moms + mental health

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this super cool pin is from http://www.noraborealis.com

I hesitate to write about the effect of having a child with a disability has had on my mental health. This is for two reasons.  First, my thoughts are kind of a mess.  The second reason is because this child, my son Aaron – who is now 14 years old and has Down syndrome – is a beloved and wanted child. I fear adding to the bad rap that haunts disability.  The truth is that the important stuff in life is hard. If it wasn’t hard, it wouldn’t be important.

(Please note that I write about moms because I am a mom, so I don’t assume I represent other moms, people with disabilities or dads or brothers or sisters.  Their feelings are valued and significant too.  But their stories are different from my story.  Here goes…).

If I am honest, being the mother of any child is fraught with looming and inevitable loss. You help them attach to feel secure in the early years only to gradually let them go. This is heartbreaking work. There are many joyful and painful aspects to being a mother in general and being the mother of a kid with a disability is no exception.

When Aaron was born, I had the added work of grieving for the baby I expected in order to accept the baby I got. I had many years to figure out with my other children that there’s no such thing as a perfect child. (Usually this truth smacks you in the face in adolescence when the school principal calls you). With Aaron, the realization that no child is perfect came when he was a baby – instantly, right at his diagnosis.

This grief has faded but it has not entirely gone away. Some parents feel sad on their child’s birthday. I feel sorrow when I spot a group of teenage boys at the mall. Aaron is not part of that group and this causes a sharp pain in my heart.  I think this has to do more with me than him, as I have always felt left out and have struggled to find belonging. Unwrapping my feelings from his feelings is difficult but essential work.  I also grieve for my older two children who have grown up and left the nest.  I miss them a lot. There is loss there too, but in a different way.

Having a child with a disability makes me feel particularly vulnerable. In a world where we are supposed to be strong, feeling vulnerable is extremely uncomfortable. This is especially true if we’ve adopted the ‘mama bear’ identity to advocate for our children.

People tell me I’m brave and strong. This is a façade. Mostly I am scared and weak. I cover up my vulnerability with anger that is specifically directed as outrage at the health and education systems. (See my Twitter feed for evidence of my outrage).

Many families get caught in the ‘busy trap’ to avoid feeling pain. They sign their child up for all the therapies in an effort to have the ‘best kid with Down syndrome ever.’ We did this too.  Being self-aware of the reason you engage in therapies is vital: is to help your child be the best they can be, or is it to fix them, to make them as ‘normal’ as possible?   Be careful, for you can lose both you and your child in the fixing. Accepting all your children for who they actually are – not for who we want them to be – is a long, never-ending journey.

There can be struggle to make meaning. Some of us try to change the world in an effort to find purpose from our child’s diagnosis. This is exhausting. The world doesn’t want to change to accept our children. We can only change ourselves. It is our job to equip all our children the best we can to allow them to grow up in a way that they are true to themselves – disability or no disability.

In my humble experience, the most important thing you can do for your own mental health is to allow yourself to feel all your feelings. Surround yourself with people who love you unconditionally.  Don’t be afraid of being still.  Find other parents and lift each other up. Be as kind and gentle with yourself as you are with your own children. All this can help you find peace in your heart. (Note: I struggle to find peace in my heart every single day.  This is okay because I’m perfectly imperfect too).

I am grateful to Dr. Yona Lunsky for inspiring me to speak up about my mental health and to write this essay. xo.

leaning out

This essay was first published on January 19, 2017.  It is worth a repeat because Dr. Yona Lunsky recently asked me for a few words about having a kid with a disability for a talk she did this weekend for the Down Syndrome Research Foundation conference.  I scratched out a few thoughts for her and will follow up with another post, specifically about moms’ mental health.   But first, this… 

Leaning Out

…or the work-life balance and how I’m totally faking it all the time.

