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.

What hath night to do with sleep?

“What hath night to do with sleep?” 
― John Milton, Paradise Lost

In my former life, I was a student of English literature. I slept very little in university: my friends marvelled at my ability to stay up every night until 2am, yet miraculously never miss my compulsory 8am first year bio classes a few hours later.

Sleep and I have had an unusual co-existence. From a young age, I would awake at 6am and entertain myself with colouring, watching Saturday morning cartoons, or inventing new worlds and imaginary friends for myself (Mary, Gail and Dee-Dee are for another post).

In university, I perfected the art of the power nap. It was nothing for me to finish a class at 1:50pm, nap from 2-2:45pm, and wake without an alarm to make it for my 3pm class. I slept whenever and wherever I could catch my requisite forty winks.

Fast forward to mothering two young children, full time teaching of high school English, and trying to run a household, and sleep seems to be a new beast in my world. There are times when I can easily sleep 12 hours - something I never did in all my years as a teen or university student.

Then there are the rest of those sleepless nights.

At times, it's simply survival mode: my two-and-a-half-year-old insists that she does not need sleep. She screams. She kicks. She slams her crib against the wall. She throws everything out of her crib: gagou (her soother), Clubby (her seal stuffy - don't judge), pillow, bedsheets, blankie. She strips her pajamas and diaper and throws them out as well. Then, in her (repeat) Oscar-winning moment, she pees the bed. Followed by wailing to the point of throwing up.

Sometimes this happens more than once a week. It's exhausting. It's annoying. It's a cycle we seem unable to break with her. She wants her pound of flesh, and the flesh is Momma... if she doesn't get her requisite three hours of my undivided attention a day, this is her payback.

At times, lack of sleep is an evil necessity of my job. I mark papers at all hours - sometimes I'm up past midnight. Sometimes I wake at 2am and decide I might as well mark for an hour. Other times, I set my alarm for 4am and mark until the kids get up at 7am.

Then there are the nightmares. Both of my girls suffer from them, and usually I am the one they want for comfort, cuddles, and reassurances. They return to sleep. Me - not so much.

Recently, my older daughter awoke screaming in pain at 4:30am. It turns out, she was about to rupture her ear drum. I had to take the day off from work to stay home with her, but there wasn't any power napping for Momma that day.

Finally, there are the inexplicable and infuriating nights when I simply wake from an uninterrupted sleep for no apparent reason.

Last night, I had three hours of parent teacher interviews. I met with eighteen sets of parents to discuss how wonderful their kids are and how well they're all doing. I'm not making this up - I didn't have a single complaint from or for any parents last night. It was likely a first in 17 years of teaching.

So why was my brain determined to rob me of much needed rest last night?

I can tell you, I certainly didn't WANT to be awake from 2am until well after 5:30am. I desperately needed sleep. (see: survival mode and ear drum rupture, above)

My brain has a mind of its own. It dictates when I can rest, when I can create, when I can dream. It controls every fibre of my body and my being, but for some reason, it will not let me sleep.

It makes for exhausting days.

It allows me to read 50+ novels a year.

It gives me (far too many) witty comebacks (what else can do I when I'm laying awake at night, mind spinning like a hamster's wheel?)

I solve math problems. I invent sewing patterns. I have long conversations with my dad, wishing he was still here to tell me how to fix things, both literally and metaphysically.

I often joke that I will build a cubby under my desk at work and sleep away the afternoon like George Costanza.

I really need a nap.

Puzzle Me This

My home has been overrun by puzzles.

Not the "hey, I wonder what this is?" kind of puzzle. Not the "whose socks are these?" kind of puzzle.

No.

My home is littered with puzzle pieces of all shapes, sizes, and provenance.

My oldest, Gwyneth, became very interested in puzzles around the age of three. She loved figuring out where the pieces fit together, the magical creation of a simulacrum that mostly matched the picture on the flimsy box. It was a phase she went through and then quickly forgot once she started school three years ago. I'd almost forgotten about all those puzzles.

Then along came Kinsey.

My almost two-and-a-half-year-old daughter has an unnatural obsession with puzzles. She also possesses an uncanny prowess in identifying and organizing spatial and visual elements in her environment. She can take most puzzles and put them together without ever looking at the picture on the box.

She started with the simpler puzzles that belonged to her older sister - a large floor puzzle with 48 pieces depicting sea life. My first clue that puzzles might be her "thing" came when after three attempts, she could accurately put the entire puzzle together without any help. She could also identify all the different species on the puzzle, and responded well to my suggestions, quickly absorbing them into her own self-talk during puzzling: "Mommy! Shark! Fishy face. Body. Shark body?" She was a quick study.

