Motherhood is a Choice: Part 4

Wednesday, December 22 - Aruba

Our cruise had been a much-needed oasis for both of us. We splurged on the spa, excursions, and a balcony cabin. We ate lavish food, drank expensive wine, and sipped cocktails before dinner each night.

We met a couple from Virginia who shared our table with us each night, and we got along with them wonderfully. It was great to be away from our lives at home - to escape the all-too-familiar surroundings that reminded us of that empty home with a waiting baby room and no baby.

That morning, I gazed across the ocean from our balcony - I stood, to quote Tennyson, "ringed with the azure world." No matter how many times I visit the Caribbean, I am struck by the beauty that surrounds me. As I breathed in the tangy air, a soft breeze warmed my face. I needed to try and get a cell phone signal.

Since leaving Fort Lauderdale five days earlier, I had been unable to call for any voice messages. I was still without a period, but I decided that likely this was more of the usual PCOS nonsense. I was enjoying my cruise, alcohol and all, but that niggly voice in the back of my head was cautioning me to call one more time.

As the call went through, I pressed "one" to get my messages. The time stamp said Friday morning. What was going on here? I had DEFINITELY not had any messages when I left Florida on Friday afternoon!

It was the doctor's office.

"Hi Sarah, this is _________ from Dr. _______'s office, calling to tell you that you had a weak positive result for your pregnancy test. You will need to come in after Christmas and the doctor will talk to you about ... " 

I don't remember the rest of the message.

I stood on the balcony, stunned. How could this be? How could I be going through this again? Did I even WANT to go through "this" again?

I glanced back into our stateroom. Ian was lounging on our king-sized bed in a bathrobe watching TV. 

What would I tell him? How would I tell him? Should I tell him?

I knew exactly what to do.

I walked into the room and climbed on the bed to give him a gentle kiss. Then softly, I started singing.

"I'm having your baby.

 I'm a woman in love 

 and I love what you're doin' to me..."

*     *     *

The first people we told were our new friends. I am still friends even now with Johnna. Things didn't work out with her and the man she was with, but she has become tied to me forever - she was the first one I told about our miracle: baby number three of 2010. The one I wasn't ready for. The one I didn't want. The one that caught me off-guard and changed my world forever.

I started feeling nauseous before the cruise was even over. It was a relief to get home and prepare for celebrating Christmas with our family. While I didn't want to tell anyone yet, I knew I would need their support to get through this pregnancy, whether I lost this baby or not.

On Boxing Day morning, as is our tradition in the Rowan family, we all met at my mom's place for brunch. As we sat around the table, enjoying "dirty lasagna" (my nephew Anakin's name for breakfast-casserole-of-deliciousness) and drinking sparkling peach juice, I waited for my mom to notice the tiny card I'd set by her plate.

When she opened it at last, she just looked at me.

"Read it out loud," I said.

"Merry Christmas, Momma. Little Gumdrop is due to arrive on August 28, 2011 - just in time to share a birthday with you, Grandma!"

*     *     *

Becoming a mother was never really a choice for me. When I tried to become a mother, I was blocked at every turn. Then, when I had finally walked away from any possibility or desire to be a mother, a tiny life took hold. My Little Bean - my Coco Lucille - my Lucy. She is commemorated by ten or so pages in a journal, a medical band from my ER visits, a day lily named in her honour in my garden, and some rose petals that will one day belong to her younger sisters.

The story of my next pregnancy might require another very long, multi-part series of blog posts. I know many of you already know the story. I promise to share it with my new readers soon. My heart needs some time to heal.

For now, I leave you with this thought: 

*     *     *

September 2010 - Pregnant with Little Bean and heading to a friend's 1970s-themed 40th birthday party.

*     *     *

Ian and I on our cruise in 2010 - world weary

Boxing Day 2010 - Cautiously happy, but knowing we have each other for the journey.

Motherhood is a Choice: Part 3

*     *     *

*     *     *

Her name was Coco Lucille. "Lucy."

I spoke to her in my dreams. I envisioned her tiny hands and feet as they might have been one day. Her due date - May 2 - was forever branded on my heart.

*     *     *

*     *     *

When I left the hospital, the doctor gave me his home phone number and asked me to call him if I had any further complications.

By Friday, I needed to call him.

The bleeding wouldn't stop. It had been three days. He booked me to come in for a D&C.

