Grief.

The other day I was in Costco and I saw this gigantic box of After Eight chocolates and I thought to myself "I should buy those for Amma for Christmas..." and then I remembered that she's gone.

I felt like someone punched me in the gut, knocking the wind right out of me. I had this burning pain in the pit of my stomach that I'd only ever felt a few times before in my life-- The same feeling I got when my mom called and told me that Amma had died a week earlier.

I know she's in a better place regardless of if there's a heaven or not. Her dementia got so bad near the end that anywhere else would be a better place than in her fraying mind and aging body. But still, my heart hurts knowing that she is gone forever.

Dementia stole so much from my grandma, but sometimes there would be a flicker of the old Amma that would emerge. Every now and again it seemed like she would steal a moment back from the brain altering disorder, and even just for a minute she was there.

And now, there are no more of those minutes. No more of the bad ones either. All that is left are my memories. I'm grateful for those, but they'll never be enough and I am scared they too will start to fade. I am scared that I will forget what she smelled like, or the sound of her voice. I am scared I will forget how her hands felt like old, soft tissue paper, or that I will forget the way she used to say "mmm-hmmm and uh-huh" with a smile when we'd tell her a story.

I feel like I lost her twice; once to dementia and once to death. Although she was old, and she lived a very long and good life, that kind of logic doesn't seem to soothe my heartache. Only time will.

I suppose, standing there in the holiday chocolate isle at Costco, I was still getting used to the fact that Amma is gone. Everything was normal until that second when I realized the new normal is that I will never buy her another giant box of chocolates for Christmas. I will never go visit her at the nursing home, I will never hug her or kiss her, and I will never see her again.

Grief is such a strange thing. When it washes over you it can make you feel a million different emotions all at once. It's such a personal experience; different for everyone, yet the same in that you are mourning and dealing with a loss.

I already know that time is the only thing that can mend a broken heart. I know that my sadness will never be completely gone, but in time my heart will begin to heal and when I think of Amma, or when I see a giant box of chocolates that I know she would have liked for Christmas, it will fill me with happiness and warmth.

Right now it's hard, but I am grateful for all the time we spent together when she was alive and all the memories we made.

I miss you Amma.

Goodbye Amma.

My grandma died yesterday.

She was old, her body was frail and broken and her mind was fading. She lived a long and mostly healthy life, it was her time. Even though I know all of this, my heart is still broken.

I miss her.

I take comfort in that she believed in the promise of a heaven and an afterlife, where I can only imagine her being reunited with her beloved husband George (who died 55 years ago, and who she still loved with every fibre of her being) and her sisters and brothers. I am happy that she is free from her dementia, which wreaked havoc on her mind and emotions, leaving her a lost and confused shell of her former self. I am grateful that I got to hold her hand and say goodbye.

We shared a special bond, Amma and I. She was my dramatic, high-strung and hypersensitive kindred spirit. Memories of her are sprinkled throughout my whole life. I am so grateful for those.

Amma was the type of grandma who showed up to every school concert, awards ceremony, assembly, sporting event, function, presentation... Sometimes she'd be the only one, but if there was a seat for her to sit in she was sitting in it, waving excitedly and documenting our five seconds of glory with blurry group pictures that she'd develop and circle the tiny speck that we were in the group.

She was so proud of all her kids and grandkids.

She'd clip and save any mention of us in a newspaper or a newsletter, and she'd save those clippings in a box she made especially for that purpose. She'd gladly read school papers and assignments with enthusiasm, and she'd wear or somehow display any type of craft you gave her. When we were kids you would have been hard pressed not to see Amma wearing some hideous handcrafted broach or necklace that was made of plastic or from glitter and tiny pompoms.

In her head and her heart she thought her grandchildren were a thousand times better than we actually were. She bragged and exaggerated our accomplishments to anybody who would listen-- to her friends, to our friends, to doctors, cashiers, strangers she met in an elevator...

My whole life I've known this day would come. Partly because my grandma was always old and partly because when we got older she would follow us around her apartment with masking tape and a pen saying "Put your name on the things you want when I die."

I suppose you could call her a planner. She said she didn't want anybody fighting over her stuff after she died, so she opted for this "calling dibs" method instead.

Amma was an artist, a sculptor, a proud Icelander. She had refined taste and never left her apartment without lipstick. She always looked perfect and polished. She loved shopping at the Bay-- because that was were she landed her first job in the 1930s the hosiery department. She loved good food, especially desserts, and she was always up for a phone call or a visit.

