Author: davidson200

Writing this blog has been an incredibly cathartic experience.  Looking back, I recall  feeling a constant terrifying anxiety –  I was so unsure that the path I was choosing was the right one.  In retrospect, life is similar to being blown out of a cannon.  While you may be aimed in the right direction, there is never any certainty where you will land.  This is what parenting felt like for me – an endless comedy of errors and blunders, where I scrambled to retain even the tiniest glimmer of hope that I wasn’t unintentionally screwing up another person’s life.  I’m fairly confident that I am not the only parent out there who has ever felt this way, it’s merely a question of whether you choose to admit it or not.

For the bubble wrap parent that I still am, it was incredibly difficult for me to release my daughter into the care of a school and the endless assortment of calamities I foresaw on a daily basis.  This list includes but is not limited to:

• Possibility of injuries sustained on playground equipment while the child is not being properly monitored;
• Possibility of the child choking on food while stuffing her face in an effort to rush outdoors and be injured while not being properly monitored on the playground equipment;  (Choking will have occurred while not being properly monitored in the classroom either – as you can see –  I trust NO ONE)
• Possibility of the child being bullied by other children while not being properly monitored in the classroom or the playground;
• Possibility of the child’s feelings being hurt by a cranky teacher who lacks the ability or imagination (or both) to interpret her artwork;
• Possibility of the child being hit by a car or abducted while being escorted to the daycare across the street from the school, by a daycare employee who may or may not be properly monitoring this excursion;
• Possibility of injuries sustained at the daycare while the child is not being properly monitored….(As you can see – it never EVER ends.  I have unresolved issues about safety and the ability of anyone but myself to provide it – excluding the time that I forgot my daughter as an infant in Reitmans,  or the time that I lost her (technically she ran away) at Coquitlam Centre.  I also acknowledge and accept that perhaps I should be the one who is “properly monitored”)

Therefore, I was completely unprepared for what happened next.  Never ever – did I imagine in my wildest dreams that I would be punished for having a clean child, but this is exactly what happened.  Oh – believe me, there were signs, I was just too stupid to see them.  The incessant head scratching and even the occasional small bug that I casually flicked off her face and forehead; I was seemingly incapable of making the connection.  For me, lice was something that happened to dirty children who seldom bathed or washed or brushed their greasy hair.   (In particular, those children whose bath time is NOT properly monitored)  Little did I know the sophisticated nature of head lice and their equal admiration for clean shiny hair, or unwashed  greasy hair.

I found out about her head lice via letter that was sent home in her backpack.  It was a Friday and since I only removed her lunch box from her backpack, I didn’t see the letter until Saturday – when I checked to see if she was withholding any homework.  By then, bedlam had ensued.  I too had begun noticing an increasingly itchy scalp and to make matters worse, my girlfriend Kathryn was heading to the UK the next day and was spending the night with us so that I could take her to the airport.  That fateful Friday night, the three of us sat there scratching our heads while we watched a movie, none the wiser that a colony of insects had invaded our scalps.  I’m almost positive that I had been invaded  nearly as long as Faryn had been, but it was alarming how quickly they leapt from either my head or Faryn’s to hers.  I raced out to the store to buy boxes of the incredibly overpriced Nix and was forced to buy 2 each for both Faryn and I since we had equally long, thick hair.  It was a fucking nightmare.  Since Kathryn had only been recently infested, hers was a breeze.  Not so for Faryn and I.  It took hours for Kathryn to comb through my hair (we had created a sort of  lice assembly line if you will) where I was combing through Faryn’s hair while Kathryn was tending to mine.  The only person who complained throughout this horrific process was the one person (Faryn) who had nothing to do but read out loud to us from her book,  for entertainment. (It should also be noted that my daughter was ground zero as far as the lice were concerned, having brought this contamination upon us to begin with) Next came washing in scalding water all of our bedding and by the time we were able to finally go to sleep it was after 2:00 in the morning.  Kathryn was dropped off at the airport thankfully lice free, however; it literally took weeks to finally remove the lice once and for all from Faryn’s hair, as she was continuously becoming re-infected at school.  I am not sure what the lice protocol is these days, but back in the dark days of the early 1990’s, once a school had an infestation problem, they basically just trusted that the parents would take care of it and there was no follow up.  I checked back on my notes and I spent almost $100 on Nix during this period of time – a fortune for a single mother with only one income and no supplemental child support.

It was around this time that I began to notice that my daughter was displaying-odd behaviour.  It started with an ET book that I had bought her.  Being an avid reader myself, I had a philosophy that I would never say “no” to a book.  Although I didn’t own a copy of the movie ET, I picked up a copy of the book, thinking that she too would love this charming character.  At bedtime, I always let her choose the bedtime story, and I noticed that the little purple ET book was never selected.  I insisted that she keep her room tidy (translation – I was constantly cleaning it) and I kept finding the book in the strangest places – stuffed under her bed, in the closet, or at the bottom of a drawer.  Each time I rediscovered the book, I would place it back on her bedside table amongst the stack of books she always kept there and each night when we read together, it was always absent.  I finally gave up on the book, suspecting that she was simply disinterested in ET and forgot about the matter.  Years later, Faryn admitted to me that she was terrified of ET (SERIOUSLY!) and that she kept hiding the book so that she wouldn’t have to look at it or god forbid I might read it to her.  To this day, she refuses to watch the movie and I have never been able to figure out how she could be afraid of a creature as lovable as ET.

I then started to notice that her hands were becoming increasingly dry and were beginning to crack open in painful sores.  I took her to see our family doctor who seemed baffled by the whole matter and suggested that perhaps she might have some sort of allergy to trees.  Since my daughter had limited contact with trees, I simply used the cream he had prescribed, however the condition of her hands continued to deteriorate and they were now raw, cracked and bleeding.  I have always insisted on cleanliness, remember this was the pre sanitizing lotion era, however she knew that she had to wash her hands after using the bathroom, before meals, and before she went to bed.  What I didn’t realize, was that she had taken this to a whole new level, washing her hands incessantly, multiple times daily as she consistently believed that her hands were always dirty.  I tried to understand where this was coming from and attempted to intervene when I saw her heading to the washroom repeatedly while she was at home.  What I couldn’t control was how often she was doing this while at school and at daycare.  It would be a few more years before the truth would be revealed to us….This was the beginning of my daughter’s lifelong battle with OCD.