I remember an empty feeling in my stomach, and it wasn't simply from remembering not to eat before my procedure. While I have always argued for the rights of women to have access to medically safe abortions, my personal worldview was that a life was not mine to take, even if it was living inside me.

And though in a cerebral way I knew that my Little Bean was no longer alive - knew that medically I needed to have this procedure - it felt like a betrayal. How could I allow my beautiful baby's remains to be scraped and sucked away from me? Even now, nearly eight years later, I feel guilty that things had to end in such violence.

*     *     *

*     *     *

Saturday morning, Thanksgiving weekend. The local OB/GYN performed the routine procedure to remove what was left of my pregnancy from my womb. When I came around after the surgery, he was kind-hearted. He spoke to me of what to expect next. He said, "You need to know that after a D&C, your body will be very receptive to pregnancy. You may decide that you want to try again right away. If you aren't feeling ready for that, then you should take extra precautions to avoid getting pregnant in the next few months."

*     *     *

We didn't tell anyone about the baby other than immediate family - my mom, my sister and her husband and children, and my husband's mother and sister.

I recall sitting at my mom's dining room table, trying desperately to keep a false face from hiding what my false heart did know. I was going through the motions, passing the turkey, eating pumpkin pie, but inside I was screaming. My mom's siblings, my cousin, and my grandma were all present. This was supposed to be the day of my pregnancy announcement.

For some strange reason, my mom decided this would be a great time to start a new tradition of going around the table and each stating something for which we were thankful. I couldn't believe she could be so unbelievably insensitive. What in God's name did she think Ian and I were going to say? It was the most uncomfortable family gathering of my life. I went home and cried myself to sleep.

*     *     *

That fall, I collected the roses from my garden before the last frost. I've always been far more sentimental than I let on to others. I have boxes of keepsakes - tiny mementoes that mean nothing to anyone else, but that ground me in my experiences and remind me of times of joy and grief in equal measure.

I gathered those roses and I placed every petal in a little bag. In a tiny leap of faith, I decided that if I ever had a daughter, I would give them to her on her wedding day.

*     *     *

Over the next few months, I am not sure how I made it out of bed in the mornings, let alone how I dragged myself to work. My anger seethed, barely below the surface. I was short with my students, and while I gained a small level of sympathy and cooperation after telling them I'd lost a baby, it lasted for a teenage minute and then they went back to being typical teenagers. I had no patience for their antics or misbehaviour. I dreaded going to work every day.

Ian and I barely spoke. We were both grieving, but we didn't know how to talk to each other about it. The chasm between us was an abyss. I remember lying on our bed sobbing with rage and bitterness. I wouldn't let him touch me. I wore my self-loathing and guilt and inadequacy as badges of honour.

Finally at the end of November, after I knew I should have finished ovulating for that month, I broke down and tried to make some kind of physical amends with Ian. I was so scared. I didn't want to ever be pregnant again. Afterwards, Ian held me in his arms and I cried into his chest.

"I don't want to get pregnant if I'm just going to keep losing babies. I can't take it. It would have been better to have continued believing I couldn't get pregnant than to go through this," I told him between gasping sobs.

*     *     *

That Christmas, Ian and I decided we should go away and have some time together. We booked a weeklong cruise to the Caribbean. I arranged to take a day off work just before the school holidays started so that we could get away before the rush.

Our cruise was set to embark at 5pm on Friday afternoon from Fort Lauderdale. I was feeling a bit annoyed as the time approached since I knew my period was due to start the week before we left.

When shark week came and went without a period in sight, I had a funny feeling again. No. There was no way I could be pregnant again. I had been very careful to avoid any kind of intimacy except for the week right before my period. There wasn't any possible chance I could be pregnant.

I don't know what possessed me to make the doctor's appointment. I remember sheepishly telling my doctor that I just had a strange feeling, similar to how I'd felt back in August, that I was pregnant again. The nurse took a urine sample; the results were negative. To this day I'm not sure why my doctor sent me for bloodwork. Maybe it was because he felt sorry for me and didn't want to completely dash my hopes. Maybe it was because I told him we were leaving on a cruise and I didn't want to drink if I might be pregnant.

No matter the reason, I went to have bloodwork done at the lab on Wednesday. I gave the doctor's office my cell number and asked them to call me with the results.

As we sailed out of Fort Lauderdale on Friday evening, I called for my voicemail messages. There was nothing.

We embarked on our week away and I drank a margarita on the balcony, soaking in the sun and trying to enjoy my vacation.