Amma was a real special lady.

It's the strangest feeling, when someone has been a part of your forever and then they're not anymore.

My grandma's dementia had advanced a great deal in recent years. Life had become really hard. Last week she fell and broke her hip. She had surgery, but she was so frail and it was her time. Thanks to the doctors and nurses at the Seven Oaks Hospital, she passed away in comfort, without pain last night.

Amma, I love you so much. I am so grateful for you and all the wonderful times we had. I'm so thankful that you and Riel got to meet each other. I will tell her stories about you, and us, and about all of our shenanigans. You are in my heart forever.

OPINION: Nobody should be shamed for their attire.

Yesterday the CBC posted an opinion piece by a woman of the name Jo Holness called 'Jo Holness Takes a Stand Against Women Wearing Tights in Public.'

Holness begins her essay by proclaiming that she is a "long time fan of the vagina." She speaks of her admiration for the vagina by using a number of different names for it, for five whole paragraphs before she gets to her whole point of the essay.  

After awkwardly marvelling the wonders of the female anatomy she drops this bomb: "However, as much as I admire the range and ability of your garden variety hoo-haw, I think I could quite happily live the rest of my days without seeing one more of them packed into a pair of whisper-thin tights or yoga pants."

From there it just gets worse. Holness writes "As a woman of the 21st century, I believe we have every right to put on our bodies whatever the heck we want — from burqa to bikini — with no apologies to anyone..." before killing her entire point with: "But just because you can do something, does that mean you should do something?"

Barf.

My gut feeling is that the writer was trying to be funny...Witty even, but instead the entire piece comes off as condescending and judgemental. Quite frankly, it's a weird fit for the webspace of the public broadcaster who has done such an incredible job covering some of Canada's most marginalized women; The nearly 1,200 missing and murdered Indigenous women. 

I am so mad about this post. I am mad that the CBC published something that is so shaming towards women. I'm mad because in this day and age we live in a society that thinks it's ok to objectify women and girls and then tell them what they can and can't wear. I am so mad that I keep seeing social media posts about young girls being sent home from school because of their clothes. I am mad because this opinion piece is just another step back for women... We already live in a society that makes us prove that we've been raped or sexually assaulted before anyone even believes us because our word is seldom good enough. We live in a society that is so quick to blame our "slutty" attire and our attitudes rather than our attackers. 

This opinion piece just reinforces all of that slut-shaming bullshit.

Aside from the sexist undertones, this post is shameful in that it's making fun of people for what they wear. Look man, I wear tights and yoga pants regularly. I wear them even more now that I've had a baby and my pre-pregnancy clothes don't quite fit me anymore. I also wear them because they're comfortable. I wear them because they're easy. I wear them because I want to wear them. As far as I know my vulva isn't showcased, but if it is, stop looking. 

In 2011 (and probably a number of other times) I have written about tights not being pants. I remember vividly trying to be funny while hammering home my point about how I wore some see-through tights and unintentionally showed everyone "the goods." It will take you five seconds to do a Google search and find this post. Looking back, I fully admit that I was a jerk for trying to tell anyone what they should or shouldn't wear. 

Jo Holness is entitled to her opinion about yoga pants. I'm disappointed that the CBC chose to publish it.

Forever.

Buy this decal on Esty here.

One of the first things I remember thinking after Riel was born was that I wanted to live forever.

There was this beautifully terrifying moment where I held her against my skin, trying to soothe her as we both cried, and I remember hearing my inner monologue actually say: "I want to live forever..."  

It was in that second, in all of my joy, that I came to the sober realization of my own mortality.

My daughter's birth set into motion the circle of life. Her birth and life showed me that my universe would no longer end at me. It made me realize that one day, hopefully far, far away, I will die and she will live. It gave me faith that there has to be more than this life, because I never want to stop loving her, even after this life is over. And that has to be enough to believe there is something more. It scared me to think of her in a world without me in it to protect her. Others could try, but nobody else will ever be able to love and protect her like I can.

In all of my happiness the night she was born, there was a sadness knowing there would be parts of her that I would never know or see.

I think that's the part that really enlightened me, the intense mix of emotions that come along with having a baby. I didn't expect this, because It's not just love, or if it is, this was a new kind of love that I was never capable of feeling before. 

