A Double Surprise

Wow! Well it’s been a ridiculously long time since I’ve updated a blog post. In my defense, I’ve been completely caught up in work/wedding/baby madness, but now that things have calmed down considerably I think it’s about time I posted, especially considering what’s been going on over here.

As anyone who knows me well enough will tell you, I struggle with spontaneity. I like to live with a structured plan, and deviations from that completely overwhelm me. And again, as anyone who knows me well enough will also tell you, a baby was never in my immediate plans. In fact the idea of getting pregnant was, as of about a month ago, probably my worst fear; I have way too much I intend on accomplishing in the next couple years  for the role of “mom” to be anything but a distant consideration.

My husband (then fiancé) is the complete opposite; he’s been baby-crazy for as long as I’ve known him, and that talk has become much more serious since we got engaged during the summer. He feels like he is meant to be a dad, and anyone who knows him well enough would agree; he’s incredibly patient, loving, gentle, goofy, and young at heart and any child would be beyond blessed to have him as a father. But, despite this, I wanted us to wait. Every time he brought it up, my automatic response was: “not a chance. Ask me in 4 years!” When we were both finished our schooling, and had a home and stable careers; then, I thought, we could start talking about a family.

So you can imagine the incredible, overwhelming shock I felt when I discovered in early March that we were expecting. I should have known, of course; the signs were all there. It started with the unexplainable exhaustion during my nightly exercise…  A run I’ve been doing for years became painful, and I found myself nearly fainting at the end of every workout. Then, there was the sudden, random, projectile vomiting that started happening almost every day, something I naïvely chalked up to wedding stress. And I can’t forget the ability to strongly smell everything around me, the most memorable of which was a glass of wine my fiancé had a room away but which smelled like it was right underneath my nose.

All of these were signs of pregnancy, and I knew this, but I refused to acknowledge it. Firstly, we were beyond safe and couldn’t grasp even the possibility of pregnancy (my doctor is still baffled as to how it actually happened), and secondly we’d never had a scare before so I was full of that arrogant belief of invincibility. Finally, however, after day ten or eleven of puking in a row my fiancé decided we needed to take me to the clinic. “Well, I might as well take a pregnancy test now then,” I said in response. “If I go in there and tell them I’m puking this much they’re going to ask me if I’m pregnant so I might as well be sure.” Not believing for a second that I actually was.

I have to say, the two positive pregnancy tests that followed that statement severely humbled me. And as we sat on the couch giggling in shock and disbelief afterwards, I can’t say the thought of “you can’t keep it” didn’t go through my mind. I would love to say that I’m perfect, and rose to the occasion instantly, but that’s just not true. I detest deceitfulness, especially in writing, and I feel the need to be honest about my emotional struggle during those first few days after the revelation. All of my plans: schooling, career, travel, flashed before my eyes and seemed to slip away through my fingers, replaced by the image of a crying, needy baby.

It’s not that I’m not maternal; I love children, have always wanted to be a mom one day, and in fact work as a nanny for a family with 5 kids. It’s just that this didn’t seem like the right time… how could it be when I was right in the middle of schooling, my fiancé had just started a new job, and we were still living in a rented suite?

So, I tried to put the thought of keeping the baby out of my mind, and my fiancé was above and beyond supportive, though I knew his heart leaned in the opposite direction. Nonetheless, I set up an ultrasound to find out how far along I was, and then went about my life. But a few days after finding out, I went for a run to clear my head and found myself talking to my baby the entire time. I wasn’t even consciously aware that I was doing it for the majority of my run; I told it about the neighbourhood I was running through, what it had been like for me to grow up here, what I hoped its childhood would be like, and suddenly when I realized what I was doing, tears came. Too many to contain. I found myself stopping near the end of my run, walking home and crying my eyes out the entire way with the thought of “how can something so wonderful ruin my life?” Spinning around and around in my head.

When I finally arrived home my fiancé and I sat together and cried for a long time, talking to our baby and each other about what a joy it would be to keep it and what amazing parents we knew we would be, regardless of where our careers or home stability sat. I knew in that moment that if I gave up my child, it would forever haunt me. I was not a woman who would feel empowered by my choice; rather, I would feel as though I had a ghost attached to my shadow, the ghost of a child that should have been. When we did move on to have children, planned children, our first would always be seen in my heart as our second, and I didn’t think I could live with that.

