How a Mom is Born

This is a bit of a different post, for me.
I usually chat about my day to day life, but this is something that's near and dear to my heart.
If I ever win the lottery, I will immediately apply to Midwife school and then I will offer it for free.
I wish that everyone who wanted a midwife, could have one.

I've had three babies.
Three different birth experiences.

Bringing a baby into the world really doesn't take very long.
It is rather a daunting task while you are pregnant with the child you will eventually birth, but in reality, it's a small, small portion of time.

And yet, any group of women who have had babies, will almost always get around to sharing their birth stories.
It's our rite of passage.
Our common denominator.

If you have children, then you (or someone), gave birth to them.

How is it, though, that those hours, or, sometimes minutes, and (bless you) in some cases, days, can shape a woman so distinctly?

I mourn the birth I never got to have with my first.
I think that's OK.
I wish it had been different, and I had've been  stronger, or more resilient.
I wish I hadn't eaten so many peanut butter cups for breakfast, and had pre-eclampsia.
I learned from the experience, but the truth is that in some ways, I feel like I failed her before I ever laid eyes on her.

The birth of my second and third babies were entirely different experiences from my first.
I'm a midwifery advocate and I wish it was more available, but I would like to think that I don't push midwifery care on anyone who isn't interested.

If I told you that my second two births were much more calm, even serene, and connected me to my husband in a way I can't put into words, would I be strung up for ostracizing hospital births?
How about if I had a hospital birth myself and could actually compare births from a personal point of view?

Epidurals?
Fantastic!
Once I got mine in the hospital, I was sailin'!

Natural birth with no drugs whatsoever?
Life changing.
I have run marathons and lifted gigantic amounts of weights (at least, for me), and I've never felt more powerful than when I had those babies.

Everyone has a different birth story to tell, and no one is better, or worse, than any other.
They are personal, and so sometimes won't be shared.
We are allowed to have negative feelings about our experiences, but the fact is, that the end result is the children who now live in our homes, and more importantly, hearts.

If you're a woman and are interested in the strength of your body,  then I strongly encourage you to seek out a midwife early on in your pregnancy.
If you're a woman and you're not too fond of pain and would just like to get the drugs,  have a baby and get home, I would also encourage you to seek out a midwife.
If you could give a flying hoot who takes care of you during your pregnancy, and you'll take any and all drugs, then good on you too!  All we have to do, is help these babes evacuate the premises, in a safe way for Momma and baby.

There is hoards of research to try and help you make an informed choice, but it's important that expecting or soon to be expecting Moms know that you are free to choose a caregiver for your pregnancy, and mostly, I encourage you to do that.
Select a caregiver.

Fries, no gravy. And diet coke, please.

I've just set the kids down with their dinner.
A double package of MrNoodles split into three bowls, and one snack plate with cucumber, cheese and veggie straws.
Y'know, for the vitamins.
I use to give them each a snack plate, but I got tired of throwing away two entire plates of food, and one that was nibbled on.
Now I just throw away one plate of food, and put three, empty noodle bowls into the dishwasher.

My own eating is pretty darn healthy.  Lots of veggies and lean meats, fruits, cheese, smoothies.
I'd like to say that my good habits will eventually fall onto my kids, but the fact that I scraped a plate with tiny pepper pieces that had previously been in meatballs, from the other adult individual, who I will not name, who also lives at this house, says that I'm not entirely confident in this.

I have a long way to go in my wellness endeavors.
I've come a long way, but just yesterday I had an overwhelming desire to eat some raw cookie dough.  Not even a choice binge for me, but the desire was there, nonetheless.

I "built" a cookie into the following day, which was really satisfying not only to look forward to, but to devour, post workout.

I also still, preeeeetty much all the time have the desire to abandon all notions of health and wellness and eat pizza, and wings and beer...

And I still may.  Probably will, one night, truth be told, which is OK, just not so frequently as it's not a damn good treat.

I've been inspired to write a bit about the beginnings of my struggles with weight.  The actual beginning was when I was around five.

A relatively traumatic event happened to me, at the hands of a stranger, and I started gaining weight, unintentionally, for lack of a better word.
(Later in my life, during counselling sessions, I learned that this is a common response for young children.  We think that if we're "bigger", then the bad thing won't happen to us again.)

I wouldn't say that my struggle with my weight began until I was around 15 or 16, though, as I never remember being concerned too much.

During high school, I played almost every sport.  I also swam competitively until I was 15, outside of school, so fitness has truly been a part of life forever.
I didn't focus a lot on what I ate, but I do remember restricting and counting calories, but also binging.
I started drinking diet coke in high school, and I rarely, rarely had fries at the school cafeteria.
And never, with gravy.

