Life with a child is rarely picture-perfect. Yes, there are flashes of unfiltered happiness to be captured and held close to the heart, but more often than not, there's also a lot of mess and chaos behind the scenes.
 
When I see friends, family or even complete strangers post pictures and updates about their kids, I often wonder what is going on under the surface of that still life. What happened the two minutes before or ten seconds after the shot was taken? How many takes were there? Did the kid need coaxing? Were there cookies involved?
 
Social media gives us the power to narrate our lives, to put our own spin on what’s happening in the world. I use Facebook, Instagram and Twitter every day and marvel at the wonder of technology, how I can connect with people I know and strangers I’ll never meet.
 
Sometimes the highlight-reel effect leaves me feeling bereft when I see an unrelieved stream of ultra-positive posts. Cute shots of propped-up infants or melancholic cats. Let’s be clear, though: there is nothing wrong with this stuff in itself. It’s adorable and it perks people up. It’s like the visual Prozac of the Internet.
 
I’m the first person to admit that I post a ridiculous amount of pictures of my daughter. She could be wearing a pink beret or arranging my books in a long line across the living room. People think she’s cute, hit the “like” button, and I feel instant validation.
 
But my life with Eve is not solely made up of moments that are Instagram-worthy or Facebook-friendly. Sometimes she’ll pull the contrary toddler card and won’t pose nicely for a picture. Sometimes she just moves too fast to be caught on film. Other times we’ll be at an event and she will be overtired and overstimulated, and the only shot we can get is one of her balling her eyes out.
 
I’ve learned recently through my writing that people are hungry for posts that reveal the shitty side of parenting. They want to know they’re not alone in tearing their hair out. They need to see that other mums and dads are stumbling their way through this experience, too, hoping for the best but fearful of bumbling the worst.
 
Raising another human being is rewarding, but it's also exhausting. I’ve found that when I share real parenting struggles, people respond. They feel included and represented because they may be feeling similar difficult emotions. They feel better because someone has put a voice to their vexations and is courageous enough to call it like it is.
 
My takeaway? It doesn’t always have to be beautiful, but it should always be real.
 
No one is happy or smiling 100 percent of the time. If all we post is exclusive positivity, we just make other people feel lacking. We give the impression that we have no problems, that our kids are angels, and that we are doing everything right. Yet this is an unrealistic picture of life.
 
I like visiting the Twitterverse and often get immersed in Instagram, but I don’t want to live there. I may flock to Facebook, but it’s not my home. Sometimes I find myself present in a powerful moment with my daughter, and I have to stamp out the desire to grab my phone and preserve it for posterity. Or share it with everybody.
 
It takes a conscious effort, but I’ve learned I don’t always have to step out of the frame and set up the perfect shot. Sometimes just having a mental picture is enough.

 
​Two years ago today you came and changed everything. You also gave me a name I never had before: Mama. Everybody has a birth story, a narrative that reveals how their soul navigated itself into the world. This is yours.

You didn't want to have the same birthday as me, so you took your time about vacating the womb. I went to bed the night after you were due and woke up in pain at 3am. Your night owl Papa hadn't gone to bed yet, so he saw the light come on under the door. I'm pretty sure his first thought was a panicked "shit!" He timed my contractions with an app. Yes, you read that right. They were five minutes apart and we grabbed our bag for the hospital, delirious with adrenaline and anticipation.

When we arrived at five in the morning, the hospital lobby was dark and quiet. The nurses examined me and said I was only a "fingertip" dilated. They advised going home and getting some rest before the big show began. Like that was ever going to happen. We roamed the corridors for an hour and came back with a promise of morphine.

The epidural was epic. Suddenly, having a baby wasn't a big deal. I could talk and joke from my hospital bed and forget what lay ahead of me. But then we found out you were "sunny side up," an expression I'd never heard outside brunch discussions. I pushed and pushed and the back labour was beyond what we learned about in our prenatal classes. When the doctors said it was c-section time, I was more than willing to sign on the dotted line.

I remember shaking like a tea cup in the operating room, a side effect of the drugs. Your Papa was in scrubs, trying not to look terrified. They lifted you out of my belly at 6.51 a.m. Seeing you squall, hearing the word "girl" -- it was overwhelming and awe-inspiring at the same time.

The moment you were first separate from me, from my body -- that's when I truly became your mother. Tiny, pale and perfect, all I wanted was to protect you. I forgot about being pulled and tugged and sewn up. I told your Papa to go to you, to comfort you as they weighed you. He didn't know he was allowed to touch you.

I am so grateful we both got to enjoy skin-on-skin time with you. I remember the anesthesiologist taking our first family picture. Holding you in the recovery room, you were conked out in a self-induced stupor I would only learn about later. It helped you block out the shock of being born.

I remember introducing you to your grandmothers, telling them your names. A gift to honour the women you came from. You were a solid weight in my arms, swaddled tight in that ubiquitous hospital blanket. You felt like love. 

This is a post that I first published at thenewfamily.com. It’s a personal piece about what it’s like to share my professional life with my husband and why this creative set-up works for our family.

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Getting laid off while on mat leave was shocking and distressing; it was also a blessing in disguise. I had been struggling with a potent dose of first-time-mother guilt at the thought of going back to work. I just couldn’t imagine missing all my daughter’s upcoming milestones while I was stuck in an office staring at a picture of her on my desk.
 
Losing my job felt like someone had turned my world upside down and shook it like a snow globe. Once the scene settled and I got past the emotional impact, I began to see the change in a new light.
 
I looked at a recent job opportunity that had been offered to my husband and considered it from a different vantage point. He didn’t want to commit to it full-time since he had his own freelance business to run. But what if we could job-share the role? Split the stint and get paid for it?
 
Read the rest here.

Wine, chocolate and the fireplace channel: sometimes it’s the only cure for parenthood. Today was just one of those days -- you know, the kind no one likes to talk about, but everybody has? It started out innocently enough, despite the convergence of a Halloween hangover and the daylight savings farce.
 
“Let’s go to the mall and get a banana chocolate chip muffin!” Little did I know those were fightin’ words to a toddler. You’d think I’d just suggested she eat a bowl of Brussel sprouts or walk out of a toy store without taking every single stuffed animal off the shelf.

One day she’s all super-cute in an owl costume, skipping through the neighbourhood charming everyone she encounters, the next’s she’s like an emotional bat out of hell. Today’s prolonged, overwrought outburst can only be described as a super-tantrum. It made the the usual screaming and thrashing fit look like a walk in the park.
 
Smacking. Scratching. Hair-pulling. The both of us crying.
 
Eventually (after a hysterical eternity), the fight went out of her and she just stood before me, a little girl sobbing her little heart out. You know you’re a mother when your child’s psychological comfort becomes more important than your sense of personal insult.
 
I told her I was sad and that she should say sorry. She held her arms up and hiccuped her way to calm. After a few minutes, she brought me all her favourite balls, carefully piling them in my lap, a toddler’s version of a make-up gift.