- To be continued -

Motherhood is a Choice: Part 2

I found myself in an unexpected situation in August of 2010.

After announcing to family and close friends that we had made the choice to have no kids, I had this strange inkling that I might be pregnant.

I was late, but this wasn't unusual with my PCOS.

I gave my mom the garden ornament. She cried and asked if I was sure.

We attended a Red Hats event with her fellow August-birthday friend Peg. I remember going along and while I don't recall anything of that day, I do know that when I dropped my mom back at her place, I confided that I was wondering if I might be pregnant. I was exhibiting quite a few symptoms that made me wonder.

It took me another week before I finally broke down and took a home-pregnancy test. I had been disappointed so many times before that I just couldn't bear to face another frustrating and futile experience.

My husband was planning to go away for a guys' weekend at a cottage, so I thought perhaps I'd wait until he was gone and take the test by myself.

That lasted for all of one day.

I gave in on Thursday morning. I took the test.

It was positive.

I still remember the surreal feeling I had in those first moments. I really didn't know whether to cry or fly.

I went to work. It was school photo day. I remember getting my picture taken and then telling my Vice-Principal that I would need to miss one of my classes to see the doctor that afternoon.

I honestly don't even remember how or when I told Ian. I just know that I told him before he went on his weekend away.

We were both excited, but cautiously so.

In the next few weeks, I started feeling signs of fatigue and even nausea. This pregnancy became real to me in a way I could hardly describe even now.

I started journalling every day - my thoughts and dreams - in a book for my unborn child. I nicknamed my tiny fetus "Little Bean" and I cannot tell you how in love I was with this ball of cells growing inside me.

About this time, the wife of one of my colleagues revealed that she was also pregnant. I knew they had struggled as well to conceive, and so I congratulated my co-worker and wished him well.

He was worried. He felt she'd told everyone too soon. She was only ten weeks along, and he knew things could still go wrong. But he didn't want to dampen her excitement.

In the third week of September, he came to work with horrible news. His wife had gone in for an ultrasound. While on the table, the technician informed her that she wasn't pregnant anymore. The doctor came in and told her she would likely need to have a D&C to "deal with" the remains of the fetus.

I was absolutely horrified and heartbroken. I remember crying with him in the English office, and I definitely wished I hadn't told him I was pregnant.

That week, I made them a lasagna and an apple pie. My colleague seemed stunned. He thanked me but I knew he was not really able to focus on anything in that moment.

On the last Friday in September, one week after my colleague's loss, I went to the hospital for my first ultrasound. I went alone. I remember thinking of my friends and what they were going through, and feeling some warped type of survivor's guilt as I waited for the technician to show me my baby on the screen.

Only that never happened. She told me to call my doctor's office later that afternoon for the results.

When I called the doctor, the receptionist told me that my dates were off and I wasn't far enough along for the ultrasound to show anything yet. I would need to rebook for another appointment in two weeks.

I remember talking to my mom and saying, "Well, at least I didn't just have the same experience as my friends did."

*    *    *

It was a Wednesday morning. It was the first week of October, and by my calculations, I was nearly at the 11-week mark in my pregnancy. I was getting excited about Canadian Thanksgiving, which was coming that weekend. Ian and I had made plans to finally tell our family about the baby.

As soon as I escaped from that first moment between asleep and awake, I knew something was wrong. I was bleeding.

I went to the bathroom and everything was red.

I called to Ian, and he quickly dressed and took me to the Emergency Room.

On arrival, they took me into one of the private rooms and gave me a pregnancy test. It came back positive. The doctor tried to be reassuring - perhaps all was not lost.

Then I went in for another ultrasound. I remember the room. Even with the low lighting, I was cut to the quick by the painting on the wall - a Trisha Romance print called "School Days" with lovely young children heading into their tiny one-room schoolhouse.

Trisha Romance's painting entitled "School Days"

That image was seared into my mind's eye, and it hollowed my heart. I felt a sense of spite towards the art, as if I were being personally attacked by that beautiful painting of happy, cherubic children.

As I lay on that cold uncomfortable bed, I cried silently. Tears sliding down my cheeks, I was unable to process what was happening to me.

The doctor came to talk to me. He told me that although I still had high levels of HCG in my blood, I was indeed no longer carrying a viable fetus. He sent me home and told me to take things easy.

Ian and I went back to my mom's place. I remember being in a fair bit of pain - sort of like cramps - and sleeping for most of the afternoon.