For some, parenting  appears to be as natural as breathing.   For others – not so much.  In October, I went out for breakfast with my cousin Scott and his wife Jen, along with their two young children.  I watched with a mixture of amazement and maybe just a teeny tiny bit of envy as Jen navigated her way through the entire breakfast with such ease –  while every little thing that I constantly fretted about when in public with my daughter, simply rolled off her back.  She was effortlessly able to maintain a lively conversation, total control of her children and a beautiful smile on her face.   It was almost like witnessing a miracle, (I was seriously waiting for the face of  baby Jesus to appear on my toast)  she had the arms of an octopus, the 360 degree vision of a chameleon and the patience of a saint.  I couldn’t even manage one child and here I was watching Superwoman in action with not one but TWO children.  This was an in the flesh encounter with an awe inspiring natural mother.

Meanwhile, back in the late 80’s I was still trying to figure out how to control my willful daughter – without resorting to beating her senseless or putting her on a  leash/harness.  Yes indeed I had one – and in retrospect I can’t even technically call it a harness (which in reality sounds only slightly better than a leash), it was more like a bungee cord that strapped to her wrist.  If you were stationary and your child attempted to wander too far away they were magically sprung  back at you like a little human yoyo.  An absolute necessity for the unnatural mother that I was.

One Saturday afternoon, out of sheer necessity I was forced to take Faryn to Coquitlam Centre.  I was extremely reluctant to do so as our previous mall excursions had been dodgy at best, but as a single parent – you often have no choice.  As I was driving there, I was carefully instructing her on “mall etiquette ” which included, but was not limited to:

Me:     “Hold my hand at ALL times, don’t talk to strangers – or better yet, don’t talk to ANYONE,  no pointing, poking or touching other people.  No running, screaming or crying”  blah blah blah

Faryn:   “You talk too much”  (She obviously sensed that nothing positive could or would happen after so many emphatic “NO’s” had been lobbed her way in such a threatening matter)

I should have just turned around and gone home, but then I wouldn’t have anything to write about would I?  We casually browsed through a clothing store, and I picked out a few items to try on in the change room.  Faryn was in the room with me, admiring herself in the mirror while I stripped off my clothing and began stepping into a skirt.  Just as I was zipping up the skirt, Faryn suddenly crawled underneath the door and disappeared.  Frantically I threw on a blouse and ran out of the change room,  searching through all of the racks, while bellowing her name like the crazy woman that I was.  Nothing.  I immediately ran out of the store which caused the alarms to go off, while a saleswoman chased after me.  I had my purse slung over my shoulder and was barefoot as I raced around in circles flapping off the irate saleswoman who was now trying to strong arm me back into the store.  Mall security arrived and by this time I was a sobbing mess,  To their credit, malls take missing children seriously.  The security guard immediately sprang into action, radioing other security guards to let them know that my daughter had been lost, while I tried desperately to remember what my daughter was wearing.  A pink coat – that’s it, that’s all I had.  Mall security had me stay near the store while they actually locked the mall down and announcements were made for Faryn to seek out a security guard so that she could be returned to me.  (Quite possibly only a temporary arrangement if word got out) About thirty of the longest minutes in my entire lifetime passed, wherein I had now conjured up every horrific scenario imaginable  and  was in the process of having a complete meltdown.   They continued to announce her name over the loudspeaker and I  cringed every time I  heard it.  Finally, I re-entered the store next to the one I had originally been in just to check again and there was my daughter, in the change room area, twirling around in the mirrors, oblivious to the kafuffle that was occurring outside.  I immediately dropped to my knees and grabbed her, half hugging and half wanting to shake her, while asking why she hadn’t  responded to the loudspeaker calling her name.

Faryn:   “But I didn’t hear anything”

Of course she couldn’t  hear anything, the store was blaring their irritating music so loudly it made my head ache.  Evidently, Faryn had wandered to the front of the store we were in, LEFT the store completely and then went back into the store next door by accident, waiting for me in the change room area, thinking I was still inside my cubicle.   Never mind that this was a men’s clothing store, she wouldn’t have been able to tell the difference.  And how about those sales people?  None of them even noticed that she was in there.  I was so shaken, we had to leave the mall, immediately after I returned the borrowed clothing I was still wearing. I have to admit that a part of me actually died a little bit that day…

That spring, I put Faryn in t-ball, hoping that a team sport might teach her some discipline and help her to focus more on instructions and rules.  For those who haven’t experienced t-ball, it is excruciatingly boring to watch.  The kids whack away at the mounted ball and then run like lunatics when or if they actually hit it, usually running in the wrong direction.  Faryn was placed outfield  where she played in the dirt digging holes or ran around chasing imaginary butterflies, since the ball never came anywhere near her.  I decided to take matters into my own hands and made preperations to teach her how to hit and catch a ball.  I took a bat and a softball, threw the ball lightly into the air and swung the bat, just as Faryn decided this was an appropriate time to walk over and speak to me.  There was a resounding crack as  I hit her in the head with the bat so hard she was thrown onto the ground.  Another trip to the emergency room – with a wailing daughter who wouldn’t stop screaming:

Faryn:      “MY MOMMY HIT ME IN THE HEAD WITH A BASEBALL BAT”

Me:     “FML”

Every summer my parents had Faryn stay with them for 2 weeks in an effort to diminish my skyrocketed fulltime daycare costs.  While trying to kill some time before I had to take Faryn to the ferry, walk on with her, meet my parents on the other side and then run back to catch the ferry home again, I suggested that Faryn ride her bike with me around the neighbourhood while I rollerbladed.  I was moderately comfortable rollerblading and we set out together on this beautiful sunny morning.  Faryn was wearing her helmet, along with all of the paraphernalia that bubble wrap parents require, such as elbow and kneepads.  Since her little knees could barely bend  in the knee pads, this made peddling for her, challenging at best.  We were navigating a small hill and as I was gathering speed, I suddenly realized that the rubber brake at the back of my rollerblade wasn’t working – it was in fact GONE.   This is one of those situations where you are fully aware that you are going to get hurt (I had not put on a helmet, wrist guards, elbow pads or knee pads – because I was so MODERATELY COMFORTABLE with my rollerblading abilities) but are frantically searching for a solution that might somehow minimize the pain.  At this point I had two equally unappealing options.  The first was to try to jump off the road onto the sidewalk, which I knew meant I was going to suffer significant road rash and perhaps some broken bones, or option number two – which consisted of an attempt to grab onto a rapidly approaching parked, one-ton truck.   I surmised that if I  somehow managed to do this, it  might or might not drastically reduce the injuries I was about to sustain.  I wobbly steered myself towards the one-ton truck, however; instead of being able to grab onto it, I violently slammed into the side of it.  I snapped my left wrist immediately on impact and then spun around, landing on the pavement with my right hand, before both of my elbows and knees made contact.  Faryn who had witnessed the entire event, had breathlessly peddled her way over to me and was standing by my side sobbing.  Two men who were just leaving a garage sale in a small pickup truck came running over and offered to give me a ride to the hospital however, the small pickup  couldn’t accommodate Faryn, unless I consented to her sitting in the bed of the truck with all the rubbish.  I asked that they take me home instead so that I could call an ambulance.   And so, the passenger scooched over to sit beside the driver so that I could attempt to drag my broken, bloodied body into the truck.  I yelled to Faryn that she must follow us home on her bike and to call the police if I didn’t make it there.  The men did in fact drop me off at the house, and I had Faryn run inside to call 911.  The ambulance arrived, but the paramedics couldn’t figure out how to remove my rollerblades and so they just deposited me into the back with them still on my feet.  Faryn happily sat up front with the driver.

