Today I am happy and excited to be a freelance writer. Often there are stretches of time when work is light or even non-existent. Contracts come and go. Contacts disappear. There is no sure footing in the freelance world, no stable paycheque to hang your hat on every two weeks.

And yet, despite all this, the lifestyle fits. It works for me. The more I do it, the more I wonder how much it's about the flow of energy. It seems to go better for me when I think positively, and even embrace the uncertainty.

Recently, I had a bunch of pitches rejected from a magazine I've published with in the past. I was beginning to lose hope that I would ever have anything accepted by them again. And then, a couple weeks ago, a month after sending my last idea into the void, I heard back. Green light!

Today I interviewed a woman who's created a web series for the CBC about her infertility journey. And do you know the wonderful, most surprising thing? It's absurdly and hilariously funny! For me, it's such a refreshing take on what's usually such a sad and heartbreaking story.

Of course I checked the Voice app on my phone was working before she called. My husband even got involved, showing me what to do (since I usually do interviews through my computer—weird, I know).

So do you know what happened when she called? The bloody record function wouldn't work! Now, my already-anxious mind was already busy sending my nerves into a frenzy, so it's probably the last thing I wanted to happen at this particular moment.

Luckily, I have a techie-inclined (or just fast-thinking) hubby who works at home with me. Instead of letting the panic win, I simply told my interviewee about my technical difficulties and laughed it off while he dashed down to the basement to get his tablet (which had working Voice app).

In recent years, I've really learned that sharing any type of vulnerability instantly makes me more real to other people. When I confessed my initial recording woes, the woman I was interviewing told me that she was actually feeling under the weather, and shared a bit of herself with me.

I am so excited to watch this TV show she's created, and perhaps see some of my own steps on the infertility journey reflected back at me. I followed her on Twitter the other day to get a sense of her writing, and today she made my day by saying she had read MY article, the one that just got nominated for Best of the Net. She even called herself a "big fan"!

It's an amazingly beautiful feeling when another writer you respect validates your own scribbling—never mind someone who's just written a television series. It helps soothe the sting from getting rejected from The New Yorker yesterday (lofty ambitions, I know).

So today I am grateful to be a journalist, an essayist and a reporter of this mysterious thing called life. I'm happy for the fall sun shining outside my window as I work. I'm glad to be feeling well and able to document the good things about being a writer. I am also pushing myself to write more about things that really interest me.

Next week I'll be interviewing an author, a first for me. I read her memoir recently, and decided to reach out through her website and see if I could snag an interview. Her PR person got back to me quickly, and said yes. I wouldn't even have had the idea if it weren't for an ex-colleague, who got in touch recently to ask if I was still freelancing. Today I thank her for thinking of me.
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Freelance life is all about connecting—making new connections and nurturing old contacts. Keeping in touch. It's a empowering feeling to feel like you're helping to write your own happiness, your own life story. Today, I thank you—each and every one of you beautiful souls—for coming along on the journey with me.

I'm thrilled and honoured that one of my personal essays has been nominated for the Best of the Net! "If I Don't Have More Than One Child, Am I Still A Good Mother?" is about the biggest decision I've ever made in my life, and how I wrote my way through it.
It was difficult to put myself out there in such a vulnerable way, to share all the secret thoughts and the dark moments that lived in my heart, but it was oh, so worth it. I've never received such an amazing response to one of my articles before.

The amount of complete strangers who contacted me to share their stories blew me away. Other ordinary women and mothers, just like me, who had struggled with the same question, and the same conflicting feelings. I felt such comfort and strength from these other mothers who were walking a similar path, and I never would have received such gifts without baring my heart online.

A huge thank you to Julianne Palumbo and Michelle Riddell for the nomination and validation. The Mothers Always Write site is such a beautiful, nurturing home for women's writing, and I encourage all my writer friends to submit there.

​I haven't been putting pen to paper as much recently, with different freelance contracts and day jobs, but this nomination inspires me to put my creative hat back on again. What a thrill this is! In case anyone's wondering, Best of the Net is a yearly anthology of the best poetry, fiction and nonfiction on the web.

Back when Eve was a baby and I was skinny. It's funny how most mothers say they struggle to lose weight after pregnancy, when my story is so different.

