A collision of fate…


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I was in a minor car accident today. It was entirely my fault. I’m not going to bore you with the logistics of how it happened. But there are a few details you need to know for this story.

My 2 year old son, Tyler, was in the car with me. (He was completely unharmed). An elderly man was driving the vehicle I hit. The damage to his vehicle was substantially worse than mine.

Ok. So after the hit, the first thing I did was get my baby out. He was happy and smiling. All good. The man and I then looked to check the damage. I was shaking and crying. Not because I was hurt, not in the least. More so because I didn’t see the hit coming, so was more mentally shaken, if anything.

He was a grumpy-in-an-adorable-kind-of-way old school soul, lecturing me on “today’s generation”. We exchanged information. He said he’d have to get a quote and would send it to me… Obviously it being my fault, the damage would be mine to shoulder. Fair.

I called my husband. Bawling. He couldn’t have cared less about the damage, just that we were alright.

A few hours later the mechanic’s estimate came in at just under $3,000… for his car alone. Then I got a phone call from the grumpy-in-an-adorable-kind-of-way man whose car I’d hit. A call that would change my life…

He said “I’m just calling to wish you and that little boy of yours a Merry Christmas.” Ummm… OK?

“Merry Christmas,” he said again, “just worry about fixing your car. And I’ll worry about mine”.

I was speechless. I didn’t understand. Then he elaborated.

“Like you, I had 3 kids. And like you, I had a Tyler. But my Tyler was killed by a drunk driver when he was young. When I heard you say your son’s name today, I couldn’t help but think it was a sign. You’re in the thick of life right now, I remember how taxing those days were. So the least I can do is take a young mother’s stress away and give her a relaxing, worry-free Christmas with her family.”

What does one say? You don’t… There are no words.

It was the true meaning of “the gift of giving”. I don’t yet know why it happened to me. And I don’t yet know what I’m to do with it. But I do know that we always have to believe in the good in people. And to be the good. And to spread the good. That there truly are angels all around us… some named Tyler from up above, and others right here on earth getting hit by a very very grateful and lucky Mom who was fortunate enough to be able kiss and tuck her own angel into bed tonight… also named Tyler.

Cheers, xoxo

Dear Younger Self… As you were!


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I keep seeing these posts asking “if you could write a letter to your younger self, what would you say?”

Nothing, is my answer. Don’t get me wrong… I made A LOT of questionable, if not just plain stupid, decisions… and I acted on nearly ALL of them. I didn’t treat my body with the respect it deserved. I let the good guys go, and kept the wrong ones around. I broke hearts. I had my heart broken. I even broke my own heart at times. I lost some good friends through my actions. I didn’t listen to advice from those who cared most about me. I followed, even when my gut told me to run the other way. I was scared to be different. I missed opportunities because I lacked confidence. I never slowed down to take it all in. I didn’t sleep enough. I made impromptu decisions. I didn’t always consider the consequences. I was selfish at times. I was disrespectful at times. And I can’t say I always gave it my best.

Do I have regrets? Sure. Some. But not a lot, because even the bad made me better. So it’s hard to regret any of my younger choices, as they are what got me to where I am today. The good, the bad, and the ugly.

And I’m more than alright with who I am today.

It’s not to say I’m now perfect. It’s not to say I won’t continue to make bad decisions. It’s not to say I don’t still question myself, daily. The evolution continues. Because I now face a whole new set of challenges that my younger self didn’t have… parenthood, career, marriage, larger financial responsibilities, aging parents, etc.

So no. I wouldn’t tell my younger self to change anything.

And when I’m 80, I hope to look back on ALL my younger years, and still feel the same.

Trust the wait. Embrace the uncertainty. Because when nothing is certain, anything is possible.

Cheers, xo

How to heal a bursting heart…


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I was playing “doctor” with my 3 year old today.  He had me lie down on the couch as he strategically identified every one of my body parts that needed “fixing”.

He started at my toes, and with precision and focus he used masking tape to fix all my broken bones. Broken toes… Broken knees… Broken hips… Broken ribs… He taped me back together like the little surgeon he was pretending to be.

He then looked me in the eyes, and leaned over and gave me a soft, sweet kiss on the lips. My boy, I thought.