So there I was at the hospital – a bloodied and broken spectacle, having fractured and wounded every conceivable area that should have been spared had I been wearing the protective gear that I had forced my daughter to wear simply to ride her bike.  And yes, there she sat beside me, still wearing her helmet, elbow and knee pads, while the nurses kept glancing over at me shaking their heads.  I dreaded making the phone call to my parents requesting that they come over to pick Faryn up since I knew I wasn’t going to be released from the hospital anytime soon.  My friend Kathryn came to my rescue once again, picking up my daughter and taking her to the ferry to meet my parents –  who I might add, were supremely pissed off at me and my reckless behaviour, once again.    Once I was able to use my arms again, I packed away my rollerblades and have never tried to use them again.

There was this letter that I wrote to my daughter when she was about 6 months old, which I sealed in an envelope and planned to present to her at some point in the future.  While I didn’t realize it at the time, it was basically “birth control” in an envelope, written on stationary I must have had since I was about 10 years old.  In retrospect, I wonder if I was attempting to immortalize a moment in time (admittedly a rather shitty one) while she was in her playpen playing with the lids from a couple of pots (possibly the only two that I owned) and I was grappling with all the guilt I was feeling while being in school fulltime and then working evenings eventually, just to make ends meet.  It was an embarrassing and rambling affair, striving towards, however never quite reaching, any sort of point at all.  I do recall reverently placing it into its matching envelope and feeling as though I had somehow captured this important moment in our lives for posterity, and that someday she would open it up like a time capsule, read it and be filled with joy and admiration for the young and loving mother that I was.  Well…I found the letter when she was about 17,  and I handed it to her one afternoon as she was disappearing upstairs into her room.  So there I was, nervously seated on the stairs, wringing my hands as I waited for her to come bounding out of her room,  with tears streaming down her face – moved by my profound and important message.  Crickets…  I finally went into her room and she was lying on her bed watching TV.  We had the following conversation:

Faryn:     “You seriously let me play with the lids from pots?” 

I guess I should have waited a few more years (or perhaps never) to share this sad and moving chapter in our lives.  I snatched  back the letter and hung onto it until she was in her late 20’s.  We sat down one night and read it together and well… We literally pissed ourselves laughing – times had indeed changed.

Being a fulltime single parent means that you have exactly 50% less ammunition in your parental  arsenal.  It also means that you do not get every other weekend (and perhaps one week night) off, nor do you receive any sort of child support – particularly if you’re stupid like I was and refuse to fight for any.  I thought I was being noble and besides, if I asked for nothing, my daughter would never have to be disappointed by the one person who had the ability to hurt her the most.

During the first 2 years of my post secondary program (and later on, an additional 5 years –  which we will discuss in a future post) while I was in full on survival mode, the one and only thing that got us through it all was:  The Sound of Music.  Since this was my all time favorite movie, and because I was the proud owner of the VHS boxed set which consisted of two tapes – this movie literally saved my life.  While I ground my way through hours of homework, I would plunk Faryn down in front of the TV and she would be captivated, right from the opening sequence where Maria begins to twirl  like a lunatic at the peak of a beautiful mountain – advising us all that the “the hills were indeed alive – with the sound of music.”  I am constantly reminded that I am to blame for the musical loving dork my daughter has become, as I had subjected her to them since she was still in the womb.  Is it my fault that she drives around listening to show tunes in her vehicle?  I personally prefer to listen to audio books while driving – to each his own.

A number of years ago, Faryn reminded me of an incident that occurred one night while I was sleeping.  It should be noted that I have some sort of deep rooted weirdness when it comes to my feet.  I never go barefoot, nor do I want anyone to touch them, including my husband.  While I recognize that this is irrational, it still took me almost 45 years to allow someone else to give me a pedicure.  I even sleep with my feet exposed as I can’t even bear to have the covers touching them.  Faryn is and always was a nocturnal creature – and she habitually crawled into bed with me at some point during the night.  Most mornings I would wake up to find her breathing in my general direction like a rabid dog, or have to reposition her because she had her legs, arms or even her bum in my face.  As the story goes, she woke up one night and wandered into my dark bedroom, feeling her way along the walls as she proceeded towards my bed.  As she was fumbling her way around, her icy little fingers made contact with my sensitive and forbidden foot and in a knee jerk reaction (please forgive me – I WAS sleeping) I hauled out and kicked her, right between the eyes.  I woke up to find her crumpled on the floor like a broken little doll – wailing. For weeks afterwards, she told EVERYONE she encountered that “mommy kicked me in face, but it’s ok because she said she was sleeping when she did it”.  I WAS SLEEPING WHEN I DID IT! Lovely…

While there were plenty of times that I wanted to wring my daughter’s neck,  there were also some extraordinary  moments where I experienced love in its purest form (yes of course for HER)  and a number of these moments had absolutely nothing to do with me, and everything to do with the beautiful person who was hiding inside that tiny body.