I can't really explain it except to say that meeting Riel opened up parts of me-- my mind,  my soul and my heart-- that I didn't know existed. It made me see this new symmetry of life-- this beautiful centre of the universe, where she was just entering and I am partway done. Our time together, though it was just beginning, wasn't ever going to be enough. It was profound and beautiful to love as much as I loved.

I knew I would love my baby with all my heart, but I didn't expect to feel all the other feelings.

Ten weeks in, I am still trying to articulate these feelings. They have become even more real in the fact that time seems to be racing by, and that both Riel and I (more so Riel) are changing and evolving so rapidly. It's hard to keep up and absorb every second. Combine that with the fact that these new emotions and thoughts are fierce and confusing. I can understand why having a baby can lead to postpartum depression and baby blues... I don't think I am afflicted with either of those conditions, but I have a new empathy for others who may suffer.

Having a baby is so many things. It's wonderful and terrifying and it sure makes you aware of time and how quickly is passes by.

I'm not trying to be morbid, any time with my girl is special. I just never ever want it to end.

That old Robert Munsch book kind of sums it up; I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, as long as I'm living, my baby you'll be... I'll love you forever, I'll like you for always, as long as I'm living my mommy you'll be...

I love you Riel. I'm still trying to figure out forever.

For better or for worse

After I had Riel the confidence and empowerment that I felt were like nothing I'd ever experienced before.

I remember getting out of the shower one morning and looking at my naked body in the mirror-- my saggy belly, my engorged breasts, my thick thighs -- and I remember thinking to myself how strong and powerful my body was after what it had been through.

It's weird and I can't explain it, but for a short time after giving birth to Riel I experienced complete and total happiness with my body. It was a temple; a tank; a beacon of life. For some reason I felt nearly perfect. The meaty reflection staring back at me in the mirror was one that had not only survived childbirth, but it was like a trophy that I had earned.

Perhaps it was the surge of hormones from just giving birth, or perhaps it was the fact that I was in my own little world where the focus was on my little girl, and not on myself or anyone else. Whatever it was, it was wonderful.

With time, however, those feelings started to fade. While they're not gone completely, my outlook is changing. I no longer look in the mirror at my naked body and feel empowered. Instead I can't help but see all the meaty flesh that seems more like an obstacle than a trophy. Wearing stretchy pants and loose-fitting tops is uncomfortable in a whole new way.

My body and my eating habits are so foreign after having a baby. I have never known hunger like I know now as a nursing mother. I am, for lack of a better term, like a bottomless pit. I am always hungry and never full.

I'm not going to fat shame myself or pledge to spend my days working out and eating a strict diet, because that's not going to work for me right now. The key words being 'right now.' Some people may call that an excuse, considering that other moms of nine week old babies can do this. But right now, I am still learning how to live my life as a dynamic duo with my ever-changing little girl.

In this new world it takes me hours to get ready to go anywhere, I rarely wear much more makeup than face powder, I willingly wear crocks, and you'd be hard pressed to find me without baby puke on my clothes at any given time. I'm exhausted, yet functional.

My whole lifestyle changed when Riel was born, I can't fit anymore big changes into my life until I figure out the big changes that have already happened.

That said, right now I can make little changes. I can lead a healthy lifestyle, even if it's not going to make me lose all of the weight I gained during my pregnancy. I can take Riel for more walks and heed my own advice when I kick the older kids outside to the yard to play rather than watch TV. I can choose better meals and snacks and be mindful about the foods I am shoving into my mouth at any given time. More important than that though, I can be easy on myself when my former "fat jeans" don't even go up past my butt, or when the two and a half year old tells me that I'm big now while patting belly.

I can enjoy mat leave with my baby without worrying too much about getting to the gym or achieving some sort of fitness goal, because after this year is over there will never be another time in our lives that Riel and I will have this much time together. And that's the most important thing to me.

I can learn to look at my body as the temple it is, the way I did after Riel was born, and trust that small changes will benefit me. I can go easy on myself when I feel fat and remind myself that out of my big, beautiful, healthy body came a beautiful, healthy baby girl.

I can love and appreciate my body, even though it's not what I want it to be like right now, and I can practice being a good role model for my daughter.

Knowing I have the ability to make small changes and a big impact is empowering. Loving my body for better or for worse is one of the best lifestyle changes I can make.

Looking back...

A week after Riel was born I took her to my friend Sunny for a newborn photo session, and to take part in a short video for the Sunny S-H Photography website.

