When my arms were elbow-deep in the toilet this morning, I realized something. The kids called: "Momma, can you please get me a snack?" "Mommy, find my soother!" I kept saying, "You can do it! I'll help you in a second!" After a few minutes of this, they stopped asking. It got very, very quiet. I peeked out of the bathroom.
At long last, people are talking about postpartum depression. Dismissed for years as no more than a touch of the baby blues (or else unheard of entirely), PPD has become an open subject. But despite this progress, postpartum depression remains misunderstood in one very critical regard: namely, that it's something that only happens to, and thus only adversely affects, mothers.
My kids are the worst eaters. Really. Some people say this, and mean that their kids don't eat raw sushi, or whole wheat pasta, or offal. That's not what I mean. I mean that in my house, bacon is a food group. I mean that my kids don't eat pasta, period. I mean that they only accept pepperoni pizza from one delivery joint. It's serious.
My life has been "busy" and a lot of work for quite some time now, and that's something I don't want to change. I still take the necessary time to unplug and fill myself and my family up, but cannot deny that I also thrive off of creating and growing in business. That will likely always be part of me, even with a new baby at my side. My work is very much tied into what I want to create for my family to benefit from. I have complete respect for the women who grow up with a complete focus on wanting to stay home and raise a family... but for me, part of what I want to represent to my children is showing them that they have the ability to "have it all."
Low income doesn't just lead to one disease or another. Instead, it has wide-ranging impacts on the health of individuals and communities. Our findings tell us that we've been using the wrong tools, and typically underestimating the full impact of income on health. The evidence shows that the health of mothers, babies and families are at stake, and there's no more time to lose.
My mother came out of the clothing store change room wearing a long-sleeved pink sweatshirt. When she came out, smiling at me, I could tell she felt confident. Her smile vanished the second she saw herself. "I look fat." It's a difficult feeling to describe, when you see your mother so wounded by her own reflection.
Currently making the rounds on Facebook is this parenting blog post about our responsibility to teach kids about "good music." What a load of hipster-douchebag crap. My retort: How on earth did your kids get exposed to this "shitty" music in the first place? So when my eight-year-old daughter decides her favourite singer is Katy Perry, what do I do? In my mind, my daughter must make her own decisions.
As young as Grade 3, kids are under pressure to wear the right clothes, like the right music, have the right friends and be cool. Often, that leads to stress and anxiety for youngsters. Well-intentioned parents often try too hard to prevent the bumps and scrapes of feelings as kids grow up, but one parenting expert says they're doing more harm than good.
When I read a recent blog post addressing "indecent girls" that the author's sons may encounter online, the first people that I thought of were Amanda Todd, Rehtaeh Parsons, Audrie Pott, and Cherice Morales. In each of these cases, the girls became social pariahs. In each of these cases, the girls committed suicide after enduring bullying and slut-shaming both online and offline. All because of that toxic mentality.
If you're a parent, you've probably by now seen the cocky, controlling, pretty weird letter written by Kim Hall to all teenage girls her teenage boys may ever come into contact with online. Letters like the one Mrs. Hall wrote to teenage girls are a prime example of how rape culture perpetuates itself in today's society in an insidious and innocent-looking way.
They were at a cottage. Just two days ago on a crisp September morning. My friend sat on a raft with her 19-month-old little boy. They were cuddling and soaking up the sunshine when she heard a strange noise; her toddler started to shake and wail uncontrollably. When her husband rushed over to them, another shot hit the boat beside them.
Parenthood is rife with exasperating platitudes, but I've found none quite so off base as this whole "time flies" business. My son, Emile, will not be out of the house before I know it. Those first three months of his life might as well have been millennia. I could not be more grateful to find out that rather than flying away, Emile has kept my perception of time stuck in slow motion.
It's senior kindergarten. My son is five. We don't need calculators or binders. Heck, we don't even need pencils or paper. So why have I got this feeling in the pit of my stomach that I've forgotten something? And now I'm writing this post as my to-do list as we ease back into the routine in which most kids thrive and most parents rejoice. Maybe it'll help you, too.