I’ve never struggled this much to prepare a presentation.  I was asked to speak to the Rare Disease Foundation‘s parent support group in Vancouver on the topic of work-life balance.  I pulled some quotes.  Wrote speaking notes.  Created some questions.  The presentation was last night and still I floundered.  I have no definitive solution to how to achieve work-life balance, especially if you have a kid with a disability, like I do.

How do you balance work and life?  I have no freakin’ idea.  I didn’t know how to do it when I had two typically-developing kids in the 1990’s, and I most certainly don’t know how to do it now, with my remaining complicated kid in my nest.

I called my talk Leaning Out to temper Facebook COO Sheryl Sandberg’s book, Leaning In.  Her book is described as ‘compelling women to reach their full potential at work.’ Well, in November, I had to resign from my job because I couldn’t figure out how to be available to my kid and to keep working in a staff position.  So I’ve leaned out.  Way out.

I used to believe that you can have it all, but not all at the same time.  My youngest son has taught me that having it all is overrated – what is this ‘all’ anyhow?  A big house, full-time job, annual tropical vacations?  I think we’ve been sold a big fat lie about what’s really important in life.

My talk was a jumble of what I’ve learned over the past 23 years of motherhood.  In the paid work world, I’ve worked full-time, part-time, on contract and as a freelancer.  Other times I’ve immersed myself in unpaid work.  Some days I fill with grocery shopping and sitting on a log, watching the dogs at Kitsilano dog beach.  In leaning out, I’ve been humbled about how much I don’t know.  It was so easy to adopt an identity when I had a job – it was handed to me in a position description. Now, I’m making it up as I go along.

Here is some inspiration that I lean on instead to find my way.  As Ian Brown says, having a kid with a disability means recalibrating all the time.   Most of this is not in your control. In redefining my own identity, these three philosophies help.

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1. Reject the Perfect
Brene Brown describes this best in her TEDTalk, The Power of Vulnerability. She says, “imperfections are not inadequacies; they are reminders that we’re all in this together.” We must stop pretending everything is okay all the time and allow ourselves to be vulnerable.  To do this, we have to find safe places to let our guards down to stop being ‘special needs mom’ cheerleaders – like with other moms over coffee or Facebook and in support groups like one I spoke to last night.  It is so important to find people who demonstrate that they’ve got your back, no matter what.  (That, and never clean your house before another mom comes over – this sets a really bad precedent).

 

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2.  Embrace the Slow 
Having a kid with a difference forces you to get off the ‘regular person’ treadmill of life.  Life is busy, yes, but in a different way.  You get transported to a different planet that you never bought a ticket to – one with great frustrations with hospitals, society, social services and education systems.  There are times of great slowness – while helping a child get dressed, or waiting for a whole sentence to come out, or summoning all your patience for a kid to finish their meal.  In these slow times, it is so important to embrace the small joy, as Lisa Bonchek Adams gently reminded us.

I’m also fond of this New York Times Essay by Tim Kreider called The Busy Trap.  In it, he says, “busyness serves as a kind of existential reassurance, a hedge against emptiness; obviously your life cannot possibly be silly or trivial or meaningless if you are so busy, completely booked, in demand every hour of the day”.  Carl Honore’s In Praise of Slow book and movement also offers similar sage guidance.

 

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3.  Remember that unpaid work is work too.
Finally, I suggested banning the words ‘just a mom’ and ‘volunteering’ from your vocabulary.  Work is work is work.  We focus so much on what we do and how we do it, we forget about the why, as Simon Sinek reminds us.  Caring for another vulnerable human being is the most important work there is.  It is what makes our world go round. Our society doesn’t value unpaid work, but that doesn’t mean that we shouldn’t value work that doesn’t come with a paycheque.  Think about writing a Mom Resume that outlines all the skills you’ve acquired since your child was born.  Writing it down gives it power and makes it real.

But sadly for last night’s audience, I had no real wisdom, no solutions, no fixes, no way to achieve this elusive work-life balance. I mostly talked out of my butt, and used other people’s words as inspiration.  I was pleased to spark conversation, and it was heartening that others felt safe enough to open up about their own struggles.