I gained 35 pounds over the nine-plus months of waiting for my baby, but it didn't really bother me. It was within the healthy range. I remember happily existing on bagels and Pringles and spaghetti. I couldn't stomach chicken or salmon, or anything remotely healthy or good for me.

I was so anxious that I didn't start actually showing until my fifth month of pregnancy. I thought there was something wrong with me, or the baby. Now I realize it just took a while to show on my then-slim frame. After month five, though, there was no turning back, and my body blossomed and housed a miraculous magic show in my womb.

I was as shocked as anyone when I promptly lost those 35 pounds of pregnancy weight in about a month after giving birth. I was breastfeeding, but my supply was incredibly low, so we were also supplementing with formula.

I probably didn't take care of myself as well as I could have at the time by eating regularly, but I was consumed by the fact that my daughter was constantly starving and extremely colicky. Postpartum depression also had me in its teeth.

When I gave up breastfeeding at four months and got my sense of self back, I also began taking the birth control pill again. Within a few months the number on the scale started to creep up and my clothes were no longer hanging off of me. I didn't mind being 138 pounds. I still felt comfortable in my skin, and I knew I looked healthy.

Now it's three years later, and I'm no longer under 140, or even 150. It's tough to know if there are any other culprits in my weight gain besides me. Do antidepressants increase the chances of putting on pounds and stimulating your appetite? Maybe. Does stress eating and carb-loading (especially at certain times of the month) hurt? Definitely.

In the last few months I've noticed myself experiencing scary low blood sugar episodes where I'll feel my heart pounding rapidly and my craving for something sweet skyrocketing. My hands will start shaking and I'll have to stop whatever I'm doing to get some juice into me. These crashes led me to my naturopath, who thought it would be a good idea to order insulin testing.

On doctor's orders, I went to McDonald's one morning and ate the entire pancake and maple syrup breakfast, every last sickeningly sweet bite. Two hours later, I got my blood taken. The results showed my insulin was about two times what it should have been, which means my body is producing a lot of extra insulin just to try and deal with the sugar hitting my bloodstream.

I have an appointment with an endocrinologist in the fall, but it's sort of been a wake-up call. Since I have polycystic ovaries (PCOS), it puts me at an increased risk for type-2 diabetes. It's scary to think I could be heading down that path and putting my health in jeopardy.

I'll find out more in October, but for now I'm trying to make small changes and start healthier eating habits. It's really hard to say no to that caramel Frappuccino on a hot day. It's so easy to toast a bagel for breakfast in the morning. It's tempting to stay inside when it's raining and not bother walking.

But none of these things are helping me. Going low-carb is intimidating, and I worry that I'll always be hungry, but if it fixes my fatigue and crashes and cravings for sweets, it would be worth it to give up bread and pasta and potatoes.

I've learned to accept and embrace my body in all its incarnations over the years, and I know having a baby will change your shape forever, but I just want to be comfortable in my own skin again. I don't want a big belly, or to feel my pants pinching. I want to be able to keep up with my daughter when she's running.

I don't need to be a size two or four or six, but I'd like to drop a couple sizes. I could care less about fitting into skinny jeans, but maybe putting my intentions on social media will help me hold myself accountable, even though it's tough to reveal such vulnerability.

​I know my girl and my husband love me whatever weight I am, but I want to be more at ease with the woman I see in the mirror. I don't want to keep having to buy new clothes that fit me or feel self-conscious about what people think when they see me. It's terrible when you feel like you've lost control of your body, so I'm determined to try some new things and see if I can get back to feeling like me.

"Mama, I'm not a superhero."

She confesses it as I'm tucking her into bed at the end of the day, when my patience is at its thinnest.

"My belly's telling me I'm not the fastest runner. Not at the park. Not at school. Not anywhere."

It amazes me how a three year old can experience anxiety in her solar plexus. Her gut is worried that she isn't good enough, that she's not measuring up. How early our insecurities set in.

"You DO have superpowers," I insist. "You can run like the wind. You can dance up a storm. You can sing in a big loud voice."

She's not buying it. She doesn't believe she can be Batgirl anymore. These traits aren't anything special to her. To me, though, they're everything. I don't care that I'm probably not supposed to tell her she's extra-special, or out of the ordinary. I've thrown that parenting rule right out the window, along with a bunch of others.