That night, we went to bed with heavy and confused minds; I don’t believe either of us got much sleep.

However, the next day things became even more complicated. An ultrasound was followed by a phone call from the doctor with something that managed to completely stun me in a way, given the weeks events, I wouldn’t have thought possible.

“Did the ultrasound technician tell you anything about your pregnancy…?” She said hesitantly over the phone. When I said no, she responded with something I will always remember vividly: “You’re having twins. Identical twins, actually.”

More tears came then. I cannot explain to anyone who has not had a phone call like that what it truly feels like, but I can say that beyond the initial shock there is a powerful undercurrent of overwhelming joy and love for the double blessing you realize you’ve been given. My mom had been a twin (though hers died in the womb) and there were several other sets in my family, and a couple in my fiancé’s, which massively increased our chances of conceiving them; it was also something we’d always talked about as desperately wanting. Again, the thought struck me: how could something so wonderful, such a massively beautiful gift ever ruin our lives? And I knew then that it couldn’t. No matter how little money or stability we had, we would love our children and be the best parents we could possibly be, and nothing could get in the way of that.

As my mom told me the next day when I told her what was going on “you are never really ready to have a baby. There is never a perfect time. Babies come when they’re ready and they are always a blessing.”

And I knew she was right.

So we decided to keep our precious babies, and every moment since then has been amazing. It seems so easy and natural for me; though I’ve started falling asleep by 8, I’ve simply changed my schedule and made my nightly workouts earlier in the evening so I’m not exhausting myself. And though my morning sickness has been classified as “severe”, I don’t mind very much as I know it means my children are healthy. And though I’ve had the odd craving (ice-cream is a steady one) I ignore it and eat spinach instead because I know it’s what my little ones need to grow and be strong. All the deviations and surprises and things I have no control over don’t bother me like they once did, and I feel very at peace.

For the first time in my life I feel capable of relaxing and going with the flow, and more happy and purposeful than I ever have previously. I spent so much time convincing myself that children were the worst punishment that could be inflicted on me at this age, but I find now that I realize they will be the best thing that has ever happened to me. And I look forward to every day of this new journey my husband and I will take together with our family. It might not have been in the plans, but I've discovered now that life doesn't really care what your plans are, and I'm surprisingly thankful for that.

A BIG lesson from life’s imperfections.

Not A Rom-Com

In my several years of being active in the dating world, I’ve discovered one steadfast reality: that love stories aren’t the way Hollywood tells us they should be. Sure, I’ve had my fair share of incredibly romantic moments but I’ve never had a partner try to complete my bucket list before I die, or been serenaded on a plane with Billy Idol’s guitar, and by no account did a young Shakespeare ever dedicate a classic play to me. By this point I think it’s safe to say that the picture painted for us every year by writers and studio executives rarely holds a fragment of truth.

But if I have learned something from these leagues of movies that inevitably flood out of Hollywood every time a holiday/special occasion/any occasion for couples to get sappy rolls around, it’s that the most important part of any love story is to follow your heart, and be true to yourself. A lesson which ultimately (regardless of how atrocious some of these movies end up being) is still very important in life and in love. It’s also one I’ve had to fully recognize while planning my own wedding.

My fiancé and I got engaged this past August, and within less than 2 weeks of announcing it we’d already decided on the basics: a summer wedding, outdoor location, and a date smack dab between our two birthdays; it seemed, in all appearances, perfect. Suggestions poured in from helpful relatives too, on everything from food to décor to my dress, and for my part I was thrilled about that. I was what I’d call a “reluctant bride”; not reluctant to marry my partner but reluctant to involve myself in the entire mindset of what it means to be an engaged female. All the wedding details that seemed so infinitely important to other people didn’t feel very important to me and I was more than happy to let others take the reins and steer us towards the altar. As long as I came out on the other side of the day married to the one I love, I thought I could be happy.

But as the months went by, I felt more and more anxiety building within me. The minute talk about the wedding came up, I became frustrated, tears formed, and I felt like throwing my hands in the air and calling it off altogether. But I couldn’t understand why, and neither could my fiancé; for a while there I’m sure he believed I was having cold feet and that he was the problem, not the wedding itself that was forming in our future.