One day, we were once again in the line up at the grocery store  when I saw a man glance over at us and then quickly look away.  I sucked in my breath when I noticed that one side of his face was severely burnt and scarred.  The side facing us was also scarred, but it appeared that some areas had been spared.   I immediately began to panic  as I was sure that Faryn would notice and blurt out some sort of inappropriate comment.  She possessed two volumes at this point – mute or maximum.  Because the man was directly in front of us, I tried to distract her with the National Enquirer, and when that didn’t work,  I grabbed anything I could get my hands on within our confined space.  I froze when I realized she had spotted him…I saw her tilt her head, gazing up at him while taking in both sides of his face.  I was momentarily paralyzed with fear…What she did next completely shocked and amazed me – she held out her arms and asked him to pick her up.  I didn’t know what to do – he glanced over at me, silently seeking permission and I nodded my head – “yes”.   I was shaking so hard I couldn’t even respond to him.  As he held her,  she reached up and touched the scarred side of his face with her fingertips, gently tracing the haphazard series of lines and scar tissue.  She then stroked the less scarred side, running her fingers along the small areas of smoothness that remained.  Then she did the most incredible thing – she leaned up and kissed the scarred side of his face.  The man looked at me with tears streaming down his face and said:

Beautiful man:  “Thank you – I can’t remember the last time someone touched me.  Children are usually afraid of me”  (Oh…by all means bring on the ugly crying)

He handed my daughter back to me after hugging her close and I wondered – how did she know that he needed this so much?  At this point the cashier was sobbing, as were the couple behind me.  This moment remains one of the purest and most beautiful things my daughter ever did as a child.

But then of course, the angel closes her eyes,  tucks away her wings and the familiar tiny monster once again reappears.  This time, we were on the sky train – packed in like sardines and so I had Faryn seated on my lap.  A young Asian man sat down next to me and I couldn’t help noticing that his face was severely pock marked.  You could tell by the way he kept his head down that he was extremely self conscious and his obvious discomfort made my heart hurt.  Out of the corner of my eye – I could see a tiny finger moving swiftly towards this young man’s face.  I was able to quickly grab it before she could make contact, and then casually tried to palm her little face towards me, all the while gripping her probing fingers with my other hand.  Since I wasn’t in possession of a third arm, this of course left her mouth unattended and she inquired at MAXIMUM volume:

Faryn:   “WHY DO YOU HAVE ALL THOSE HOLES IN YOUR FACE?” 

Me:      “Oh my GOD – I’m so SORRY”

I cannot even begin to express how completely horrific this moment was.  The young man bolted out the door at the next stop, which probably wasn’t even his, while I sat there crying and everyone within our general vicinity glared at me.  Of course my child just sat there, oblivious to the train wreck she had unwittingly caused.

Faryn:     “WHY ARE YOU CRYING?”  (What I couldn’t say was  “because you’re an ASSHOLE.”  She was after all just a curious child, thoroughly incapable of comprehending the magnitude of this moment)

After we got off the skytrain, I sat her down and tried to explain to her exactly why she shouldn’t have said what she had.  That words can and do hurt and that the  pock marks on this young man’s  face were something he couldn’t change.  I tried to convey to her that it simply wasn’t polite or acceptable to ask, touch or stare.   I reminded her about the scarred man and how she had been so kind to him –  yet still she asked:

Faryn:       “But why was it ok for me to touch the other man’s face?” (Indeed this was a good question)

Really, how do you explain the difference between empathy and intrusively  offensive probing – to a child?  I grappled with this conundrum for years.

You know that saying “…if you love something set it free” blah blah blah?  Yes well…you’re not allowed to do that with toddlers.  Nor can you rationalize,  threaten, plead or  silently will them into submission.  Once the little crazy switch in their brain has been activated you must simply ride out the insanity and pray that you aren’t  in a public place when the tantrum occurs.  (This is the least likely scenario as crazy/out of control toddlers appear to enjoy and even flourish when an attentive audience is present)

Because I was so neurotic, anxious and tense during the infant phase of my daughter’s life, I was really looking forward to the toddler stage. (Indeed I didn’t  recognize an idiot when I saw one in the mirror) Strangely, I felt that I would actually excel in this area, becoming more relaxed and comfortable with a child I could interact with, rather than the lopsided relationship I had experienced with a  demanding and ungrateful baby.

As mentioned above, it’s a foolish mother who believes that she can rationalize with a toddler. It soon became apparent that I had once again  misjudged the bewildering level of lunacy that accompanies a child of this age.   After many  years of careful reflection – I believe it is safe to suggest that raising a toddler is similar  to training an unruly puppy.  They are tiny monsters at this age – unreasonable, inconsiderate and mercurial.  Gone were my visions of quiet hours spent happily reading together – or just any sort of quiet time period.  I was entering the realm of utter chaos.

After I finished my 2 year college program in Surrey, I moved back to Vancouver Island and commenced employment at a law firm in Nanaimo.  The lawyer I worked for was an asshole who had no children of his own (I am in no way implying that this made him an asshole, he would have maintained his asshole status even IF he had fathered children) and he would often show up at my desk 5 minutes before I was to depart for the day insisting that extra work needed to be completed for the following morning.  I was never paid for these extra hours as it was assumed (by him) that overtime was included in my  salary.  My girlfriend Kathryn became my saviour during these times, as she would go to Faryn’s daycare and retrieve her until I was finally able to leave the office.  Did I forget to mention that I hated this sadistic little man?  His law firm was in a beautiful heritage home.  Part of the problem was space (or lack thereof) and we were  forced to be creative when it came to storage options.  All of the diarized files that needed to be filed away by the receptionist were kept on a shelf in the washroom.  This man took great pleasure in going into the bathroom with a newspaper or document tucked under his arm – taking a ginormous dump and then sending our poor receptionist into the washroom immediately afterwards to gather all of the files for filing. This man clearly hated women. (Please note that my comments only represent THIS particular lawyer.  I have worked for wonderful lawyers and have a retired lawyer friend whom I adore…)

One weekend my girlfriend Kathryn accompanied me to the mall so that she could watch Faryn while I was treating myself to a haircut.  Our outing did not get off to a good start as Faryn was in a pissy mood, for no reason other than that she felt like being a tiny tyrant.  We decided it would be wise to seat her in a shopping cart so that Kathryn wouldn’t lose her or have to chase her around the mall.  I was sitting there blissfully enjoying a few moments of pampering when my hair stylist looked up and said:

Hairstylist:      “OH MY GOD, look at that poor woman!” 

