New Life #birth #stories

New life. It’s one of my favouritest things about this earth, because there is nothing that fosters hope, like new life.

16 years ago today, I welcomed new life into my arms. I laboured for hours, ruptured membranes, an epidural, oxytocin and a fetal heart rate that scared the pants off of all of us resulting in a c-section.

Fast forward three years and me telling my midwife, “don’t worry, I won’t go into labour today, because it’s my other sons birthday.” Kismet. Fate. Like it wasn’t up for that challenge. I was so naive. New life doesn’t wait, and neither did my second son. Stalled out at 6cm, we thankfully succumbed to a c-section after hours and hours of trying to deliver naturally.

So two boys, exactly three years apart. And like many mothers, birthdays, surface birth stories. We want to tell our stories, the scary parts, the exciting parts and the tender parts. Not to scare other mothers, or to judge our caregivers, or to foster jealousy in others, but because our stories make up who we are.

My boys make up a part of who I am. Same birthdays, similar type of birth, same red hair and the similarities end there. I’ve said many times I would have gone on to have as many kids as possible just for the biology experiment of it all. I wondered how many babies it would take to have a black haired baby, or till a baby who would nurse, or if maybe baby number x would deliver vaginally. (I still have vivid dreams even after delivering 4 red heads via c-section that I could pop one out naturally. I dream I am pregnant often, even though it’s relatively impossible now because of my tubes being done.)

My boys are different, their struggles different and their passions different.

Calvin is a passionate engager, he will take over the world one day if the millenialists and their inability to stick things through don’t take over. He is a fighter. A warrior. For good or for bad, and he has confidence. I have seen him nurture, I have seen him lead and he is a powerful human being whom I believe in immensely.

Eliot, he is a connector. A feeler. He found his niche in band this year playing the frenchhorn and I couldn’t be more proud. But more so for the ways teachers have spoke of his compassion for others, ability to step in and help and build relationships with others.

Stories are making up who they are becoming, and what a gift it is to be characters in one another’s life. Some days the antagonist, some days the anti-hero, but most days the fire that feeds change.

New life is about the hope of the journey, the catalyst for the stories that make up who we are, and who we are becoming, yes even at 43, or 13, 16 or 86…

Thankful to have these kids make up some of the stories in my journey, and maybe one day, much later in their more adult years, they will be thankful for my role in theirs. But for now, we eat cake. And celebrate the new life they continue to be.

©️Entirety 2018


When I Was 8 #taketwo #reallife #parenting #grieving

I have a therapist who encourages me to write. She knows this is a way I connect with my heart, writing and people are the glue that hold me together. I haven’t a chance to talk to her about this new development though, something I worry about speaking aloud, for fear of backlash and judgment.

I have a secret.

Entirety is not perfect, and she is an even less perfect mother. But my counsellor would piss therapeutically on me for that statement.

I’m not wearing my family’s garbage out for all to see and to gawk. Instead I am speaking about some of these unspeakable things so that they could hold less power over me, and that stigma and inadequacy could be quelled.









An explosive child, and a child some days I feel lost at parenting. Co-parenting with an ex-spouse, living out dynamics of dealing with not always agreeing, and knowing this child acts differently with me then he does with his dad, and yet the thread remains.

I am sometimes afraid.

In the midst of trying to grieve my mothers death, I have been trying to hold family life together. Often with the absence of my ex-spouse who has been necessarily dealing with personal issues. And I am drowning.

In the last month I have seen Lawyers, Doctors, Bankers, Counsellors, Funeral directors, mental health workers, police officers and I can tell you I am about done with professionals. There is nothing more to make you feel alone than walking into all these offices to fight these battles with only air by your side. I don’t mean to undermine my sisters hard work through my moms death, but I am partnerless, and at the end of the day, on the days I can, I crawl into bed alone and listen to the sound of the furnace and I hope I can sleep. On the days I can’t, I crawl in beside my 9 year old to not feel so alone.

Tomorrow I am taking my oldest son to live temporarily somewhere else. I want to make sarcastic comments about what kind of mother has to do this. Wise cracks about what a loser I am, but I won’t. Because I know it’s not true, I am a good mom who loves all her kids, even the one that I am driving to a friends house tomorrow through an organization called Safe Families. In the last two months my son has been expressing an enormous amount of hurt through anger, a tv was broken, baking destroyed, my iPhone 7 lobbed through a parking lot and I have been called a fucking bitch more times then I can count. But I can honestly say with my rose coloured glasses OFF, I know he is a good kid.

So I’m still showing up.

When I was 8 my sister ran away. (Note here she is far from being an adult screw up despite some of her journey being unconventional through her teens… ok she remains unconventional but in a good way.) After she returned safely she spent some time living with my Aunt and Uncle.

I remember quite distinctly my mom during this time. I remember comforting her at the age of 8, like my youngest does for me. These moments don’t really make you feel like a great mother. One that your kid can’t live with you and two that you need comfort from your youngest and three this underlying fear that it was something you did or didn’t do as a mother. Cause if I am honest, I’ve probably only fucked up with my son a few thousand times. Like the time he ate crayons and I put tobasco sauce on his tongue for doing so, or the time I told him he was pathological. (Hoping that all his time watching House didn’t clue him in to what I meant.). But I get angry too, and I have said some hurtful things.

So don’t you see, after my mom put my sister in with my aunt and uncle, I just want to know what my mom thought. How did she feel doing that? Did she feel like a failure too? Did she question if they were doing the right thing? Did she cry at thinking about the vulnerability of her child while simultaneously go through the motions of having to keep showing up for me since I was still there? I want to ask my mom, but she’s not here. I can’t ask her what it was like and I can’t not think about the journey they took with my sister and I am now taking with my son. I keep thinking about this quote I read, “why can’t heaven have visiting hours?”

Parenting is hard. I know that’s not a news flash. But it’s hard and I’m still showing up, and I’m a lazy fuck.

My mom showed up too. Somedays better than others, but I always knew she loved me, and that she loved my sisters too.

I can love my kids. Even if the days are sometimes hard. Even if it means unconventional family life so that everyone can get their needs met as best possible.

I just wish I could ask my mom though, what she felt and thought… but true to form I’d probably just accuse her of backseat driving.

©️Entirety 2018