Finally however, the realization hit me: it wasn’t that I didn’t want a wedding, it was that I didn’t want this wedding. For starters, I’ve never been particularly fond of summertime. Being a fair-skinned, dark-haired individual who burns easily, sun really isn’t my thing. From May through till September I essentially become a vampire: the blinds in my house remain closed at all times and I don’t go out in the daylight without sunglasses and a hood. (No joke there… if one was to go through my family photo albums you’d be lucky to find a single summer picture of me that I wasn’t squinting in.) And brightness aside, there’s the heat too: when summer comes around every year I usually find that I hate all the clothing I own, everything feels sticky, and my hair is thick and frizzy and impossible to deal with. Needless to say if there’s a time of the year where I feel particularly unattractive, summer would be it. So why was I having a summer wedding?

Then there was the time commitment: I’m a full-time student as well as part-time employee and my fiancé is overcoming a serious injury that occurred just prior to our engagement which is a full-time job in itself. Simply put, we had bigger fish to fry this year than having a perfectly planned wedding, and for our sakes we needed to just get it over and done with (as unromantic as that sounds).

And I can’t forget the ridiculous idea of having my wedding outdoors… while it sounds nice in theory, the thought of being chased at my “rustic” open-air reception by bees and mosquitoes (how I usually spend my summer evenings) was my definition of a nightmare.

So, after an emotional conversation with my fiancé we decided to move our wedding date up from July to March, regardless of what anyone else would think about it. March has always been a month I’ve loved; warm rain showers, the smells of spring, and the return of life after a cold winter stir my soul in a way that July never has. It felt perfect. So we settled on March 23^rd, and besides the confusing pregnancy questions I faced there was little resistance to our decision.

And for the first time since our engagement I felt like I could breathe. I no longer felt my finger itching with the ring around it, I didn’t start hyperventilating at the words “wedding” or “bride”, and despite my best efforts I started to actually care about what our special day was going to look like. It was as though asserting myself once and following my heart opened up a whole new person inside of me who not only had real wedding opinions, but felt brave enough to stand up for them.

I have to say, I liked this new identity. While visiting a local jewelry store with my fiancé to browse wedding bands a few weeks later, I felt that familiar suffocation every time the sales associate put a sparkling, diamond encrusted band around my finger insisting it matched my engagement ring perfectly. I didn’t agree, and while the little voice in my head whispered that maybe I should just go for the stereotypical band and not face any questions or criticisms, my new voice spoke up louder and stated flatly that I didn’t like them. So instead I found a simple textured band with (GASP!) no diamonds online and promptly fell in love with it.

And now I find myself 8 weeks away from my wedding feeling incredibly excited, impatient, and overjoyed that I get to celebrate this and take such a huge step with the love of my life. In a matter of months I went from absolutely dreading my wedding to fervently counting the days on the calendar, simply because I decided that I didn’t want to do this anyone’s way but mine and my partner’s. Sure, it’ll probably be nothing like almost every rom-com and link on Pinterest has told me is the only way to get married; our cuisine is Indian, our décor is distinctly Fall themed, and I won’t be patronizing the female guests by tossing my bouquet while yelling “crawl for it bitches!” But it will be beautiful, and it will feel like us, and most importantly I’ll be completely and utterly happy with it. Which, to me is perfection in a way that “you had me at hello” or an awkward Hugh Grant never could be.

Adapting to Change

About a week ago when my fiancé and I woke up in the morning, we noticed that something was a little off with our cat. Normally she is happy to see us but disinterested in anything else and, as cats are nocturnal, eventually finds her way to her bed and sleeps away most of the day. This morning however, her behavior was different: she meowed like she was being tortured, circled our feet endlessly, and sprang up like a rocket every time we moved in the direction of her food/litterbox area. Realizing she was unnaturally hungry, I fed her, and she devoured the kibbles in seconds. However, the next day the same thing took place, and then again the day after that. She started doing it at night too before her dinner feeding, usually starting around 4pm and continuing until 6 or so when we finally gave in.

I was perplexed. We’ve owned our cat since we adopted her from the SPCA almost a year ago now (wow!) and not once, not even in the first days we owned her did she ever behave this aggressively towards feeding time. So what had changed?