Aside from leaving the hospital, this was the first time Riel had been out into the world. It was also my first time out in more than seven days. I was both excited and nervous as I got her ready and packed her into her car seat. The notion that this baby was mine was one that was still so surreal as I walked out of the house with my jam-packed diaper bag around my shoulder and my teeny-tiny sleeping baby safely fastened in her little bucket, I felt shiny and on top of the world. I walked with a little bit of swagger, the same way a kid does when they get a new bike or something.

I had just made this perfect, tiny little human.

I was ready to show my little girl off to anyone and everyone. Seriously, picture that scene from the Lion King where that monkey, Rafiki, holds newborn Simba up at the edge of a peak, presenting him to the entire pride while the Circle of Life plays in the background. At that moment, and even sometimes now, that's what I want to do with my baby cub.

Given these strong instincts getting out of the house -- to a photographer's studio no less -- was a whole new level of exciting.

I drove about ten kilometres under the speed limit the whole way because I was so paranoid about getting into an accident. I glared at other drivers who passed me and I cursed at the ones who got too close. While it was a typical Saturday morning drive down Portage Avenue, on that day everyone around me was a menace in my eyes. I felt like I was navigating through a highway of disregard.

I white-knuckled it the entire way.

It's funny when you have your newborn baby in the car for the first time; suddenly the world is a whole lot more threatening and every other driver on the road is reckless. You have to navigate through the danger zone (which is the entire road) because you're the only one not driving like a jerk. Or at least that's how it feels. In hindsight it was probably me who was being the jerk with my slow and overly cautious driving.

When I got to the studio I was excited to see what Sunny would do with Riel.

Sunny and I have been friends for years, I've known her even before she became a professional photographer. I've seen her work evolve from good to outstanding, so I knew that the pictures would be beautiful. However, I was a little nervous about how Riel would respond to being dressed up, positioned, and photographed all afternoon. I barely knew my daughter at the time, so I couldn't even predict how she would react.

Sunny told me not to worry, we would work for as long as Riel would let us, stopping to feed or rock her back to sleep if need be. The key to making this entire shoot work was patience.

I was amazed at how comfortable Sunny was with my newborn. She was nurturing and gentle and she was a lot more confident with my baby than even I was at that point. She didn't flinch when Riel peed on her, or when she projectile pooped all over the beautiful rose coloured sheet she had been positioned on. Sunny just laughed like a veteran and claimed she'd seen worse.

I watched as she gently sculpted my sleeping daughter into each position like a artist does with clay. If you've ever tried to take pictures of a newborn baby, you'll know that positioning them isn't an easy task. Yet when Sunny did it, it seemed so simple, my daughter's little body melted into her touch. It was magic.

This wasn't even the first time Sunny had met Riel. She was there the night Riel was born, camera in hand, capturing what was undoubtedly the most important night of my life.

"Text me when the baby's here," she messaged when I went into labour. "I want you to have something more than cell phone pictures."

At the time I didn't realize just how important those images -- her images -- of that night would be.

Chris and I both had our cell phones ready, and we got some really great pictures immediately after Riel was born. But Sunny's pictures offer a different glimpse of the night, her pictures are raw, and beautiful and they're artistic. Looking through them now, two months later, I get emotional when I see my tiny daughter in her first hours of life.

We were really lucky that Sunny offered to do that for us.

Sitting in Sunny's studio, seven days after their first meeting, Riel had already changed so much. Unlike the first shoot, this one was choreographed with outfits and props and backdrops. Our photos turned out beautifully, and have since been printed off and framed, sent to friends, used for invitations and thank you cards, pasted in her baby book, and looked at about a thousand times.

I didn't mean for this blog post to be an ad for my friend Sunny if it comes across that way. She is a helluva a good photographer and Riel and I had a couple of amazing experiences with her, we are so lucky to have a friend like her. I wanted to share that.

If you can afford newborn photography from Sunny, or another photographer that you'd like to work with, I'd highly recommend investing in pictures for yourself and for your little one from when he or she grows up. If you can't afford it, and let's face it many of us can't, don't let that stop you from taking your own staged or candid photos.

My greatest advice to you is to just keep taking pictures of your children. Never stop, because they grow and they grow and they grow so quickly.

A birth story.

A few days ago my daughter turned five weeks old.

Wow, 'my daughter.' That is still such a strange thing to say...

I have a daughter and I am somebody's mother.

Wow.

It's insane how quickly these five weeks have flown by and how much my little girl has already grown and changed. She's getting so big so quickly; she is establishing a routine and I am slowly learning it. Her cherub face seems to change every day as she becomes more alert and aware of the life going on all around her. Sometimes She looks exactly like a Loewen and other times she's a dead ringer for a Cook.

