The Faucet

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The Faucet
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    • And what about you?

      Posted at 1:35 am by kirstenlanae, on August 19, 2019

      I wrote the bulk of this piece last year, and it’s been sitting in a Google folder ever since. As I’ve been struggling with waves of exhaustion this past week, I was reminded to pull it out, dust it off, and add some polish. As a society we focus so much on new babies, that new moms and their mental and physical health often take a backseat, and my experience is a perfect example.

      “And what about you? How have you been doing?” the doctor asks, turning his attention away from my baby for a moment, and swivelling around on his little black rolling stool to face me. His face is compassionate, and it’s the first time anyone other than my mom has asked me how I’m doing lately. Tired. I am so tired, I think. I try to explain to the doctor what I’ve been experiencing: the funny, fuzzy feeling in my head, and the spells where I suddenly need to lie down right now, but can’t, because I need to look after my six-month-old son. How my eyelids often feel droopy to the point where I have to fight to keep them open. The headaches that come on in the afternoons, and radiate through my jaw and down into my teeth making it difficult to concentrate. How my baby sleeps through the night, so I can’t for the life of me figure out why I struggle to make it through the day without desperately needing to have a nap. That I’m mostly still my productive and organized self, checking things off my “To Do” list, volunteering, exercising (I even ran a half marathon in May), and cleaning the house, but how much personal effort it’s been taking to do those things. 

      “We can send you for blood work, if you like,” he says. Most people I’ve admitted my tiredness to have shrugged it off with a laugh (and I know exactly what they’re thinking: of course you’re tired, you’re a new mom!) so I almost decline the doctor’s offer. It’s my people-pleasing instinct to be agreeable, to not bring too much attention to myself, to maintain the peace in social situations and to make everyone else’s day easier, but I know that something’s not right. I take a breathe, remind myself that I’ll continue to suffer if I don’t advocate for myself, and say yes. I take the printed lab requisition and go straight to the hospital. His office calls a few days later with the results; I have low iron.

      “You need to take an iron supplement every other day,” they tell me. I am so relieved I could cry, and I almost do, even though I’m in the middle of The Butcher Block shopping for hamburgers. For weeks I’d been thinking something was inherently wrong with me; that I was lazy, guilty of sloth, one of the seven deadly sins, and I was disgusted with myself because I grew up in a family that so strongly believes in the importance of work that productivity is glorified above all else. My grandpa, for example, once bragged to me about working for almost two years straight without a day off during the oil boom in the 1970s, and casual daily conversations between my mom and grandma centre around what they managed to accomplish: cleaning out the deep freeze, digging all the potatoes in the garden, or taking down their Christmas decorations. This glorification of productivity also colored my understanding of motherhood, and I viewed good moms as possessing seemingly endless supplies of energy and patience; as tirelessly getting up at all hours of the night without hesitation, calmly rocking sick babies to sleep, making lunches, helping with homework, driving kids to practice, and doing it all without tiring, never needing a break or just some time to themselves. I mistakenly believed that their love for their babies should be so strong that it overrides everything else, even their own physical limitations. I grew up thinking that a mom should be some sort of superhero. 

      With that phone call from my doctor’s office, came some comfort. At least I knew what I am dealing with. More importantly, I finally had confirmation that nothing was wrong with the substance of my character.  My love is strong enough to get up at all hours of the night without hesitation, to calmly rock sick babies to sleep, to make lunches, to help with homework, and to drive kids to practice, but I can’t do those things well if my own figurative tank is not full and functioning properly. After a few weeks, I’m still tired, but at least less so. It’s on one of these days, a Sunday in fact, that, I’m struck with a revelation. Just like when the doctor’s office had called the month before, I am so relieved I could cry.  

      Maybe, I started to wonder, I’m supposed to learn that I can’t be productive all the time; that it’s okay to rest when I’m tired. Perhaps I’m supposed to shift my perspective away from moms being superheroes, and to face the impossible expectations I’ve placed on myself so early on in this perplexing, complicated, and messy journey into motherhood. Maybe this situation isn’t all bad. Maybe my need to rush around, manufacturing a list of tasks to keep myself busy isn’t always the healthiest habit when I’m supposed to be grounding myself in the present moment to experience the small things that really are the big things: the giggles, the smiles, & the little chubby fingers reaching out for mine. Maybe, just maybe, this difficult situation has the important purpose of teaching me that to be a truly great mom I need to slow down and take care of myself too. 