I lifted my head just in time to see Kathryn conducting a frantic “drive by” the salon window with my SCREAMING child seated in front of her in the shopping cart.  Kathryn had this look of sheer  desperation on her face and while I couldn’t hear anything, I could in fact see my daughter’s tonsils – she was obviously screaming so loudly.  Her face was red, covered in tears and snot and she was flailing her arms around in an effort to beat my friend senseless.   In a panic, I put my head down pretending not to notice.  I ended up leaving the salon with wet hair after about the 5th “drive by” since  I simply couldn’t keep pretending that I didn’t know who these people were.  Faryn was evidently screaming for ice-cream (don’t we all?) and nothing was going to satisfy her until she got what she wanted.  We made the misguided decision to take her into a restaurant and placed her in a high chair, both of us heaving a huge sigh of relief as she sat there content for the moment surveying her new surroundings.  We both ordered food and I asked for a side plate so that I could share mine with her.  I filled her sippy cup with milk and we were enjoying the peace and quiet for a few seconds before the monster once again reared its ugly head.  This tantrum was unprovoked and irrational, she clearly didn’t like the food (or the present company for that matter) and she began to scream once again for ice cream.  It is impossible to pretend that a child isn’t yours when they have you in a headlock and are screaming and spewing into your face.   In a dramatic sweeping motion, (Joan Crawford would have been clapping gleefully) she cleared her high chair of food and sippy cup, all of which went flying off the tray and onto the floor.  We quickly asked for our food to go and departed before things progressed any further.  This soon became the story of my life – embarrassing  and hasty exits…

This was a particularly lonely time for me.  None of my friends had children (they being much wiser and probably on more reliable birth control than I was) and I was often left feeling slightly resentful that they could just be impulsive and do what they wanted, while everything I tried to do required endless amounts of planning and paraphernalia.  The rational side of me understood that this was of course my decision to have a child so young, however; I still felt alienated and to a certain extent – trapped.

I soon came to dread even opening my eyes on any given morning.  There was always this mad rush to wake the tiny monster and then endless minutes spent trying to coax her into the washroom, brush her teeth, get her dressed (she wanted to wear her pink Power Rangers track suit EVERYDAY, she had only ONE) then feed this child who refused to eat anything healthy no matter how creative I was with the presentation, before flying out the door to drop her off at daycare so that I could get to work on time.

Even though Faryn had been walking for ages, it was still easier to take her places in her stroller as I had no faith that she wouldn’t just run off and be abducted by a lunatic or get hit by a car.  Her stroller was one of those sturdy affairs complete with canopy and storage.  With the canopy up, I couldn’t actually see her in there unless I stepped around to the side – something which worked particularly well on the days that I was pretending I was either the nanny or that I didn’t actually know who this screaming child belonged to.  We were in Woolco  which for those of my reading audience who are younger,  was like Wal-Mart but not nearly as nice, bright and well-organized.  In fact Wal-Mart actually bought out Woolco in Canada – while it was in the early stages of taking over the world.   Regardless, I was wandering around the store enjoying the fact that my child was actually asleep for once and I could stroll  in leisure.  I had the few items I was purchasing on the canopy of the stroller which I paid for and then left the store.  I was wandering through the rest of the mall when I happened to stop and move around to the side of the stroller to check on Faryn.  At first I wasn’t sure what I was seeing, and then I let out an audible squeak when I realized what she had done.  I immediately raced back to Woolco and flew over to the customer service desk panting and embarrassed.  My daughter had indeed woken up during our visit to Woolco.  The reason she had been so quiet was because as I was browsing, particularly in the cosmetics department, she had been busy shoplifting items and storing them in her stroller.  She had about 6 large boxes of a fragrance I hated called Enjoli.  (An 8 hour fragrance for the 24 hour woman!) As I was unloading these onto the customer service desk, I also found 2 glass ashtrays (seemingly in anticipation of the heavy smoker she was planning to become) and to make matters worse, she was actually sitting on a box of hot rollers.  I was never able to figure out how she managed to acquire these items so quietly (and with such stealth) particularly since her movements were somewhat restricted by the seatbelt that was strapping her into the stroller.

My daughter who is now 31 never tires of this story –  and laughs hysterically when I describe how mortified I was as I stood there in that store, digging item after item out of her stroller while the customer service woman had tears rolling down her face she was laughing so hard.  It seems unfair that there hasn’t been any karmic retribution to date – but I’ll be waiting for it…

Parent or mom shaming is what they call it in 2017 – back in the 80’s, things were really no different.  While it didn’t have a name and social media wasn’t on anyone’s radar (was Mark Zuckerberg even born yet?) it definitely felt more personal because it actually happened in person.  You could be standing in the lineup at the grocery store holding your baby with its giant lolling head when some perky mom villain sidles up to you announcing that her baby already has all of the provinces of Canada memorized.  She will then glance over sympathetically,  just as your baby  blows an admirable spit bubble.  At that moment, your heart clenches and you wonder – is there some sort of deficiency happening here?  My daughter can’t even hold up her own HEAD!

Children develop at their own pace.  My daughter was a little freak of nature, walking at 10 1/2  months old.    She didn’t even crawl (she  just slithered around like a creepy little  snake) and then she just stood up and walked.  Did this mean she qualified for Mensa status?  Absolutely NOT. At some point, the playing field levels and kids are basically at par with each other.  Some might be reading, some might be verbally accomplished and some might be riding their bikes without training wheels.  Where your child falls within this spectrum really has nothing to do with their level of  intellect – they are simply developing at their own pace and parents need to accept this and celebrate it.  We as parents also need to cease comparing, judging and shaming other parents just because they may not be raising their children the way YOU believe they should.  I am in no way suggesting that any sort of neglect or abuse should be ignored – obviously;  but supporting one another would be a great place to start.  Instead of judging whether so and so’s child has homemade vegan granola in their lunchbox, ask yourself, do these things really matter?  Furthermore, is it really any of your business in the first place?  Seriously – get over yourselves bitchy moms (or dads)  – let’s try building each other up and supporting one another for a change.  Anyways, enough with this mini rant – let’s proceed shall we…

It hasn’t taken me 31 years to realize that I’m not good with babies.  To this day, when handed a baby, I still hold it as though someone has just passed me a tiny piping hot potato – I’m that anxious to just pass it on. Sure they smell good (at times) but I have absolutely zero trust that I will not accidentally say what I’m really thinking (new-born babies are not always cute and sometimes they do in fact resemble a well wrapped burrito) or as you are now fully aware, I have shamefully admitted to being a baby dropper.  These red flags should be glaringly obvious to any new mother who makes the mistake of passing me her baby.  Looking on the bright side, I am however an accomplished puppy cuddler.  Having said that, it amazes me to this day that I never once dropped my daughter – this admission makes me very happy.