Accept that recalibrating is okay and to be expected.  Talk about your imperfect life in safe spaces.  And value the work you do, even if others don’t.  As I seek acceptance of my current messy life so I can find peace in my heart, I hope you can too – in your own way and in your own time. xo.

How to make it ok (part 2 of 2)

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@yogimemes

A shorter, less profanity-laced version of this essay is up on Huffington Post.

My husband/editor read my previous post and asked in his typically pragmatic way:  so what are you going to do about it?  This is a fair question.  I presented the problem of mothers with kids with disabilities being forced out of the paid workforce. Now what is the solution?

Well, it turns out there are lots of answers to this question, because families of kids with disabilities are incredibly resourceful.  We make lemonade out of lemons every single day.  Sometimes we rant but then we dig deep, put on our big girl pants and get shit done.

So family-friendly employers are rare and our governments don’t care about us.  Here’s what we do instead:

Connect

Whether you call it your herd or your people, it is so important to reach out to find like-minded families.  Before I had Aaron, I called these wonderful women my mom friends – in the disability world, the term is medicalized and called peer support.  No matter – the result is the same.  This means having other women you can talk to who get it.  When my now-adult kids were young, I met my best mom friends at playgroups, La Leche meetings and in the school hallways.

With my third kid, I’ve had to expand my definition of  connecting. Connecting happens through Facebook, Twitter or email in 2016, and that’s ok.  The days of meeting around the kitchen table are rare. I have to be more creative in the ways I get together in this era of busyness.

The mom network of information sharing, particularly in the complex world of disability, is very powerful.  A few months ago, I was in a meeting with health professionals. One of them asked me:  what clinician has taught you the most about resources and services?  I actually laughed when I responded and said:  it wasn’t clinicians who taught me; it was other moms.  It is always other moms.  Recently, on Christmas Eve, a mom emailed me asking a question about renting a pediatric wheelchair.  I didn’t know the answer, so I emailed three other moms and one clinician.  Within 4 hours on Christmas Eve, I heard back from all three moms with detailed responses.  The calibre of the women in my universe continues to impress me.

Alas, adult relationships also take time. I’ve learned to be patient with this process, especially since moving to a new city two years ago. Sometimes I’m lonely. Success to me doesn’t mean having a dozen girlfriends I go to Mexico with every year (although I’d be open to that, ha).  It means having different women at different times to lean on, to ask questions, to bounce ideas off of and to vent with.  One mom and I have an amusing relationship sharing GIFs on Twitter.  Another mom has kindly included me in her group of moms who have a subscription to a local theatre company.  A mom I met at work invited me to her yoga class.  These pieces of friendships make me feel less alone and these women are my great source of support and love.

Organize

I can attest that the only way change has ever happened is when regular folks organize together.  Governments and systems never change on their own – never ever ever.  They only respond to pressure from outside groups to do the right thing.  So much has changed in the disability world over the past 50 years.  People with Down syndrome are no longer automatically institutionalized at birth. Now our kids are included, for the most part, in their community schools. It wasn’t until the 1980’s that heart defects in babies with Down syndrome were even surgically fixed – before that, babies were left to die because of ‘quality of life’ bullshit.   Do you think this positive change happened because of bureaucrats?  No way my friends.  These advancements happened because families stood up, organized and told their stories.  They insisted that the status quo wasn’t okay anymore.  Change came from the people, not from bureaucrats, who, save for rare champion, are only invested in keeping things the same.

Celebrate unpaid work

A long time ago, I belonged to a Ottawa based group called Feminist Mothers At Home.  This group of moms was lobbying the government for recognition of the value of all unpaid caregiving work – including caring for children, elderly parents, or loved ones who were sick or had disabilities.  My involvement with them taught me an early lesson: in society’s eyes, you do have to be counted to count.  Other wiser moms taught me that women are often silenced and the value of speaking our truths.