Around 6pm, the contractions started. I was going into labour.

The pain was absolutely excruciating, and I had never seen so much blood in my life. Anyone who knows me knows that I pass out if I cut my finger. This was not going to end well.

My mom is a retired nurse. She started timing my contractions. I don't remember much of the next two hours, but I do remember her telling Ian, "We have to take her to the hospital or she's going to bleed to death."

A lot happened over the next twenty-four hours. I was kept in the ER in a bed and they tried to help slow my bleeding and deal with the contractions.

I do remember one incident of my time there that evening. I remember waiting outside the patient bathroom. I was standing in my hospital gown, looking down at my toenails. A nurse came by and said, "Wow! What a great red colour on your nails - I love it!"

All I could think was, "It's the exact same colour as the baby that's bleeding away from me."

- To be continued -

UNBOXING! Haribo Goldbears

So...

Today I had to complete a little side project - a video of me taste-testing the purportedly delicious Haribo Goldbears.

In case I'm not the only one who's never heard of this candy, they are German gummy bears.

I recently received a package as a gift from my very enthusiastic co-worker, who claims they are the best candy (in the world maybe?). He definitely claims they are better than the Portuguese donuts I had a few weeks back:

Portuguese donuts from Malasada World in Cambridge, Ontario.

 

(I'm pretty sure he's NEVER tried these donuts...)

So, while I know most of you are waiting for Part 2 of yesterday's post, I needed to take a little break and share with you my experience of taste-testing Haribo Goldbears candy.

My video quality sucks. Next time I'll set up the Gorillapod with my iPhone. Nice work, Lenovo craptop.

Here we go... Sarah's unboxing video. Tell me in the comments - have you tried the German gummy bears? Do you like them better than the American ones?

Full disclaimer... I *may* have eaten a whole bunch of these gummies after my video (as in... my tongue is sore now!). Also, Kinsey likes them a lot. I had to hide the rest of the package. I haven't even told Gwyneth about them. I might let Ian have some. As long as he leaves me the pineapple and lemon ones.

Motherhood Is a Choice: Part 1

Some days, I wonder about my choice to become a mother.

It was not a choice made lightly.

And in truth - I didn't entirely make the choice when it comes down to it.

In what may have seemed a natural next step, my husband and I started trying to have children not long after we were married. We were both approaching thirty, and neither of us wanted to wait much longer before welcoming babies into our otherwise entrenched and comfortable lives.

Who knew getting pregnant would become the greatest hurdle of our marriage?

After several pregnancy tests - and months of no menstrual cycles - my doctor finally sent me to a specialist to see what might be happening with my inability to conceive. A very short appointment with my gynaecologist revealed that I likely was suffering from Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome - one of the leading causes of infertility in women. Further testing confirmed this diagnosis.

I was thrown into a tailspin. While on one hand, this news explained all KINDS of medical abnormalities I'd suffered with since puberty, on the other hand, it revealed a whole new set of potential struggles to come. I was at high risk for infertility - perhaps as high as 40%. I was also at high risk for miscarrying any successful pregnancies. Along with these issues came the news that my weight problems were entirely the result of insulin resistance - my body was simply unable to properly convert carbohydrates into simple sugars for energy. Instead - wait for it - every carb I was eating was being stored as fat. The doctor explained by saying, "For you, eating carbs is like taking heroin. You will never be satisfied by them, but your body will crave them constantly."

Hooray for me.

The list included other wonderful physical consequences, such as male pattern hair growth (and loss), higher risk of diabetes, irregular menstruation - the list went on ad infinitum, it seemed.

This news led to me taking nearly a year off work for stress leave. While it was great to finally have explanations for so much in my life, it also brought me a sense of futility. What was the point in trying to lose weight or get pregnant, if my body was so inherently set against my success in either venture?

Fast forward three years, and we had now gone through the process of preparing to adopt a baby. I didn't feel like making my body a lab experiment through use of fertility drugs or in vitro fertilization. We both felt that so many children needed a good home, and we were more than prepared to be that forever family. We subjected ourselves to police record checks and fingerprinting, spent two weekends training for our PRIDE certification, and then willingly invited a psychologist into our home for several months to determine whether or not we would make fit parents.

I had never felt so useless or powerless. How was it that my ovaries' inability to function meant that I clearly was also unfit to be a mother without jumping through exorbitant hoops and proving my mettle to all and sundry?

