flawed version of you, but wants to try and forge a future together anyway; that life is a roller-coaster, and if another human being decides you’re the one person they want beside them during all those twists and turns and sudden drops that make your stomach flip… well it’s tough to find a more valuable or irreplaceable gift than that. It sure trumps a fabric and jewelry.  

I’m not saying you can’t love weddings. I love weddings, and I don’t think I’ll ever stop. There’s something so delicious about that collective effervescence that occurs when we watch two people stand up together and swear vows of adoration and fidelity. As a society we feed off that happiness, and that’s a beautiful thing. But like many beautiful things, it needs to be respected and valued too, approached with caution and reverence in the same way we might plan an ascension of Mount Everest. 

At the end of the day, it’s okay to love the dress, and it’s okay to love the ring. You can even love picking out those perfect table settings for your guests. But don’t forget that starry-eyed party will always be waiting; whether you get married at twenty or forty, Pinterest will still be there to tell you how to plan it. So for everyone’s sake, but especially your own, take a moment and look away from that pretty picture. After all, real life happens outside the frame. 


*McVeigh, T. (2010). "If Your Friends Get Divorced You Could Be Next". The Observer. Retrieved from: https://www.theguardian.com/lifeandstyle/2010/jul/04/divorce-friends-contagious-academic-study. Oct. 6, 2017. 

I'm Not Ready To Live With My Boyfriend

I’m a romantic at heart, both in the 19^th century poetic sense, and in the way that I’ve always been a huge sucker for Meg Ryan rom-coms. I mean, I’m one of those people who could easily spend an entire weekend in front of When Harry Met Sally, or even You’ve Got Mail without considering those days wasted. And I suppose I always viewed marriage as the pinnacle of romance; I knew so little about the actual institution and what it required that I jumped into it, “much in the same way a labrador leaps into a swimming pool”, to quote Elizabeth Gilbert.

And hey, we all know how well that worked out. I’ve been writing for a year about the different ways divorce has affected me and how indescribably difficult the trauma has been to shake. I don’t think it’s a big secret that even today, I’m still a little waterlogged.
   

But that being said, I am moving on. I’m dating, and I’ve fallen in love with a really wonderful guy who is great to me, great to my kids, and even great to my ex, which is more important than some might think. He’s sweet, stubborn, hilarious, hot-headed, infuriating and incredible, so gentle but rough around the edges too, a collage of smooth grooves and sharp spots that prick. Somehow, he loves all my patchy imperfections (so perhaps he’s also insane) and there’s an exciting, firecracker-y energy between us that makes me feel like together anything is possible. He’s also the first man I’ve met or dated who seems strong enough to withstand the blazing heat that my emotional intensity can radiate− sometimes, he can even match it.

And that’s good for me; I’m fond of joking that I “like to do things the hard way”, but it’s far too true. This year one of the biggest traits I’ve begun to recognize in myself is that I’ve never been very at peace with peace; I’ve always preferred a challenge. Relationship-wise, as my counselor pointed out recently, I’m not the type of girl who can practice tennis with a ball-machine− I need a partner who’s able to really whack it back at me.

Today, I think I’ve met that person. And when that happens, inevitably your brain (and the brains of those you’re closest to) begins wondering about “the next step”, or how you can take the relationship further. Maybe it comes from a desire to publicly legitimize your partnership, now that you’ve privately done so. Maybe it’s just what all those rom-coms have told us about true love: first comes love, then comes marriage… or maybe in this day and age, first comes love, then comes cohabitation.

But in all honesty, I’m not ready for it. We’re in love, we’re committed, and he checks all the boxes, but I’m not ready to move in with him.

Of course we’ve talked about it; we’re not teenagers after all, but two adults with busy lives who are keen to move them forward. We’ve gotten to know each other’s families and friends well, he’s watched my kids on his own many times, and a few weeks ago we took a ten-day trip to England together which was a real test.  