When your child is predisposed to doubt herself and struggles mightily with self-esteem, you find yourself saying anything to boost them up, to help them bloom.

When she says we have to buy more superpowers, I sigh.

Self-confidence is not something I can purchase for her at the mall. I tell her it's already inside of her. She just needs to find a way to get it out.

But she's not having any of it.

So when she insists that her superpowers are stuck in the ceiling, I make a production out of pulling them down and magically putting them back in her belly. She giggles and I remind her not to let them wiggle out.

Oh, if only I could do this for her for all of her days. But I can't. She's becoming more self-aware, more inclined to judge herself in comparison to her classmates. The other day she said she didn't like her name; she wanted to be called Georgia instead, like the little girl at her school who's super-social.

"Do you know what Wonder Woman's real name is?" I asked her.

She shook her head, but I could sense she knew where this was heading.

"It's Eve. A beautiful name for a strong superhero."

Now when we see Wonder Woman promoted everywhere we go, she gives me a secret smile that says she remembers.

Her identity is safe with me.

The world, in its cruel-but-kind way, will make her forget that she has any superpowers soon enough. It will test her courage and strip her of her golden cape, forcing her to dig deep and find the strength to fly.

​For now, I will do everything I can to instil faith and confidence in my girl. Every time she takes off her protective mask and talks openly to our friends and family, I see glimmers of the daring young woman she's bound to become.

Dear Grumps,

I stopped by your old house the other day. To me, 67 Elvaston still belongs to you and BG, even though I know some stranger now owns it. I didn't care that it was private property. I wouldn't call it trespassing, exactly; I just poked about the front yard and checked things out a bit. No one has rented it yet.

You would have been 92 today.

Whenever April arrives, I automatically think of you. It saddens me that you never got to meet the two great loves of my life, but in a funny way, they help keep you alive for me.

You see, your great-granddaughter is a car fanatic, just like you were. She enjoys nothing more than lining her toy cars up on the table and playing games with them. They often accompany her while she eats her cereal or picks over her lunch. Every now and then, my husband and her will get down on the living room room and joyfully smash them into each other.

Eve's favourite is the white Morris Minor with the burgundy roof. Michael's fond of the light blue '57 Chevy. He calls it "Smooth Ride" because it glides so effortlessly across the floor. If my daughter's feeling particularly generous, she'll present Morris Minor to me as if it was a great gift.

You used to keep your toy cars lined up on your bookshelf. They shared space with BG's Nancy Regan bio and a well-loved edition of The Thorn Birds. I don't remember us ever playing with them when we visited as kids. They were simply on display, just like your various war medals.

Sometimes I'll notice a dent or a piece missing from one of your classic cars, and I'll cringe, imagining your displeasure at the sight of your cars being beaten up by play. But then I put the thought out of my mind. The fact is, they're being used, and enjoyed.

They're being loved. And through them, so are you. By two people you've never even met.

I remember seeing your red Mustang sitting in my parents' garage after BG died last year, when it officially became an orphan. I knew it wasn't practical to keep it in the family, but I still felt a pang that such a powerful reminder of you would soon be gone.

I can't imagine how my dad felt when he took down all the licence plates you carefully nailed up in your garage. I didn't realize that in the old days, you needed to get a new one every single year.

I remember soon after you died, my sister and I saw the word GRUMPS on a licence plate while driving on the highway. Then we both smelled cigarette smoke late at night, in separate rooms, even though no one around was smoking. We took it as a sign you were still with us. For me, your spirit's about whenever my daughter takes your vintage toy cars out.

I suppose they belong to her now. Or maybe they're just on loan. Either way, they live in a cheap plastic wagon these days. They mingle with Hot Wheels and mini modern automobiles. Sometimes when she goes to bed, I'll take them out and line them up on the fireplace.

I like for her to be surprised when she comes down in the morning, as if they magically drove themselves and are about to race. They're a constant in her life, you see, something she always comes back to no matter what new-fangled toy comes along.

​They don't make them like they used to—toy cars or grandfathers. But don't worry, Grumps: we're taking good care of them for you. We're driving them and playing with them all over the house; it's our tribute to you.