Looking at her is one of my favourite things to do.

It's funny how things change.

When I was pregnant I wasn't sure that I was capable of being a mom. While I did feel love for the little human growing inside of me I wasn't confidant in that love, nor was I confident in myself until the second I met her.

She changed everything.

I hated being pregnant. I didn't feel beautiful or empowered by this experience. No, pregnancy for me meant that I was this large, uncomfortable, miserable person who was insatiably hungry and who waddled. Near the end of my pregnancy I was diagnosed with gestational diabetes, which meant that I had to adhere to a strict diet, test my blood four times a day, and take insulin when my blood sugar spiked. I was also reminded by my millions of doctor's appointments how large my baby was going to be because of my diet and the diabetes. Two days before I gave birth an ultrasound tech told me that my baby was at least 9.5 pounds if not more. (She was 8 lbs 8 oz at birth.)

I nearly cried and I begged to be induced that day.

Beyond the physical changes, pregnancy turned me into this ticking time bomb, who's life was going to explode with changes that I wasn't sure I was ready for.

Truth be told, I was scared of those changes.

See, throughout my pregnancy other parents warned me about what I was getting myself into. These warnings, though mostly true, lighthearted and meant as a rite of passage, filled me with anxiety. People told me to "get your sleep now," because once baby comes I would never sleep again. Or, they said that I should enjoy my freedom now because when baby came it would all be gone for at least 18 years. When I complained about pregnancy, I was told that I hadn't even seen hard yet.

It almost felt like I was walking into a life sentence and I kept thinking about all the freedoms and liberties I would be giving up in exchange for becoming a mom. I'm selfish at the best of times so I couldn't imagine how I would be able to change my life and sacrifice those freedoms and liberties for this completely dependant little person.

I didn't want this little baby to change me or my life, I wanted him or her to fit into the life I already had.

Looking back now, I realize that all the things other parents told me were the truth, however all of these things have a totally different meaning when they have a little person who you love more than anything attached to them.

Everything changed when she was born, most of all me.

I am mesmerized by her; time is going by so quickly and I am so scared to miss out. I am trying so hard to enjoy every second of holding her, as she is curled up like a little bean on my chest and shoulder. Or when she has that hearty, heartbreaking cry when she is hungry. Or, the way she just stares at everything happening around her in this new life she has.

I want to memorize all of these things about her. All of these feelings, sounds, smells. All of it.

Meeting Riel was the most powerful experience I have ever had in my life. I felt things for this tiny human that I have never felt before. I wept as they placed her on me.

"This is love," I thought.

The second she was born, a part of me was born too.

The old rocking chair...

I bought  a (used) rocking chair and brought it to the new place this afternoon on my lunch break to put it in the little one's room. It's the only piece of furniture in the place right now, as everything else gets moved in this weekend.

Anyway, I set up the chair in the corer of the room, by the door, where I thought it would probably fit best once other things are moved into the small space. I bought the chair from a young mother who likely used it to cradle her own babies, who have since outgrown its use. The rocking chair is nice, and gently used with a little wear and tear on the white finish, and some water marks on the foot stool pad. While it's not perfect, it's perfect in function and price for me and the little one.

After I sat in the chair for a second, I got up and I went to leave. As I was turning the hallway to the front door, I looked in the doorway and I saw this imperfectly perfect chair and I had this moment of absolute awe.

This is becoming real.

I am so ashamed to admit how I've been feeling throughout my pregnancy thus far. I've been super scared, apprehensive, insecure and doubtful of this experience. I've taken comments (which were likely meant to be funny or cute) about how life as I know it is over and how I will never sleep again to heart. I have really started to question this whole motherhood thing.

This is not a reflection of how I feel about my baby, but rather a question of my own abilities and a reflection of how I foresee myself in this new role and the change that inevitably comes with it.

Truth be told, I am shit scared.

That said, there have been moments of absolute joy over the last twenty weeks; hearing my baby's heartbeat; seeing his or her tiny silhouette on the ultrasound screen; feeling him of her get stronger while he or she is doing what I can only assume is killer break dancing in my belly...

It's like nothing I can explain just like that moment in my hallway, looking at the old rocking chair in my baby's room. This new life will be hard and I will doubt myself and feel insecure and apprehensive, but just like that old chair, I will be the imperfectly perfect mom for my kid.