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.

"Mama, that's the chair from BG's house."

It's 7.30 in the morning when I'm jolted out my new-day daze and transplanted into the past. I look at the little white wicker chair in our den. It used to sit in front of a stone fireplace in my grandmother's house, near her rocking chair.

She would rotate her teddy bear collection every week, so her favourites all got a chance to sit on the throne for a spell. It never seemed odd to me as a child; we just knew that every year we got BG a teddy bear calendar for Christmas.

It wasn't until I grew up and out of my own stuffed animal attachments that I wondered at her enduring fascination. Why did she keep so many around the house? They seemed to live in every room in some form—on shelves in her bedroom, or scattered around the living room.

Maybe it had something to do with loss, and trying to fill the hole of grief. My grandmother knew what it was to lose her mother at the age of nine.

When we visited her a couple of years ago, she admitted that she'd never had any teddy bears growing up. Even though she went on to get married and have children, these inanimate objects continued to fill a mysterious space in her heart. They were such a comfort to her, especially when my grandfather died and she wandered the halls of her beloved home alone.

I remember when she died last year, it was so hard to part with any of them. It felt like we were getting rid of pieces of her heart. So my sister and I, sentimental souls that we are, took plastic bags of them home, just to keep them from being thrown out in the trash.

Today I see that my daughter has placed one of her own teddy bears in the wicker chair at some point. For the longest time it's simply been another piece of storage, with various reusable bags sitting on it.

It looks better occupied, I decide, with a flash of guilt.

I'm startled at what my three year old remembers. She only met her great-grandmother a handful of times. They were both always slightly wary with each other, neither of them quick to warm up to new people.

But it's important to me to keep my grandmother's memory alive, to reference her in conversation, to tell stories and hang pictures that keep her with us in spirit.

This afternoon my husband and I were in her old neighbourhood in Toronto after we visited our accountant. Just like the last time we found ourselves there, I couldn't resist the temptation to drive by and say hi. To her, to her house, to the past. Technically it's no longer ours, those bricks and stain-glass windows and stone fireplaces, but it still feels like hers.

So when I saw the For Lease sign still planted on the lawn, I got out of the car while my husband scrolled on his phone. He kept the engine running as I wandered up the path and steps to the front door. I looked at the Canadian flag tangled up and twisted from the wind, and I wished I could fix it. My grandmother would have had a ladder out there at first glance. Then I touched the Eaton's security sticker on the screen door and closed my eyes. It's the closest I get to her these days.

​Last night I got a rejection from a well-respected Canadian literary journal I submitted several poems to. I had been holding out a lot of hope that they would accept my work, so the initial excitement of receiving an email from them was swiftly replaced by a crushing sense of disappointment. Since I've had some writing successes in the past few months, however, I feel like I was able to dust myself off more quickly than usual.

This morning I checked the stats on my Poetic Parenting blog and did a double-take. Over the past week, I've had over 10, 000 page views on my site (usually it's a few hundred). I know most of the traffic is coming from people who have read my article about deciding to have only one child and are now curious about the rest of my work. When I dig deeper into the numbers, I see that some of my old blog posts have been read by 900 people recently. It boggles my mind and takes the sting out of the rejection notices and deafening silence that sometimes accompany my queries.

It also lets me know what's resonating with readers, and what's not. Thank you again to everyone who supports my writing career, likes my posts and shares my articles. I never thought I'd get the opportunity to explore it and chase it the way I have in the past year. You give me the encouragement to keep going and keep striving for even more. Thanks for reading. ​