So I wish I was prepared for more; it would make so many things easier. Economically, moving in together would cut my rent and other living expenses in half, and duties like groceries and dinner could be shared. I’d have someone to help fold my kids’ laundry, or to wash dishes with, and I wouldn’t need to get a babysitter anymore on those nights I want to go out. As well, it would allow us exponentially more time together than we currently get; between my school and mom life, and his busy work schedule, we only get to see each other on the weekend and even then we aren’t always unhampered.

Plus, he wants us to live with him; impossibly, this crazy man is into the idea of my daughters and me to making his house our home, into taking on all the (often thankless) responsibility that that brings. And there my girls would have their own lovely rooms, a large backyard to run barefoot across, and a sense of permanence my tiny basement suite just can’t provide. Whatever struggles we’d face in adjusting we could overcome together, and by the time my kids entered kindergarten next September they’d be fully settled into their new home and routine.

But despite all of this goodness, I’m just not ready yet.

I’m not ready because one of the first things I did when I moved into my suite was hang all the pictures in my house exactly where I wanted them (if a little crookedly). I’m not ready because I love making dinner and actually having leftovers. I’m not ready because it feels amazing to embrace single habits (like my weird midnight routine of simultaneous cleaning and weight-lifting) without worrying I’ll get on anyone’s nerves. I’m not ready because I love hosting loud girls’ nights without having to factor in anyone else’s feelings about it. I’m not ready because I’m able to crowd my shower ledges with twenty different, half-empty bottles of shampoo and body wash if I want to. I’m not ready because I love spending evenings alone with a book, a mug of tea, and no sound except the turning of a page. I’m not ready because even though doing all of the cleaning and chores by myself is a ton of work, it also builds my confidence. I’m not ready because I sleep blissfully alone like a burrito starfish.

I’m not ready because once I got through those first few bitter months without a live-in partner, it started to taste like freedom.

Maybe I could still do all that while cohabitating. But I’ve leapt blindly before and crashed badly, with my kids on my back; I’m not eager to do it again. Someone once said that insanity is doing the same thing over again and expecting a different result, so this go-around I’m trying a new approach. I’m giving the brakes a tap, because this time I want more. I believe in more.

And I want my girls to believe too, in more possibilities than I ever did; I want them to know that a happy ending doesn’t always equal a prince whisking you on his white horse to his castle, but instead that you can get your own damn castle (and ride, too) if you want it. I want them to know how to hang their own pictures, move their own furniture, fix a flat tire, and watch endless reruns of Wonder Woman so they realize how much they’re capable of. I want them to shake off this notion of love and cohabitation as the end-all-be-all and realize that they can have that if it makes them happy, but that they’re brimming with other inward treasures too. I don’t care if they aim for big goals or small, I just want them to aim at all.
  

Don’t get me wrong; my inner romantic is still alive and well. But somehow, this time, I believe that perhaps true love doesn’t have to be a rushed, frantic affair. That love can be slow and steady, and can be allowed to bloom gradually over several seasons. That maybe just cherishing my partner and making the most out of the moments I have with him is enough for now. More than enough. And that maybe what we have doesn’t need to be publicly legitimized to be real; that falling into the universe’s flow, and living in the present is as much control over my relationship as I need to exercise. For me, maybe patience is the real key to permanence.

I might not be ready to take that next step for years, and to be honest, that scares me; I turned twenty-seven a few weeks ago, and I can see thirty on the horizon. But I won’t cave to my own ticking clock, to the pressure of that nagging parent, Expectation. Because in the end, I’ve discovered that joy is joy is joy is joy, and it exists, it persists outside of the realm of our established beliefs and limits. And I’m happy to be there too. 

On Your Birthday: A Love Letter to My Former Husband

There are so many things I’ve never said.

When we first got together six years ago, I was only twenty, and you were the caretaker that I needed in the midst of deep uncertainty about my life, my future, and my purpose. You let me stay at your apartment. You fed me when I was hungry. You drove me anywhere I asked because I wasn’t brave enough to get my own license. You never criticized or questioned the endless times I changed my mind about everything, from education to childbearing. You saw my quirks, my fears, my flaws, and genuinely loved me unconditionally, regardless.