      Posted in Motherhood | 0 Comments | Tagged anemia, exhaustion, mom life, Motherhood, new baby, parenthood, parenting, productivity, rest, self care, slow down, tired

    • Thanks Cal

      Posted at 7:02 am by kirstenlanae, on August 12, 2019

      Shuswap is my favourite summer place. We’ve been coming off and on for years, and I have so many wonderful childhood memories, especially of camping at the provincial park where we spent hours messing around with walkie-talkies, biking around Coho Lane (with no hands!), playing bocce ball at night, and hiding in the bushes to scare nice people just trying to use the outhouse. We’ve gone house boating, hiked Copper Island, shopped for local pottery, and made sure to eat at all the good spots, like Finz (or Finces, as my dad likes to say) and Moose Mulligans. I still love stopping at the floating store in the narrows to buy ice cream, tubing for hours on end until the outsides of my ankles are raw from rubbing on the tube as we bounce over the wake, and finding the trickling waterfall just up Seymour Arm so we can jump off the boat and swim right up to it, carefully climbing on slippery rocks for the perfect photo.

       The past three summers, however, we’ve truly found our happy place, renting the same house in Blind Bay for a week. Not having headed to “the Shwap,” (another of the endearing terms my dad uses when he’s in a great mood from having taken his boat out for a good burn) this summer, I’ve been thinking about, and missing, something that may seem a little odd. I’m missing my yearly dose of inspiration that comes with seeing one of the world’s happiest people in his element.

      In Blind Bay it’s become a bit of a tradition to attend the Thursday night outdoor concert, and each year I leave with such a full heart, but it’s not because of the music or the cinnamon-sugar mini donuts, as surprising as that may be. Instead, it’s because of an old dude named Cal with greying hair who likes to wear Bermuda shorts, Hawaiian shirts, and dance his friggen’ heart out.

      The first year I was struck with awe when I noticed this man, who I’d later hear someone call Cal, dancing all alone on the grass in front of the stage where a band called The Elk Tribe was playing. While everyone else at the concert was sitting on blankets spread across the ground, milling about with their dogs in tow, or relaxing on lawn chairs and eating burgers from the nearby food truck, Cal was dancing with a seemingly unending source of energy, as if powered by pure joy and enthusiasm. I’d never seen anything like it before. He’d close his eyes, and just move with the music, being truly himself, not appearing to care one iota about any of the rest of us watching him. It was clear that Cal came to the concert to enjoy the music and dance, and that’s exactly what he did, bending his knees, spinning in circles, and nodding to the beat. At one point, while the band was taking a break, Cal’s wife appeared with his supper, a plate of steaming food from home. She never joined him dancing though.

      And on each of the next year’s visits, I was delighted to see Cal, obviously a Blind Bay local, continuing to dance alone on the stretch of grass in front of the stage with his eyes closed, and a giant boyish smile plastered across his face.

      For someone like me who lacks rhythm, Cal’s dancing is enviable. But Cal is also a yearly reminder of something more significant than my lack of dance moves; as someone who is often self-conscious and worried about what others may think, Cal represents a life free of those worries, and is a clear example of the freedom, and subsequent happiness, that comes with not giving a damn. Cal also reminds me of the importance of doing what you love, even if that means doing it alone.

      So thank you old dude with the greying hair, Bermuda shorts, and Hawaiian shirt dancing with a giant smile plastered across your face. Thank you Cal, for the yearly reminder to follow your heart. Serious goals.

      Posted in Reflections | 0 Comments | Tagged Blind Bay, Dancing, freedom, goals, happy, Music, passion, Self confidence, Self conscious, Shuswap

    • Bringing Order Back to Chaos

      Posted at 3:00 am by kirstenlanae, on August 5, 2019

      The RCMP’s search for fugitives Kam McLeod and Bryer Schmegelsky, that began with the murders of American tourist Chyna Deese, and her Australian boyfriend Lucas Fowler, as well as UBC lecturer Leonard Dyck in Northern British Columbia, and is now taking place in Northern Manitoba, has been big news around here this summer. I’m not ashamed to admit that I’m completely and utterly fascinated by this case. I love a good true crime story, and this one is more gripping than any podcast, book, or documentary could ever be because it’s unfolding in real time, and in my own country. It’s shocking, sad, mysterious, and I can’t get enough, texting friends for updates, scouring news websites for new information, and following hashtags on Twitter.

