When I was a little girl, I spent most Sundays in a hard wooden pew near the front of the Bethel Pentecostal Church. The sermons always ran long and I was always short on patience. I still remember the taste of the Certs my grandmother would feed me to keep me from squirming and talking. After I got a little older, I was content to flip through the hymn book and the Bible. Even a child can be awed by beautiful language.

Religion was not a comfort to me in those times. What the Bible told me and what the congregation told me were two entirely different things. My parents did not attend church. They smoked. They drank. They had me out of wedlock. My father had the absolute temerity to be a rock and roll musician, which seems like a laughably quaint term now but at that time, to those people, it was deadly serious. Imagine being so young that you still believe in Santa and someone tells you that your parents, the people who cannot yet do wrong in your eyes, will burn forever in a lake of fire. It didn’t matter how good they were. They would be lost to me for all eternity once the Judgment came, and it was coming soon.

I prayed to God, but my prayers were fearful. They were mostly just begging.

Hell followed me as a spectre into my teen years, when out of a misguided sense of wanting to be part of something I dove headfirst into being born again. I attended youth group once a week and services three times on Sundays. This was the time of the ever-present WWJD bracelets and t-shirts and I asked myself that question a lot. I wondered what Jesus would tell me, a teenager beginning to question why there were a million ways into the pit in this cosmic game of Snakes and Ladders but I could only be saved by a grace I never felt. I wondered how he would explain why God was everywhere but he felt so much further away than the people looking at me to make sure my skirt fell below the knee and my modest blouse didn’t show any hint of the body I hadn’t asked for. I wanted to ask why he thought the people who shouted at the top of their lungs about how they’d been washed in the blood of the lamb spent the rest of their time stage whispering about people who weren’t there.

At thirteen, with what felt like all the seven deadly sins upon me at once, the flames of hellfire were licking at my heels every time I went through those doors. So I closed them and didn’t look back for many years. But when I moved away, and I brought that well-worn Bible with me. It has followed me to different towns and provinces. It’s often been dusty, but it’s always on my bookshelf. In times of hopelessness and despair, I open it and it comforts me.

There is no dust on it these days.

I stood at the front of a church two years ago and held my baby daughter tight as I promised to show her what the promise of God’s love meant. It’s a promise I should never have made, because I can’t presume to know what it means. But I have tried to show her the things that have always made me feel close to the idea of God. Never in my life has that meant church. Not once have I ever sat in my safe, sheltered bubble of people just like me and felt like I was living out whatever purpose I have been given. Just like I don’t believe, never have believed that the circumstances of my birth meant I deserved hell, I can’t allow myself to become complacent with the idea that my privilege means I deserve paradise. As the old parable says, “To whomever much is given, of him will much be required; and to whom much was entrusted, of him more will be asked.”

We have been asked to welcome the stranger, to comfort the grieving, to feed and clothe the hungry. We have been asked to love our neighbour as we love ourselves. And we have been asked to fear not, even in the valley of the shadow of death. I cannot ask to be granted grace. I can only go out and try to find it.

“You are already doing a fucking amazing job.”

After Zee’s birth, I received so many congratulations and kind messages, but the one that I held closest to my heart was this one. I held it like a life preserver when I thought I was drowning. The wonderful woman who sent it may not have realized until this moment that it saved me on some of my darkest days.

The early years of motherhood have had their unique challenges in every era of humanity, I’m sure. When I try to cajole my toddler into eating chicken, I imagine some Paleolithic-era mom shrieking something that roughly translates to “I don’t give a shit if you don’t want woolly mammoth again, your choices are eat it or literally die.” My maternal grandmother went through over half of her twelve pregnancies without the aid of indoor plumbing. The part of my brain that remembers five months of morning (hahahaha jokes) sickness wants to curl up and die at the thought. By just about every metric you can come up with, this should be the easiest time in history in which to have a baby. Just about every piece of information you could want, right at your fingertips!

The thing is, for new moms, most of that information is telling you all the many, many ways in which you are doing it all wrong. Sushi when you’re pregnant? Poison. Formula? Basically just corn syrup. Breastfeeding? Have fun with little Norman Bates! Cribs? Jail cells without ceilings! Co-sleeping? OH MY GOD YOU’RE GOING TO SMOTHER LITTLE NORMAN BATES HOW CAN YOU DO SUCH A THING. Wait, are you using a stroller? Are you babywearing? Did you pick up the baby? Did you put down the baby? Have you looked at the baby today? You’re not supposed to look them in the eye. They’re like gorillas. Unless you circumcised, in which case you need to look them in the eye at all times so you understand what you’ve done to them. You look anxious. You shouldn’t be anxious. Babies can sense anxiety. Here, rub some coconut oil on yourself and say nine Hail Hydrasenses.

Can I just grab this bullhorn for a second for those in the back? Thanks.

*crackling noise*

FUUUUUUUUUUCK THAAAAAAAAAT.