You used to make me breakfast every year on my birthday: pancakes topped with strawberries and bacon placed strategically to look like a face smiling up at me from the plate. You knew exactly how I liked my coffee and brought it to me all milky sweet on the couch or in bed as the sun rose. When I fractured my shin running and became deeply depressed, you took me out and walked patiently beside me just to keep me moving, and so I’d know I wasn’t alone. It was one of the many times that you brought me back to life.

We never needed much; most of our time together we holed up in little apartments and basement suites with mismatched, second-hand furniture and lots of books. It was always enough. We loved each other in tiny, windowless rooms, on the bed you made in high school carpentry class. We spent our winters under thrift store blankets, watching old movies; our summers were outside, barbequing and reading in the shade.

You always read all my writing, and listened to me ramble on endlessly about books I loved that you’d never heard of, characters you couldn’t possibly understand. You never complained during my weird phases of watching the same terrible movie or TV show over and over again. You constantly encouraged and respected me, and told me I could do anything I wanted with my life. You once saw me in a dress and said I’d ruined you for other women− that no one could ever be as beautiful as you thought I was.

I told you about how much my dad had disappointed me, and how scared I was of ending up with someone like him, or even worse, of becoming him. You told me how you’d always felt like you came in last. We whispered our insecurities into each other’s ears, and promised we’d never be like the people who let us down. You said your dream was to be a good husband and father. At night you wrapped your feet around mine under the blankets.

You worked so hard to take care of us. When you fell eighteen feet off of a roof at work and almost died, you looked up at me from the hospital bed with a face caked in blood and assured me that everything was going to be okay. You squeezed my hand firmly as I dripped hot tears on the sheets.

Then, I worked so hard to take care of us. I pushed you everywhere in your wheelchair; it became a game to see how far we could go. I picked you up when your injury broke you down, lifted you to your commode, and helped you bathe when you’d given up. You learned to walk again, and we went everywhere on foot, you forsaking a cane to lean on my arm. During your recovery we found out we were pregnant, and you wrapped the pregnancy test in a Ziploc bag and stored it in your sock drawer. We learned they were twins and we cried with shock and joy, unable to believe we'd been given such a gift. We got married, and you limped up the aisle on your bad leg to stand and wait for me.

On our honeymoon you let me sleep away my pregnancy exhaustion and sickness, giving me all the blankets and pillows so I’d be comfortable. You ran your fingers across my belly and told stories to our babies− from the beginning you swore they were girls. When we were eventually hospitalized for preterm labour, you slept on a fold-out chair beside my bed for almost a month. You made me tea every day, and held my hand outside on the hospital patio during those long days we wicked with sweat and fear. You cleaned my face and stroked my hair during my emergency C-section, and when the girls were out you slipped into the NICU to take photos of their tiny, red forms for me. We were so young, and so unprepared, but you went to the store and bought me a breast pump, nursing pads, and lanolin without flinching. You helped me get dressed and use the bathroom for days. After we were discharged without the girls, coming home to an empty nursery shattered me like nothing had before− I was in such unendurable, heartbroken agony I thought I would die. You picked me up then as though I were the child, and rocked me for hours, drying my tears with your chest and sleeve. You became the glue that held all the pieces of me together.

You gave the girls their first baths, and changed their first diapers because I was too scared to touch them. You drove me to the NICU in the middle of the night when I couldn’t sleep because being without my children felt like a bullet in my guts. When the girls came home, even though you were working and in school, you got up to feed them with me every two hours throughout the night. You sanitized every bottle and washed every dish we used in those early months, and brought me meals while I was pumping or feeding. You had days where you took care of the girls entirely by yourself, and times where you took them out because their acid reflux and constant colicky screams made me think about putting my head through a wall.