But his kiss came with a purpose. Because he then explained that “Tape won’t fix your broken heart, Mommy. But a kiss will.”

Touched, but also somewhat concerned, I asked him why he thinks Mommy has a broken heart.

He looked at me like I had two heads, “Because we’re playing doctor, and I’m fixing all your broken bones. And only a kiss will fit a broken heart.” Duh…

These little moments. The ones that seemingly mean so little to him, yet so much to me.

For all the nights I lay awake questioning if I am doing right by them as their mother, were just answered by my boy’s sweet kiss.

He is more than good. He is thriving. Happy. Loving. Smart. I am doing right by them.

So while there is no need to fix my broken heart… he certainly does know how to heal a mother’s heart that is bursting with love.

Cheers, xo

Come on in for a bite and some whine…


21994360_1963098587303142_790067133865305581_oSo my kid bit another kid today. Not some cutesy little toddler nibble. Nope…

Tears, screaming. All eyes on me… the mother of a Class “A” Predator. After frantically apologizing to the mother, the kid, and the mother again, I was then paid a visit by the “Shitty Mom Fairy”, obviously.

You know her, right? She swoops in right as you’re about to have a mental breakdown just to make you feel even shittier than you already do as a mother.

As if the fact that my toddler just went all Mike Tyson on another kid wasn’t bad enough… The Shitty Mom Fairy then has to fly in, tossing her shitty smelling shade my way.

My child is feral and will most likely grow up in a federal prison. Images of orange jumpsuits and me baking cupcakes for inmates dance through my head. And then the reasons why it’s all my fault come floading into my already over-thinking mom brain…

He bit because of that time I subtely ignored him after he’d asked me for the 1,372 time to read him that f-ing board book… and for that, I’m a Shit Mom.

He bit because I only sat for 875 hours straight (not 10,325 hours straight) to play pretend invisible Bad Guys! And for that, I’m a Shit Mom.

He bit because I haven’t faithfully fed him organic tree bark and now he’s a few fries short of a happy meal. And for that, I’m a Shit Mom.

He bit because I let him watch more than the 4.3 seconds of daily recommended screen time, so his behaviour reflects that of a dog-like social outcast. And for that, I’m a Shit Mom. (Although I think Caillou’s Shit Mom should also take some the blame too, right?).

According to the Shitty Mom Fairy… for all these reasons, and SO many more, my toddler is biting.

Until another mom came up to me and said “My daughter was a biter. Don’t worry… they grow out of it.” Only then was I reminded that I’m not a Shit Mom. Like, at all. It’s actually my kid who is the shithead.

Because he’s a toddler. And toddlers are assholes… on steroids… on repeat. My older two never bit, but they challenged me in different ways. Because they are toddlers. And toddlers are assholes… on steroids… on repeat.

So I grabbed my little shithead toddler and hugged him hard, like only a good mom can… showing him that love always wins over violence.

Then I turned and stared that Shitty Mom Fairy right in her shitty brown eyes, and said “BITE ME”.

Cheers, xo

What happens in Vegas… xo


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My children woke up at 4:30am this morning. They refused to go back to sleep. They had ants in their pyjama pants. TV wasn’t going to cut it. They were behaving like a pack of chimpanzees on Red Bull. Once we made it downstairs, throwing their breakfast at eachother was more fun than actually eating it. And why drink milk when you can spill it all over the floor? I then had about as much success dressing them as one would have painting nailpolish on a squirrel’s toenails. In the end, they were fed and dressed. And me a little crazy, but still so so inlove with my kiddies.

But you know what? This morning, fifty people were robbed of these crazy mornings. They were robbed of their  chance to be woken up at 4:30am. They were robbed of their chance to watch morning food fights and clean daily milk spills. They were robbed of the chance to hug and kiss their children, no matter how crazy they make them.

50 PEOPLE! Fifty lives. Gone… just like that. For no reason other than some lunatic asshole who has easy access to a fully automatic weapon.

So hug your kids. And remember… just when they drive you to the point of insanity… and you think it can’t get any worse. Just remember, it could be worse. Much worse.

Because what happens in Vegas… didn’t stay in Vegas! Not this time. This time it is being felt around the world.