“But the books said–”
“But my mother-in-law said–“
“But the mom group said–“

Nope. Seriously, fuck that. Fuck everyone who thinks they know your life and your baby better than you do. Is your baby fed? Are they clothed or, failing that, quite happy to be naked? Are they safe from whatever wild animals are native to your area? Are they loved? You are doing a great job. Are you making mistakes? You sure as shit are, and if you haven’t then you have some doozies waiting for you. There’s no way to be handed a squalling football without the capacity for speech and raise it to functional adulthood without a few screw-ups on the way. Just give yourself permission to start fresh every day, or every hour if you need to. Give yourself the kind of compassion you would give a friend dealing with the same thing. Give yourself a break. There is no one right way to do this.

Ever since my friend said that to me almost two years ago, I say it to all my new mom friends. Sometimes I even say it to myself.

In case you needed to hear it today, you are doing a fucking amazing job.

At twenty pounds into this weight loss thing, new clothes are a necessity. This is not just me looking for an excuse to buy new things. This is my supervisor telling me that a relaxed dress code is not an excuse to hold my pants up with bungee cord suspenders. When the drawstring on my scrubs is as tight as it goes and the pale glow of my ass still threatens to illuminate the room before my sparkling personality even has a chance to do so, it is time to bite the bullet and go shopping.

The thing about the post-pregnancy body is that even when you go back to the weight you were before your beloved dumpling of a firstborn turned your torso into a beach ball, things aren’t necessarily where you left them. Kind of like subletting your apartment for nine months and coming back to find your furniture has not only been rearranged but nailed down. This is where the couch is now and you better learn to like it, which is all well and good until you need to redecorate and holy SHIT does your old artwork not look good anymore.

I love my body. I love clothes. Unfortunately, they are in an arranged marriage that is polite at best and calamitous at worst. This has not been improved by the move to plus size clothing, the manufacturers of which I can only assume either hate women or have only heard vague and mumbled rumours about what they actually look like. I haven’t designed clothing since my Fashion Plates days but maybe making a shirt for someone over size 14 should involve more consideration than “I dunno, like a regular shirt but wider and with cap sleeves that flatter exactly no one ever.”

Seriously, you guys. Is this difficult? The idea that even larger women come in different shapes? Why is the front made to accommodate large breasts but the back is sheer to showcase the entire (probably beige) bra? Why are these 2X leggings not built to withstand leg friction because literally what shape would I have to be to have a thigh gap at my size? What is this fabric that holds in every last bit of body heat and why are we not insulating our homes with it? What the fuck is the obsession with horizontal stripes and that weird Magic Eye print? Am I supposed to invite people to stare until they find the hidden image?

It’s not entirely grim. If you’re willing to invest the time in searching around, you can build a decent wardrobe of flattering to semi-flattering pieces. If you are more evolved than I am (and I say this without a hint of irony, bless you and never change), you can buy whatever you want without worrying if it looks good. If you just want to say fuck it and become a nudist, I am about three dressing room experiences behind you so save me a seat at the hopefully splinter-free picnic table.

Wait, am I still allowed to wear earrings there? ‘Cause I have like 80 pairs and those still fit fine.

My first real clear memory is of being four years old and sick. I remember how close the ceiling seemed to the bed, the chalky taste of a chewable Children’s Tylenol, the sour smell of fever. I have no idea if this really happened. But I remember.

Many times during Zee’s first year I took comfort from the fact that she would have no memory of my seemingly endless array of mistakes, not least of which was my rousing version of The Skeets on the Bus. (One day she will learn that they say “eff yer mudder” all through the town, but it will not be from me.) As my baby grows into a little girl, I can see her becoming the person she will be, and I wonder what she will remember.

A couple of nights ago I walked up a staircase I hadn’t ascended in years and felt my throat go thick with emotion at the scent; popcorn and spilled beer, salt and dampness, familiar and not. I hugged people I knew in another lifetime and raised a glass to a friend I will never again see in this one. We became a choir of voices as we went over all the old stories of remember when and what about the time and I can’t believe I never heard and yes, I remember. 

It’s just snapshots, all of it. A Mickey Mouse shirt and a boyish grin behind a shot glass full of mystery liquor, a little girl on her daddy’s shoulders reaching up to a sky of pooling blue, the pebbled texture of a yellow bedspread that has been washed a hundred times. Memories are just the stories we tell ourselves about who we are, going over them again and again until they have the smoothness of polished stone. Something not real and yet the only real things we have.

On the evenings I work late, I come home to find the routine of the day is winding down. Sippy cups and ducky bath towels are drying while my husband wipes the counters and listens for the sound of any movement from the nursery. I get no acknowledgement from Zee (though it’s almost certain she’ll wake later with a plaintive “MAAAAAMA!”) and a quick kiss from my husband, but the most enthusiastic welcome comes from the dog.

Walking Morgan is my last task of the day and it’s one of my favourites. All I have to do is look at him and his tail starts to tentatively wag. Just the first syllable of his name and he jumps up looking for his leash. He knows what’s about to happen. He is the one who is allowed to hear all the gory details of my day when confidentiality clauses prevent me from venting to anyone else. We’ve covered miles, the two of us, trails and hills and sidewalks and bridges in rain and shine and blowing snow.