You respected me as a mother, and never questioned my choices. You took photos of us at The Old Spaghetti Factory the first time we were brave enough to take the girls to a restaurant. You eventually got a job two hours away that kept you working over sixty hours a week, but whenever you got home you always found the energy to give us your attention and love. You spent your rare days off grocery shopping, running errands, or at the park with us, collecting dandelions and putting them in my hair. You crouched down on our living room floor and called for the girls to walk to you, cheering as they stumbled to your outstretched arms. You washed their chubby rolls every night, and covered their eyes when you gently rinsed their hair. You’ve always been such a modern man, never implying gender roles or assuming certain jobs were mine alone.

Somewhere along the line in the last couple years, we began to change. Maybe we put too much into our children and not enough into each other. Maybe we were too young. Maybe we eventually needed different things. I grew into my role as a mother and woman, and I didn’t need to be taken care of anymore. You wondered where you’d gone, what your purpose was without someone to hold up. When we were no longer in crisis, we didn’t know how to interact; like war buddies, our bond was easier in the trenches. And as we aged, though our love never disappeared, the things that kept us together did.

Today, we aren’t a couple anymore, and it still makes me feel like someone has taken a fillet knife to my insides and cleaned them out. I wonder sometimes when it was that we stopped being those kids who always found each other in the dark. But I do know that you gave yourself to me so selflessly for years; that you were my port in a storm, and I was yours, and because of that my love for you endures. Our love endures, always. What we had and what we’ve gone through will be forever rooted in me; a stone monument erected in my heart.

Our separation hasn’t been perfect; we’ve had moments of anger, disappointment, and disillusionment. And that’s natural. As natural as falling in love is the pain of falling out of it. But most days, we lock eyes and remember the sacrifices we’ve made, the anchors we chose to lower by each other’s side for a time. And just like the simple life we lived once, that’s enough. That’s all we’ll ever need.   

Many Hats: Confessions of a Simultaneous Single Mom, Girlfriend, and Ex Wife

Here’s the truth: dating while divorcing with young kids is complicated. And when I say complicated, I don’t mean the setting-up-IKEA-furniture definition, I mean like if IKEA suddenly started selling DIY houses, and provided you with their typical cartoon instructions and an Allen key for assembly. It’s complicated, and messy, and full of panicky meltdowns where you turn the manual sideways and wonder if you’re actually doing it all wrong.

But surprisingly, despite the enormous amount of people in this position, my recent Google searches have turned up next to nothing on the subject. There are lots of lists of course, indicating the appropriate time to introduce your new partner to your children and how to do so smoothly. But I couldn’t find any brutally honest testimonials describing the way to be both a single mom and a girlfriend without screwing everything (and everyone) up in the process.

So this is mine.

I should probably start by saying I believe whole-heartedly that there is nothing wrong with dating when you have kids. The best mom is a happy one, and if you meet someone who can contribute to your life and bring joy to it, then have at ‘er. Practicing self-care is one of the best ways to become a better caretaker, and dating should be on that list, alongside bubble baths and good friends.

I myself have (almost) 4 year old twin girls. They’re very loud, very messy, and big on the overshare; they love to announce to people entering my house, “I did a poop on the potty!” So naturally when I started seeing my boyfriend, I wanted to keep a firm wall of separation between my mom life, and my dating life− simply put, I didn’t want to freak him out. Especially because my new partner is a bachelor in the full sense of the word; he owns his own house, and (with the exception of his dog) is entirely without dependants who’ll clutter it up. When he’s not working he can hit the gym, go out with friends, or even take spontaneous vacations, all without having to first find a babysitter and hurriedly vacuum Kraft Dinner off the couch.

There's also the physical element of dating when you’re a mom. I might only be twenty-six, but hello! I’ve had twins and my body likes to exclaim it. My hips are painted with faded stretch marks, a c-section scar that (while I absolutely love it) forever reveals my status, and I have lines forming around my mouth and brows which deepen every time my kids smile and say, “mama we made a BIIIG mess!” On an average day I’m more of a disaster than my house is, and that’s saying something. Initially when I compared my life (and my appearance) to my boyfriend’s, I saw myself beside him as some wrinkled old mom, hunched over and using my last breath to order another time-out; I was sure there was no way he could really love me if he was introduced to that bipolar love-my-kids-to-death-but-sometimes-want-to-kill-them persona that goes with parenting. Because it’s not cute; there’s legitimately nothing endearing about my greasy messy bun, eye bags, and frequent hoarse yelling at my girls to “share!” while I shove toast in my gob so I don’t have to.