Then it happened. I started getting pregnant.

In 2010, I was pregnant three times.

The first time, I didn't realize I was pregnant until I miscarried. It was perhaps the most numbing day of my life. January 2010 was a roller-coaster of shock, tears, and loss. I didn't even know how to grieve. How does one miss a child who never was?

After this, we put our adoption plans on hold. I finally knew I could get pregnant; it followed that it would be easier on every level to have our own biological child.

Time passed. Weeks turned to months. I didn't get pregnant again. We resumed our adoption process and attended yet another information session with Family and Children's Services. It was disheartening, to say the least.

I'll never forget the night that Ian and I sat on our front porch, drinking beer, and trying to come up with reasons why we should adopt a child.

The best we could decide was that a child would mean someone to care for us when we got old. Even we knew this wasn't a good enough reason. It would be no end of unfair to take a child - already unwanted by his or her birth parents - and bring him or her into our lives halfheartedly.

After that night, I made the decision that I would not pursue adoption. I also decided that I was finished with trying to conceive my own child.

When my young niece Adelaide - who had been praying with the fervency of childlike faith for "Aunt Ned's baby" for months - asked me when I was getting my baby, I perhaps unwisely told her that I wasn't going to have a baby anymore. She looked at me sadly, unconvinced by my words.

Later that summer, I went on a cruise to Canada and New England with my mother. It was a time of reflection and circumscription. A time of making hard choices about what my life as a woman without children would be like. I recall visiting a famous pet shop in Bar Harbor and purchasing a gift to give my mom for her birthday. It was a garden ornament with the caption, "What do you mean the dog IS my grandchild?" It seemed clever and fitting in the moment.

I did give my mother that ornament. But on that same day in August, I also told my mom what I would soon confirm: I was quite sure I was pregnant again.

- To be continued - 

Fifty Strands of Grey

No.

I haven't read Fifty Shades of Grey, nor do I have plans for reading it anytime soon - or ever.

But I love all the many plays on words that have evolved from the iconic title.

This week, I want to talk about grey hairs.

For starters, you need to know that I have dyed my hair continuously for over twenty-six years. I started with drugstore henna back in the early 1990s. To my chagrin, it smelled like barn muck and made my hair - and scalp and face and hands - a flaming carrot-red mess.

My French teacher called me "Pippi Long Stocking" and thought herself the zenith of hilarity.

The family I babysat for tried desperately not to crack up at me - fresh from losing my hair virginity - when I arrived to care for their four children.

As time went on, I experimented with full-on peroxide-based dyes, tried out highlighting caps, and even performed a re-colouring of my younger sister's tresses in the final twelve hours leading up to her nuptials.

I've been raven, brunette, blonde, red, white, silver, lavender, pink, and any other shade you can pick on that continuum.

Oh. Don't forget, lemon pie yellow.

That's right. In a futile attempt to bleach my own hair with an over-the-counter product, my colour was a decidedly citrus hue. My hairdresser didn't even disguise her jokes at my expense, claiming I should "leave this kind of colouring to the professionals."

(If I see her again, I'll let her know that just last year, my professional hairdresser succeeded in ALSO turning my hair lemon pie yellow, much to his horror and my amusement).

So why the obsession with hair colour?

My modus operandi anytime my heart was broken by a love interest was to dye my hair a new colour. It made me feel empowered and strong. I knew I couldn't pick up the pieces of my trampled heart, but I could feel better about my hair.

Along with colouring my hair, I've had it every length and style: from long spiraling curves reaching nearly to my waist, to shaved bald as a fundraiser for the Canadian Cancer Society and Locks of Love, to my current 'do which is a somewhat shaved on the sides, spiked fauxhawk on top look.

Recently, something new happened to me. I found a grey hair.

Correction: I found SEVERAL grey hairs!

It all happened because I decided I could no longer justify spending exorbitant amounts of disposable income to have my hair professionally cut and coloured. You could say my hairdresser and I broke up.

I started getting my hair shaved and cut at the local barbershop downtown, and the last time I coloured my hair was when my oldest daughter and I bleached a section of our hair last summer and then coloured it pink.

In the intervening months, I've toned down on my hairstyle, too - it's now a far less severe look, and really is just short at the sides and longer on the top.

And for the first time since I was fifteen, I have a full head of my own, God-given hair colour.

I suppose you could say that it means I'm finally stable in a loving relationship - no more need to constantly change my hair to suit my shades of broken-heartedness.