When I got him as a curly, squirming puppy, I imagined a lot of things. I imagined backyards and laughing children and endless evening walks. It seemed like the first logical step on the path I was on. We had the house and the future all planned out. A dog fit perfectly in the space before the wedding and babies. Then all of a sudden life took a hard left and we became I, and I had no room in my life for anything but a small pile of boxes and a bruise where my heart used to be. I said a lot of goodbyes in that time, but listening to him whine as I put him in the truck with my parents was the one that made me feel most like a failure.

He thrived with my parents, of course. He got his evening walks while I got my life back together. Whenever I visited him, he thrashed around on my lap in a fit of glee. I missed him, but he was happy where he was. I couldn’t take him back. Then, four months after my wedding and just days into my pregnancy, my parents told me that they were moving to another province, and Morgan needed to be rehomed. Of course, he fit right into the place in my life he was supposed to be, his head pillowed on my growing belly as small feet kicked him from the inside. Watching him sniff my newborn daughter’s downy head on the day I brought her home from the hospital, I knew he was home.

Lately, though, he hesitates when he jumps up on the couch. He doesn’t react to car doors. The flat out run that used to bring him to my knees when I got home is more of a brisk trot, and even that sometimes looks stiff. He is not a puppy anymore. For the first time since he came home, it’s sinking in that he cannot stay forever.

Everyone tells you that getting a dog is a huge time commitment. What they don’t tell you is that it’s really no time at all. When I watch him play with my little girl, so achingly gentle in the way he takes the ball from her hands and makes her giggle like no one else can, I see how he’s come with me on the journey I imagined. He has chased so many sticks and tennis balls, burrowed under so many blankets and snoozed on more lazy afternoons than I can count. He has been family. Now more and more I realize that the day is coming that our journeys diverge. I will have to walk alone and watch him cross a bridge where I can’t follow.

There are a lot of things about my body that can be attributed to pregnancy. I’m pretty forgiving of just about all of it, because it produced my favourite person in the whole world. If that makes the space below my bellybutton stripey and looking like a prune underneath the now oh-so-necessary high-cut undies, so be it. I have to be real with myself, though. The extra pounds? Not baby weight. If you look very closely, you can probably still see the the outline of a Terry’s Chocolate Orange that I all but swallowed whole.

Now, this is not a Cathy-esque post bemoaning how I look in a bathing suit. Truth be told, I like my body a lot. I had a lot more complaints about it when I was 22 and looked like Jessica Rabbit. I look in the mirror and I see the back fat, the belly, the cellulite, and I think you know what, fuck yeah. I’m in my thirties, kicking ass at my job, having the best sex of my life, and oh yeah, I made a person and shot it out of my body like a t-shirt cannon. Go me.

When my knees started to protest stairs, though, I had to look at the bad bitch in the mirror and tell her maybe it’s time for a little talk.

I love food. I love that I’m able to afford good food, which I’m keenly aware is a privilege. I love that I love myself enough to feed my body more than vodka and Nutrigrain bars (hi 22, you really were pretty goddamn stupid). Now I’m trying to learn how to have a healthy relationship with eating, because not only would I like to prevent a knee replacement before I hit middle age, I’d like to model good habits for my daughter.

First things first: I am not here for this Cake Is a Moral Failing bullshit. Nutritional value has nothing to do with who you are as a person and guilt is a wasted emotion. Food is just fuel. Some of it is fuel for the body, some of it is fuel for the soul. If I feel deprived or miserable, eventually I’m going to crack and eat every sour Skittle on this godforsaken island like a demented Ms. Pac-Man.

I started out by making no changes except drinking a lot of water. You would think this is easy. I would note that I work a job where I’m on my feet a lot and bathroom breaks can be scarce, and then come home to a toddler who cannot, will not, see me enjoy a drink in peace without shrieking “Cup! CUP!” at increasing levels of volume. You know what’s helped? The Plant Nanny app. I’ve been telling so many people about this that I’m sure everyone thinks I’m a paid shill (I wish) but it really does work. It’s like a Tamagotchi they won’t confiscate in Grade 5 Social Studies and then give back when it’s all smelly and starving, THANKS A BUNCH MR. WELSHMAN. Anyway. Hydration is going pretty well, though I’m seriously considering a leg bag.

Next, I drastically cut back on added sugar. Giving up chocolate kind of hurt, but I’m finding some decent substitutes. Adding unsweetened cocoa powder to smoothies is basically Cadbury methadone. I discovered that there are people on the internet who consider a simple smoothie with peanut butter, banana, cocoa and milk to be the devil’s milkshake and will substitute literally everything with flaxseed milk, Irish sea moss, and carob root powder. I don’t know if you know this, but people on the internet are out of their goddamn minds.

It’s little changes, but so far they feel sustainable, unlike that week I decided I could just jump into doing those Neela Ray workouts where I pretend to be Wonder Woman and every muscle in my body decided to stage an intervention. Some smarter choices with food here, some walking there, and I think I might manage this.

Four pounds so far. But honestly, just getting this all out makes me feel a lot lighter.