So in the beginning, I made a choice: I decided I would slice myself down the middle into two versions− one I’d wear one during the week with my kids, and another on the weekend when I went out on a date. The latter could be young, vibrant, with clean hair and boundless, youthful energy, while the former would be unwashed, unshaved, and falling asleep under piles of laundry by nine PM.

But one day I realized that though I’d tried to convince myself I could separate the two identities, it’s impossible; like winter and spring, they can’t exist without each other. At the end of the day they’re both me, one is just a little bit cleaner and has pruned more recently than November. And I decided that if my boyfriend was worth my time, if he really cared about me, he’d care about all of me, the whole paradoxical package. It turned out to be a gamble worth taking; after his first day with the three of us, my boyfriend turned to me and said, “Syd, those girls are amazing and the fact that you’re a mom is one of my favourite things about you.”

But it hasn’t all been so easy; there’s still the ex-factor. I am lucky in the way that my former husband and I have a good relationship, talk regularly about our kids, and he comes to my place almost every weekend to pick them up. However, that doesn’t mean our dating lives don’t bring some weirdness. And while I’m a positive girl who likes to put an optimistic spin on things, I’ll admit that the first few encounters between my boyfriend and my ex were, understandably, a little awkward. There was definitely some chest-puffing on both sides, and the conversation was about as strategic and subtle as navigating a minefield (while blindfolded). But eventually both men started to breathe normally, and one day they got together and had a conversation agreeing on a mutual desire to bring the girls and myself naught but happiness. 

I’m not going to claim that’s a typical situation, but it was one that I demanded; my kids deserve peace, and that doesn’t arise from two sides pointing canons at each other. Ultimately, I wasn’t going to have anyone in my life who didn’t understand or support that. And I think that’s probably what I’ve learned the most about dating with children: in the midst of that uncertain whirlwind, figure out what your priorities are, and stick to them. Let them anchor you to the soil, and hold fast when it feels like you might get swept away. Despite my wish for a personal life, my children have always remained my number one priority, and I refuse to loosen my grip on that, to compromise their emotional security so I can meet my own (or someone else’s) selfish needs.

However, I do want my girls to believe in real, transcendental love too. I want them to know that we all have the power to bring what we want into our lives and remove what we don’t. To see that it’s feasible for a mother and father to separate while still supporting each other, and to find new relationships without obliterating what they once had. I want them to experience firsthand that despite what TV shows and movies tell us, a boyfriend and an ex-husband, or a girlfriend and an ex-wife can actually get along with each other because above all they want peace for the children caught in the middle. And I need them to know that it’s possible to find love again when it seems like your entire world has fallen apart. Because one day they’re going to get their hearts broken too; a time will come when they’re disillusioned by love, and I need them to know that they can rise from those ashes, shake it off, and live again like I did.

Obviously, everything isn’t perfect. My kids don’t need a new dad, my boyfriend worries about stepping on toes, and it’s still important for the girls to have the majority of their time spent either just with me, or with me and their father together. Our original family unit needs respecting, as does my own single parent relationship with my daughters− it’s necessary for them to know that I’m theirs first, and for them to see that being single is empowering. They also have to learn through me that relationships do not complete you, and that we are all the engineers of our own happiness. But with lots of honest communication, teamwork and a real craving for calm waters, dating while divorcing with young kids is something that I’m fairly successfully doing.

It’s been a lot of trial and error of course, and my romantic life is definitely not the same as it would be if I was childless; I have serious limits on the time and energy (mental, emotional, and physical) that I’ll devote to it. But despite that, it’s worth it. Not because I need to be in a relationship, or get married again, or press ‘reset’ on the last several years of my life, but because I’m entirely human, and at the end of the day it’s nice to choose who you want to be sharing a blanket and a glass of wine with. There’s something that feels right about honouring my truth, and embracing that imperfect, colourful, kaleidoscopic version of myself with all her unique, contradictory angles.