      This isn’t the first time I’ve been sucked down the true crime rabbit hole though. I spent a month in 2012 recovering from wisdom teeth surgery watching Investigation Discovery’s Disappeared, and wading through the vast world of Websleuths, where forums for specific cases and the missing exist along with evidence and a multitude of theories presented by citizen detectives. My gums throbbing in pain at 1 a.m., I’d find a case on Websleuths and start scrolling. Even now, years later, I’m still haunted by the Sumter County Does, an unidentified couple found murdered in California in the 70’s, and whose post-mortem photographs are forever seared into my memory: Jane Doe’s gaping mouth, and wide, vacant eyes cannot be unseen.

      A few months ago I listened to investigative journalist Billy Jensen’s audiobook Chase Darkness With Me, and was struck by his keen insight into people’s fascination with the macabre world of true crime. Jensen explains the appeal this way:

       There’s something that goes wrong, and then what people like to see is order being brought back out and making it perfect again. So really . . . you’re bringing order back to chaos. 

      When I heard this gem of information, I was instantly struck with a new, deeper level of understanding about myself. I thrive in environments of order and routine, and I certainly like having things thoroughly organized and “just right,” as a way to combat the anxiety I begin to feel when I can’t control my surroundings. In fact, after a busy, demanding day at school there’s nothing I find more relaxing than throwing on a true crime doc. and kicking back on the couch in my pyjamas with a fuzzy blanket and a giant bowl of popcorn to unwind.

      When I engage with a true crime story, it’s not because I’m interested in the blood and gore, or get some strange satisfaction from seeing people suffer. In fact, it’s the opposite. It’s the catching of the perpetrator, and the return to order with justice rightly dispensed, or at least the persistent quest towards such an outcome, that soothes me. Like a balm to my frazzled soul, seeing order brought back to chaos just seems right, especially when it’s something I’m constantly striving to bring to all areas of my own life.

      Posted in Reflections | 0 Comments | Tagged Billy Jensen, canada, Chyna Deese, crime, Fascination, Kam McLeod, Leonard Dyck, order, self-understanding, True Crime

    • My Village

      Posted at 1:49 pm by kirstenlanae, on July 29, 2019

      Since becoming a mom I’ve come across a lot of rhetoric on the internet bemoaning the current social structure in which we are expected to raise our children in North America. Case in point: Scary Mummy, Motherly, Romper, and the ParentMap have all published pieces about this topic in the last two years. Parents are, in many cases, physically isolated and far removed from friends and family, or just expected to be completely independent, which makes this whole parenting thing even harder than it needs to be, and I can speak from experience here. Staying home alone with my baby all day while on maternity leave, away from my village, often made me feel stressed, scared, and inadequate.

      In a recent article on Motherly called In the absence of ‘the village’ mothers struggle the most, author Beth Berry defines the village in this way:

      I’m referring to the way of life inherent to relatively small, relatively contained multigenerational communities. Communities within which individuals know one another well, share the joys, burdens, and sorrows of everyday life, nurture one another in times of need, mind the well-being of each other’s ever-roaming children and increasingly dependent elderly, and feel fed by their clearly essential contribution to the group that securely holds them.

      When asked by several well-meaning people in Vermilion why the heck I’d ever want to move back to Beaverlodge, I wish I could have expressed myself as eloquently as Beth Berry. The impression of the town they received while passing through on the highway while on the way to somewhere else is so very incomplete. I wanted to come home so I could have my village. With my people. Where I belong.

      I think an example explains what I mean when I say where I belong better than anything else: last Tuesday I took my toddler to morning family swim.

      We’re greeted with a friendly “good morning” from a young lifeguard – I taught her level 4 at the old outdoor pool many years ago; I distinctly remember that she was the only swimmer in her level during that particular set of lessons, listened exceptionally well, and spent a lot of time working on back glides while clutching an old yellow flutter board across her chest.