A couple days into this madness, my fiancé casually remarked to me: “maybe it’s because I’ve been feeding her so much food.”

“What?” I asked, confused and also instantly suspicious. “What do you mean?”

And then he went on to explain that he’d discovered old tins of wet cat food in some of our moving boxes, and so on top of giving her dry food at meal times he’d also been adding in half a can of wet food… a feast, essentially, to a small feline. And that this routine of gratuitous overfeeding had continued for days.

Maybe our cat thought she was going to be starved soon, and that this was her last meal. Or maybe she’s just an animal who couldn’t resist the buffet in front of her. Either way, my fiancé had essentially trained her to eat more than she was generally accustomed to, until soon that became her new normal and the little scoop I’d been giving her wasn’t enough… Understandably after devouring it she was still hungry.

It was upon realizing this that a simple thought occurred to me: everything is adaptable. We can change almost anything in our lives that we put our minds to… develop new routines, new habits, even entirely new ways of thinking simply by altering the standard. Thinking about this in my own life, I realized that it applies completely.

Almost daily, I eat some sort of green vegetable with every meal. But things weren’t always this way, or even remotely close to it… I thought I was eating healthy but in reality I wasn’t; cereal, processed white bread, heavy rices, apples, and junk essentially rounded out my diet. And I didn’t ever think that would change! Besides the basics such as carrots, peppers, and iceberg lettuce, vegetables were completely unpleasant to me and I had no interested in going near them. But out of a desire to have better control over my moods and stomach issues I decided to start adding them to my fridge, and little by little my vegetable collection grew, as did my cravings for them. My bravery developed too, and I began to start trying new things I previously wouldn’t have touched with a ten foot pole; I was pleasantly surprised by what I discovered. As the months have gone on this has expanded and expanded to the point that I can now honestly say that I ADORE vegetables; spinach, broccoli, kale, asparagus, and tomatoes (my once sworn enemy) are some of my favourites. And that change started to lead to other changes too; my rices are now whole grain, as is my bread, and seeds, fruits, and nuts carry me through the day.

Of course I’m not perfect, and I definitely indulge now and then, but as a general rule I avoid the rich, starchy, sugary, salty, fatty foods of my past, and my body and mind feel infinitely clearer for it. I now understand the connection between what we eat and how we function, which, surprisingly is not something I ever truly understood until a few months ago, and now when I eat a big bowl of green veggies I don’t feel like I’m depriving myself I feel like I’m rewarding myself with delicious nutrient goodness. What better gift is there than that?

SO THIS IS WHAT I LEARNED TODAY: That change ISN’T as scary as it seems. That no matter how intimidating or frightening or impossible or uncomfortable something seems, it’s just an adjustment that one day will seem completely normal. And that no matter how badly I don’t want to go on that run in the snow, or shower in cold water to make my hair shiny, or dump mushrooms into my pasta because the recipe calls for it, it’s worth doing anyways, just to keep life interesting. I learned that new experiences are how we keep from becoming stagnant. No positive big change is ever going to kill me (fingers crossed…) it just takes some getting used to. Anything is possible; any lifestyle can become “normal” to the people who live it long enough. There’s a first time for everything, and that means you have the power to make your life into whatever you want it to be; it just begins with taking that first step in the right direction.

A little lesson from life’s imperfections.

New Years Resolutions

I’ve always been someone who is really cliché about New Years. When I was younger, my best friend Autumn and I would write out all of our resolutions (which usually included things like “get a boyfriend” and “don’t get fat”… we were deep.) On pretty paper with colourful gel pens, and then wrap them in several layers of tissue and sometimes her mom’s tea towels before shoving them into big freezer bags. We were trying to protect them see, because just before midnight we’d head out into her backyard, dig up the previous year’s resolutions that were buried in the garden, and put our new ones in their place. Then, over drinks of apple juice and gingerale (that we’d pour into wine glasses and pretend was champagne) we’d read our previous resolutions and laugh like crazy.
Usually what we’d written down was immature, inane, and hadn’t been accomplished, but it never deterred us from writing more; we got an incredible amount of enjoyment from at least trying to set goals (however ridiculous) for our year ahead.