I’ve never used the terms ‘volunteering’ or ‘stay at home mom.’  I prefer to say unpaid work.  This work is important – uncounted, undervalued, unrecognized – but caring for others is the glue that holds our whole world together.   If I meet someone new, I ask – do you work outside the home or at home?  Because work is work is work – whether you get paid or not.

Recalibrate

When I heard Ian Brown speak in October, he said his son Walker has taught him to constantly recalibrate.  It is true that our kids show us what’s important in life, but I’ve been guilty of ignoring that, or fighting it if it isn’t in alignment with what I thought was true.  A big part of paid work is identity.  I’ve had to constantly adjust my identity over the years and this has been hard.  Give yourself time to grieve for the loss of the so-called perfect life, in order to accept the life you have.  This might mean mourning career plans or graduate degrees.

In some ways, it is easier to wake up, get dressed up, arrive at my office, go to meetings, feel important.  When I have a job, the ‘who’ part of who I am is pre-packaged and handed to me for 7.5 hours a day.  When I’m set adrift on my own, I have to make this up myself, every single day.  Recalibration is about constant change, but recalibration must be done to find peace in your heart.

Open your own damn business

Four years ago, I was a lonely freelancer, picking up writing gigs here and there and working from my desk at home in between school drop off and pick up time.  I never got invited to anybody’s work Christmas party.  I knew that I wasn’t the only independent feeling that way, so my husband and I started a company called Bird Communications.  It began as a community, with photographers, designers, writers, editors, researchers – who all, for their own reasons, didn’t want to work for the ‘man’ in a staff position.  We met once a month for Bird Gatherings at a local coffee shop.  We got to know and care for each other.  We hosted our own damn Christmas party at our house, which was packed with Birds and their young families, all pining for a different model of work.  Slowly we transformed from a social, networking and learning community to a true health communications company.  We began to win paid work projects.  We never promise full-time work, and we place people the best we can, so this model doesn’t work for everybody.  But we help our Birds find contract work and make sure they get paid – an important factor for freelancers.

The lesson here is if you build it, they will come.  The composition of our (now) 26 Birds is interesting – we have many mothers just off maternity leave, or whose kids just began school – and they didn’t want to go back to full-time cubicle-land work.  So they joined us instead.  Of late, we have a number of smart creative moms who are communications or health professionals AND who have kids with disabilities.  They are an untapped, ignored, and simply awesome workforce.  We feel fortunate to have them amongst our midst.

Paid work

I’ve learned some hard lessons from the paid work world.  If I do venture back into that arena, I’ll choose my employer more carefully.  At my interview, I’ll ask some hard questions, like:  what happens if my child is hospitalized and I have to take time off work? How flexible are your hours, really?  I’d ask around about the work culture to see if it is an employer more interested in delivery of work than the optics of me sitting at my desk every day.

I’d better inform myself about benefits and paid leaves.  When my son was in the hospital last year, I was told that there was no paid leave for me to take time off work because I was in an out-of-scope position.  At the time, I was so whacked out with stress that I didn’t question this – I merely dutifully took a week off without pay.  Later, I found out there was a provision for such an absence.  It was my own fault for not contacting human resources and knowing my rights.

Part of having children is redefining what success looks like.  This is different for every woman.  For me, this means more leaning out, more acknowledging that 18 months in a position isn’t a failure, recognizing that I need to be fluid with both my identity and how I define myself.  Sometimes work is sometimes paid and sometimes it is not.   This also means suspending judgment and supporting other women in their choices.  The mommy wars is so distracting from the real issues at hand – you never know what your decision would be unless you walk in someone else’s shoes.  We are all doing the best we can.

Finally, 2016, I’m exhausted from keeping the system’s secrets.  I’ll cycle back to the cheeky quote at the beginning of this long essay. My 2017 resolution is based on a rather irreverent book I picked up over the holidays:  The Life-Changing Magic of Not Giving a F**k by Sarah Knight.  Be irreverent about things that don’t matter so you have time to be reverent about stuff that does.