      Shortly after, a young mom wearing a black one piece brings two boys, one school aged and one preschool aged, into the leisure pool – She doesn’t live here and doesn’t know me, but I know how she fits. Her mom taught me English 30-1, (and my mom English 30-1!) and inspired me to read more, write more, and to become an English teacher.

      Soon, another lifeguard appears, wearing a vibrant Speedo in a kaleidoscope of colours, smiling widely and carrying a giant basket filled with plastic bath toys to set on the edge for my son – I worked with her when I used to lifeguard at this same pool, and she’s a dear friend with one of the largest, most genuine caring hearts I know. She stayed up all night dancing at my wedding.

      At that moment, an older lady wearing a skort and carrying a fancy Canon camera comes in through the side entrance and perches herself on the edge of the hot tub, snapping photos of a very pregnant girl splashing in the shallows with a toddler – My old gymnastics coach who taught me to be strong on the uneven bars at a very young age, and her daughter, my old babysitter, who used to let my brothers style her hair, only to have them tie it into horrible little knots.

      Then, another mom arrives on the scene, and two excited kids follow her out of the change room on foot, while a nervous one-year-old stays glued to her hip – it’s my third cousin on my Grama’s side, with her two youngest plus another third cousin’s little guy. Since “Auntie Debbie’s busy,” she’s babysitting for the day.

      Finally, a third lifeguard comes on deck for a shift, red uniform, sandals, a beard – Another cousin, a little further removed, and, this time, on my Grandpa’ side. My toddler smiles and him and waves, saying “hi!” as we float by on the lazy river.

      I feel

      Safe.

      Comfortable.

      Content.

      In that same Motherly article, Beth Berry also explains the benefits of the village, saying that

      Village life fostered a sense of safety, inclusivity, purpose, acceptance and importance. These essential elements of thriving were built in.

      So, while on the surface, our morning experience at the pool seemed to be nothing more than an hour of family swim, to me, it was a powerful confirmation that the decision to move home was, overwhelmingly, the right one. One day, many years dow the road, I hope my son can look around and take stock of his own collection of connections, pause for a moment to appreciate the incredible bands of family, friendship, sport, education, and volunteerism that literally bind a small community together, and feel that he to, has found his village.

      Posted in Motherhood | 1 Comment | Tagged coming home, community, culture, home, Motherhood, moving, parenting, pool, raising children, swimming, toddlerhood, toddlers, village, writer

    • Chains

      Posted at 1:19 pm by kirstenlanae, on July 22, 2019

      I’ve always had a forceful moral compass. I know this because my body viscerally reacts to situations that contest my personal principles, letting me know loudly and clearly that something is amiss. My stomach gets unsettled and jiggly deep down, directly in the pit, creating a feeling of nauseous. An overspreading flow of blood rushes to my face making it flush a blazing red. I can feel this heat raise up through my cheeks in defiance of whatever gross injustice is playing out in front of me. Sometimes, my chest even breaks out into a blotchy red rash. It’s like my whole body is working together to say:

      HEY SIS, YOU ARE NOT OKAY WITH THIS!

      I’m just built this way; my body literally will not allow me to ignore these situations. Now, this doesn’t happen very often, but there’s several instances over the past ten years or so that really stick out. Once, while playing hockey when a group of girls conspired to get the coach fired and tried to manipulate the whole team to join their nefarious plot, another time in university when a classmate in an ed. class was saying some really horrible things about Indigenous Peoples that were just not true. Looking back, I can’t even remember what the guy said, but I remember being so mad that I could hardly speak, and actually having to get up and leave the room.

      My most recent experience with the intensity of my moral compass happened this past weekend when my husband’s friend, who I will call Peter for today’s purposes, was helping us move.

      Peter came in to look around our new house, as any friend would, but didn’t remark upon the functional layout or the abundance of closets like most people. Instead, he turns to my husband, with me standing RIGHT THERE, and says, “Oh good. The kitchen and bedroom aren’t far apart. You won’t need much chain.” In the past, I would’ve laughed this off, but I’m not a nervous teenager anymore. I looked right at him, mentally weighing my options as quickly as possible.