So as 2013 approaches, I find myself wondering what I’ll try to resolve upon this year, and how I can achieve it. And while I’ve been thinking about it for a couple weeks, it didn’t really occur to me until last night when my fiancé pulled up a picture on his phone of a guy falling in the shower. Random, I know, but he sometimes sees these things on his Facebook homepage, and last night this one struck him as particularly hilarious. “Look at him!!!” He wheezed, his voice lost between sickness and laughter. “What must be going through his head??” I glanced at the picture, and to be honest, I didn’t find it too hilarious. It was just a man in the shower, legs in the air, one wrapped in the shower curtain that he clutched desperately with his fingers, seconds away from landing on his ass in the most painful place. But, a couple months ago, my fiancé had fallen in the shower due to having to balance on just one foot, and while at the time it was incredibly painful for him, now seeing this man in a similar predicament struck some sort of recognition; the more he looked at it the more he laughed, until he could barely speak and was hunched over shaking with hilarity.

And the more he laughed, the more hilarious I found it to be, and before I knew it we were both collapsed on the family room floor cackling like hyenas with tears streaming down our faces.

This is a relatively common occurrence in our day to day life. I’ve dated some funny guys, to be sure, and some who made me laugh on a regular basis, but never have I been with someone like my fiancé who makes me absolutely hysterical, with that bust-a-gut, cramping, giggle till you can’t breathe laughter. I’ve only had this connection with a few people in my life, and these are people I’d consider my best friends; I’m naturally a very bubbly, happy, easily-amused person, but to really make me laugh like that you have to be able to reach me at my core. My fiancé is one of these people. He’s my best friend, through and through, in a way that none of my previous partners ever have been. I can be my complete self around him (which is often an embarrassing idiot) and he always joins in without a second thought. We do the most ridiculous things together, and find them absolutely hilarious… being together, we’re never bored or sick of each other.

But this past year has been really rough on us. From our disastrous move to Surrey, to our awful townhouse when we moved back, his accident, and even the first few months of our engagement which were tainted by his recovery. We haven’t had too many enjoyable moments this year; it’s been a difficult one with a lot of lessons learned and a lot of touch patches it took all of our strength and teamwork to get through.

And that’s not me. I know everyone has rough years, but I don’t like to go through so many negative experiences in succession. As Jane Austen said of Elizabeth Bennet: “She had a lively, playful disposition that delighted in anything ridiculous”. And that’s me, in a nutshell. But I haven’t been that way this year… it’s been smothered by challenges that at times have nearly snuffed me out. And I’m determined to make 2013 different.

SO THIS IS WHAT I LEARNED FROM 2012: To enjoy my life, my family, and my fiancé, who come March 23^rd will be my husband. To not let the trials we’ll inevitably face this upcoming year affect my joy or ability to smile. To do more ridiculous things; to spend more time looking up “faceplant fails” on YouTube when I’m having a bad day; to read more books that make me feel complete. To laugh with my best friends, my fiancé, my sister, my brothers, my mom. To embrace my natural goofiness and enjoy it rather than push it away because of something insignificant. To look forward to my wedding day rather than stress about it, and realize that a day where I get to wear an elegant, gorgeous, flattering, sexy dress of my dreams and party with the people I love most is a wonderful thing.

And I’ve learned to spend as much time as possible outside in the rain, sun, or snow and enjoy nature because it feeds my soul. And to listen to music that does the same. And to run, and hike, and climb, and explore the world around me because I’m a naturally physical, optimistic, adventurous person and sitting at home limits me from reaching my potential in every way imaginable.

But most of all, to laugh. Laugh through the good times, the bad times, the slow times. To let my happiness and laughter be our strength, and carry us smoothly through the speedbumps that lay ahead. To have my overabundance of joy and love and elation be our centre, and keep us grounded, and united. To trust my heart, and let it do the talking.

Bring it on 2013.

A little lesson from life’s imperfections.

New Beginnings

Yesterday morning I woke up for the second time in a week to hear about a shooting in the USA.

I’d performed my usual habit of checking social media while I’m waking up in bed, but almost instantly, eyes foggy with sleep, I’d seen repetitive tweets about a tragedy at a Connecticut elementary school. Words jumped out at me: “shooting”, and “massacre.”

