A few days after my firstborn son graced us with his presence, I sat in my living room cradling him while he slept. I was chatting with my parents, who had traveled from South Africa to herald the arrival of their first grandchild. I looked down at my sleeping baby and my heart filled with so much love that I thought I was going to burst. Softly, I said, “Giving away a baby must be the hardest decision in the world for a mom.”
As I uttered those words, I was thinking of the circumstances of my own birth.
Having a baby out of wedlock was considered to be a social disgrace 42 years ago – so much so that when my birth mother became pregnant, she left town in order to avoid telling her parents. Sometimes I try to put myself in the shoes of this woman who was young and frightened, living in a strange city far away from everyone she knew, and trying to decide on the fate of her unborn child. Read more…
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Some would say it was the perfect way to go.
It was a sunny South African day, and my aunt Ann was doing what she loved most – walking her dogs down the quiet country road she lived on. A car approaching from the distance set in motion a chain of events that led to Ann falling and striking her head on a rock. She never knew what hit her. She was dead by the time her body came to rest on the ground.
There was no pain, no languishing in a hospital bed with tearful family members keeping vigil, no questions about whether or not to keep the life support going.
As merciful as Ann’s death was, it was a terrible shock to those of us left behind. When my mother called me with the news, I felt as if all of the breath had been sucked right out of me. It was the last thing I had Read more…
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Sunrise during one of my early-morning runs
Like most moms who work outside the home, my days tend to be very full, very busy, and fraught with the kind of anxiety that comes with wondering just how I will get everything done before I collapse into bed at night.
A while ago, when I was trying to figure out just why I never seem to have enough time for everything, I wrote down a timeline of my typical day.
It goes something like this:
6:00 Wake up; stumble semi-conscious to the coffee-machine which is programmed to have my coffee ready for me.
6:05 Check emails, see if anything exciting is happening on Facebook, wash up and put on makeup so I can pretend to be pretty.
6:30 Wake up my younger son, get him washed up and dressed, get myself dressed, pour coffee into my travel mug.
7:00 Take my son to his before-school program, then commute to the city centre by bus and subway.
8:30 Arrive at work. Read more…
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The sounds of my son’s footsteps echo as he runs from one end of the enormous space to the other. From time to time he stops, distracted by the sight of yet another wondrous artifact of history.
After a pause, he’s off again, barely able to contain his excitement at seeing everything in this place. And then, finally, a magical moment arrives. He is taken up a stairway, and at the top, his father lifts him up and lowers him into the cockpit of one of the planes.
This isn’t just any place, and it isn’t just any plane. We are at the Canadian Air & Space Museum looking at the World War II planes that were built in this very space back in its day as an aircraft manufacturing plant. The plane that my son is now seated in is a full-sized replica of the Avro Arrow, a plane that revolutionized Canadian aviation history before the government of the day abruptly pulled the plug on the project and ordered the entire beautiful fleet destroyed.
This museum—which pays tribute to Canada’s part in the war, thanks the veterans who came back, and honours those who didn’t—is about to go the same way as the Avro Arrow. It is being evicted, and the building which is itself an artifact of Read more…
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“Mommy, can I have a cell phone?”
These words were uttered by my five-year-old son James after school one day. He asked the question casually, as if he was asking for a glass of milk. No big deal.
My face involuntarily morphed into an “Are you crazy?” expression, and in a super-sonic voice that only dogs and small children can hear, I said, “No!“
“But Emma has one,” said James, as if that explained everything.
Emma is one of James’ friends at school. Emma is five.
The following day when I dropped James off, I spoke to his teacher.
“Does Emma really have a cell phone?” I asked.
“Yes,” said the teacher with a weary sigh. “It had the whole class in an uproar. We’ve had to make her leave it in the office during school hours.”
Wow. Five-year-olds with cell phones. When I was five, the only phone in my house was the ugly green rotary dial phone Read more…
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A few days from now, my firstborn son will be turning eight. EIGHT! How did this happen? I mean, one minute I’m trying to figure out what I’m actually supposed to do with this brand-new tiny scrap of a human being, and the next minute I’m chasing around this long, lanky eight-year-old who keeps growing out of his clothes and eating everything he can see.
When I was a little kid, I was a tomboy. I was not the kind of girly girl who people look at and say, “Oh, she will be a wonderful mother someday.”
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A few days after my firstborn son graced us with his presence, I sat in my living room cradling him while he slept. I was chatting with my parents, who had traveled from South Africa to herald the arrival of their first grandchild. I looked down at my sleeping baby and my heart filled with so much love that I thought I was going to burst. Softly, I said, “Giving away a baby must be the hardest decision in the world for a mom.”