      Peter had just drove ten hours through the night to help us move, showing that, deep down, he has a really big heart. He also dotes on my son, showing that, deep down, he has a really big heart. However, I don’t really care about the size of Peter’s heart when his sexist mouth has the audacity to disrespect me in my own home: you do not get to talk about me like that.

      I found the whole situation so shocking because I’ve never encountered such direct and blatant sexism before. Ever. I know this means I’ve been sheltered, and just plain lucky. I grew up in a family with a strong mother and grandmother who made sure things ran according to their own moral compasses. I grew up going to school in a class filled with smart, strong girls, and teachers who nurtured and supported us. In Junior High, there were always 3 or 4 girls with top marks before the first boy even registered on the list. We played all the sports boys did, took all the academic classes boys did . . . there wasn’t even a question about those things.

      So when Peter made this comment, I was taken aback, unsettled, and then just plain mad, all in the span of about three seconds. I settled on a moderate response, not letting it slide, but also not starting an all out war, and said, “That seems inappropriate, seeing as I make more than . . . [my husband] working full time.” (I’ve been working part-time since going back to work after mat. leave so I can spend more time with our son).

      That caused Peter to backtrack. He replied, “I didn’t mean the chains were for you.” His sexist comments were, mostly, reigned in for the rest of the day.

      I wish this story had a neat, happy ending, but it doesn’t. Dealing with Peter is still a contentious issue between my husband and I, and is something that has come up several times over the years, and it probably something that will come up several more.

      How do you deal with blatant sexism?

      Posted in Reflections | 0 Comments | Tagged blatant sexism, chains, ethics, feminism, moral code, moral compass, principles, sexism, sexist, uncomfortable, values

    • The Great Green Tree

      Posted at 5:39 am by kirstenlanae, on July 15, 2019

      An early July morning trip to the park 

      To glide down the big slide and go swoosh on the swing

      Bubbling over with joy from the littlest things

      Racing over the dewy grass to explore

      We gather at the base of the great green tree

      My toddler’s wonder sparks a wish to see as he sees

      I stop for a moment, and drop to the ground

      At this new level, things have changed

      My eyes see anew, the world rearranged

      We examine the bark: the colour, the texture: 

      They have stories to tell, these weathered layers of grey

      I’m really seeing, so I want to stay

      Like a fairy garden, soft moss grows

      And deep in a crease, a single black ant

      Here, more exquisite than any Rembrandt 

      Round the trunk, and blue spray paint appears

      Driven into the wood, some rusty old nails 

      The tree has scars, yet it stands tall and prevails

      And there’s lichen! Orange and yellow

      The most intricate web, a spider has spun

      With a tiny insect caught, her work is done

      So thank you son, for showing me that

      What I thought was just a great green tree

      Is a gift to marvel at each new discovery


      Posted in Poetry | 0 Comments | Tagged discovery, explore more, get outside, Motherhood, nature, parenting, park, perspective, poem, Poetry, toddler, toddlerhood, tree, write, writers group, writers guild

    • Just Show Up

      Posted at 5:30 am by kirstenlanae, on July 8, 2019

      When I was sixteen years old, I, like so many other sixteen year olds, had a big dream, but my dream wasn’t to move to Los Angeles and become an actress, or to audition for some Idol type TV show and break into the music industry. Instead, my dream was more of the Canadian variety.  Since meeting Olympian Cassie Campbell-Pascall at Vicky Sunohara’s Summer Hockey Camp the year before, I had an intense desire, and drive, to play AAA hockey. Like so many other young girls in Canada, I had watched our women’s teams battle the Americans on TV, and shared in the joy of those victories. Now, wandering around the Coca-Cola Centre in Grande Prairie, Alberta wearing a pair of black track pants not unlike my own, Cassie and her accomplishments had ceased to be abstract constructs that existed only in the realm of TV-land. She was real, normal, approachable. Holding Cassie’s gold medals from the 2002 games in Salt Lake City, and the 2006 games in Turin, in my own hands, and feeling the literal and figurative immensity of their weight caused a wave of reverence mixed with a generous helping of wonder, and a little dash of fear, to wash over me. Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos: the three old women were busily spinning my fate out of Cassie’s gold threads; when I touched those medals, there was no going back. I leaned into the surge of awe, and dove in head first.