Soon she moved on to more challenging puzzles. The 64-piece Dora and Boots puzzle was merely a challenge to be conquered: she seemed to know instinctively where the pieces belonged, how to manipulate them and seamlessly form the finished product.

But she also kept us in hysterics with her unique puzzle preoccupation. Many mornings in the past two months, Kinsey has demanded, "Puzzle Mommy!" before she's even out of her crib; last night, she broke into the height of hysterics when I told her it was time for bed and she could do a puzzle in the morning (it was 9:00 pm). For several weeks, she would not allow us to congratulate her upon fitting the pieces in the correct location - she would place a piece, then yell, "NO HOORAYS! Not finished yet!" Only once she positioned the final piece would she then shout, "Hooray! All done! Break! Next puzzle!" and immediately tear the puzzle apart and look for another to complete.

Don't get me wrong. I'm thrilled with her mental acuity and her adeptness with manipulating obscure pieces of the puzzles. But it's getting out of control.

Two weeks ago, I purchased three new puzzles for her to try. She had a $50 gift certificate from Grandma for our local toy store, so I used it to get her two 60-piece and one 100-piece puzzle. I figured this would occupy her for a month or two. While I was there, I ordered more puzzles in the 100-250 piece range for my six-year-old.

Foiled.

I came home with the puzzles. Within an hour, Kinsey - with some coaching from me along the lines of, "Where does this [random never-seen-before] piece go?" - had completed both of the 60-piece puzzles and was half-way through the 100-piece one. One of them was even a clever "find the changes" puzzle that had a picture which DOES NOT match the puzzle in the box. The only challenge was getting the box away from Gwyneth, busily mapping the differences, so Kinsey could put it away and start the next puzzle.

Kinsey's current great sorrow is that Gwyneth and I refuse to let her "help" us with the 1000-piece puzzle we're working on this week.

So.... before I head home from work, I'm stopping by the toy store to pick up the new puzzles that came in a few days ago. I'm sure they'll be finished before bedtime.

You've come a long way, baby

Wow.

I can hardly believe it. I started this blog OVER FIVE YEARS ago. And then kids happened and voila... no more blogging for me!

Since then, a lot has happened. My first "precious preemie" (as she calls herself) is now nearly SEVEN years old and attends grade one at our local elementary school.

One week BEFORE she started school, I gave birth - early again - to our NEXT precious preemie.

It sort of sent our whole family into a vortex.

Here we were, a beautiful postmodern family with one kid, a decent income, and a perfectly sized home in a perfectly sized town. Soon my only child would start school full-time, and finally I'd be finished with daycare costs and diapers and potty training and breastfeeding - FOREVER.

But no, let's not get ahead of ourselves. If you believe in a higher power, you could say that said power was having a good old laugh at my presumptuousness.

Just as I started selling off all our baby items, a funny thing happened. Not funny ha-ha. Not really funny at all, to be honest.

In the early weeks of the new year in 2015, I started to wonder if - after four unsuccessful years of trying to get pregnant - I might be expecting. I dropped my twenty on the counter at Walmart and brought home the emotional roller-coaster in the pretty box, ready to urinate my feelings onto it in the hopes of a faint line in a tiny window.

Alas.

No line.

I waited a few days. I tried again. No line. No period. No nothing.

I went to the doctor. I had another pee test and a blood test. Both negative.

Fast forward another week. I ended up in the emergency room with unexplained abdominal cramping. The first question they asked was, "Could you be pregnant?"

I flippantly retorted, "Only if the last four tests in two weeks were wrong."

So... another pee test. Another blood test. An ultrasound.

Nothing.

Just before my mother left at the start of March for her annual three week cruise to warmer climes, I confided, "I think I must have hit menopause." She gave me a big hug and promised we'd talk when she returned at the end of the month.

And what a month it was!

As a high school teacher, I've grown accustomed to stress in my life playing havoc with my monthly menstrual cycle. I've been known to go three months without a period - and not be pregnant.

But for some reason, this time felt different. I wasn't really very stressed at work. I was working part time and feeling like things were going well. I was also aware that having just turned thirty-eight in February, menopause was now galloping headlong towards me from the horizon. I honestly felt okay with the possibility that my time had come to give up buying "women's hygiene" products - hoorah!

I will never forget driving with my husband and our now nearly four-year-old daughter Gwyneth to have some dinner on the first night of March Break that year. From the back seat, a little girl voiced a request that I was sort of surprised hadn't come sooner:

"Mommy, I'm tired of playing with dolls. Can I have a baby sister?"

My husband and I just looked at each other.

"Honey, I can't promise you anything. Maybe you can ask God for a sister if you want one, and Mommy and Daddy will see what we can do," I responded halfheartedly.