“Oh no,” I thought. “Oh no.” A sense of panic struck.

I gasped something at my fiancé about what I’d read. Flew out of bed. Turned on the first news channel my tired brain registered on the TV guide. There was so much to catch up on, and I desperately scanned twitter and Google reports while listening to a sheriff give a statement from outside the picturesque school in Newtown, Connecticut.

As I absorbed the awful details about a gunman opening fire on a kindergarten classroom, what shocked me most wasn’t what the reporters were saying, but rather what my own brain wasn’t. Vaguely I felt the nudge that I should be horrified. Disgusted. Saddened. But I was strangely disconnected from it all… not at all surprised and significantly unphased by the events.

It wasn’t until I watched President Obama’s tearful address that the conscious awareness of a tragedy connected with my emotions, and the full weight of it finally sunk onto me. Crying as I my eyes followed the line running across the screen that read “at least 18 children believed dead”, I realized what made this event so horrible wasn’t just the massacre itself but the fact that this was becoming so commonplace in America that I was almost desensitized to it.

I wondered how many other people felt the same way. It’s one thing to watch fictional movies or TV shows where people are being murdered and remain unaffected, but to have it actually occur, and have children- essentially babies- lose their lives and feel no emotional stir is something else entirely.

And then one news channel was interviewing a man whose sons had survived Columbine. His testimony of their interactions with one of the shooters was unsettling. So was the survivor of Virginia Tech speaking about his experience with the massacre. But what I found to be more disturbing was the fact that the Columbine High School shootings took place in 1999. And Virginia Tech, well that was back in 2007. Yet still, here we are, in 2012, about to cross the bridge into 2013, and we’re still talking about these events, and still interviewing these people, because their stories are still relevant in the worst way: they directly connect to a modern world that has experienced almost no real change since.

Columbine was a tragedy; thirteen people were murdered and it should never have happened. But it did, and what did the USA really learn from it? Not much clearly, because less than ten years later the worst school shooting in American HISTORY struck Virginia Tech with thirty-two students and teachers killed (and seventeen injured). And now in Connecticut almost thirty more innocent people have lost their lives, twenty of whom were under ten years old.

What will it take for a change to occur? How many car accidents at an intersection will it take for the city to put a set of lights in? Or even a temporary stop sign?

It makes me sick and it’s an absolute waste. Just the realization that twenty families were notified today that their grade-school child will never return home is enough to crack even the stoniest hearts.

SO THIS IS WHAT I LEARNED TODAY: that it’s important to stop TALKING about the past and start LEARNING from it. Remembering is not the same as reliving, and there should be a very clear distinction between the two. We don’t observe Remembrance Day to project the war propaganda that was put out at the time; instead the day exists to remind us of the huge number of lives lost on all sides so we never, ever let it happen again. So we forget the glory and lies of war and remember the truth of it: horror, mass destruction, and death, death, death.  So our children and our children’s children, and children’s children’s children never forget the lesson our ancestors learned the hard way last century.

These school shootings should be handled in almost the same way; Columbine and Virginia Tech, and even Aurora shouldn’t only be remembered when something similar happens… they should be talked about and remembered every day so that no one ever forgets the pain we suffered and the lessons we learned from those awful occasions. So we can recognize the patterns and mistakes that lead up to the tragedy and stop them in their tracks before they have a chance to occur again.

I’m not going to pretend that I have some sort of infinite knowledge of American gun laws or amendments; I don’t, and I’m not an American, so I understand that that somewhat disconnects me from the situation. But in reality we’re all people, we’re all connected regardless of what side of the border we reside on, and so this tragedy affects all of us. American lives weren’t lost, children’s lives were and something needs to change to stop this from ever happening again.

It’s said that history has a habit of repeating itself; like the economic cycle of prosperity and recession things ebb and flow, but a selective significant event like the mass murder of students should not be one of them. We shouldn’t have to sit and prepare ourselves for the inevitable occasion that this happens again; we shouldn’t wonder which of these survivors will be speaking to the news about their experience during the next tragedy. This should be it. The last time.

It’s a simple concept that one can apply to any area of life: learn from the past, and use the knowledge to change the future.

A little lesson from life’s imperfections.