      All credit to cassie77.com

      I skated decently in the first few on-ice sessions at tryouts, and made it past the initial cut, to the final session, which was an inter-squad game. To say I was nervous would be a gross understatement. My hands were like lead. My head was down. Every time I touched the puck it went wildly bouncing off my stick. My feet were heavy, and despite my desperate efforts to get them going, my skating continued to look, and feel, like I was attempting to move through quicksand. My heart thumped so loudly as I struggled to catch my breath that its beating rose up through my chest and into my ears, spilling into a rush of static that blocked out every other sound in the rink. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. Lub dub. I sank down into that muffled, isolating tunnel in shame. The game 

      did not. 

      go well. 

      at all. 

      I had attempted, and failed miserably. 

      Afterwards, came the equally nerve-wracking wait to meet with the coach, who was an intimidating looking man named Guy Anthony.  He was bald, like a cue ball. He wore a dark shirt. He also wore a coordinating dark tie. A smile had failed to ever find its way across his face throughout the selection process, at least from my own observances. In other words, he was all serious, all business. When it was finally my turn, I entered the room on shaky legs, steeling myself for the upcoming judgement. Guy broke the bad news that I already knew in my gut, and in my heart, was coming: I hadn’t made the team, but he was going to extend an offer to me, along with a few of the other final cuts. He asked if I’d like to play on my regular team at home, and train and practice with his team. His offer showed a deep kindness that initially startled me. Here, in his offer, was an opportunity for a second chance, but it scared me more than simply being cut would have because although Guy hadn’t actually said these words, this is what I’d heard:

      Do you want to show up, but always feel like an outsider?

      As obviously “not good enough?”

      As different, and lesser, than all those other girls?

      His offer played upon the worst fears and anxieties I had at the time, which I can only articulate now, in retrospect, as being linked to its inherent requirement for vulnerability. For years I have sincerely believed that my biggest fear is failure, but recently I’ve realized that claim isn’t exactly true; it’s not a lie, but is an incomplete answer. My worst fear is being embarrassed, and the thing that embarrasses me the most is failing and looking foolish in front of others.  Revealing a real part of myself in a competitive world that seemed unforgiving and cruel opened up the possibility of embarrassment because of my failures.

      I didn’t want to go. I was nervous. I was scared to feel unaccepted. I was terrified of being too slow, or, even worse, showing I was physically inept and unable to keep up with the requirements of training.  It would have been so much easier to stay at home, sitting on the computer or on the couch. It would have been so much easier to go driving around with my friends, enjoying the freedom that came with my newly acquired drivers license.  I’ve never been the fastest player on the ice, or the most skilled, but on that day ten years ago I did have something that was incredibly effective at combating the demand for vulnerability Guy’s offer contained, the embarrassment from my failure, and the anxiety caused by it all:  sheer determination.

      I showed up for our first dryland training session because my desire to play on that team was so much greater than my fear, and to my surprise, I kept up with the rest of the team just fine. After, I was given some news: Another player had decided not to take her spot, & since I was the only red-shirt who had taken Guy up on his offer, & actually showed up that night. I was on the team!

      This experience taught me the importance of showing up, and the lesson of finding the courage to show up to my own life has been true for me again and again in the ten years since. Because I had the courage to show up to a dryland training session that day, I was given an opportunity that others missed out on. That single act of courage changed my life because I learned that we can not let fear dictate our lives, limit our potential, or determine our level of achievement. Author and researcher Brene Brown, who has a wonderful body of work around this idea of vulnerability, said it best:

      “Sometimes the bravest and most important thing you can do is just show up.”

      I could not agree with her more strongly. Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos: the three old women were busily spinning my fate out of Cassie’s gold threads on that day at the Coca-Cola Centre; when I touched those medals, there was no going back. I leaned into the surge of awe, and dove in head first. Desire leads to determination, which leads to courage, which trumps fear. Just show up. Amazing things will happen if you do. 

      Posted in Reflections | 0 Comments | Tagged brene brown, canada, cassia campbell, cassie-campbell-pascal, competitive, courage, dream, failure, girls hockey, gold medal, Grande Prairie, hockey, ice hockey, olympics, show up, sports, team canada, tryouts, vulnerability

    • The Scar to Prove It

      Posted at 4:24 am by kirstenlanae, on July 1, 2019

      I came across a post on Instagram today from an account called @herviewfromhome that’s been bothering me. It was a re-post from @laurapalaciosphoto, and I know that it was well intended. But it started like this:

      C-Section Mama: You are still a badass . . .