Thoughts and love with Las Vegas!

Cheers, xo

Boys who wear pink are pretty… Pretty awesome, that is!


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These are my son’s hockey skates. He wanted pink laces. Because it’s “Mommy’s favourite colour”. He is 3 years old. He was so happy about his pink laces.

Fast forward to this morning… his first lesson of the season. He was an excited little boy. He laced those pink laced up… secured his helmet on… and eagerly awaited his ice time.

That’s when a girl said to him, “You know pink is for girls, right? That’s gay!”. Now this wasn’t another 3 year old who simply regurgitates what they’ve heard, verbatim. No, instead it was a 12 year old girl. A girl old enough to form her own opinion. A girl old enough to know right from wrong. A girl old enough to know when it’s not appropriate to comment.

To be honest, I was expecting it. When he chose pink laces, I knew someone would comment. I knew someone would stare. But I try to raise my children to stay true to themselves, without apology or explanation. But I’d be lying if I said I didn’t bite my nails down, anxiously worrying about the hardships it takes for a child (even an adult!) to stay true to themselves… especially at such a young age, and in such a cruel world.

So yes, I wasn’t surprised. But what I WAS surprised by was my 3 year old son’s response.

“Well… football players wear pink!”

They do. They accessorize themselves from head to toe in pink to show their support for those affected by breast cancer. Survivors. Those battling for their lives. Those who have lost their battle. Their families. Their loved ones.

And my 3 year old noticed! He may not have known exactly why they sport pink… but he made the connection that, yes, boys too wear pink. In fact, even the most macho of men wear pink.

The girl had no idea what he was talking about. No doubt because in her world, girls don’t watch football.

But it got me thinking… as a mother of 3 boys, I am constantly hearing about the importance of raising boys who respect women and gender equality. Yes, yes and yes. I’m all for it. But there are two sides to every coin. And I was very much so reminded of it today.

Maybe we also need to hear about raising girls who are equally accepting of boys. Boys who want to take dance class. Boys who want to play with dolls. Boys who want to wear pink laces… even to play hockey! Without the label of being “gay”.

It’s a double edged sword that we, as parents and as society, need to let the sharp edges dull the f-ck out.

Because girls should play sports… where boys should wear pink. And girls should wear short shorts without assumption or judgement… where boys should wear pink without judgement or assumption. Where girls should be President, where well…Donald Trump.

So for all the hours I lie awake worrying about the job I’m doing as a mother… I can confidently say that after today, I must be doing something right.

We are one. Pink. Blue. Or somewhere in between.

Cheers, xo

Lucky “you”…


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You were due today! But all I have are my thoughts of you.

This picture is the last one I took before I was told you were gone. You left me at 14+ weeks. You may have stopped physically growing… but you have continued to grow emotionally inside of me, ever since.

No one talks about you anymore with me. No one asks. It’s not so much that they’ve forgotten about you, it’s just that they’ve moved on. And that’s ok. I have too, yet not at all.

It’s funny in a not so funny kinda way… I never knew you, yet I still think about you all the time, every day. Because I housed you under my heart for long enough to have felt your presence, and your loss. Greatly.

I find it especially hard lately, as you would have been making your grand debut. With the loss of a loved one who lived and breathed, we try to focus on the positive memories they leave behind. That’s the tricky thing about a miscarriage… one mourns for a life never lived. There was never a chance to make memories, so one might think it would be easy to simply “get over”. Not so much.

It’s a complicated heartache. Because you WERE. You were you. And you were mine… body and soul. And still yet, here you are… all these months later. Still with me in my daily thoughts. Still able to make my heart ache. Still able to fill me with rage at the unfairness of it.

I was going to light a candle today with the old adage “the light would guide you home”. But really, the only home you ever knew was right under my heart. When you lived inside of me, you brought me so much joy. So instead, I decided to pour myself a glass of champagne to commemorate the day. I decided to celebrate you.

“You”… You, who will always be remembered as My Lucky #4. If only…

Click here for original “Talk About Lucky” post when I publicly shared at time of miscarriage…
https://redwhinediaries.com/2017/03/17/talk-about-lucky/

Cheers, xo