I don't remember my friends every having anything to say about my size, but I do remember a particularly jaded boy I had broken up with, telling me I was fat.
At the time, I was probably a size 10, and fit.
But I still had a little belly.  I've never, ever had a flat belly.

That teeny, tiny moment in time had a profound effect on me, and is still a strong memory.

I also had a boy I was seeing in my early twenties, tell me that he didn't see my obesity as a problem.
I never spoke to him again after that, though I recall my cell phone "blowing up", and this was before that was a commonly used term.

My true struggles, difficult and grand, as they were, began after my grandpa died.
I piled on weight.  Fast.  Forty pounds in 6 months, and it only got worse, but I stopped getting on the scale.
My size 16 clothes, that fit like sausage casings, told me the truth.

Getting under 200lbs is still one of the greatest things to happen to me.  It felt like exploding a glass ceiling.  Like I could have easily stayed where I was, and probably had a different, but still content life, or I could start dreaming and reaching giant goals. 
I decided to try to reach my full potential.

It took a long time, and I still gain weight easily.
Creating healthy habits starts from childhood, but it's not "ingrained", I don't think.
Many people, are able to recognize that they grew up eating less than nutritional things, and correcting it.
I buy ichiban in bulk at Costco.  I also buy cucumbers, peppers, carrots, cheese, yogurt...
I'm trying not to feel badly about the junk they eat, because, after all, they're still kids, and should get to eat junk a little more often.

My advice to my teenaged self?
Eat the pizza pop.  Your metabolism is at it's prime, now, girl!
Also, you look just fine.

For My Mom.

Being a Mom can be very, very lonely.

Spend all day, not being alone, yet feel lonely.
This statement pretty much sums up parenting for me right now.
I'm so friggin' sick of hearing my name being called (x3), that sometimes I yell.
Just out of sheer frustration, and the fact that I'm lonely, and sad sometimes, and this Mom gig isn't anywhere near as glamorous as any of us thought it would be.
I'm not looking for pity, or someone to offer help.
We don't become Moms for the praise or accolades, (beleeeeeeeee me, there ain't none!)  And we can't expect help once we have our children either.
These babes were our doing.

I'm just tired.

Someone is always sick.
We haven't had a full nights sleep in over 6 years, and although we have a fair amount of help, both family and the dayhome, it seems we're always busy, and fizzling out at a rapid pace some days.

We do our best not to schedule activities for anyone during school days.  Friday evening and Saturday morning are busy, but in comparison to loads of other families, we're not a super "scheduled" family.

I am an introvert,  and I don't like to have a week full of appointments and engagements and play dates and kids activities.  I like to stay home.  I like to hang out with my own crew.

Sometimes I just need to vent, and unfortunately, little ears aren't very sympathetic to my plight, nor should they be subjected to my stresses, as they have their own tiny anxieties to deal with.

Having two children is difficult, but I've found the transition from two to three the most difficult.
Even when both my husband and I are home, with three, we are outnumbered.

When they're getting along, which is rare, it's kinda wonderful, in a magical, blockbuster movie kinda way.

This long, meandering blog was intended to be a note of gratitude to my Mom.
And it is.
If you read between the lines, of the stresses and perils of my Motherhood journey, you will see that I am the Mom I am, because of the one I had.
I think I am a good Mom.  I do the best I can, with the tools I have, in the moment.

We are who we are, because they were who they were.
Resonates.
Speaks to me in a way it never could before I had a family.

My Mom was young.  She was 10 years younger than I was when she had her first baby.
I don't remember thinking she was drowning.  I can't recall a time when she cried in front of us.  Not one of my memories is of her showing any sign of stress of anguish over parenting.

The thing is, though, that she was feeling all of the things I am writing about.

Parenting is so, so hard.
There are no breaks, it doesn't get easier, and there are no rules or guidelines for your children.
Almost everyday has a little bit of ugly, and lots of beauty.
I want to thank my Mom for doing it for us.
Thanks, Mom.
For going through the motions, when you left your 'A' game behind that day, and we didn't have a clue.
For having sh*t happen in your life and tucking it away for the day, because being a Mom can't wait.
For spending the time learning how to parent, when you didn't know how.
For sometimes going without, so we never knew anything was missing.
For making countless breakfasts, lunches, snacks on snacks on snacks...
For years of bathtime and dressings and hair brushings.
For dentist and doctor appointments, hair appointments, specialist appointments, and late night emergency visits.
For sometimes smiling and still being patient and kind, when you were so tired and worn out and wanted to cry.
For being the gentle, but assertive reassurance after a day of being bullied.

Thanks, Mom.
I get it now.

A Love Letter to Our House

How many places have you lived?
Now, how many of those places would you truly have considered home?