      You didn’t fail . . .

      You are still a mother

      Remember the old text speak smh? Well, it actually made me shake my head. It’s the word “still” that really irritates me, as if I need comforting and reassurance about my identity as a mom because doctors cut or separated SEVEN layers of my tissue: the skin, the fat, the rectus sheath, the rectus, the parietal peritoneum, the loose peritoneum, and the uterus, in case you were wondering, (thanks Google) and pulled my son out, rather than him arriving in the world “naturally.” If you think that I’m doubting my

      • a) toughness
      • b) badassness
      • c) identity as a mom

      as the author implies, then you’re egregiously mistaken.

      I silently prayed for months that I’d luck out and be able to have a c-section, and suddenly there I was, kneeling on all fours on an elevated hospital bed with my bare butt hanging out the open end of a flimsy hospital gown to try and prevent the baby’s heart rate from dropping, while simultaneously mooning the sudden onslaught of medical personnel swarming my room. When the nurse thrust a clipboard holding a consent form into my hands, I could not sign it fast enough. “Thank goodness,” I thought. I was so relieved I could’ve cried if I’d had more time to soak it all in.

      In January, the month dedicated to sex ed in ELA class at HRJHS, at least during my time there, my grade 8 teacher sent us girls down the hall to spend a period with Mrs. Sawchuk with the goal of thoroughly terrifying us in order to prevent teenage pregnancy. Upon hearing an incredibly detailed account of the labour leading up to the birth of her first child (you guys, her contractions never stopped. They literally were continuous), as well as watching a graphic birthing video, it did, I will readily admit, work as intended. It was so effective, in fact, that for weeks afterwards I’d be sitting in the car, or watching TV, and have the horror replay against my closed eyelids each time I blinked.

      Fast forward twelve years, and the AHS baby preparation class was really no different. They show a video of women labouring in extreme pain (without relief) over the course of many hours, and having a “successful” vaginal birth as a result. And when I say “labouring in extreme pain” I mean it; the grunts, the groans, and the screams . . . they’re sickening. The instructors then have the audacity to suggest methods for coping with childbirth such as imagining a peaceful image in your mind, having a shower, or playing relaxing music. Excuse me?

      I cannot be the only woman who has somehow avoided buying into the idea that pushing a baby out through your vagina makes you worthy of entering the special percentage of the populace who can call themselves mothers in a way that other ways of birthing a baby, or becoming a mother, do not allow. The same needs to be said for the archaic idea that women who choose to suffer through the pain of labour are somehow stronger then those who take advantage of pain management options, like epidurals. (As a side note, I’ve come to the conclusion that if men gave birth, everyone would get an epidural as part of standard procedure, but that’s a whole additional topic).

      Many women are obsessed with these ideas though, since I see quasi-inclusive/inspirational posts “cheering up” moms who had to have c-sections or “resorted” to getting an epidural floating around instagram and parenting websites quite often.

      Their message is clear: it’s ok if you had to have a c-section or an epidural. You’re still worthy of motherhood as long as what you really wanted was to have a completely natural, medication free, vaginal delivery.

      I’m not going to mince words here: that is destructive rhetoric built upon a mountain of generalizations.

      I can only speak from my own experience, but I happily chose to get an epidural. (I live in the 21st century. Why should I suffer needlessly when there are safe, effective pain management options?) And while I didn’t get to choose to have a c-section per se, I’m overwhelmingly pleased that that’s how it all turned out.

      Not all women want to become mothers in the same way. The assumption that one specific way of going through childbirth is the goal, and is desirable for all women, just isn’t true. There seems to be many women out there who think that moms like me are envious of those who had vaginal births, or fought through labour without pain relief. I’m not. And I certainly didn’t fail. I have the scar to prove it.

      *It is not my intention to single out the specific person or post quoted above; it simply acted as the impetus for me to write about this topic.