And while I’m haunted daily by all the what-ifs, the endless potential ways my children could be further hurt or disappointed by my choice to date, I can’t live in fear. Those worries might always shadow me, regardless of the position of the sun; the most I can do is put on one of my many hats and show the girls that progress isn’t made by pretending you’re not afraid. Rather, it’s found through striding out your door and facing those fears, and then moving forward despite them.  

One Year

One of my earliest memories is of a red balloon. It was my first experience with helium, and someone had put it in my hand after a birthday party and told me not to let it go. But I didn’t understand− I saw the way it tugged on the ribbon, but I was used to the balloons that bounced around my feet. The ones that terrified me because the sound of their squashed explosions shocked like a sudden heart attack. But this balloon was different. Safe from stomping soles, it bobbed along beside me like a friend. And, trustingly, on the walk home from the party I let it go for a moment. Just a moment, probably to use two hands to dig through a goody bag. I thought the balloon would sit and wait patiently until I reached for it again, beaming scarlet warmth set all aglow by that Saturday sunshine. But when I looked up, it had vanished; it wasn’t until someone, likely my mother, pointed it out sailing towards the sky that I realized what had happened. “I told you not to let it go!” She said exasperatedly. “Now it’s gone.”

But I questioned: can you let go of something you never really had? I wasn’t sure it could be my fault that I’d failed to force my will on it. Looking back, I recalled how it had only been the weight of my closed fist that had kept that balloon earthbound; not even gravity could hold it next to me and make it stay. There’s physics involved I suppose, something that could explain that determined upward trajectory, the resistance to my insistent grasp, but I’ve never been very good at science. Even then though, I knew that balloon had been bound for one direction regardless of my childish need− I’d only served as a temporary roadblock on its path, like one of those stalls on the side of the road that you pull over to for lunch on your way home.  

When I looked up again, the balloon was a little red pinhead caressing the clouds, and I wondered where it was going, if it would get tangled in condensation like cobwebs. But part of me knew deep down that it was simply returning to wherever it had come from. That whatever sweet moment we’d had together had been built on borrowed time; it had never really been mine to claim in the first place. I did feel sad though as I watched it glide away, and I’m sure I shed a few tears− inflated drops that didn’t float but fell towards the earth to land around my feet. I felt guilty too, and blamed myself for the loss; someone said something about birds and I pictured one trying to swallow the balloon midair, latex clogging the soft, plumed trachea.

But not anymore. I’m older now, and perhaps a little wiser too. The truth is, sometimes we lay blame in the wrong places, and we forget about the invisible forces all around us working their will. We don’t see gravity and helium, tugging, pulling, and stretching the direction of our lives. It’s easy to fall into the trap of regret and guilt, to dwell on waste and lost opportunities, and it’s even easier in the face of grief to shoulder all the responsibility for that pain.

However, I’m no masochist. I remember the day (years after the balloon incident) when I learned about helium during a classroom demonstration, and finally understood that nothing I could have done would have made it stay. Even if I’d taken that balloon and tied it to the soil, had anchored it beside me, it would have eventually lost its glorious glow, would have deflated and wrinkled into something not worth holding onto. Though it took me a long time to realize it, I’d been powerless from the beginning in that tug of war with the sky, and any control I thought I’d had had been nothing more than an illusion at the end of a plastic ribbon. It’s not my fault it floated away, because it had never really considered me a permanent place to lay. While it might look like I was reckless, just an irresponsible child, really it moved on as I remained frozen on the sidewalk with an arm outstretched.

They say if you love something, set it free, and if it comes back it was meant to be. But what they should really say is that if you love something you shouldn’t have any cuffs to unlock; that pulling, or tying, or restraining are not words that describe a real partnership. True love sees you as you are and decides you’re not a pit stop but rather a place to put down roots, someone worth that self-imposed gravity. True love is not a red balloon, buoyed by helium, but rather something infinitely more tangible, drawn to your earth, and I finally accept that it’s okay to want that. 