Stand up.  Band together.  Use your voice.  You are bad-ass.  You are a sorcerer of divine light.  Don’t ever allow anybody to take that away from you.

the leave

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Each morning we wake up at our leisure, sit on the red couch and write our plan for the day in my little coil scribbler.

It often starts with an egg salad sandwich for breakfast and moves to ‘Mom work’ which means me closing myself in a windowless office for two hours to write while Aaron watches obnoxiously-loud Johnny Test on TV.  Then electronics off and we begin our time together.  The day stretches out before us like a prairie sky.

My mantras this summer, the summer of my leave, are this:
1. Stay in the moment
2. Move at Aaron’s pace

I rue the day 15 years ago when I said, in response to yelling at my then 5 + 8 year old children:  I wish I was a more patient mom.  The Baby Gods heard me and two years later they brought me a third child named Aaron.  I’ve calculated a direct correlation:  the faster I try to move Aaron along, the slower he goes.

So slow we go.  We pick one nature outing a day and sandwich that with meals, errands and meandering strolls.  I distinctly feel as if I’ve regressed ten years and am at home with a toddler instead of a budding teenager.  Aaron craves both routine and unstructured time with his people of comfort.  Why did I think I could sign him up for a variety of day camps, just like other moms do with their kids?  This year is a stark reminder that I am not just like other moms and Aaron is not just like other kids.  Even in contemplating this complex web of summer childcare arrangements, I was in denial about our differences. This leave is my humbling, a sign that I was getting too big for my britches.  It also shows me how a lack of childcare options for older children with disabilities pushes families into poverty.  (But that is another topic for another time).

So here we are, making lemonade out of life.  Despite the adolescent defiance, the need to negotiate every move and the mortification of being seen with his mother in public, he sidles up to me at least once a day and says, I love you Mom.  Other days, This is the best day ever.   His relief at not being dropped off at a different summer camp every week, complete with a different routine and different people, is palpable.  And that’s gotta be enough.  Enough for the lost income and the stalled career, for if you really try to live in the moment, you know the moments are soon over and then they are simply gone.

We’ve gone for hikes by canyons with little cousins, played an excessive amount of mini-golf, brought our bird book to the sanctuary to identify our feathered friends, munched on popcorn in dark air conditioned movie theatres.  Right now, I’m sitting on a log by the dog beach (is there anything more glorious than a beach of dogs?) and Aaron has buried himself deep in the coastline forest, emerging victorious with found sticks and talking to them as if they are people, as he’s apt to do.

I’ll add to my mantras ‘Be Weird’ as my boy is often weird (at least to the typically-developing eye) and I struggle with that reality, particularly in public.  My own deep-rooted 13 year old awkward teenage girl fear of being judged pops right to the surface.  When I ask him:  Why are you making that funny sound? he wisely and matter-of-factly tells me:  It is the Down syndrome way.

Today he picked up a black rock and announced:  This is an asteroid!   Then he scrambled up on a big ocean rock and yelled:  THIS ROCK IS REALLY INTENSE MOM!  Last night, munching on a chorizo taco:  This meal is phenomenal!  He doesn’t stop talking in exclamation marks, except when presented with direct questions from boring adults.

[Many years ago, when Aaron was two, I belonged to a playgroup of kids with disabilities. I remember complaining that Aaron would not stop saying:  mom mom mom mom all the time.  Another mom looked at me with sadness in her eyes and said:  I wish my daughter would say my name, even once.  Her little girl had Angelman syndrome and did not talk at all.  I hung my head in shame, my face flush with my own stupidity.  It was the first of many reminders to watch my words and count my blessings].

Aaron couples his love of language with a never-ending string of knock knock jokes:

Aaron: Knock knock.
Me:  Who is there?
Aaron:  G.
Me:  G who?
Aaron:  God.