      Posted in Motherhood | 0 Comments | Tagged baby, birth, c-section, caesarean, caesarean section, childbirth, delivery, epidural, labour, mother, Motherhood, scar

    • Goodbyes as well as hellos

      Posted at 4:53 am by kirstenlanae, on June 24, 2019

      I’m on my second listen of the audible version of Oprah’s new book The Path Made Clear. It’s full of the good stuff, constantly sending me scrambling to the notes app on my phone to jot down a little nugget of wisdom.

      Of all those nuggets, one seems entirely fitting for this, my last week at STJ. Barbara Brown Taylor said, so perfectly, that:

      “There are goodbyes as well as hellos in our callings.”

      Like Oprah, my calling is to teach. It’s the root of everything I love, whether formally inside the classroom or not, which is why I feel the need to share the things I’m passionate about (aha! moment for why I feel the need to blog and post regularly about reading, writing, running, stroller miles, podcasts, the outdoors, lifelong learning, family . . .) It’s all encompassing, and joins together the two biggest parts of my life: being in the classroom, and being a mom.

      A central theme in The Path Made Clear is that, “Your life is always speaking to you,” and the collection stresses the importance of paying attention to the “whispers” that are quiet nudges to pay attention: that something isn’t quite right, that a change needs to occur, that it’s time to move on.

      I’ve listened to the whispers for a while now, and it’s time for a goodbye in my calling. It’s a bittersweet experience that’s prompted me to reflect on my time at STJ.

      The good times have been filled with genuine laughter, learning, and love. I’m so proud of what I’ve accomplished over the last four years. Conversely, the bad times have been filled with a combination of isolation, frustration, and stress. I’m so proud I survived them. Reality also hits hard and makes my heart ache when I think about the current grade 11s; I won’t have the privilege of guiding them through English 30, or of preparing them for post-secondary. I love those kids. Packing up my desk and binders makes it all seem so final, but it’s time.

      I’m not sure where the next hello in my calling will be just yet, so for now, I’ll keep listening to the whispers about my next right direction.

      Posted in Reflections | 0 Comments | Tagged audible, audiobook, classroom, goodbyes, hellos, learning, oprah, purpose, teacher, teaching, the path made clear

    • A Piece of My Heart

      Posted at 3:02 pm by kirstenlanae, on June 17, 2019

      I joined a writers guild this past winter. We make an interesting combination of people, coming from a wide range of backgrounds and having a wide variety of experience with writing. We’re retirees, teachers, published novelists, bloggers, mothers, travellers, locals, and transplants, but we’re united by a desire to find more consistency in our writing practice.

      One lady comes to each meeting wishing, and promising, to write more, but never seeming to actually do so. “I’m getting older,” she half joked once. “If I don’t do it now, I might not have the chance.” She mentioned some beautiful, large trees outside her retirement home that would make a nice place to sit under to write. She lives just a block from me. She’s never out writing when I walk or drive by. Once, she was watering flowers as I passed with the stroller. I resisted the urge to yell, “Lil! Go write!”

      Thus, the impetus for this blog. I don’t want to get to a point, further down my road, to find I’m filled with the regret of not writing with no one to blame but my own lack of consistency. So here we are.

      At one of the early Writers Guild meetings we talked about vulnerability, and people shared some truly human stories about the struggles associated with putting their writing out into the world.

      At that meeting I shared a brief poem on the subject, and, in the spirit of writing, and sharing, regularly, I now share it here. At least in theory, it all gets easier with practice:

      A Piece of My Heart

      When my writing is

      polished, done, and released out

      into the world my

      stomach ties in knots; rapid

      breathing. Instinct? Find. cover.

      But I force myself:

      lean into the wave; embrace

      vulnerability. Swim.

      Swim. Sharing is so scary

      because it matters deeply.

      Opening the doors

      to my experiences,

      I’m giving you, Dear

      Reader, a piece of my heart

      And when I do, the magic

      happens. The first time –

      Eight years old, a short story

      about a brown cow

      won third – a local contest.

      My mom read it to cousins

      She sat at our old

      desktop. I, lay on the floor,

      my head buried in

      a pillow, willing myself

      not to run away. Be. Share.

      Posted in Poetry, Reflections | 0 Comments | Tagged consistency, heart, Poetry, share, vulnerability, write, writers group

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