I should have known right then that I was in for trouble. Gwyneth has always possessed a sixth sense that would make the stoutest skeptic believe in the supernatural.

The next evening, quite begrudgingly, I dropped another twenty on the Walmart counter. The cashier stole a glance my way and said, "Good luck."

"Yeah, not really," I retorted. "Not exactly what I was hoping for right now." I'm not sure why I was so grouchy, but perhaps part of me knew what that test would reveal.

I went home and blatantly ignored the directions to use my "first pee of the morning" for the test.

I peed on that stick, whacked it down on the bathroom counter, and went out to the kitchen to pace for two minutes while I waited for what I hoped - for once - would NOT be a line inside a window.

When I returned, I had to laugh in spite of myself. For only the second time in my life, I was looking at a home pregnancy test with a positive result.

As I marched downstairs to find Ian and Gwyneth watching TV, I clearly was still taking in the news. I looked at them and said, "Oh good, you're both sitting down. I'm having another baby."

Gwyneth jumped out of her seat and yelled, "Hooray! Hooray! God's giving me a new baby sister! I just KNEW he would answer me!"

My husband looked like I had shot him at point blank range with a bazooka.

My mom and I did have a talk when she got home, but it wasn't about hormone replacement therapy or how to manage hot flashes. Instead, while eating breakfast at a local diner, I watched her facial expression turn from confusion, to disbelief, and then to joy as Gwyneth told her, "Mommy's having a new baby sister for me!"

My pregnancy was another whole post (or two) in itself. But for now, let's just say that on September 2, 2015, we welcomed Gwyneth's baby sister, Kinsey Maeve Rowan Campbell, into our family.

And life would never be the same.

To sleep: perchance to dream

So yes… we’ve had a pretty rough month in the Rowan-Campbell household when it comes to sleeping.  Our darling daughter Gwyneth went through quite a transition when she threw that Sousy away, and we are still trying to help her self-soothe and get some sleep.

I must say, the past two weeks HAVE been better.  Little did I know that our method of “sleep training” would stir up such controversy!

I really had no idea that there were such varying opinions on the matter of infant sleep.  Many of my friends were astonished that I would actually PUBLISH on Facebook that I was using the Ferber Method of sleep training.  “You’re brave to admit to that publicly,” one friend wrote, “but I’m in your corner.”

Another confessed that she and her husband used a sleep training method with all four kids, but didn’t tell any of their friends.

So what gives?  I had to learn more.

And learn I did.  Wow.  It just so happens that at the same time we were starting our sleep training with Gwyneth, the Moby Wrap Facebook page posted an interesting graphic – with interesting response!

Now honestly, I thought most of the conversation would centre around not using diapers – there ARE people who don’t, but that’s a discussion for another day – but no.  The overwhelming discussion surrounded the first bullet – having baby sleep in your bed.

Wow.  There are some NASTY people online who apparently like Moby Wrap, but still behave like they’re on the playground in grade one.  I couldn’t believe the comments flying between both camps – the co-sleepers and the non-co-sleepers (for lack of a better term).

We certainly tried several types of co-sleeping.  We started with Gwyneth in a bassinet next to our bed when she first came home from hospital.  But as you might imagine, after three months of sleeping in a busy NICU ward with lights on, bells and beeps and alarms going all night, and nurses bustling about, sleeping next to us in a dark, quiet room was not her cup of tea. 

So, we moved her to the crib and I slept on a twin bed next to her.  This also had mixed results.  She still wanted lights on – and even dim lighting makes it impossible for me to sleep – and we actually played the radio or music all night long for her, as she couldn’t handle the silence of small-town Fergus (where were the crazy kids who annoy us at the school next door on those nights?!?!?).

I have also tried having her in my bed, never for the night, but for naps.  She really doesn’t enjoy this too much. 

So I found the mudslinging amusing.  There were lots of good points on both sides of the argument.  One mom wrote, “All four of my brothers and sisters and I co-slept and we’re fine.”  Others posted links to various arguments in favour of both crib-sleeping and co-sleeping.  Some were over the top – one mom wrote, “This article basically tells you why it’s cruel to put your child in a crib.”  Which is funny, because I read the article, and it didn’t really say that… well, unless you're a cave woman and worried about wild dingoes eating your baby.

I think this mom summed it up nicely:  “There are few groups of people as judgy as moms. Read up on what you want to do, use your own judgement, make YOUR decision and let everyone else do the same.”

And so, that’s what we’re doing.  Gwyneth still takes at least twenty minutes to settle at night.  And last night, I admit I gave in and rocked her to sleep.  Honestly… I kinda like rocking her to sleep.  Because at the end of the day, I realize that soon enough she’ll be thirteen and telling me she doesn’t need a mom.

Might as well enjoy being needed while it lasts.