Me:  Huh?  That’s it?  God?  What does that mean?
Aaron:  … {Shrugs. Sly grin}.

All children offer up both joy and pain, happy and sad.  If I uncensor myself, I will confess that it is easier to be at my work:  dressed up, adult, respected, uninterrupted in the washroom. In my leave I have left that.  I am dressed down, a mom, invisible and interrupted in the washroom.

Aaron and I have eight more weeks together, but I am going to stop counting.  Life, I tip my hat to you: I’ve been knocked off my pedestal once again, but I want to tell you that the view down here ain’t half-bad.

mothers who are tired

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Recently, I gobbled up a long form essay in Vela by Rufi Thorpe called Mother, Writer, Monster, Maid.  In it, there were shades of Elisa Albert’s After Birth, which to me, was the first honest published writing about motherhood since Salon’s now-defunct Mothers Who Think.

I have no commentary as of late; I’m just tired.  I’ve retreated into reading, listening to Sinatra, baking chocolate chip cookies, playing endless games of Trouble and picking up my husband’s errant socks.  Take the time to consume Thorpe’s piece and you will see that’s ok.  Motherhood is stuffed full of so many dichotomies:  the love/the hate, the heartbroken/the joy, the bored/the interesting.  I’ve never figured it out; it is just a messy stew of boomeranged emotions.

As I embark on my 24th year of mothering, there’s no pause in sight – my youngest son, a teenager but not, needs me more, not less.  His disability adds a fine net of complexity over everything, like a soft mist setting on a shiny day.  I achingly miss my older two children, but they are not here.  Most worrisome is my eldest son, who lives in America, a country imploding into a boiling rage.

So much is out of my serenity prayer – what I can control and what I cannot – that I hunker down to search for peace in my heart.  That, and methodically climbing through green prickly forests in open-toed sandals searching for good sticks and logs that look like alligators is all that I can possibly do.

my great nordic breakdown

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Illustration by Lindsay Campbell

Just for something completely different, here’s an essay that I had published in the Globe & Mail’s Facts and Arguments this morning – My Great Nordic Breakdown.

You know when you are at a meeting and they ask the ice-breaker question:   tell us something nobody knows about you?  Well, this is my answer to that question.  After my first marriage broke up, I lived in Norway for five months with my two eldest kids when they were 7 & 4 years old.  While I have a journal I kept during that time (buried deep in a box), I have never written about our odd adventure.

The writer background is this:  an editor of another prestigious newspaper was interested in the story, but when I submitted it, she said:  this isn’t a good fit.  So after a couple of days of feeling hurt by this, I dusted myself off and submitted it to the Globe.  Who accepted it.  There’s a great amount of rejection in this line of work.  But this is a good lesson in not giving up.

The Globe and Mail has been good to me.  This is my third Facts and Argument essay that I’ve had published, and I had another one accepted that I had to withdraw because of a long story that I can’t tell you.  So to all my writer friends out here:  try the Globe!  They don’t pay, but the byline is nice on your CV!   And they are friendly to mama writers.  An editor there once told me:  if it makes me laugh or cry, I’ll publish it.

ps:  Don’t read the online comments.  Never read the online comments.  I sadly forgot to take my own advice this morning.  Ugh.

an ode for the chick trip

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Ella conquers the Fisherman Wharf’s In-n-Out Burger

My husband and I have a total of five children in our blended (blender) family.  Two from his first marriage, two from my first marriage, and our love child who we had together.  Only one of these children is female.  That would be my daughter Ella, now 19.  Over the years, there was a need for a regular chick trip to get away from the testosterone fuelled chaos that lived in our house.

One of the (few?) things I have done right as a mother is that I have spent time individually with each of my kids.  These have taken the shape of date nights, lunches out and trips away.  I captured my eldest son, now 22, only once, when we went to DC together when he was 16 so he could go to a suspiciously-named event called the Maryland Death Fest.  More regularly, my youngest son and I often nip out for movie and sushi dates.