I've lived in a lot of different houses, apartments, duplexes.
I've only considered two different houses, my home.

This year, I have said goodbye to both homes.
The Fort McMurray fire ate up the house I considered home for more than 20 years. 
I am not deeply attached to my belongings, and I would venture to say the my Mom and Dad and my brother and his family were not so much bothered by the loss of their things as they were the loss of their home.  Their sanctuary.  Their collective soft place to land at the end of each day, together.

The home I live in now has been the place where I have become so many things.
A fiancé, a wife, a Mother.
Literally, my then boyfriend proposed to me on our deck.  Literally, we got married in front of our fireplace.
I felt my first contractions of my youngest children in this house.
They all took their first steps here.

We have endured so much in this house and I am grateful beyond measure for the memories we have made here.
I am a homebody and I am deeply, deeply attached to this house.

The bathtub has held bags and bags of ice to easy my aching body after a 30km run.  It has silenced false labor several times.  It has bathed my filthy children countless times.
Our bedroom has been the gathering place.  Where my family will pile into bed and watch movies together. 
We have marked up walls with ride-on toys, we have nicked up the floor just in the living we have done here. 

I have cried many, many tears in this house and will absolutely be shedding some tomorrow.

This house has seen us become a family of five.
This house has seen us become a family.

At the risk of seeming trivial, I write this post.
This year has had so much loss and heartbreak, and to be so hung up on the "loss" of this house seems melodramatic. 

I empathize so very much for all the homes lost to The Beast.
My heart aches still for the sudden and breathtaking destruction that was May 3.

I'm sure our new home will be more than enough to contain a lifetime's worth of memories, but in this moment and I am so sad to leave this place that has been a big part of my "growing up".

Temptation

I had plans for today.
Sleep all night, after my evening shift.
Get up, put biggle on the bus.
Pack middle and little into car and head to the gym for a workout.

I feel like life was just wringing her hands and shaking her head slowly while these plans marinated in my brain.

Instead, it went like this,

Return to hospital at 1140 for call back.
Think, OK, hopefully there's no more of that...

Get called back two more times during the night.

Sleep until 815.
Get up frantically to throw gym gear on and try to get there in time.

Realize the entire family is not in the house.

Call husband to find out that bus was broke down.
He had to drive biggle to school.
Husband meets at Tim Hortons for child swapping.

Head to the gym.

Receive call at 840 that biggle is throwing up in the school office.
Turn around.
Pick up biggle and head home to put everyone's jammies on and watch movies all friggin' day.

Life, some days, you're a huge bit*h.

My thought, as I was driving home from picking up my child,
who at this point has a lovely, barfy aroma about her, was,

Eff.  This.  Day.

As someone who eats for comfort, that roughly translates to, I'ma eat whatever the hell I want to today.

I've had many, many of these days over the past six months, and not surprisingly, found about 14 extra pounds through the process.

Recently, though, I've found some help, and I've been back to my normal, healthy, good-feeling self.
But today, I'd given myself permission to just, not even.

Except that I knew that if I went home and just made a big protein heavy breakfast, that I'd likely follow up with another, and another healthy choice.

I may eat a donut later today, but I'm already compensating for that.
And at the end of the day, I may not feel like it, which is how I know I'm back.
Donuts are life.  That will never change.

You see, temptation is like a wild animal.  She's untamed.  Always waiting for her chance to break free and, well, eff your day up.  If given the opportunity, she can wreak havoc for days, weeks, even months.  She's quite easy to appease, because her favorite thing is when you make a lousy food choice, and because of this, it can be difficult to cage her back up.

The bars and security detail on her cage?  They're made of satisfaction.

If you eat things you like, and you never have cravings, then those bars are iron clad.  That guard is a big, beefy meathead.
If you never think to yourself, "I can't have that", but, rather, "I'm choosing not to eat that", then the strength of the bars grows, as willpower.

Deprivation, however, weakens the armor that's holding that broad in place. 
That sneaky traitor will be pulling those bars apart faster than you can stuff those mini chocolate bars into your face, two at a time.

When you're "off the wagon", it can seem like you're never going to get there ever again.
You can even be at peace with that, like, "I can make this McDonalds's work for me.  Timbits every day is juuuuuuust fine."
I can justify almost any lousy choice.
I think most of us can.  I told you, temptation is a clever gal!

The truth is not in the pudding.
The truth will be found in your clothes.
Because they won't fit.

Food Fat Fear

"I just eat a normal amount of food, that I wouldn't normally eat."
I said, after having a single beer, and yet feeling quite fuzzy and warm inside my brain.

I'm almost always trying to explain why I'm doing what I'm doing.