Colic set in after the third week, and this was something I was ill prepared for.  Faryn screamed constantly, becoming a tiny nocturnal monster who couldn’t be comforted no matter what I tried to do.  I gave her gripe water (which I later found out contained alcohol) and had I known this at the time, I probably would have been swigging it along with her.  I tried strapping my wailing daughter into a snuggly and wore her for what felt like eternity, while she screamed and flailed into my chin and chest.  Nothing was working.  I took her back to the doctor, but there was little that could be done, and there were times if I’m being honest when I wasn’t sure if I could cope. (Please refer to my initial  post where “pitching the screaming baby out the window” is addressed, however not recommended)  My parents were a strong presence in my life and were proud grandparents, however, they felt that this role I had taken on should remain one that I continued starring in alone.  I called my mom one evening while Faryn was still screaming into my chin and asked:

Me:     “Can you die of sleep deprivation?  Does this actually happen to people or do they just kill themselves first?”

Mom:     Sighing…    “Technically no”

Me:      “But it COULD happen right?  I’m really on the edge of a cliff here I think…” 

Mom:    “Honestly Shelley – this will pass, I promise you”  (WILL I BE DEAD FIRST THOUGH?)

A friend of mine who had a teenage daughter took pity on me when I called her later that night sobbing and muttering incoherently.  (I was possibly drunk from consuming too much gripe water at this point).  She came over and took Faryn for the evening just so that I could get some rest.  Eventually, just as my mom advised, all things really do pass and this traumatic time became a distant memory.

A friend was visiting from Australia and we decided that it might be nice to take Faryn to the mall.  She was about 3 weeks old at this time – the perfect age to be introduced to the joys of shopping.  We were wandering around in Reitmans where I was admiring all the clothing I couldn’t afford or fit into, when we decided to get something to eat at the food court.  We were casually strolling towards the food court, chatting away when suddenly we both stopped and looked at each other  – eyes bulging.  We had the following exchange:

Me:     “OH MY GOD WHERE IS THE BABY?”

Jodi:      “Shhhhiiiitttt”

We both raced through the mall like lunatics, frantically trying to retrace our steps.  We arrived at Reitmans and saw all three of the saleswomen huddled around Faryn’s stroller admiring her – all the while casting curious glances around the store wondering who she might belong to.  I flew over to her stroller,  panting like a golden retriever announcing:

Me:      “Oh, there you ARE!”   (As though my newborn baby had simply wandered away in her stroller)

Saleswoman:     “We were wondering who she belonged to” 

Me:      “Yes well…thank you for watching her”  (Seriously, there’s really nothing more that can be said when one forgets their newborn baby in Reitmans)

And so, with as much dignity as I could muster I proceeded to push the stroller out of the store, all the while wondering how long it would take for mall security to track me down and arrest me.

I was also gradually becoming accustomed to all of the gross things that accompany babies.  I was no longer throwing up myself  when she projectile vomited all over me and had discovered that a Band-Aid placed over my nostrils worked wonders when changing nasty diapers.  One particular day remains firmly ingrained in my memory though… It was just like any other day – Faryn was on her change table after I had just bathed, powdered and lotioned her, when I noticed that she had a strangely serious expression on her face.   (Oh she knew what she was about to do)  She made a little grunting sound and then with absolutely no warning – blasted out a trumpet sounding fart, followed by a ferocious spray of poo that managed to cover me from head to shoulders.  How on earth can something so disgusting come out of a baby who is so tiny and cute?  I fortified myself against future attacks by cutting 3 holes into a garbage bag that I was able to wear as a protective shield – a poor man’s hazmat suit.  Ingenious don’t you think?

Because I was on my own, I had no choice but to go back to work while my daughter was still an infant.  I had applied for a 2 year program at Kwantlen College in Surrey, where my brother was living, however; while I waited for my course to start, I needed to work.  I was able to land a job at Mariposa of all places and for a whopping $3.50 per hour, I helped women purchase clothing that typically fell apart after the first washing.   (They had a strict no return policy and thus,  I was constantly being verbally abused by angry consumers) I found a lovely woman to watch Faryn who neglected to tell me that she periodically suffered from grand mal seizures and just as my student loans were approved and I was working one of my last shifts, she had a seizure.  Fortunately for my daughter, this woman sensed that something was wrong and locked herself in the washroom before her seizure fully began. She inevitably almost destroyed her washroom while in the throes of her seizure,  but thankfully didn’t harm my daughter.   As I was preparing for this new chapter in our lives, I realized how helpless I felt in my own ability to protect my daughter from dangers even I couldn’t foresee.

Wouldn’t it be thrilling if I could assure you that things only got better once Faryn was born?  Having said that,  knowing what you now do about me, please rest assured that this story has only just begun…

It would seem that today,  post pregnancy – new mothers are now magically encased in a different type of womb known as the “private room”.  In 1986 no such private room existed (or if there was one, it was not offered to me) and as previously mentioned, I was placed in a room with 3 other women.  All of the women in my room were breastfeeding and the woman beside me had some sort of strange skin affliction which left her covered from head to toe in scabs.  I tried to stay clear of her, as I wasn’t sure what was going on there. Your baby was only actually allowed in the room with you during visiting hours which were something ridiculous like 10:00 – 2:00.  (I suspect this rule was implemented precisely so that others could bear witness in case you dropped or improperly manhandled said baby).  The rest of the time, your baby had to stay in the case room and if you were breastfeeding (Surprisingly only a small percentage were actually doing this, myself included) the nurses would fetch you every 4 hours (day OR night)  and escort you to the case room where your baby was being stored, so that you might attempt to feed it.   The whole idea of breastfeeding felt unnatural and weird to me and thus, wasn’t going well.  I was beginning to feel irritated and extremely frustrated with it all.  Adding to the misery, my nether region was still recovering from its recent explosion and I was constantly being pestered by the nurses about private matters such as  bowel movements or the sorry state of my mutilated nipples.

On the second day, I was waddling towards the case room with the nurse (Note:  Pixie nurse was thankfully off duty) when I was suddenly overcome with the oddest sensation that something had just dropped out of my body.  I was able to jump back just in time to see my liver literally bounce off the floor like a large brick of  Jello.  I screamed as I jumped around and began flinging  my arms across my body, not sure why I was even still alive, much less standing there able to look at the monstrosity on the floor.

Me:     “OH MY GOD – MY LIVER JUST FELL OUT” (At this point we were both just sort of leaning over staring at it.  To me, it seemed as though it was capable of just getting up and walking away and I wanted to guard it so that it could be put back where it belonged)

Nurse:     “Oh my!  That IS a rather large blood clot”

Me:     “??????????????”

She swiftly bent over and casually scooped my liver/clot into a vomit container, all the while explaining that it needed to be shown to the doctor since it was so “substantial”. She did all of this with the ease and dare I say grace of someone picking up a dropped tissue.  I decided at this exact moment that I would NEVER become a nurse.