The truth? I found some grey hairs, and I couldn't be more excited.

To me, grey hair has always been the height of sophistication and sexiness. I remember when the show What Not To Wear first aired, and I was supremely jealous of Stacy London's streak of silver. Likewise, both Rogue and Storm from the 2004 X-Men film inspired me with their glittering argentate locks.

Anna Paquin as Rogue in X-Men (2004).

What Not to Wear's Stacy London

Halle Berry as Storm in X-Men (2004).

Even more empowering is the thought of channelling the power and assuredness of more mature, grey-haired fictional women such as Miranda Priestly, or real women like Helen Mirren.

Meryl Streep as Miranda Priestly in The Devil Wears Prada.

Helen Mirren

So I have officially sworn off dying my hair.

And guess what? I've never received so many compliments in my life.

Here's to growing into my silver, sexy self.

Where Is the Love?

Sometimes, parenting makes you do crazy things.

It robs you of sleep, sanity, and silence.

It brings you joy, agony, and pride.

But often we don't have the time - or the energy - to really evaluate the toll that parenting takes on our personhood.

Or perhaps, we choose to be less than honest with ourselves about the effects parenting has on us.

I'm not sure if this is more of an issue for primary caregivers, or if partners also feel this way. I don't know because I haven't had time in the past seven years to ask my husband if he's feeling this way, too.

Lately, I have been taking time to reevaluate my life: my career choice (high school English teacher), my procreation choices (late in life), even my spousal choice (more on that in another blog).

I have to say that if I'm being honest with myself, I really don't like any of my choices.

Now, before you dismiss me as ungrateful, or gasp in horror at my audacity, or shake your head at my candour, hear me out:

I love my students. Most of the time, I even love what I do every day in my classroom.

I love my daughters. They are funny and creative and inspiring.

I love my husband. He is and always has been the perfect fit for me. After our first date, I called my mom and told her I was going to marry him.

But I really hate being a teacher.

I hate parenting.

I hate being tied to one partner for life.

*        *       *

This dichotomy has slowly eroded the fabric of my psyche. At first, I thought my feelings were silly, selfish, or just plain psychotic. I dismissed them rather than confront them and sort them out and make peace with them.

As a woman, I feel this is my mid-life crisis.

Here I am, forty-one years old. I have a home that is nearly mortgage-free. I'm halfway to retirement in a secure, government job that pays me nearly enough to be on the bottom of the Sunshine List. I get twelve weeks of holidays. I have an amazing pension plan and my benefits are unparalleled. I have a loving husband who doesn't beat or berate me, who helps with raising our smart and beautiful daughters, and whom I still, for the most part, enjoy spending time with every day. My kids are well-behaved and above average intellectually. My extended family all live within an hour's drive (give or take), and I have excellent relationships with both my mother and my mother-in-law.

It's the perfect life - on paper.

So why am I restless, unhappy, overweight, somnambulant?

I think I've come to a place where I can look back on my life and there's something of significance upon which to reflect. No longer am I a student or a new teacher or a newlywed or a new mother. I am in the trenches. I have history. I have experience. The number of new or exciting experiences or "firsts" in my life are becoming fewer - I have crested the wave, so to speak.

But does this mean I've jumped the shark?

I hope the answer is "no."

Do I dream of exciting new adventures? Travelling without children? Meeting a handsome, intriguing new love interest who notices me? Having time to work out, eat right, look my best?

Of course.

I know this is just a time in my life. I have hope that I will soon once again have a life - mothers with children older than mine assure me of this religiously. "Enjoy them now, this time goes so quickly," they chastise me.

Do they remember?

Do they recall the sheer exhaustion of a two-year-old who wakes EVERY. SINGLE. NIGHT...? Who screams and strips down and pees the bed twice a week just because?

Do they forget about feeling so disconnected from their partners that the somewhat balding nerdy guy at the photocopier who notices my new hairdo suddenly seems Herculean?

Did they delete all the photos of themselves with baggy eyes, dishevelled hair, and lumpy thighs?

Or do mothers somehow find a "reset" button that eliminates all memory of the daily grind, replacing it with a rose-coloured lens through which they filter their retrospection?


I don't know the answer. I'm still in this trench. I still long for days of sleeping in, having coffee dates, seeing every new film in theatres, and maintaining an impeccably clean house.

I love teaching.
I love my kids.
I love my husband.

I just don't always love my life.