8 Things I've Learned About Single Motherhood

1. It’s so much harder than I thought it would be:

When I told my own mother that my husband and I were splitting up, the first thing she asked me was, “are you sure?” She’d raised my three siblings and I almost single-handedly, and insisted that it was “the hardest thing [she’s] ever done.” However, I didn’t take her worries too seriously; at the time, I was so jazzed on the idea of independence, too busy scream-singing The Pussycat Dolls’ I Don’t Need a Man in the shower that I regarded my mom’s advice as a bridge for Future Sydney to cross. Well, that future came soon enough.

Once I was on my own, I realized that even if I’d already felt like I was doing 90% of the parenting and cleaning and general household running us moms take upon ourselves, that 10% made a huge difference. My husband and I had had a routine where after he got home from work he’d do the kids’ bath and put them to bed so I could get a break; after he moved out, suddenly that was completely on me, no matter how burned-out I felt. And not only was I doing all the work during the day, but then once they were asleep there was no one there to help me clean up the hurricane-house, or fold the endless baskets of laundry, or to remember to turn the dishwasher on before bed. There was no one to get up with the kids in the middle of the night either, to help soothe their tears, or put them on the toilet, or give out Tylenol for sudden fevers, or scrub puke out of the carpet. No one to pick up the prescriptions or forgotten groceries, to catch the things I'd dropped or missed.  I won’t pretend I wasn’t overwhelmed, and though it’s been almost a year since we split, I’ve only recently begun to settle into a routine that doesn’t make me want to cry, or eat a whole cake (or both) by the end of the day. In that vein…

2. It’s empowering:

Last week, after I killed the second spider I’d found in my house in a matter of days, I sent my mom a triumphant text bragging about my courage. After all, I’d always been able to shriek and have a man rush to crush whatever creepy-crawly had sent me fleeing onto the furniture. In response, my mom texted me back: “living alone is empowering because it’s not easy.” And that’s the truth− being forced to rely entirely on myself for the first time since I was twenty has caused me take on a level of responsibility that’s ultimately made me much, much happier (though also more wrinkly). However...

3. It’s lonely:

One thing I really didn’t expect was the intense isolation that comes with being a single mom. When you’re married you’re often so used to your partner's constant presence that you can crave having the house to yourself− an evening alone seems like bliss from a distance. But quickly I discovered that aaaall that quiet was a huge adjustment; after I put the kids down each night, I was forced to face the long, empty hours before bed that seemed impossible to fill without a companion. The silence was unnerving, and I fantasized about moving in to my mom’s house where I could be sure of conversation. But I resisted, and recently, amazingly, I’ve noticed that for the first time ever I’m actually learning how to be alone (and loving it too!) But, the odd time I do want to go out...

4. It’s really tough to get a night away:

When I was still married, after my husband got home I’d often take off to the grocery store solo, which is the equivalent of a beachside vacation when you’re a mom. I’d take my time and stroll down the aisles, pushing my cart like I was a celebrity and they’d closed the store just for me. Sometimes I’d pop into Shopper’s Drug Mart and try out makeup samples, or head to friends’ house for wine and child-free conversation. Once in a while I’d go for a drive just to enjoy not reaching backwards groping blindly for a toy as nursery rhymes blare through the speakers. Now that I live alone, I’ve lost that free childminding a marriage partner offers, and I spend more evenings on the couch yelling at MasterChef Canada than I’d like to admit. Plus...

5. The time off isn’t really “off”:

Most Friday nights, my ex will swing by and pick up our kids so they can spend the weekend with him. He brings them back on Sundays, meaning I have about one full day without them. Initially I had ALL the feelings about this arrangement (what would I do with so much free time?!) but it turns out, that day off is usually just me catching up on the things I didn’t get a chance to do during the week− a list which is now much longer than it used to be. Insert boring emoji here. 