The woman beside me with all the scabs was having her own personal series of difficulties – one of which was Hemorrhoids.  During visiting hours (of course) the nurse came in to check on her.  You know those moments where a room is really loud until someone suddenly blurts out something entirely inappropriate right when there’s a lull?  This is what happened to her:

Nurse:     “And how are your HEMORRHOIDS feeling today?”  (This particular lull occurs immediately upon her uttering the word Hemorrhoids)

Scab/Hemorrhoid Mother:     “…inaudible”  (This poor woman as we know is fighting a losing battle if she’s trying to maintain even the tiniest shred of dignity in a place that seems to take pride in ensuring this will never happen)

Nurse:         “Oh my – they look like a cluster of GRAPES!”  (Now I have never actually had Hemorrhoids,  but this visual was simply too much for me to handle and I snorted rather loudly, followed closely with a seal barking laugh which once started is completely impossible to stop – it was shameful)  The room is now silent – as I have my pillow over my face.

Matters for me had also not improved with respect to breastfeeding (the nurse actually had the audacity to suggest I wasn’t being accommodating enough and that the baby could sense this – SERIOUSLY how much more accommodating could I possibly be?)  I also believe that it had JUST dawned on me that at some point I was going to have to take this baby home and look after it on my OWN.  I was terrified.  The nurse came in to see me and we had the following conversation:

Nurse:   “Some tests have been run, and it looks as though your daughter has Jaundice”

 I immediately whipped open the curtains separating me and the scab/hemorrhoid lady angrily declaring:

Me:     “I knew you were CONTAGIOUS with all your skin thingies and HEMORROHIDS” (Oh what an evil monster I had become)

Nurse:     (Has the wherewithal to at least smile)  “Jaundice is NOT contagious, it just means your daughter’s liver is a little underdeveloped”

Me:     “Oh…well then…”

Scab/Hemorrhoid Mother:    ” And I’m sure she probably doesn’t have HEMORRHOIDS either”

After this fiasco they brought Faryn back into the room and I couldn’t believe what I was seeing.  In a matter of hours, she had turned bright yellow – like a tiny fluorescent banana.  Scab/Hemorrhoid lady was no longer speaking to me so I had no one to commiserate with.

With a typical and uncomplicated delivery such as mine was (I shit you not, all that pain and agony was considered TYPICAL and UNCOMPLICATED) the hospital stay back then was approximately 4 days.   My milk had come in the night before and I was completely engorged which was still causing breastfeeding difficulties, and my daughter still looked like a fluorescent banana.  Even her eye whites were yellow.  Upon discharge, I was told that I would have to bring her back to the hospital each day for the next week so that they could slice open her tiny heel with a lance then squeeze the bejesus out of it to extract enough droplets of blood from the screaming infant in order to check her Bilirubin levels.  These were indeed insufferably hateful people

My mom came to pick us up from the hospital as I still didn’t have my driver’s license and as we were descending in the elevator (me completely panic-stricken about what lay ahead while my mom was eerily calm – oh she knew the madness that was coming my way!) when we stopped a couple of floors down and an elderly man entered.  He looked over at the car seat I was holding with my new baby and said:

Elderly Man:     “My wife just died” 

Me:    (An emotional time bomb of hormones – began sobbing)

Mom:    “I’m so sorry”  (glares at me)

Elderly Man:    “One life ends as another begins”

Me:     (Commencing now into uncontrollable ugly sobbing territory)

This exchange really struck me – not only because I was so hormonal, but because of the truth behind his words.  In retrospect, having lost my own mother 5 years ago next month, I often recall this sad encounter.  Life really does go on, even when we sometimes feel it isn’t possible – it’s just too painful.  As humans, we really are constantly circulating – ending and beginning with every second that passes.

Upon arrival at my apartment – my mom had bought a vintage wicker bassinet that she had laced with beautiful pink ribbon.  She had cleaned my place for me and organized all of the baby paraphernalia I had collected.  I miss my mom so much…

That night was probably one of the most difficult ones yet.  Because I was so engorged, Faryn was still unable to nurse.  She was screaming her head off while I sat there crying on the phone to the La Leche emergency hotline – trying to figure out what I could do to get this baby to nurse.  The woman on the phone asked me to get into a warm bathtub which I did while still on the phone with her.  She then told me to express my milk while sitting in there.  Are you fucking kidding me?

La Leche Lady:   “Just try to relax and express some milk which will help get things flowing”

Me:  “It’s not working – I’ve only ever milked a GOAT!  I AM NOT A GOAT’

La Leche Lady:  Audible sighing…

The next day which would have been around July 27th or so, I anxiously packed up my baby to take her back to the hospital for her first torture session with the dreaded lance.  I had to take the bus with her as I had no vehicle and I did not live near the hospital.  It was a blistering hot summer day, but I was terrified of exposing her to the elements.  Once I finally arrived all frazzled and sweating at the hospital, I immediately looked at Faryn in the car seat and lost it.  Her face was still banana yellow but now it was also bright red – she had become ORANGE like a miniature Donald Trump.  I immediately raced directly to the nurse to express my concern.  She was a very sweet woman and we had the following conversation:

Me:     “THERE’S SOMETHING WRONG WITH MY BABY!”  (once again I am ugly crying – Oh what the hell is the matter with me?)

Nurse:    “Well let’s take and look and see shall we?”

The nurse smiled at me reassuringly as she removed the swaddled blanket, then the fleece bunny onesie complete with bunny hood and ears, then the regular cotton onesie, then the undershirt – until Faryn was stripped down to her diaper.  It felt like watching someone peel layers from an onion – I swear it was actually making my eyes water.  I think there might have been STEAM coming off my poor baby who had been nearly layered to death in clothing.

Nurse:    “I do believe that your daughter might just be a wee bit hot?”  (Oh bless this kind woman for not whisking my child away from me during this bizarre display of utter stupidity)

Me:      “I was afraid  of exposing her to the elements and she’s so…New” 

Nurse:     “Perhaps we’ll just leave the bunny outfit for winter?” 

So there you have it.  I had brought home a baby with absolutely no maternal skills, I couldn’t nurse her, I couldn’t stop crying, she WOULDN’T stop crying and I had no idea how to be a mother…

For me at least, there was absolutely nothing natural, miraculous or even remotely pleasant about the whole process (or aftermath) of childbirth.  I have frequently questioned the sanity of all the women who have given birth MULTIPLE times. (What on earth is wrong with you?) I was certainly not about to go through all of that (EVER AGAIN), and besides,  the entire ordeal would probably be haunting my dreams for all of eternity anyhow.  This over abundance of negative feelings towards childbirth did force me to question myself – was there just something deep and disturbingly wrong with me?