There are so many advantages to this:  alone, you see your children with an individual lens.  It is no longer ‘the children’ and ‘the parents’ – your relationship grows a touch of the more personal – and you can get to know each other as people, not as family-defined roles.  There’s that old adage that all children want from their parents is time, and I believe that’s true, no matter how old they get.

And then there’s the lovely Ella.  Born two weeks early of round head and big brown eyes, she’s transformed into a confident and gentle young woman.  When she was 11, she wanted to visit her birthplace of Winnipeg, so off to Winnipeg we went for our premiere chick trip.  We got our our toenails painted for the first time together and drove past the hospital where she was born.

In 2010 we ventured to Seattle to start our new tradition of travelling for food.  We went to the Blue Ribbon Cooking School for a class, experienced the (worth it) line-ups at Salumi (best sandwich ever, Ella proclaimed), toured the Pike Place Market, and ate fresh banana cream pie from Dahlia Bakery while watching chick flicks in our hotel room beds.  At Christmas in November in Jasper later that year, we indulged in two days of food demonstrations and eating with gaggles of other moms and daughters on their own chick trips.  We met in Chicago four years ago when she was 15, where we had a particularly strange trip which included stumbling upon hundreds of nude bicyclists (twice, which was extremely traumatizing to both of us) and sitting in the front wet row at Blue Man Group.  We ate a lot in Chicago too, at the Girl & the Goat, and requisite food tour eating of deep dish pizza and hot dogs the Chicago way.

But then life got busy.  Ella entered her last year of high school, and took her gap year off and worked as a baker’s assistant.  This year she began her nursing program at university.  She acquired a beloved boyfriend and it became harder to tear her away for lots of good reasons.  Time passed.  A few months ago, we managed to nail down a date and location.  I booked our tickets quickly, before life interfered, and two weeks ago we met in San Francisco, the City by the Bay.

In true chick trip fashion, we ate.  A lot.  Crumble cake at Mama’s, fancy dinner at Foreign Cinema, Italian fare on our food tour, egg sandwiches everywhere, and an important In-n-Out Burger.  We walked.  A lot.  For two girls from the prairies, we walked until our legs were shaking, up and down the famous hills of San Francisco.  We went on a silly double decker bus tour, where our faces almost got blown off on the Golden Gate Bridge.  We visited Alcatraz in the rain, which was particularly delightful because Ella chose this activity and it was an experience I would have never picked myself.

Basically, we thoroughly enjoyed each other for three days. I tried my best not to chatter incessantly nor repeat myself – both bad habits of mine. Then we reluctantly boarded separate airplanes and went back to our regular lives.

But when I’m trying to fall asleep at night, thinking about work or worrying about money, I remember my time with Ella.  I think about us hopping on the cable car at twilight, and the driver taking a run at the infamous hills on Mason Street, and ooohing at the snippets of views of pastel Victorians and twinkly bridges as we rumbled past, me nestled beside my favourite girl in the whole entire world.

Ella is brave and kind.  She is beautiful inside and out, and I feel as if the world is lucky to have her.  I feel gratitude wash over me for the time I shared with her and for being granted the gift of being her mom.

My prescription for you is to spend time with each of your children.  Get to know them as people, not just as your offspring.  It doesn’t have to be as epic as a cross-country jaunt – this can be done by simple things, like walking home slowly from school, arranging anticipated dates to the burger joint, or cooking dinner together in the kitchen.

I know I’m going to sound like a grandma here…but they do grow up.  My time with my adult children is now a rare and precious thing.  Slow down, and remember to like your children too…not just love them.  As Ella wisely told me:  it is hard when you think it is going to be one way, and then it changes.  Such as life – it feels like they are going to be little forever – with small pieces of Lego underfoot and the banging of little fists on your bathroom door…and then one day they are suddenly gone.

Edited to add:  my food travels with my kids are chronicled on Foodie Suz Travels:
Jasper 
Washington DC
Seattle
Chicago
San Francisco