6. You compromise more:

There’s less parent to go around now, and my kids definitely feel it. They act out more than they used to, and it seems they’re very aware of the fact that they outnumber me. I’m also unable now to give them each as much of that all-important individual time they enjoyed before my husband and I split. The guilt about this can weigh pretty heavy at times, but I’m learning to recognize that while I’m not giving my girls everything, I really am doing the best I can, and that has to be good enough.

7. You compromise less:

Marriage is all about compromise, whether it’s agreeing on paint colours, or household chores, or how to spend your money. Since I’ve moved out on my own, I’ve discovered that there is absolute liberation in not having to consider anyone else’s opinion. My bedroom is the girliest it’s been since I was a teenager, I have books stacked in every corner of my house, and if I don’t want to wash the dishes at the end of the night I really don’t have to. My home is entirely mine and it’s a freedom I plan on savouring, along with sleeping smack-dab in the centre of the bed and hogging every last pillow. Similarly…

8. You begin extreme vetting of potential partners:

With all this independence and empowerment, I’ve become very unwilling to give up or even share my new life with anyone. Sure, this could be classified as a deep fear of failure and serious emotional unavailability, but I like to call it being cautious. I’m wary of needing someone too much, of leaning on them instead of myself, because it would be such an easy habit to slide back into. And even now that I am seeing someone, I’ve set serious limits, most of which equal moving about as fast as frozen molasses in terms of how much time and space I’ll devote to our relationship. I’m not looking for someone to take back that ten percent and make my life easier− after all, it’s the tough stuff that reminds me what I’m made of. 

I Spent Easter With My Boyfriend

Spring is here finally, and with it comes new beginnings.

This is the time of year that many people start their gardens, and if you ask anyone with a green thumb they’ll tell you there’s a right way and a wrong way to prepare your soil, to plant seeds; there are rules about fertilizer and water and sun and shade. There’s a good time and a bad time they’ll say, as though time is ever anything but a gift.

I think this spring is particularly evocative because of how brutal and relentless the winter was, how dark, and cold, and lonely its occupation. For me, grief was my stony companion throughout those grey months, and it often filled the empty side of my bed. It asked me to spend the day with it, to wrap us both in wrinkled sheets and listen to the rain perpetually peppering the roof. Sometimes, I did.

In a little over a month, my estranged husband and I will have been separated for a year, and will be eligible to file for divorce. Just the words “separation” and “divorce” sound so sharp and sudden, like a limb cleaved from a body. But for me, it has been more like a gradual dismantling, little pieces tearing with each step we took towards being incomplete. We lost a fragment when we stopped touching; another when he began sleeping in another room. More broke off when he moved out of our house, and continued later when we finally made it all public− we’d kept the crumbling secret for so long. Something even larger tore away when I finally moved out too, and it took some of my soft flesh with it. Because of this, the pain has been gradual as well, coming in stages and waves. I know that’s typical, but it didn’t make it any less startling when I found them upon me.

Sometimes, you do everything right, and the flowers still die; you care too much, drown them in nourishment and they never fully leave the soil. The carrots, neatly spaced, still wind like tumors around each other, and once pulled into the light reveal their deformities. You bury the stems of the tomatoes deep, cage them, and water regularly, but they rise up as shrunken heads, wrinkled and diseased. And yet at other times, you toss a rotten pumpkin carelessly onto compost, and from the unsuspecting seeds pop bright, plump descendants.

Life is unpredictable, and I doubt I’ll ever say with certainty that I know what I’m doing. But right now I’m so very grateful for this April sunshine, and for my ability to believe in something again. I’m in awe of my heart’s capacity to adapt and heal, and it’s a gift I refuse to squander. Because soon, it will be winter again− we all have our own winters that come and go. And I’m determined to make the most of this spring I’ve been blessed with, and to let life astonish me with it's miraculous resurrection− to breathe in fresh earth, to listen to the birds croon, and to fall in love again if that’s the path my heart is determined to take me down. This year I will be green shoots, and under the long-awaited warmth I will stop bending, and let myself blossom as Mother Nature intended.

There is no right time or wrong time, there is only springtime and wintertime, summer and fall. And I am determined to be unapologetically true to myself through them all.