I used to give reasons to the cashier at McDonald's, as to why I might be ordering fries.
Seriously.
"I went to the gym this morning."
"Late night study session."
"I just lost a bunch of weight, so, y'know, I can."

So.  Weird.

WhyTheHellWouldIDoThat?!?!?!?!

I have had a strange, messed up relationship with food my entire life.
I'm an obese person, at heart.  Naturally, I'm large and I gain and carry weight very, very easily.
It's not something you deal with, and it's cured.
It's kind of a lifelong thing.
Like any relationship, really.
And, aren't the relationships most worth having, the most difficult?
Heh!  Good one, right?!

I had a hard time even saying the word, food.
Or hungry. Or eat.
Still do, truth be told.

I still find myself putting things back on the shelf at the grocery store for fear of being judged.
I avoid ordering things from the menu that I'm afraid will paint me as being an "unhealthy" person.

I've had many more lightbulb moments in regards to nutrition, than for fitness.
To have the realization on my date with my boyfriend, that it's not something I would normally eat, which makes it a "cheat", was a revelation.

If a "cheat", or, even better than that, a "treat" meal doesn't feel special or taste like absolute freakin' heaven, then it's probably happening too frequently.

Ugh.  Harsh, right?

This is a tough concept, and once I realized this, I was able to easily conclude that eating out is not conducive to a healthy lifestyle, for me.

Lots of people can go out for dinner and choose the tossed salad with grilled chicken.
I am terrible at this.

So, I plan carefully when I am going to eat out, so that I don't have to have so many restrictions.

I am not competing, probably never will.  I am not trying to be below 30% body fat.  All I really want is to stay within 10lbs of my wardrobe.  So, my diet isn't too strictly regimented, however, a couple of nights out at a restaurant wreak havoc on my body and more importantly, my mind.

I'm sure I've mentioned it before, but I truly believe that everyone's journey to health is different.
If you're following some else's path, without taking the time to figure out your own personal pitfalls and challenges, then, I would go out on a limb to say, that your changes probably won't be long-lasting.

It's undoubtedly the most difficult trek I've been on, but also the absolute best and one that has impacted every single part of my life.
I fall off the wagon, I eat trash, but I never give up.  I never think to myself, well this has all been a waste and I might as well eat my way to 200+ again.
I have a houseful of kids who are watching my lifestyle and if nothing else, I want for them to know how to have balance in this part of their lives.
God knows there's not a lot I can control, so I'm putting a helluva lot of effort into this.  Having a healthy body is directly related to having a healthy mind.

I want these kids to have positive thoughts, and the idea that kids have anxiety at younger ages than ever is enough to scare a Mom.  Healthy Mom = happy Mom = (hopefully) happy, healthy kids.

Unassisted

Pull ups.
Not strict, but kipped.
And I can do them without any assistance.

I can do about five in a row.

For me, this was a big deal.
This was a momentous day.

Small victory for some, but for that hour long class, it was enough to bring me to tears.

A young man behind me in class today told me I was a beast.
Hell yea', I'm a freakin' beast!

I'm getting better, I'm pushing myself, and if in that process I look like a beast, then I'm definitely doing it right!

I am a force to be reckoned with.
This is one of the things I always tell myself.
I am not to be underestimated.

We've been testing out our strength so that we can do a whole buncha' workouts in the coming weeks and test again to see how crazy strong we've become.

We tested our 1 rep max, which is basically the weight that you can pick up one time.  Just one.
I've been dying to get to 200lbs on my deadlift, because I know I can do it.

I got it.  It was a sumo deadlift, which is a move I've done precisely one other time besides that day, but I did it.
Glistening eyes ensued.

Just a couple of days before, I got a bodyweight backsquat.

I'm in the habit of grabbing some "juuuuuuuustincase" weights for workouts where I think I might need to drop some weight.
I use to switch out for them routinely.

I need to stop taking them.

I've done a handful of workouts at the prescribed weight, which is always the recommended weight to use, which is usually heavy AF.
Just a handful.
But the victory I enjoy after those workouts is immense.
Huge.

I've settled comfortably into a middle-of-the-pack mentality, and I've been quite content to be average.
For someone who's been overweight, even obese for much of her life, believe me when I say, I've dreamed desperately about being average!
Average is a great place to be.

But I want more for me.
I want to be better, stronger, healthier.
I want to light fires in people, in myself.  In my kids.

Assisted movements at the gym are in no way failures.
Never once did I ever think I was less because I was using bands for pull ups.
We all start at the beginning and we all need to figure out what to do and how to make the best versions of ourselves.

But to be able to exercises unassisted, unscaled...
There are no words for how that feels.
But my glistening, smiling cheeks speak volumes.