I knew exactly how that baby got there in the first place, (Ortho 777’s complete and utter lack of efficacy comes DIRECTLY to mind) however, I seemingly lacked any specific clarity as to how the baby was supposed to emerge.   I am of course referring to the birthing process itself – since I was painfully aware of the huge contribution a very specific orifice would have to make.    (It is duly noted that this particular situation could have easily been remedied, had I not been such a chicken shit and attended more than just ONE Lamaze class) In a perfect world and without ANY effort on my behalf,  this baby would just magically appear, all fresh and fragrant,  and as it’s being  gently pressed into my waiting arms, I have only just  awoken from a  lengthy (approximately 9 month)  slumber.  I refuse to believe that I am in any way delusional.  In fact, I predict that some sassy woman will be blogging about this exact scenario in about 25 years, in a much nicer time – where things like giving birth will have become more civilized.

The reality of course was exactly as one might expect – AWFUL.   In fact, the entire experience still has this hazy surreal horror film quality to it and unfortunately, I am still incapable of  just shutting my eyes and making it disappear. (See above – concerning obvious PTSD by way of haunting dreams)  At approximately 4:30 AM on July 22nd, I was advised that I was completely dilated and in full labor.  Suddenly after all that waiting/pacing/bare ass displaying drama,  things really started to escalate – too quickly it would seem.

My first (of many) problems was the mirror.  They probably have little bedside monitors for your viewing pleasure nowadays, but back in the dark days of 1986, there was only this huge round RV style mirror  suspended from the ceiling pointing directly at your angry birth canal.  As previously mentioned,  I tend towards squeamish and therefore, this mirror was REALLY upsetting me.  (It is important to note that at no time did it occur to me to merely look away or perhaps just close my eyes)  Gosh no – I simply proceeded to HOLLER until inevitably, the tiniest of the two nurses (she seemed pixie sized in my mind) began to perform a series of impressive gymnastic leaps  in an effort to throw a towel over the RV mirror, just to shut me up.

For over 2 hours this pixie nurse and I repeatedly had the following conversation:

Me:     “I need to push NOW”

Pixie Nurse:     “Oh NO my dear you mustn’t  push yet.  Allow me to sprinkle some of my magic pixie dust in your face to distract and amuse you!”  (She then proceeds to shove a gas mask over my mouth and nose, ignoring my flailing arms and muffled cries)

Me:    (Swatting it aside – I was in no mood to be trifled with)   “I HATE YOU!!!”

Pixie Nurse:  “Probably not nearly as much as  I dislike you at the moment – dear”  (Such a nasty and condescending pixie)

Quite suddenly, seemingly out of NOWHERE the doctor decides to change the rules in this birthing game, just to mess with my head a little:

Pixie Nurse:   “Ok dearest – you can start pushing!”

Me:         “I  CAN’T NOW.  YOU TOLD ME I COULDN’T FOR TOO LONG!”  (I firmly believe that my entire birth canal was now strenuously objecting these confusing and conflicting instructions, thereby forcing the appropriate muscles into temporary paralysis)

Finally, possibly just to get this whole thing over with – my body began to cooperate and I was able to push and I pushed and I pushed and I pushed, until it felt as though my nether region was about to  explode. (For those  seeking clarity, it literally feels as though  your nether region is exploding!  It is somewhat interesting to note that Wikipedia also defines nether region as:  Hell,  the Underworld, or any place of darkness or eternal suffering.  By all means, please take a few moments to ponder this small nugget of  irony!)  Regardless, this is a smallish space, no?  Imagine if you will then, that an object (how about a baby’s head?) which is approximately the size of a 10 pin bowling ball (if you’re lucky) is now functioning  as an angry/aggressive battering ram, hell-bent on forcing its way out.  You are of course powerless to stop this from happening.

Quite suddenly, before I was even able to catch my breath – there was indeed a baby…I immediately began to cry hysterically (Just from the sheer RELIEF that it was finally over) when that little minx of a pixie nurse foolishly decided to place this baby immediately on ME.  You may recall that I am not good with things that are gross and as awful as this may sound – the following conversation occurred:

Doctor:     “You have a baby girl”  (or some such thing)

Pixie Nurse Who Now Hates Me:     “Here you go dear – try not to terrorize it” 

And then, just like that, without any further discussion or warning – she plops that baby on my stomach with the CORD still attached, while still covered in a thick layer of some sort of ICK.

Me:     “Ohhhh – Ewwwwww” (at this point I am frantically searching all over the baby, trying to find a specific area that I can actually touch. (Touching seemed to be expected of me at this point)  I settled on just sort of patting the wet tips of her hair)

Pixie Nurse:   “What DID you just say?”

Me:      “I said GOO…”  (This was indeed a surprising  bit of quick thinking on my part as “GOO” could also be interpreted as a plausible attempt to communicate with the baby.  She was buying NONE of it.

Pixie Nurse:  Briskly snips the umbilical cord then whisks the baby away before I have a chance to do something really stupid like – I don’t know, HOSE her off.  “Let’s just get her cleaned up for you dear”  (Pixie nurse positively REEKS of disapproval at this point, while I pretend to remain blissfully clueless.  This is actually as easy as it looks)

Once they have finished tidying me up, I am moved into a ward which I will be sharing with 3 other women.  About 20 minutes later (and I’m sure with a great deal of trepidation)  pixie nurse places a clean and tightly swaddled baby into my arms.  In a perfect world, were I writing a fictional account of events – I could probably just lie and say that I felt this instant, intense connection with the baby I was looking at.  The truth is, I was more scared of it than anything.  I kept looking around wondering if this was really all I was supposed to be receiving after hours of such hard work.  I placed her on the bed because I felt so awkward holding her, and then I gently took off her little toque and was instantly shocked by the MASS of black hair that she had.  It stood on end and gave her a sort of endearing and eccentric look – like a tiny mad scientist.  Next I counted all of her fingers and toes (they were all present with no extras).  Lastly, I peered into her wrinkled little face and thought (I’m being brutally honest right now) “Why does my daughter look like a tiny withered 90-year-old man?” 

I took a chance and called my parents despite the early hour and was surprised (and deeply moved) to hear that they had been up all night waiting to hear from me.  They had even been contacting some relatives to let them know that I was in labor.  Even writing this now makes me want to cry – it was so incredibly unexpected and special.  On July 22nd, 1986, I received not just one gift but two…